Chapter 12
Edward found it hard to believe what Rosalyne thought of him. As the youngest de Montfort son, he had always idolized Ancel, the eldest, while he had fostered with Hal, whom he followed blindly from the time he could walk. Ancel had been the leader. Hal had been the charmer.
Edward had been the invisible one, never seeking attention, serious about life and his duty from the time he was a young boy. He stayed in the shadows while his older brothers shone brightly.
His parents loved him, as did his siblings. That had never been the problem. But others tended to overlook him. He had never been ambitious, rather valuing being steadfast and loyal. It was only a stroke of luck that he found recognition for carrying through with his responsibilities on the battlefield and killing the Scottish soldiers before they could murder the pinned-down Lord Commander. Lord Humphrey seemed to think him especially brave but Edward knew any man would have come to Lord Humphrey’s aid.
The act had earned him his knighthood—and a position in the king’s guard—something he’d grown to hate.
The past few days in Canterbury, away from the royal court, had by far been his favorite in the past year. Not only did Edward enjoy being away from London but he had savored his time in Rosalyne’s company. Being around her was like breathing in fresh country air after being trapped in the fetid, stale atmosphere that hovered over the streets of London.
Mayhap she was right. He didn’t seem so solemn here. He was more relaxed and smiled readily. He liked conversing with Temp Parry, who had a wealth of interesting stories.
And he had cherished the kisses he’d shared with Rosalyne.
She brought out something within him that Edward hadn’t known he possessed. His spirits seemed lighter when he was around her. He enjoyed her quick wit and admired her artistic talent. Rosalyne Parry might be of the nobility but she was living life on her own terms.
Edward wanted this woman in his life. Now—and forever.
He wished he had followed his instincts and the good manners which had been drilled into him and placed her hand on his arm when they set out. Just the feel of her fingers would have brought him comfort and, at the same time, filled him with an urgency. If they were not in the midst of the busiest street in Canterbury, he definitely would capture her in his arms and never let her go.
Instead, he tried to emulate Hal and gave her what he hoped was his most charming smile. His hand took hers and tucked it into the crook of his arm.
“Now that I know I escort a lady, I must do so in proper fashion,” he told her.
Edward enjoyed the becoming blush that tinged her cheeks. He longed to sink his teeth into her tempting bottom lip.
All in good time.
“Thank you, good sir,” she replied playfully.
If only she knew he was a knight. Would she treat him differently? Act in a more formal manner? It didn’t matter. For now, he would take what grew between them and enjoy it for what it was. Once he finished his work for the king in Canterbury, decisions must be made, ones that would affect his future—and hers.
They continued along the street while she pointed out various sites, such as the leper hostel dedicated to Saint Nicholas.
“I thought Saint Nicholas already had a hospital named after him,” Edward pointed out.
Rosalyne smiled up at him. “Then I suppose Nicholas was a very saintly saint in order to have two important buildings in Canterbury named in his honor.” Her head turned away abruptly and he saw she inhaled deeply.
He did the same and asked, “What is that divine smell?”
She sighed. “Eel pie. At that cookshop.” She pointed to their right. “Uncle Temp and I sometimes spoil ourselves and buy one there.”
Edward began pulling her in that direction.
“Oh, no,” she cried. “We don’t need to stop.”
“I want eel pie,” he declared. “I have never had this particular delicacy. I insist we try it.”
They entered the cookshop, which had a narrow frontage to the street. He saw the place was small, with a long corridor running behind it. He supposed it led to the kitchens and quarters where the owner lived.
“Two eel pies,” he said, handing over the coin the man asked for.
Soon, he and Rosalyne had their food in hand. They returned to the cloudless day and leaned against the wall of the cookshop as they ate.
“Mmm,” she murmured, the noise low in her throat.
Edward only wished she could make that sound while he pleasured her.
He bit into his pie and moaned in a similar fashion. The golden crust melted in his mouth. The stewed eels, swimming in a delicious green sauce, were tender and slightly salty.
“I told you,” she said, her deep blue eyes sparkling. “Eat slowly and savor it. Most men gobble down a meal without properly enjoying it.”
“As you wish, my lady,” he said.
Her brows shot up when he addressed her in that manner but she remained silent and took another bite.
They took their time, eating in silence. Edward enjoyed every morsel. “I may need to purchase another one.”
“Not now,” she chided. “We have more to see, including the cathedral. That will take a good deal of time.”
“Do you know much about its background?”
“I have lived here all of my life, Edward. Of course, I can share with you what I have learned over the years.”
He placed her hand on his sleeve again and led her back into the throng of people in the main thoroughfare as she described the history of the church and the murder of Archbishop Becket over two hundred years before. Edward was familiar with the story of the martyr’s death, so his mind wandered as he reveled in the scent of roses that came from her skin and hair and the feel of her body’s heat so near him.
“Are you listening to me, Edward?” she demanded.
Glancing down at her, he said, “I was distracted.”
“By what?”
He looked up and saw they had arrived at the cathedral. The church rose in magnificence before them. Vendors hawked their wares, including the badges that Rosalyne had described to him. Another stall drew his eye, so he pointed to it.
“What does that man sell?” he asked.
She looked in the direction he indicated. Her lips narrowed in displeasure. “He is one of many who take advantage of the pilgrims who visit here.”
Out of curiosity, Edward led her closer and frowned. “What is in those vials?”
“After Becket’s murder, some of the citizens managed to acquire pieces of cloth soaked in the archbishop’s blood. Rumors abounded that a person could be cured of disease by merely touching the cloth. I think that must have started many on their pilgrimage to Canterbury. Those with leprosy or blindness made their way to the cathedral and the monks began to sell small, glass bottles that they claimed contained Becket’s blood.”
Astonishment filled him. “People truly believed that?” He glanced at the small vials, all filled with a dark brown substance. “And they think the archbishop’s blood has survived for over two centuries?”
Rosalyne nodded. “Though the monks no longer trade in this, others took up the idea. Many a pilgrim has purchased it, hoping to be cured of their ailments thanks to the martyr’s blood.”
Disgust rose in Edward. “I now better understand the story of the Christ entering the temple in Jerusalem and expelling the merchants and money changers in anger, accusing them of turning that holy place into a den of thieves. These merchants do the same and take advantage of those on pilgrimage.”
She pulled on Edward to lead him away but it still bothered him that many people, including those who had little coin to spare, found themselves deceived by these vendors who surrounded the church.
They entered the cathedral. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dim interior as he dipped his finger into the holy water and made the Sign of the Cross. As on his first visit, the building bustled with people, including many workers using hammers and chisels. Scaffolding filled a section of the nave.
Edward motioned at all the activity. “What are these men constructing?”
“The fire that occurred after Becket’s death did not touch the nave but it has fallen into disrepair. If you look closely, you can see some of the decay. About half a score ago, Archbishop Sudbury ordered that a new nave be constructed. One of the old king’s master masons, Henry Yevele, is in charge of the work. ’Tis said it will take beyond the turn of the century before its completion.”
Edward scanned the large area. The laborers were limited by the length and width of the nave but he saw they had compensated for that in height. From his estimate, the nave might one day be seventy to eighty feet high. He swore that he would return someday when the work had been finished and admire the mastery of the place.
They strolled through the south transept and along the quire and he marveled at the stained glass windows of Adam and Methuselah. She brought him to the presbytery and he looked back across the length of the building, taking in the grand scale of the church.
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.