Book of Souls

“You see the date on it-1527? When I was a child, I would wonder about a book that possessed a future date. It held a fascination. My father always told me the book contained a great secret, and when I was twenty-one, he would show me an ancient letter he keeps in his strongbox that would reveal all. I used to dream about what I would be like in 1527, the year in which I would become eighteen. Well, that year has come. It is 1527, if you did not know. The book has come of age, and so have I.”

“Is it magic, my lord?”

He threw the pillow on top of it again and grabbed her. “If little Molly is so interested in magic, perhaps she would like to see my wand.”

Edgar was too involved with his amorous activities to hear his name repeatedly being called for supper. At a perfectly wrong moment, his father flung open the door to find his son’s pink bottom nestled in a jumble of pulled-up chemises, his face buried in a generous bosom.

“What the Devil!” the baron shouted. “Stop that at once!”

He stood there, slack-jawed, as the young lovers rushed to pull themselves together.

“Father…”

“Do not speak! Only I will speak. You, girl, will leave this house.”

She began to cry. “Please, your lordship, I have no place to go.”

“That is not my concern. If you are still at Cantwell Hall in one hour, I will have you flogged. Now get out!”

She ran from the room, her clothes askew.

“As for you,” the baron said to his cowering son, “I will see you at the supper table, where you will be informed of your fate.”

The long trestle table in the Great Hall was set up for the evening feast, and the extended Cantwell clan was noisily tucking into the first courses of supper. The roaring fire and the press of bodies had taken the chill off the winter night. Thomas Cantwell sat at the center, with his wife beside him. He was troubled by his son’s escapade but his appetite raged nonetheless, stoked by the exertions of hunting. He had greedily spooned down his meaty capon brewet and was starting in on his ham and leeks porray. Roasted boar, his favorite, was on the way, so room would have to be left.

All chatter ceased when Edgar came in, his eyes fixed on the floorboards rather than the faces of his family or the servants. He supposed everyone knew; he would have to bear it. His sniggering young cousins, and for that matter his uncles, were surely as guilty as he in these matters, but tonight he was the one ignominiously caught out.

He took his seat by his father and started in on an earthenware jug of wine. “You missed the blessing of the meal, Edgar,” his mother said quietly.

His brother William, who was seated at his mother’s side, grinned and wickedly whispered, “He had his own blessing, methinks.”

“Quiet!” the baron raged. “We will not speak of this at my table.”

As the feast progressed, the conversation was meager and subdued. One of the men had recently been to Court and asked the others what they thought of the king’s petition to the Pope that his marriage to Queen Catherine be annulled. The Cantwells much admired the piety of the queen and had no use for the whore Boleyn, but even among family, this kind of banter was dangerous. Henry’s influence bored into every parish. There would be an accommodation, Thomas assured his kin. The prospect of a schism with the Pope over this matter was unthinkable.

The carved and jointed boar was presented on a giant wooden platter, and it was hungrily devoured with slabs of dark bread. At the conclusion of the meal, frumenty custard was served, along with dried figs, nuts, and spiced wine. Finally, the baron wiped his hands and mouth on the cloth overhanging the dining table, cleared his throat, and once he was sure he had the full attention of his son, began his planned proclamation. “As my brothers and good wife know, I have been unsatisfied with your education, Edgar.” The raspy sternness of his voice caused the members of the dining party to lower their eyes.

“Have you, Father?”

“I had hoped for greater results. Your uncle, Walter, benefited greatly from his education at Oxford and he is now, as you know, an esteemed lawyer in that city. However, the standards at Merton College have surely become lax.”

Edgar’s lower lip began to twitch. “How so, Father?”

“Well, look at you!” the baron bellowed. “What more evidence do I require! You are more schooled in wine, wenches, and song than Greek, Latin, and the Bible! You will not be returning to Oxford, Edgar. Your education will be elsewhere.”

Edgar thought of his friends and his comfortable rooms at Merton. There was a cozy tavern near the college that would be the poorer. “And where is that, Father?”

“You will be going to the College of Montaigu at the University of Paris.”

Edgar looked up in fright and sought out the dour face of his cousin Archibald. This joyless monster had spent six years there and had long regaled Edgar with stories of its austerity and strictness.