King's Ransom by Mary Daheim

Author:Mary Daheim
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: puritans, stuart, oliver cromwell, 17th century, charles ii, royalists, 1658
Publisher: Camel Press

Most of the county came to Sir Ralph’s funeral, which was held on Easter Monday. The grieving widow was supported by his three sons from a first marriage and Lyndon Styles, who had assumed the role of Rutbury’s chief mourner. There was, of course, much speculation that Master Styles also aspired to Lady Ferrers’s bed.

Honor attended with the Goudges, who seemed more disturbed at the loss of the most exalted personage in the vicinity than for any sentimental reasons. It was even possible that Faith and Clarity’s show of tears was for the apparent defection of Lyndon Styles rather than for Sir Ralph.

Quentin Radcliffe gave the eulogy, using 1 Samuel, chapter 9, verse 3, “The Lost Asses.” “ ‘Take now one of the servants with thee, and arise, go seek the asses,’” boomed Radcliffe from the pulpit. “And so Sir Ralph obeyed, enjoining his neighbors to search for the godless bandits who roam our roads and forest. Yea, though he might slay the hare and cut the tree, he would find these spawns of Satan. But the Devil stood between Sir Ralph and his holy crusade. Now, I charge you, in the name of God Almighty, to gird your loins, pluck up your courage and take ax in hand to drive the wickedness from Burton Old Forest!”

Appalled at Radcliffe’s attempt to twist a sacred service into a means of achieving self-serving ends, Honor surreptitiously glanced about the church. Delbert Goudge was nodding solemnly, Lyndon Styles was presenting a stalwart appearance even as he patted the widow’s shoulder, and most of the other men present wore determined expressions befitting Richard the Lionhearted’s doughtiest knights.

Honor forced herself to concentrate not on the rapaciousness of the mourners but on the finely wrought stained glass window with its blue shield set between six small lions rampant. Across the aisle, near the alabaster tomb of the Ferrers, Matthew Thorn stood as stiff as any monument, his staff at his side. Honor wondered what he was thinking. She was almost sure that his reaction to Radcliffe’s eulogy would be similar to her own.

Radcliffe had finally run out of steam and the congregation was singing a doleful hymn that grated on Honor’s ear. Parthenia’s shrill voice rose above the others, as if she were trying to shriek her way to heaven. When Vicar Busby offered the final prayers, Honor all but bolted from the pew. Several members of the congregation were milling about the vestibule, calling their neighbors to arms.

“Hood might as well have murdered poor old Ferrers,” asserted a bristling Lyndon Styles. “We owe His Lordship Hood’s life.”

A pert face with lively blue eyes thrust itself between Styles and Honor. “You owe a lot of things to a lot of people, but not that highwayman’s life.” Despite having what Honor guessed was a normally benevolent nature, the woman now wore a pugnacious expression. Lyndon Styles was clearly caught off guard.

“Now, Mistress Tipper, you of all people ought not to speak of owing!” he reproached her. “If ever a man took rather than gave, it’s Will ….

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