Vespers Rising (The 39 Clues #11)(19)

Winthrop loved watching his father at work.

“You say you did not steal the sheep from your lord, then?” said Luke Cahill, his voice a deep, rasping snarl. “You say you are a vegetable farmer?”

The man quivered as he replied. “Yes, milord. Them foxes is bedevilin’ the countryside a-nights, and they eats the sheeps, they does.”

“Ah, true, true,” Luke said, pacing a circle around the man. “No doubt you were home at the time of the thefts, tending to your lessons in proper speaking and good grammar.”

Master Winthrop let out a guffaw that was stifled by Williams’s gnarled, powder-scented hand.

Spinning around, Luke swiftly took the prisoner’s hand and rubbed it on his own face. “If these are the hands of a vegetable farmer,” he said, holding the man’s hands toward the king, “then what explains the scent of grease that is now on my face — sheep-wool grease?”

The farmer’s jaw flapped, his eyes desperate. “But — but I—”

“Ha! Brilliant, Cahill!” the king bellowed, applauding lustily. “Good, then, behead the lout.”

The man fell to his knees in tears. “Milord? I has me a fambly, five little boys and a wife what’s with child. Hunger is to blame, not deviltry! I beg you, spare me!”

“Five boys?” King Henry’s smile fell and his eyes began to moisten. Master Winthrop had seen this reaction before. The king wanted a son more than anything. Thus far, his only offspring was Mary. According to the so-called Rules of Succession, a daughter was not guaranteed to inherit the throne. But the son of a king automatically became king. Henry had grown so frustrated, he had begun blaming his wife, Catherine, the daughter of the Spanish king and queen. Henry claimed she was cursed. He was trying to convince the pope to annul the marriage. Now he had his eye on a woman named Anne Boleyn — perhaps if they married, she would give him a son! “Not one boy, but five …” the king said softly to the farmer. “You are a lucky man. And we are not without mercy. I sentence you to … oh, three days in the stockade!”

The man’s face broke into a grateful smile. He shouted thanks as guards whisked him away. “I daresay I have a soft heart, Cahill,” the king murmured. “I wish these men feared me as much as they do my adviser!”

“What some call weakness others recognize as wisdom, my lord,” Luke said, bowing to the king. “And now, a moment’s pardon while I tend to my son.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” The king waved him away, plucking grapes from a gilded plate.

As Luke loped toward the door, Williams began to shake with fear. “Lord Cahill,” he said, holding out a parchment scroll, “we have received a formal resignation from yet another—”

Luke batted the parchment away. “Are you so poorly suited, Williams, to the task of finding one good governess from among the entire population of England?”

Williams bowed, blathering apologies. But Luke pulled his son into the corridor. “What now?” he scolded. “You are expected to shine before the king!”

“So I can marry his wretched daughter?” Master Winthrop mumbled.

“Who will give birth someday to an heir,” Luke said, “who will then be king. A Cahill king! Don’t you see? The daughter will not necessarily earn the throne. But whomever she marries shall become king!”

“Does that seem fair, Father?” Winthrop asked.

“Fair?” Luke drew his son closer, his face growing red. “Is it fair to watch one’s father burned to death and be blamed for his murder? Is it fair when sickness takes one’s beloved? Is it fair to wander the countryside destitute, with a baby boy? I worked my way into this court by grit and cunning. I had to step over others who wanted it less. Fairness was not part of the calculation. My only desire is to redeem our family. House of Lancaster, House of York, House of Tudor — pah! It will be the dawn of the Lucian Age.”

Master Winthrop frowned. He had heard this story too many times. What was so great about being king anyway? Better to be a bandit or a jousting knight! “But, Father, the king wants to divorce Queen Catherine,” Master Winthrop pressed on. “Then Mary will no longer be princess. And then I will have to be married to that hideous —”

“Mary will remain princess,” his father snapped. “And you will be closest in line for the throne. I shall make that certain.”

“But there are others in line to succeed—”

“Not to worry, Luke; I have plans for the others.”

Master Winthrop shuddered. His father’s tone of voice suggested something far worse than pranks with salamanders.

He tried not to think of the word assassination.

“My lord?” a voice piped up from behind them.

The two Cahills turned. Hargrove, the king’s manservant, was standing in the corridor with a young woman in a peasant dress and governess’s bonnet, her face cast toward the floor. “I would like to introduce a candidate for the office of governess, a fine young woman of exceeding—”

“Yes, yes,” Luke said impatiently, “surely she can speak for herself. Is the floor about to collapse, girl, is that why you look down? Do you have a name?”

Master Winthrop was used to people’s reactions upon meeting his father. Some cried. Others shrank away. Two or three had even fainted, such was his power. But he had never seen an expression like this young woman’s. Her eyes fixed on Luke’s intently, as if she were trying to look through them to the other side of his head. Then they softened, misted over, as if she were about to cry — but not with fear, exactly. With some other kind of emotion Winthrop couldn’t name. If it didn’t seem so absurd, he’d think it was something like joy.