When the Heavens Fall (3 page)

The Winslows ate early, and Quentin joined them. It didn't take long for Quentin to see that the boy was punishing his parents with his silence, doing nothing more than answering direct questions with the slimmest of answers. Stuart focused on his brother, obviously trying to fill the silence. He talked to Quentin about his upcoming preaching and the new members attending the church, and as usual, they ended up debating fine theological points

The meal finally was over, and Heather ushered Brandon away to show him a new book that she had just purchased

Stuart watched them go, then turned and said heavily, “I don't know, Quentin. He's not himself. It's as though he's changed into another person.”

“It's been a hard lesson for the boy, but he'll get over it.”

“I hope so.” He hesitated, and then gave in to the words rotating in his mind. “He hates me.”

“No, he doesn't. He's fourteen years old, and he's trying to find his way. Don't you remember the agony of being fourteen? I certainly do! You're not a child, and you're not a man. You're not anything. You don't know if you'll ever be anything. Brandon's had a pretty rough shock. He's always been willful, but this is the first time it's ever really caught up with him.” Quietly he added, “He's not that different from you.”

“I was fairly wild myself, I suppose. Maybe all boys are, but I got over it.”

“It took a fair amount to bring you around, as I remember it. Before Heather, before Tyndale, really you had only yourself in mind. Is he any different?”

“Perhaps not. But I must try to break through the wall he's built around himself.”

“That's a good idea, Stuart. I'm sure he'll come around. Let me have a talk with him. Sometimes a lad will close the door to his parents but will talk to someone not so close.”

In a little while, Heather returned to them and reached out a hand to her husband. He took it, and they shared a look of silent commiseration

Quentin excused himself and went at once to Brandon's room. He knocked, calling his name softly. When he heard a rather surly reply, he stepped inside and moved to where Brandon stood staring out the tall narrow window

“What is it, Uncle? Have you come to preach me a sermon?”

“No, my sermons are too good to waste on a wild young fellow like yourself.”

Brandon turned and laughed. “You're exactly right about that. I'm not worth the trouble.”

“None of us are worth the trouble we give God.”

Brandon stared at Quentin for a moment, then shook his head. “You're a preacher. I'm the sinner here.”

“And do you think preachers are sinless?” Quentin did not raise his voice but smiled slightly, adding, “You've not committed any sin that I haven't myself.”

“Have you ever committed fornication?”

“Yes, more than once.”

Brandon was taken off guard, for he had obviously not expected such a reply. “I don't believe you.”

“I won't give you any of the details, but when I was just two years older than you, I lost my innocence to a young woman named Sally Maddox.” Quentin felt Brandon's eyes on him and said, “That wasn't the only time I sinned with a woman, and that wasn't the worst sin I've ever committed.”

“What was the worst?” Brandon demanded

“I'll tell that only to God,” Quentin answered. “The terrible sins, Nephew, are not those of the flesh but those of the spirit.”

“Of what do you speak?”

“Sins of the flesh such as fornication, murder, theft—all of them grieve our Lord, but even worse is when you violate a
sacred trust with God—such as breaking a vow to God or another person. Truth is the foundation for any man.”

Brandon took the words in and seemed to be lost in them. “I can't believe you were ever false to anyone, Uncle.”

“But I was—to my own parents. I was far more wicked than you, and the sorrow of my life is that I gave them grief. I won't tell you the details, but I will tell you this: not a single day has gone by since I wronged them that I haven't grieved over it.”

Brandon waited for his uncle to continue, but Quentin put his arm over Brandon's shoulders. “Good night, Nephew,” he whispered. He left at once. Instinctively he knew that Brandon was staring after him, his mind a cauldron of confusion

Stuart got into the big bed beside Heather, and she put an arm across his chest and drew him close. “I'm so glad Brandon's home.”

“So am I. He doesn't seem happy, though.”

“I think he's ashamed of what he did.”

“Well, I hope that's it.”

“What else could it be?”

“It could be that he's unwilling to forgive me. When a boy is fourteen and on the brink of manhood, it's hard to take a whipping like that. It embarrassed him and humiliated him. And then I sent him off for his thirty days of service.”

“He'll come around.” Heather put her hand on his cheek and turned his face toward her. She kissed him and whispered, “I know he will.”

He ran his hand over her hair. He was quiet for a time, then said, “I think I'll go and visit Princess Mary. I promised Queen Catherine before she died that I'd do so. She's gone now, but a promise must be kept.”

Heather paused, wondering if it was wise to expose another
generation to the temptations of the king's court, but then said, “Stuart, take Brandon with you.”

He thought it over a moment. “You think he'd go?”

“I think he will. He'll be bored at Stoneybrook, now his hands are idle. And it would be good for the two of you. You can spend time with him and stay over in London. Do some of the things that a young man would like to do.”

“All right. I'll do it.” He pulled her toward him and whispered huskily, “You're a good wife, Heather. I love you more tonight than I did when we first married.”

Heather felt a fullness in her throat. She wanted so much to tell him how much she loved him, but every word seemed weak and futile. How could she make him understand how empty her world was when he was not with her? How could she tell him that his very presence made her feel warmer, her heart lighter? She squeezed him and nestled a bit closer. “I love you so much, Stuart, and you mustn't grieve over Brandon. He's going to be alright. I am certain of it. You concentrate on having a good time, and if he seems sullen, simply ignore it. He's got good Winslow blood in him. He's lost his way, but he'll find it again.”

Stuart had tried to have some sort of conversation on the way to Whitehall Palace, but Brandon said very little on their journey to London. He had tried to keep the conversation going and had remained as outwardly cheerful as he could, but still there was a barrier between him and his son that he could not get past

Hours later, when they were not far from the palace, Stuart said quietly, “I hope you get over your hatred for me, Son. I know your punishment hurt your pride, and I'm sorry it came to that.”

“I don't hate you, Father,” Brandon said rather stiffly. He said, “I simply don't—” He looked away, as if embarrassed

Stuart checked his horse and reached for Brandon's arm. Reluctantly Brandon came to a stop. “Out with it. Say it.”

“I don't fit in.”

“Fit in with what?”

“I'm not like you or Grandfather or even Uncle Quentin. You're all good men and I'm not.”

“Why, Son, none of us are perfect. I'd hate you to know some of the things that I've done and some of the thoughts I've had. But we all grow and change. Brandon, you can become the man that you choose to be.”

Brandon raised his head, and his eyes met Stuart's. There was pain in them, and he said, “That's the trouble, I guess. I have no desire to be noble.”

Stuart was stunned into silence. “We'll speak of this later.”

They rode the remaining mile in silence, entered the drive leading to Whitehall, then dismounted, tied their horses to a railing and walked up to the gate. A guard took their names and left to seek permission for their entry. Stuart and Brandon walked over to a stone bench in a corner and took a seat

Brandon asked in a whisper, “Do you really think the Princess Mary will see us?”

Being here, at the palace, seemed to shake Brandon out of his introspection. Stuart was glad to seize the opportunity to talk of any subject with his son. “I was the Princess Mary's playmate, in effect, when she was a child. Of course, I was older than she, but I would play with her. Her mother, Queen Catherine, encouraged me to come often. I've known Princess Mary a long time.” He paused, then said quietly, “I feel sorry for her, Brandon.”

The statement visibly shocked Brandon. “You feel sorry for her? She's a princess.”

“King Henry was never kind to his children. He doesn't care about them really. All he wanted was a son, and then when he finally got Prince Edward, he wasn't the kind of son that King Henry wanted.”

“He doesn't love Prince Edward?”

Stuart shifted in his seat. He didn't want to be telling any secrets, but it felt good to be in conversation with his son, and the subject obviously intrigued the boy. “King Henry has never loved anyone—except himself.” Stuart saw that this shocked Brandon again, and he added, “The king wanted someone just like himself, and Prince Edward will never be that.”

Brandon shifted in his seat. “Why not?”

“The king was a strong young man, able to defeat any man in his kingdom with sword or lance. He was larger than most men, a sportsman. Prince Edward's nine now and could not be more different from his father—”

Stuart was pleased to see another servant with whom he was familiar return with the first. “It's good to see you again, my lord. It's been a long time.”

“It's good to see you too, Hanson. You're looking well.”

“Getting older, sir. Princess Mary will be glad to see you. You were always her favorite. Simply let me announce you.”

They waited, and Hanson soon returned. “Come along. Princess Mary is waiting for you.”

They followed the tall servant down the hall and entered a large room, where a woman rose and came to greet them. She was dressed in a deep-purple gown with a stiff pointed stomacher. She came forward, smiling at Stuart, and said, “Why, it's about time, Lord Winslow. You have forsaken us.”

Stuart bowed and kissed her hand. “Clearly it was not my intention to do so, Princess. I beg your forgiveness. I've missed you greatly.”

Princess Mary was thirty-one years old. She had been an attractive child and by all reports had kept her looks for a while after she grew to maturity—but there was something missing from her now. Stuart could not put his finger on it, but he knew that Mary was unhappy. Perhaps she always had been. Quickly
he said, “I would like you to meet my son, Brandon. Brandon, the Princess Mary.”

“My, what a tall fellow you are!” Mary moved to face him and extended her hand. Brandon took it and followed his father's example

“It is my honor to meet you, Princess. My father has told me so much about you.”

“Not everything, I hope. I was beastly to him at times.”

“I can't remember anything like that,” Stuart said. “I remember we had some fine times playing with your dolls.”

“Yes, indeed!” Mary smiled, and her eyes lit up. “I remember those tea parties. I had all my dolls named, and you could never remember them.”

“I'm afraid you're right—that was never my forte—but I enjoyed my visits.” He shifted from one foot to the other and lowered his voice. “I miss your mother.”

“No more than I.” Sorrow clouded Mary's face. She looked down for a moment and said, “Every day, Stuart, I miss her, think of her.”

At that moment a young girl came into the room, and Mary turned and said, “Oh, Elizabeth, come here. Stuart Winslow has come. Do you remember him from his last visit?”

The young Princess Elizabeth was quite striking. She had a fair complexion, cinnamon-red hair, beautiful skin, and bright, intelligent eyes. She came over to them at once. “I remember you, sir, although it has been some time. And I can see that this is your son. He's very like you.”