by Alexa Aston
Rosalyne said, “Archbishop Sudbury lost his life in the Peasants’ Revolt a few years ago.”
Edward remembered that the holy man was one of several government and church leaders who had lost their heads in the uprising. Ancel had been in London during that chaotic time and shared with him and Hal how frightening those days had been.
“The people of Canterbury thought a great deal of Archbishop Sudbury. He even used his own funds to rebuild the West Gate and planned to do more for the city had he lived. We remember him each year during the Christmas season. The mayor of Canterbury leads a procession to Sudbury’s tomb here at the cathedral.”
She took him to see the deceased archbishop’s tomb. Eventually, they made their way to the far end of the cathedral and entered Trinity Chapel, even more crowded than it was on his last visit. They joined the other pilgrims and shuffled along till they arrived at Becket’s shrine and gave it their attention for a few moments. Then the swell behind them jostled them away.
Edward wanted to see the Black Prince’s final resting spot again, so he steered Rosalyne south of Becket’s shrine. A gilded copper effigy of Edward Plantagenet in armor marked the prince’s tomb. It reminded him of the old king, Edward III’s effigy in Westminster Abbey, but this one seemed even grander with its marble tomb chest surrounded by a dozen coats of arms. He thought it a fitting tribute to England’s greatest soldier and, once more, remembered how Geoffrey de Montfort emphasized his admiration for the Black Prince’s compassionate nature as much as his soldiering skills.
Rosalyne had drawn away from him and stood a few feet from where her triptych would soon rest. He studied her profile—the elegant nose and sweeping, blond hair that caught the highlights from the hundreds of lit candles burning in the chapel. She turned her head slightly as she perused the area, lost in thought.
He moved toward her and bent to whisper in her ear. “Can you picture your panel here?”
A satisfied smile danced on her lips. “Aye. I can.”
After giving her adequate time to view the spot, Edward escorted her from the chapel. They crossed the north transept and aisle in a circular sweep of the building and worked their way past the busy construction until they found themselves out in the clean air once more.
Rosalyne stopped and nudged him with her elbow. “There is the archbishop to our right.”
Edward glanced in that direction and saw Courtenay speaking with another man, obviously noble by his dress. They appeared to be deep in conversation.
“Who is with him?”
“Lord Botulf. He has been placed in charge of the wall’s construction by King Richard, though all of Canterbury knows he rarely ventures near the work being done.”
Rosalyne echoed what John had told him when he left Sirius with the smithy and his young son, Will. John had accused the nobleman of ignoring the work and had even harsher words for the man Botulf put in charge of the crews. He thought he would seek Rosalyne’s opinion on Rawlin, as well.
“If Lord Botulf does not lead the work, who does?”
Her teeth caught her bottom lip in thought, causing a jolt of lust to rush through Edward. If she only knew what a simple gesture like that did to him, she would think twice.
“Henry Yevele, the master builder I mentioned before, has planned out the work on the wall. But there is another man who actually heads up the construction. I am trying to remember his name.”
Edward decided to help her out. “Was it Rawlin? I think I heard in passing at the market that he was the one directing the teams of men.”
“That’s it. Perceval Rawlin. Now mind you, I don’t know this firsthand but talk is that Rawlin is deceitful and greedy. He can also be vengeful. I hear he has become wealthy as work has gone on, as has Lord Botulf.” She looked at him with concern. “I wonder if you should even seek to be hired at the wall, Edward. Canterbury has other work to be had.”
“My heart is set to work on the wall,” he told her.
Moving away from the front of the cathedral, Edward heard someone call her name. He looked over his shoulder and saw the archbishop motioning to her.
Rosalyne broke away from him and hurried over, with Edward following a few paces behind her.
“Lady Rosalyne, ’tis a pleasure to see you today,” Courtenay said. He indicated the man to his left. “Have you met Lord Botulf? The king has charged him with making our city safe again.”
She kissed the archbishop’s ring and then swept a curtsey to the nobleman. Edward did not like the gleam in the man’s eyes as Botulf eyed Rosalyne hungrily.
“’Tis a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”
“Lady Rosalyne’s uncle is an artist of some note,” the archbishop explained. “Not only does he paint portraits of noblemen in our surrounding area but he is also preparing a new triptych to be placed in Trinity Chapel.” He gave her a pointed look. “And how does your uncle fare with this endeavor, my lady?”
“Very well, your grace. The wood has gone through a long preparation process in order for the paint to adhere and today Uncle Temp is sketching onto it what he will paint. Once the colors have been mixed, the painting will commence. He feels this will be his greatest creation.”
“Lady Rosalyne aids her uncle in his work,” the archbishop told Lord Botulf.
“Is that so?” The nobleman’s eyebrow arched. “I have heard of your uncle and his portraits. Mayhap it is time that I commissioned to have mine done. Do you help him in that, as well, my lady?”
“I do, my lord. I am sure Uncle Temp would be happy to paint you.”
“Why don’t you accompany me home now, Lady Rosalyne? We could discuss it further.” The glint in the nobleman’s eyes had grown lascivious.
Before Rosalyne could reply, Edward stepped forward. “My lady, are you ready to return to your uncle’s house? Remember that he wanted you to hold his sketches as he drew on the poplar.”
“Who are you?” Botulf demanded gruffly.
Edward held both his temper and his true name in check. “I am Edward Munn, my lord, recently come to Canterbury. In fact, I traveled here in order to work on the reconstruction of the wall. Lady Rosalyne just informed me that the king placed you over this project. I am honored to make your acquaintance and hope to work for you.”
He saw loathing in the nobleman’s eyes, for both a man of a lower class and that he had interrupted Botulf’s conversation with Rosalyne.
Edward turned to her and saw gratitude in her eyes. “Thank you for reminding me that it is time to return home, Edward.” She looked back to the two men. “Edward rents a bedchamber in Uncle’s cottage. He was kind enough to escort me to the market today and was eager to see our city’s cathedral.”
“Aye,” he interjected. “I am most impressed with the work Master Yevele is doing. We also spent time in Trinity Chapel.” He bowed his head in a show of respect but he seethed within. Edward knew exactly what Botulf had in mind when he asked Rosalyne to accompany him to his home.
She gave another curtsey. “I will tell Uncle Temp that you are interested in having your portrait painted, my lord,” she said sweetly. “He can send word once he has completed the panel for the archbishop. We would love to meet with you and discuss what you have in mind.”
“Tell Master Parry that I look forward to what he will produce,” the archbishop said.
“Good day to you, your grace. My lord,” Rosalyne said.
Edward did not take her hand as they walked away, not wanting to draw Botulf’s ire for a peasant placing his hands on a lady. They melded into the crowd and moved down the street.
Once they were out of sight from the pair, Rosalyne gripped his arm tightly.
“I do not like Lord Botulf,” she said, her voice shaking.
“Neither do I,” Edward replied.
Chapter 13
Edward left Temp’s cottage and headed toward the wall, where he’d spent the last week laboring. He’d learned quite a bit about the work going on since he’d been hired. Yevele, th
e master builder overseeing the nave’s expansion, had designated the new walls be built on the foundation of the old Roman ones which surrounded the city and had originally included eight gates, erected over a thousand years ago. Time had eroded the structure, which was why the king had called for this massive undertaking a few years ago. Only stone was being used, due to its sturdy nature. When completed, the awe-inspiring wall surrounding Canterbury would be capable of enduring a significant pounding from an enemy and last even longer than the one the Romans built.
Fine stone masonry was used for public works, such as this wall, and Edward found out this was a costly process because of the expense of the materials and the journeyman tradesmen involved, not to mention the expertise of engineering required. Stone had to be hauled into Canterbury on horse-drawn wagons from nearby quarries, where it had been pounded and broken. On site, stone masons chiseled the raw stone into large blocks before craftsmen used man-powered cranes to lift the completed rocks to the scaffolding along the wall. Masons used long ropes with knots placed every meter to measure the space accurately, as well as utilizing wooden triangles with a line and plumb bob suspended from one angle as a level when they placed the stones.
A separate group of workers on the ground took lime, soil, and water and mixed it together to form the mortar that held the blocks together. It, too, had to be transported skyward as the wall grew in height. Edward had grown to enjoy the smell of the mortar.
He had been employed strictly for physical labor since he did not possess the papers marking him as a guild member with a special skill. All but one day he had transported stones from the arriving wagons to the masons near the wall, while once being tasked to mix mortar when another worker fell ill. Edward asked questions of every man he labored beside, playing on his role as a curious country peasant who was eager to know the ways of the city.
Edward had learned that a total of twenty-four towers would be constructed around the circuit and that many of the existing gatehouses were being rebuilt in stone and brick. The towers being assembled atop segments of the wall extended outward slightly, so that the men eventually stationed in them would be able to observe the exterior of the walls on either side.
Every man he observed put in an honest day’s labor. No one shirked his duties. Most of the laborers worked in silence but were friendly when he asked them a question. He counted the wagons that arrived throughout the day and the number remained consistent over the week. Each day he watched the progress of stones being placed, both by height and length. It, too, proved steady. The king would be pleased that the men took their work seriously and the wall advanced at a good pace.
Perceval Rawlin had yet to put in an appearance. When Edward brought up the man’s name, he caught the disgruntled looks on a few faces. James, a laborer he’d grown close with, even spat in the dirt next to him when Rawlin’s name had been mentioned but no one voiced an opinion about the supervisor. Edward wondered how Rawlin was making a profit. Mayhap he overcharged the royal treasury for the stone and other materials used and that was where he gained his wealth.
“You mentioned Rawlin before, Edward. Well, there he is,” James said, his voice low.
Edward saw a man coming in their direction, dressed much like a profitable merchant. He had a receding hairline and his brown hair had begun to turn gray. Rawlin’s prominent, heavy jowls dominated his face. He walked bowlegged, most likely from the extra weight he carried around his middle. One thing was certain—Perceval Rawlin had not missed any meals.
Rawlin called over a man who supervised the section of the wall Edward had worked on this week. The man never looked Rawlin in the eye, only nodded at what Rawlin said and then moved away. Edward saw contempt in the man’s eyes as he trudged back, while Rawlin scanned the area with interest. Edward lowered his eyes and lifted a stone a mason had finished carving and took it to the wall, placing it in the crane and signaling for it to be lifted.
By the time he finished that task, Rawlin had already moved away.
Since it was Saturday, work ceased an hour past midday. Edward lined up with the rest of the men to receive his wages for the week but James told him he would not collect anything yet.
“You have to work on the wall a month before you secure any payment, my friend.”
He frowned. “That does not seem fair. I should be paid for the work I have done.”
James laughed. “’Tis not the only thing that isn’t fair.”
Edward joined his friend in line, hoping to learn more about the payment system to the laborers and anything else James might confide to him. Leaning in, he asked quietly, “What do you mean?”
James shrugged. “Stand to the side. Over there. You’ll see if you pay close attention.”
He did as told, moving near the table where a man sat with a quill in hand. As each worker reached the front, the man spoke to him and marked something on the parchment before him. The worker then moved to his left, where a second man counted out his pence and shillings. Edward noted that the skilled craftsmen, such as the masons and carpenters, received more than the laborers did. That seemed right, for a guild member should earn more than a common laborer, thanks to his years of apprenticeship in a skilled trade.
But what should the unskilled men such as himself be paid?
Edward knew how much he had been told that his wage would be. James, who had worked on the wall three months, probably earned close to what Edward would. He watched carefully as James approached the table and saw the coins counted out. They were far less than what Edward had been told he would earn.
It made no sense.
Why would James make less than Edward when he had worked on the wall for a longer amount of time?
James caught his eye and motioned for Edward to follow him. They moved away from the line of men. Neither spoke till they entered inside the city’s walls.
“Did you see how much I was paid?” James asked.
“Aye, and it surprised me. I was told I would earn nearly double that amount.”
James gave him a pointed look. “What you are told you will earn and what you are paid are two very different things, Edward Munn.”
He stopped. “Explain it to me.”
“You are hired for a job and expect to see the money promised you,” James began. “Only when it comes time to receive it, you will find much less than expected.” His lips twitched. “If you question them, they will explain that you are paying certain taxes and fees for the privilege of participating on the construction of the wall.”
“When in truth, those coins go to line Perceval Rawlin’s—and Lord Botulf’s—pockets, I assume?” Edward finished.
James laughed heartily. “You catch on quickly for a man fresh from the country.”
Edward chuckled but inside he seethed. For Rawlin to take from the very men who poured blood and sweat into constructing the wall while never lifting a finger went against everything Edward stood for. If Rawlin did that on such a grand scale, week after week, year after year, the man also must obtain a portion from the cost of the materials, as well. The king would put a stop to this once he received the report Edward planned to give him. Though he well knew that some skimming of funds must go on in construction projects, the scale of Rawlin’s cheating went well beyond what King Richard would find acceptable.
Though he didn’t know the details, Edward supposed he could return to London and let Richard know what he had learned. But he yearned to stay in Canterbury in order to remain close to Rosalyne. Mayhap, he could continue on a bit longer and see what else he could discover about the corruption and even confront Rawlin, if not Lord Botulf himself. Wouldn’t that nobleman be surprised to learn Edward’s true identity?
Edward bid James farewell and began journeying north toward Temp’s cottage. He stopped at a well for a long drink and decided to cool off by dumping a bucket over his head. Now that June had arrived and he worked outdoors in the heat all day, the cold water refreshed him. He raked his fingers through
his hair, smoothing it away from his face, as he continued through the busy streets.
The hot sun dried his clothes by the time he arrived at the Parry cottage. He ducked inside and relished the coolness within. Quiet surrounded him a moment before he heard the snores of Temp, who napped with his chamber door wide open. Edward had never heard a man snore the way the artist did and thought it was probably best that Temp had never become a soldier, for the man’s snoring would have given away his position to the enemy time and again. He closed the bedchamber’s door, thankful that the snoring was now muffled.
Thinking Rosalyne might be in the workshop, he ventured to it and was taken aback as he stepped inside.
The triptych stood completed.
Mesmerized, Edward slowly walked toward it, taking in the rich, vibrant colors. Stars painted with real gold had been used in the night sky on one portion of the panel, while the bright blue of lapis lazuli formed both the Madonna’s simple, homespun clothing and a blanket that enveloped the babe nestled in her arms. In another panel, the Christ’s ochre robe resonated with varying shades of red, from a deep hue in the folds to a lighter shade throughout. He was astonished at Rosalyne’s use of shadow and light, from the greens of the grass on a hill to the sunshine that cascaded down on the last picture within the panel.
“Do you like it?”
He turned and saw her standing in the doorway, a hopeful look on her face.
“You are the first to see it completed,” she told him. “Be truthful.”
Edward went to her and caught her elbows in his hands. “I feel I am in the presence of one with a most rare talent,” he said. “You have brought the drawings to life in a way I have never seen before and I have been in churches great and small. I am in awe, Rosalyne.”
Her smile spread, moving from her lips to her cheeks and crinkling her eyes in merriment. “I find myself more than pleased with it,” she admitted. “I felt the Virgin guiding my hand. I believe our archbishop will be appreciative.”
