When the Heavens Fall (11 page)

Some of the nobility came to Framlingham, bringing with them both townspeople and farmfolk. Mary listened as they vowed to fight to the death

“But they are not able to fight against trained armed soldiers, are they, Lord Jerningham?” She turned to eye her host

“Alas, no, but there will be others who will join your cause.”

The next day Mary walked the parapet of the castle and waved to the people who had gathered in her support. They were passionate, but her heart faltered. Without trained soldiers they could not stand against Northumberland's army

She looked to the horizon and saw a large band of soldiers coming, and her heart faltered

“Northumberland—and we have no defense!” She stood still, considering how she might die with dignity if it was God's will. But as the soldiers drew closer, she recognized their leader. “It's Brandon Winslow!” she cried

When Brandon looked up, she motioned to him and called out, “Come up, Winslow! Come up at once!” She descended to the parlor to wait for him

It was not long until Brandon came in. He dropped to one
knee and said, “Queen Mary, we have come to fight your battles.”

“I knew you would come, Brandon! Your father would do the same if he were in your place.”

“He will still come. So will every true Englishman. You are the queen of England, and we will not abide any other.”

Mary pulled him to his feet. “You have grown into a fine young man, Winslow.” She looked up into his face and smiled as relief flowed through her. “I remember how you came in with your father and how we played chess and you and Elizabeth became close friends. I never doubted that you would come to me if I called.”

Brandon smiled. “We'll make short work of this traitor.”

And, indeed, that was the way it turned out. The nobility, for the most part, flocked to Mary's standard, and Northumberland saw almost at once that he was a lost man. He came finally to the castle and lifted up his hat and shouted, “Long live Queen Mary!”

That was the end of the revolt, and Northumberland was sent to the Tower. Throughout it all, Mary kept Brandon close. As they watched Northumberland led off in chains, Brandon said, “You're safe now, Your Majesty.”

“No, a queen is never safe, nor a king. I will need you and your loyal support.”

“You have it.”

“Are you a loyal Catholic, Brandon? I don't remember you ever saying anything about religion.”

“Alas, Your Majesty, I am a sorry example. If you want true religion, you must go to my father or my uncle. They are both men of great devotion.”

“But what about you?”

“I'm afraid that I'm the lost sheep.”

Mary reached out, and he took her hand. “I will pray that God will touch your heart.”

“I would not displease my sovereign, but I must tell you my father and my mother and my uncle have prayed for me for years. I think I have sinned beyond the day of grace.”

“No, you will be found. I know it!”

Months after Queen Mary had been crowned, Major Poplin stood at the second-floor door of the Lion Inn and eyed the four soldiers that accompanied him. “I shall go in first,” he said quietly

“Don't attack him, Major. He's a master swordsman.”

“You think me an utter fool? I know that. Be ready to advance upon my call.”

Cecil Poplin had succeeded in the army not because of prowess in arms or courage but because he was shrewd. He well knew that he could trap the man who had made him a cuckold only by taking him by surprise. He flung open the unlocked door. As he had been told, there was his wife in bed with Brandon Winslow

“You'll die for this, Winslow!” he cried. He drew his sword. Brandon rolled out of bed. His sword was hanging from the top of the bedstead. He whipped it out. “Don't be a fool, Major. I'll kill you.”

Poplin advanced, slashing the sword in a great arc. He knew he had no chance, but the shame that Brandon Winslow had brought upon him ate at him like acid into his soul. There had been others before him, he knew that, but Winslow had laughed at him, mocked him, and scorned him, telling everyone in the inn, the night before of his exploits with Alice. He advanced in a frenzy of strikes against the younger, stronger man, but Brandon coolly parried each one. Brandon's cold steel suddenly whipped across Poplin's chest, cutting through his uniform and making a shallow wound. Poplin gaped at Brandon as he felt the slice burn across his chest. “Sergeant! Sergeant!” he cried

Instantly Brandon Winslow found himself facing four hardened soldiers all with swords drawn. He tried to fight them, but he was overwhelmed. When his sword was knocked from his grasp, he took a minor wound in his right arm. Two of the soldiers took him down to the ground. Poplin smiled down at him in triumph. “Brandon Winslow, you are under arrest for attempting to kill your superior officer.”

At that instant Brandon knew that he had surpassed his most foolhardy moment. His bragging words the night before in front of so many in their company had obviously caught up with him. He had been caught before, but this was different. One simply did not draw a sword against a superior officer. It was not only the end of a career; it could be the end of his life. Hanging was a common enough punishment for such an offense, despite the honor and glory he had received at the side of Queen Mary

“Lock him up and keep close guard over him. Put him on bread and water.”

“Yes, sir. Come along, Winslow.”

Brandon did not look at the woman who had caused his downfall, did not turn when she called out his name. He was, for the first time in his life, aware that he was no better than the village idiot. But as soon as the door shut, he heard Alice screaming, and the sergeant chuckled beside him. “I'm afraid your sweetheart there is taking a beating for her indiscretions, Lieutenant.”

Ordinarily Brandon would have tried to defend Alice, but he knew that she was beyond help now—not that he could have done anything with four men guarding him. He'd brought himself this trouble—and Alice too. If only he had listened to Caleb, walked away! His mind leaped ahead to imprisonment, to a trial, to the look on his parents' faces when they heard. And the skies seemed bleak indeed

The trial was brief. Brandon had absolutely no chance. The commander, General Lester Stevens, was head of the court. He was old army, and the very thought of a lowly soldier wounding his commanding officer was anathema to him. He listened to the evidence and stared into space while Mason Stevens, the man appointed to handle Brandon's case, pleaded for clemency

Finally it was all over. Brandon stood at Stevens's command. “You deserve to be hanged. If I had my way, that's what I would do. Unfortunately we have received orders from the queen that we will not be permitted to punish you as you deserve. That sentence will be set aside. But you will be stripped of your rank, dishonorably discharged from the army, and will receive fifty lashes.”

Brandon did not say a word. Stevens glared at him. “Do you have anything to say?”

“No, sir.”

“I should think not! Take him away. Major Poplin, you see to the punishment.”

Poplin smiled and nodded. “I will do my best, sir.”

Indeed, the lashing, which came later that day, was a masterpiece of cruelty. Poplin appointed one of his sergeants, a big, burly man with the strength of an ox. He had been known to kill men under his lash, and he had grinned when Major Poplin said, “Get the cat with the metal barbs in the thong. Strip his flesh from his bones, Baines.”

“Yes, sir. I'll give him the best the house has to offer.”

Brandon was led out, and one look showed him that Cecil Poplin had seen to it that the audience was large. As far as he could see, every soldier in the regiment was there and many civilians as well. Brandon said nothing but removed his jerkin, and Baines stripped the thin shirt from his back. Baines leered at him as he fastened Brandon's hands to a post and said, “I hope you enjoy this as much as I will.”

Brandon did not reply. He waited

Poplin said, “Let him have it, sergeant.”

The first blow drove the breath out of Brandon's body. Lines of fire, it seemed, gained heat with every moment. With each blow he had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out. Mercifully he passed out, and as he lost consciousness, he thought,
I'll die at this. He'll kill me.

“It's a wonder he didn't die.” The surgeon, a tall, thin man with salt-and-pepper-colored hair, shook his head. “Look at his back. I don't see how he lived through it. It's the worst I've ever seen.”

Caleb could hardly bear to look down. “He'll bear those scars the rest of his life.”

“He's lucky,” said the surgeon, whose name was Clemson. “He'll heal up, but he's a fool. He'll carry the scars inside as well. I've seen it before. When a man takes a beating like this, he may heal up in the flesh, but his spirit will always be raw.”

Caleb said, “He'll need some care, won't he?”

“Oh, yes. He won't be able to tend himself for a while.” He glanced over his shoulder and then back to Caleb. “I'm sorry, but he can't stay here. According to the commander, we're to cast him out the gates now.”

“Don't fret over it,” Caleb said. “I'll see to his care. Thank you, sir.”