The Captive Bride (2 page)

“Oh, he swore a great oath—you know how Miles was in those days! Said it was a paradise on earth compared to some of the places he'd soldiered.” Gilbert shook his head. “Poor old Miles. Been in his grave for twenty years now. I still miss him.”

Humility joined the conversation, saying quietly, “I rejoice that he came to know the Lord before he was taken.”

“That's true, sweetheart,” Gilbert said, turning from Edward to gaze fondly down at her. There was, however, a sadness in his fine blue eyes as he shook his head and murmured, “Not too many of us left—the Firstcomers!”

“Well,
I'm
left, Brother!” Edward said heartily. “But if we don't get some of Humility's cooking inside this hollow stomach of mine, I can't speak for tomorrow!”

They made their way up the main street leading to the town, past the single street intersecting it. Houses lined both sides of the main street, each with a small, fenced-in garden, now mostly gone to seed. At the point where the two main streets intersected, four small cannons were mounted on swivels. Pigs roamed freely about the streets, serving both as the main meat diet of the colony and also as four-footed garbage collectors.

They passed the cross street and turned into a small house with a high-pitched thatched roof. It was sheathed with unpainted clapboard—short boards handmade by splitting a log lengthwise, then shaving it down to the proper shape with a drawknife. “Come in and let's hear what's happening in England, Edward,” Gilbert urged.

The room they entered was dark, illuminated only by two small windows ten inches square, sealed with glass instead of the oiled paper used by many. Humility moved to a cavernous fireplace that took up half of one wall. It was three and a half feet deep, and so high that a tall man could walk around in
it. The back was lined with rounded stones, and the inside studded with iron hooks, bars, and chains suspended from a wooden beam.

As Gilbert and Edward sat at the table talking, Humility took some of the goat's meat she had roasted on a spit and put it on hollowed-out wooden trenchers. She filled three large drinking cups with fresh milk and set out a sharp knife for each of them. Adding a wedge of cheese, she then pulled the loaf of bread baked in an outdoor iron-box communal oven close to the fire.

“All ready,” she called, and the three of them took their places and bowed their heads. Gilbert prayed, “Thank you, gracious Lord, for this good food, and for the safe journey of our brother, in the name of Jesus Christ.”

Edward reached out, cut a huge slice from the loaf with his knife, then laughed, “Gilbert, you have the shortest prayers of any minister in America! I trust your sermons are not so brief, or the congregation will feel led to seek another preacher who will give them their money's worth!”

Humility had gotten up to get salt and paused to lay her hand on Edward's shoulder. He could not help noticing how thin and frail it was as she said with a smile, “He is guilty, Brother Edward, I fear. A shame that the best preacher in Plymouth speaks no longer than an hour when others with nothing to say last for three or four!”

Gilbert sliced off a liberal portion of meat, held it impaled on the point of his knife, then said with a smile, “True. It all stems from an incident that occurred when I first began preaching. I heard someone say in a loud whisper, ‘Is he done?' And then someone else said in a disgusted voice, ‘Yes—but he's still preaching!' I think that made me choose to stop when I had nothing else to say.” He shoved the portion of meat into his mouth and began to chew it slowly.

“A dangerous precedent!” Edward chuckled. “Now, tell me how it goes—I'm hungry for news.”

As the two men sat there chewing the tough meat and
washing it down first with milk, then with ale, the more common beverage, Humility leaned back against the wall and observed them. Though the Winslow blood was evident in both men, time and circumstance had sculptured them differently, and she was a little amused to see the variations.

Edward was sixty-five, six years older than Gilbert, and slightly taller. He was far heavier, his full face still red; the chestnut hair that had glowed in youth was still thick and only faintly tinged with gray. He had a smooth, good-natured face, a neatly trimmed moustache, and eyes of a penetrating blue. He was wearing a fine lawn collar turned out from his throat, tied beneath with a silk, red-tassled cord. A corduroy coat with a double row of silver buttons and silk breeches in the Dutch style completed his outfit. He had an air of authority, and his years of dealing with kings and later the Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwell, had given him a rather ponderous dignity.

Turning to look at her husband, Humility saw a man not greatly different in some ways than the young blade she had met forty years earlier. The face, to be sure, was somewhat lined, but the athletic movement was little slowed by time. He still had the broad, bronzed brow, and the face that tapered down to a jutting chin adorned with a small white scar was only slightly heavier than on the day they had met. Tall and muscular, he wore the plain, dark clothing of the Puritan minister, with pewter buttons and a broad, starched neckcloth folded over his shoulders.

He turned his head to smile at her, and her heart leaped, as it always did, and then a longing to be well again swept her. She had always been his equal physically, despite the burden of childbearing. But now a stranger seeing them together for the first time might take her for his older sister. The memory of that time when she walked by his side, brimming with health (and beauty, so they said!), was more than Humility could bear. She rose and said, “You two will want to go visit the governor. I'll not go with you this time.”

Edward got to his feet at once and said, “We should call, I suppose, but we'll be back soon. I'm anxious to see my nephew. He'll be here for supper?” His astute eyes did not miss the glance exchanged by the pair, and he said quickly. “Well, I've a month to see that young rascal—no matter.”

Gilbert said, “Go lie down, dear. I'll take care of this when we come back. Don't argue—‘Wives, be in obedience to your husbands' as the Book teacheth.” He kissed her and then led the way out of the house and down the street toward the governor's house.

“How bad is it?” Edward asked at once. “What does Fuller say?”

Gilbert bit his lip and cast a glance over the iron-gray billows rolling ponderously over the docks below. “Bad enough, Edward. Sam said when she first fell ill, it was the result of too much bathing. He's always said that noxious vapors from winds and waters make bathing very dangerous.” He smiled at the thought of Sam Fuller, their only physician since the
Mayflower
touched the New World. Then a gloomy light clouded his bright blue eyes and he said heavily, “But it's serious, Edward. She goes down every day! Whatever it is, it's draining her life before my eyes!”

Edward reached out and gripped his brother's arm, saying only, “God is able, Gilbert!”

“Yes, He is.”

For the next three hours the two men went from house to house as Edward performed his duty to pass along the news from England. He had been governor of Plymouth, in addition to his offices for the Crown and later for Cromwell, so there was a certain amount of awe in the attitude of some. Others like John Billington, who had long resented Edward (or any other man of authority), and latecomers to the settlement, were less impressed.

Governor Bradford, of course, was pleased to see him, and they spent the bulk of the day with him. His house was larger than usual, more than twice as large as Gilbert's. Bradford
was a compact man, and since the beginning had been the driving energy that kept Plymouth intact. After hearing some minor news he said, “Come, Brother Winslow, get to it. What will happen now that Cromwell is dead?”

“His son, Richard, sits in his place.” Edward shifted uneasily, then added, “I fear him, Mr. Bradford. He is not a strong man, and the English have not lost their taste for monarchs.”

Bradford's intelligent eyes searched the face of the other, and he nodded slowly. “My thinking exactly.”

“You think Charles will be brought back?” Gilbert asked.

“His royal trunk has been packed for some time, Pastor Winslow,” Bradford smiled grimly. “And if Charles sits on the throne of England, we all know what his thought will be concerning such men as ourselves.”

“He will remember that it was the Puritan forces under Cromwell that beheaded his father and drove him to exile,” Edward nodded. He looked sharply at Bradford and added, “It is well that we are here, with an ocean between us, is it not, Mr. Bradford?”

“Yes—but our brothers in England are not so protected,” Bradford answered. He shook his head, and there was a sadness in his voice as he said, “I fear there will be a shaking soon in England.”

They left the governor's house and made their way up the hill, speaking of the dangers that beset their brothers in England, and as they turned down the street and caught sight of Winslow's horse, he said, “Matthew is home.” He added drily, “Most of us hitch up a steer or a dry cow to do our traveling—my son has some disdain for such primitive customs.”

“I see what you mean, Gilbert,” Edward responded, noting the horse tied to the fence in front of the house. “Where did he get the money for such a fine stallion?”

Gilbert shrugged and said as they passed through the gate, “Not from me. The price of that horse would pay my salary for six years. Matthew doesn't work, so he either stole it or
he gambled for it.” He put his hand on Edward's arm, saying in a low voice, “I felt it necessary to ascertain which, and I am pleased to report that it is the latter. It would have been disgraceful if a minister's son had stolen, would it not?”

Edward noted the edge of sarcasm in Gilbert's voice, and it saddened him. He had stood by grave after grave where the stillborn children of Gilbert and Humility were buried, and he knew the deep grief that had almost destroyed them both. When the last child had survived, they had poured themselves into the boy with such an intensity that Edward had always feared the result should the child have followed the others to an early grave. He had not been unaware, being a shrewd observer of human nature, that Matthew had been blessed with a strong body and cursed with a rebellious spirit.

Gilbert opened the door, and as Edward stepped inside and was greeted with a rush from his nephew, he thought for the ten thousandth time,
It's Gilbert at seventeen!
It was an eerie resemblance, for young Matthew had the same sharp features, the cornflower blue eyes that all Winslow men seem to have, he moved the same, had the same smooth gait of the natural athlete—balanced, almost sensual, with not a fraction of wasted motion as he crossed the floor.

“Uncle Edward!”
Even the same voice!
he thought, and the hard hand that crushed his was corded with muscle as were the arms and shoulders. “My word, it's good to have you back!”

“You're looking well, my boy.” Edward smiled at the young man, “I haven't seen such fine clothing since I visited Bond Street in London.”

There was some embarrassment in the young man's eyes as he said, “Well, Uncle, I suppose I am a bit of a peacock— but I've been to Boston, and they expect such things there.”

“Some do,” Gilbert said quietly. His brother saw the young man's face flush and the quick flare of resentment in his blue eyes.

Edward had not been a diplomat for nothing. He said with
a laugh, “I remember your father wore an outfit much like this when he was a student at Cambridge. I believe Father took a rather dim view of it, eh, Gilbert?”

A startled look crossed Gilbert's face, and then he threw his head back and roared with laughter. “I haven't thought of that in forty years, Edward!” He threw a smile at Humility and said ruefully, “Father threatened to have me put in the stocks if I ever wore such a garb in his presence!”

“Father was a stern man,” Edward said gently, and he saw the remark had its intended effect on his brother.

Gilbert nodded, and there was a softening of the lines around his mouth as he looked at his son. “He was that.” He said no more, but the angry air that had filled the room faded, and young Matthew shot a grateful look at his uncle.

“Now, let's hear what you've been up to since I've been away. How's the Latin and the Greek? Still giving Mr. Littleton fits?”

“I'm bound to say,” Gilbert said as he sat down beside Humility, “that it's rather the other way around.” He gave a fond glance at the young man across the table and smiled. “I mean to say that Matthew has surpassed his teacher.”

“And
that's
what I want to talk to you about, Uncle.”

“Oh, not
now,
Matthew,” Humility protested. “Your uncle is weary from his long voyage.”

“Let the boy talk, Sister,” Edward said easily. He leaned back in his chair and considered the eager face of the young man who at once began to pour out a plan he had obviously spent much time conceiving. In brief, he would either go to school in England or he would die!

Edward asked, when he could find a gap in the young man's flow of words, “You want to enter the church, Matthew?”

“No, the law!”

His uncle gave a quick look at Gilbert and Humility, and the disappointment on their faces was plain. He saw at once that this family, so precious to him, was on the razor edge of disaster. If the young man had his way, he would be embarking
on a path odious to his parents; in addition, they would lose him forever—at least, Humility would! The study of law was a long, arduous process, and he knew in his heart that Humility would never live to see her son again if he left on such a mission.

“Mr. Shakespeare has given us many fine lines, my boy,” Edward remarked slowly. “My favorite is not well known, but reflects my own views.”