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, the 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.”
Selfishly, he wished the holy man could know Rosalyne was the artist behind the work but he understood why she would allow her uncle to receive credit instead and discourage Temp from sharing the truth.
“Teach me,” he said. “I would love to try to paint something.”
“I did promise you a lesson in painting,” she mused.
Rosalyne went to the far side of the workshop, where a few bits of wood rested against the wall. She chose one and brought it back. Edward noted it was already coated with enough layers of gesso to make it gleam.
“This is a small piece. Why don’t you try something on it?”
“But what would I paint?”
“People are difficult to capture but objects are much easier. Wait here.”
She left the room and returned moments later with an apple in her hand. Setting it on the table, she gestured for him to take a seat on the bench. Retrieving parchment and a piece of charcoal, she placed the parchment flat on the table and handed him the charcoal before sitting on the bench next to him. He could smell the faint scent of roses wafting from her.
“First, you need to practice by drawing the fruit on the page.”
Immediately, he put the charcoal against the page and heard her click her tongue.
“Is something wrong?”
“You must study the apple first, Edward. Never be in a rush. That is the first secret of art—patience.”
He rested the charcoal on the table and gazed upon the apple before he picked it up and eyed it from different angles. He sensed her nodding in approval as he concentrated on the fruit. Finally, he returned it to the table and took up the charcoal.
“When you draw, commit to each line. Think about it first, then capture what you see on the parchment. Remember, there is no rush with a sketch.”
Edward focused on the object before him and then drew its likeness on the page.
When he finished, he said, “I know it’s not perfect but at least I can tell what it is.”
“You have gotten the likeness down,” she agreed. Then she told him ways to shade it to bring depth to the flat image.
He tried and only succeeded a little bit. “I think it takes a true artist to do as you ask.”
“Still, you grasped the idea,” Rosalyne said encouragingly. “Now use the sketch to draw on the wood.”
It didn’t take him long to do so and he was pleased with his effort when finished since it looked even more like the apple than his sketch did.
“’Tis time to mix the paints. I will tell you what to do but I want you to do the actual work.”
She walked him through each step in the process, from cracking the egg and separating the egg’s yolk from its white to mixing in the pigments, blending slowly until he had several shades of red to use along with a bit of green for the sprig at the top.
“The egg tempera dries very quickly,” she reminded him. “Once you start, keep that in mind.” She laid out several brushes to his right to use with the various hues.
Edward dipped a sable brush she handed him into the first egg tempera and outlined the apple’s shape on the wood. Rosalyne spoke softly, encouraging him as he dipped into the different shades and swept them against the gesso. He had trouble again with the shadowing, though.
“Here, I can remedy that,” she said.
“Don’t do it for me,” he chided. “I want this to be my own piece.”
“All right.”
She rose and stood behind him, leaning into him to retrieve a brush. Dipping it into the paint, she handed the brush to him. Once he took it, she wrapped her own hand around his and guided it to the wood. Awareness of her warmth against his back filled Edward’s mind. Her breasts pressed into him, her left hand gripping his shoulder for support as she steered his hand along the wood.
He relaxed and let her take over, using him as her instrument. Though Edward held the brush, Rosalyne was the true artist in their combined effort. He watched as the apple came alive before him, looking every bit as good—if not better—than the real one on the table.
“A last stroke or two. There,” she said, lifting his hand and the brush away from the surface. “See, you did it. For a first effort, it is quite remarkable.”
He turned to look up at her. “I had help.”
Her face was so close to his. She turned toward him and his tongue darted out, teasing the corner of her mouth. Her left hand tightened on his shoulder, while the right squeezed the one that helped him hold the brush. Edward brought their joined hand down and forced her to ease up so he could release the sable brush.
Twisting more toward her, his left hand slid against the small of her back and brought her forward. She landed in his lap, her eyes going wide a moment before his mouth crashed down on hers.
It had been over a week since he had kissed her. It seemed like an eternity. Edward didn’t know how he had lived so long without sampling her sweetness. He shifted till she was firmly in his lap and he had both arms around her. Her arms looped about his neck. Rosalyne leaned in and opened her mouth to him.
He plundered it ruthlessly, roughly, demandingly. She responded in kind, taking as much as she gave, matching him kiss for kiss. Edward moved to the sweetness of her cheek and down along her jawline. His lips trailed to her throat, nipping playfully, enjoying the sighs and moans that escaped from her.
One hand against the small of her back held her steady as the other came around to the front and cupped her breast, kneading it. He dragged a fingernail across the nipple, feeling it come to attention through the cloth of her gown. Slowly, he circled it again and again and raked his nail across it, feeling her shiver in his lap. His lips moved lower as his hand tugged on the cotehardie and smock she wore, easing them downward, freeing her breast.
His mouth encompassed the round globe, his tongue encircling her nipple, teasing her unmercifully. Rosalyne squirmed in his lap, causing his manhood to begin to swell. He lathed the peak, taunting her until her nails dug into his shoulders and she gasped for breath. Gradually, he slowed his tongue and moved his mouth upward till it met hers again, sinking his teeth softly into her full, bottom lip as he pulled her clothing back into place.
Rosalyne pushed against his chest, forcing him away. Edward thought he had done something wrong until he saw the hunger in her eyes.
“More,” she demanded. “I want more. I need more.”