When the Heavens Fall (7 page)

“Yes, you were always kind to my mother. She thought a great deal of you.” The heavy lines of Mary's face lightened, and she smiled, which made her look somewhat younger. Still there was a look of ill health about her. “I remember her saying that it would be good if I married you, but, of course, according to your own testimony, you have the best wife in the world.”

“Indeed, I do, Princess. She's a lovely woman.” He smiled and said, “Moreover, she's a saint to put up with a fellow like me for all of these years.”

“Are you a good Catholic, Stuart?” The question came bluntly and sharply

“Why, I try to serve God as best I can.”

The answer did not seem to satisfy Mary. She frowned and said, “I remember well that you consorted with the Protestant smugglers. It was only my father's good grace that saved you and yours or your heads would've been on the block, no?”

Stuart looked her in the eye. “He spared us, yes.”

Mary lifted her chin. “God has chosen me, Stuart, to bring our people back to the true faith.”

Stuart faltered. “God has his ways,” he said at last, “of seeing his desires to completion.”

Mary seemed pleased with his response, extended her hand, and he kissed it. “I have treasured your friendship. I don't have many friends. Come again soon.”

“Indeed I will. I promise.”

Stuart left and found Brandon waiting for him outside. “Did you find the Princess Elizabeth?”

“Oh, yes, we had a ride, and she took me to meet the ladies of the court.”

“Were they beautiful ladies?”

“Some of them were.”

“Well, did they find you amiable?”

Brandon laughed. “Yes, they did, but I think they would find a swinekeeper amiable. They're all absorbed in romantic thoughts.”

“Well, my advice—not that you're apt to heed it of late—is to stay as far away from them as you can. Come along.”

They mounted their horses and started back to the manor where they were staying with friends. Thoughts of his younger days and the misdirection of his path consumed Stuart. If he didn't act soon, Brandon would end up in similar trouble—with the village girls or the law or, judging by the princess's interest in him, as part of the king's court. One of these days, he was even liable to fancy himself enough a man that he'd run off to join some man's military cause. None of those were tolerable outcomes. Not for a son of Stuart Winslow

He cleared his throat. “I've made a decision, Brandon, concerning you.”

“Yes, sir? What is it?”

“I've decided that you will to go to Oxford.”

“Oxford! I—I don't want to go to university.”

“It'll be the best thing for you. I know you want to be a soldier, but that's not a good trade. Not a profession suitable for the future master of Stoneybrook.”
Especially with the unrest bound to come when Mary becomes queen.

Brandon said quietly, “Father, you're trying to make something of me that I'm not.”

“I'm trying to make a man of you.”

“Well, I'm not the kind of man you desire me to be! I'm totally unfit for either the church or the law or even for the business of running Stoneybrook—and you know that I'd be a fine soldier!”

Stuart declined to argue, and the two were silent as they rode back to the manor along the river. When they dismounted at the stables, Stuart said heavily, “You'll go to Oxford, Brandon. Your
mother, Quentin, and I have prayed much about this—and we feel it's best for you.”

“I'll hate it!”

Stuart had known it would be like this, but he could find no other course. “You'll do your best, Son, as befits a young man with the name of Winslow. Who knows? You may like it after you get there.”

“No, sir, I will not!” Brandon said, and every line of his body proclaimed rebellion

Even after all these years I hate London! It would suit me if I never had to set foot in it again.”

Stuart Winslow glanced at his father as they walked down the street and grinned broadly. “You're behind the times, sir,” he said. “London is where all the important things take place.” Stuart adroitly dodged a burly man pushing past and said, “But in all truth I'm not too fond of it myself.”

Claiborn Winslow, now in his later years, was lean and quick and he dodged the man almost as easily as Stuart had. “I'm not sure we're on the right street. Someone could put up signs marking streets. How is a fellow supposed to find his way?”

“By hit or miss, I suppose,” Stuart answered

The two men threaded their way down the crowded street, dodging others who were bent on coming up. Carts and coaches made such a thundering, it seemed that all the world went on wheels. At every corner they encountered men, women, and children, some, arrayed in the gold and gaudy satin of the aristocracy, gazing languidly out of their sedan chairs borne by lackeys with thick legs. Porters sweated under their burdens and peddlers scurried like ants about the two men making their way through the human tide that flowed and ebbed on the street

“Watch yourself, Son!” Claiborn Winslow grabbed Stuart's
arm and jerked him to the middle of the street just in time to avoid a deluge of slops that someone was throwing out of an upper window. “Nearly got you that time. At least the city has put a drain in the street so that the rain will wash away this garbage.” He waved his hand at the ditch about a foot wide and six inches deep that ran down the center of the cobblestone street. “That carries all the slops and garbage away quite nicely. It's a wonder what a change modern improvements make, isn't it? Why, most cities just let the garbage and slop pile up—but London won't put up with that.”

“I think that's what we're looking for,” Stuart said. He pointed at a sign that was faded and almost obliterated by smoke and weather.
Jared Pounds, Solicitor.

“Doesn't look very prosperous, does he?”

“No, but I suppose he's as good as any other lawyer. I don't trust the breed too much myself.”

Going in, the two men walked up a flight of rickety wooden steps and then down a dark corridor. Stuart knocked on a door, and a man stood there before him

“Ah, Mr. Winslow, is it?”

“Yes, Mr. Pounds,” Claiborn answered. “This is my son, Stuart.”

“Come in, come in. Have a seat. We'll have something to drink here. Will it be ale or wine?”

“Ale will be fine,” Claiborn said, and Stuart nodded his agreement. They looked around the room as the lawyer scurried about and poured ale into flagons. The heat was oppressive inside the office, which looked as though a storm had swept through it. Books, books, and more books everywhere, papers stuffed into crevices, three tables covered with documents

Pounds simply shoved the contents of one table aside and nodded toward the chairs. “Be seated, gentlemen. Be seated. I think you'll like this brew.”

As Claiborn watched the lawyer, he was not favorably impressed.
Jared Pounds was an apple-shaped man of fifty. Everything about him was round. His big eyes, his thick neck, his fat stomach, even his thick legs filled out his hose until they nearly burst the seams. However, he was by all accounts a clever man, and Claiborn had learned not to judge a man by his looks

“Well, sir, does the ale please you?”

“Very good,” Claiborn nodded

“Very well. I suppose you're ready to get down to business. I wanted to see you to talk about Lord Edmund's will.” Pounds shuffled through papers, tossing some aside like a small storm, and came up with a document. “Ah, here it is.” He glanced over it and said, “Your brother Edmund is eighty-six. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir, he is,” Claiborn said

“And you are seventy-nine?”

“That's correct.”

“Well,” Pounds said, studying the will, “this is as clear as I can make it. Since Edmund has no children, you are his heir, sir. All will come to you, including the title, on the death of Lord Edmund.”

“So I understood.”

“Your brother. Is he in good health?”

“No, I'm sorry to inform you he is not. But one good thing—he has become a follower of the Lord Jesus in his old age. He's actually happier now than he's ever been in his life, despite his illness.”

“Well, I'm happy to hear it, then.” Pounds tossed the remark away as a man will toss aside the peel of an orange, picked up a pen, and turned his round eyes on Claiborn. “It's time for you to make your own will.”

“Well, I don't really have enough property to make a will.”

“You have some property, I trust, and I would guess you would rather your son and your family have it.”

“Well, of course, that's true. I hadn't thought of that.”

“And besides,” Pounds said, leaning back and folding his
hands over his enormous stomach, “when your brother passes on, you will have the entire estate and the title as well. But I must insist that you need two wills. The will that's in force now will take care of your family in case you die before your brother. The second will be written so to take effect if you have already received the estate and the title.”

“That seems wrong to me,” Claiborn murmured. “I don't like to think of that.”

“We all must go sometime. All that lives must die, passing through time to eternity. If you died the day after tomorrow, you'd have no will, the court would make the decisions. Don't trust the courts, sir—” Suddenly alarm flitted across Pound's face. “Never tell anyone I said such a thing.”

“Well, I would want my son, Stuart, to be master of Stoneybrook with the title.”

“That's easy enough. And you have a grandson, I believe.”

“My son, Brandon,” Stuart said

A silence fell on the room, and Pounds' eyes narrowed slightly as he watched their faces. “I have heard that he is—irresponsible.” The pause was noticeable. His eyes went from one man to the other but came back to Claiborn. “Irresponsible, that's all I say. But he is working on his studies, correct?”

“He is a student at Oxford.”

Pounds nodded. “Very good. Perhaps he simply needed to sow his wild oats. And what profession is he preparing for?”

“He's . . . looking for a profession,” Claiborn answered stiffly

Pounds stared at his visitors and obviously deduced that all was not well between Claiborn Winslow and his grandson. “And what would you like to do with your property?”

“I would like to divide what property I have now between Stuart and his brother Quentin.”

“If Lord Edmund died, you would have the title.”

“Yes, and when I die, Stuart, as the eldest, of course would be lord of Stoneybrook.”

“Very good, sir. Now, then,” Pounds said, “let's see to the business of these two wills.”

It was now late afternoon. “It's too late to go home tonight,” Claiborn said. “We'll have to stay at an inn.”

“Yes, and I'd like to have something to eat. I'm starved.”

“Well, the Red Lion is a little further than most, but it's worth the trip. They have good meals. I've eaten there several times.”

The two men made their way through the crowded streets

The inn's sign portrayed an animal painted a brilliant red

Stuart grinned and said, “It looks more like a house cat.”

“Not a very impressive lion.”

“Come on. Let's get something to eat.”

The two men went inside and seated themselves at a table. Soon they were served hot eel pie, fresh bread, and some very good ale

“I never could understand why eel tastes so good when the bloody things look so awful,” Stuart remarked

“They don't look any worse than some other things we eat.”

The two men ate slowly. Finally Claiborn said, “I need to buy some gifts for that grandson of mine.”

“You've always spoiled Brandon.”

“Well, perhaps.” He leaned over and stared into Stuart's face, so much like his own. “I wasn't able to give you much, Son, as you were growing up. So now perhaps I try to make it right with Brandon.”