Love's Fragile Flame by Phyllis Caggiano

Author:Phyllis Caggiano
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, history, bible, england, christians, reformation, great britain, friesland, newgate prison, heretics, queen mary i, london bridge
Publisher: UCS PRESS

Chapter Twelve

WHEN ROSE AWOKE, morning sunlight was streaming in the small wind-eye. For a moment she could not remember where she was. As she sat up, rubbing her eyes, she heard not the quiet country sounds of Boxton, but footsteps, peddlers’ cries, and an unfamiliar swishing sound, all coming from somewhere below. “London Bridge!” she exclaimed, remembering. She rushed to the wind-eye and stood on tiptoe for a good view of the Thames River. Her bedchamber must be on the eastern side of the bridge, for she could see not only wherries and barges but also several large sailing ships in the distance as they made their way toward the ocean. There was a tap on the door.

“Come in,” she called.

A serving girl entered, carrying a jug of water. “Good morning, madam,” she said curtsying. “My mistress begs you join her for breakfast.”

As she entered the hall, Rose stared, openmouthed, at the great array of food on the dining table. There were saffron cakes, three kinds of cheese, bacon, smoked herring, light bread, eggs and dried fruits—all handsomely displayed on pewter plates. Joan was sitting at the head of the table, daintily wiping grease from her chin. She belched contentedly. “Sit you down, Rose, and fill your belly.” She gestured to the chair on her right. “Have some of this, and this, and this,” she said, heaping Rose’s plate. Joan watched her intently as she ate, and Rose self-consciously picked at her breakfast. After a few bites, however, she realized how famished she really was and soon cleaned her plate.

“Good—I like to see victuals enjoyed,” Joan said approvingly. “Now, you’ve acquainted me with your frightening experience in Southwark, but how came you alone to London in the first place?”

Rose told her about Derick’s death and of her desire to find her brother. As she spoke, she watched Joan’s face for any sign of shock. After all, she thought, Joan was learning that she had offered refuge to a heretic’s wife. But Joan showed no emotion except sympathy, and when Rose finished her story she merely murmured, “Ah, ‘tis a sorry state of affairs when Englishmen put fire to their own countrymen.”

“Are you a widow also?” Rose asked. She had seen no sign of a husband. When Joan nodded, Rose blurted out, “Then your husband—was he burned at the stake, also?” That would account for Joan’s sympathy.

“Bless you, no! He was too cautious a man to have opinions about religion, especially dangerous opinions. Nay, he died of natural causes, if you can call being cut on by a harebrained barber a natural cause.” She picked up an apple and began to peel it slowly. “He was hauling in a barrel of imported cloth and dropped it on his foot. The foot swelled up something fearful and turned black.” She paused for a long drink of ale. “I sent for the barber, and he said the foot must come off. The dolt did the job well enough, but he had drunk more wine than we had pumped into my old man, and he failed to cauterize the wound properly.

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