A freezing rain began to fall at around three o’clock that afternoon, soaking the ground and permeating the dank air. Darkness descended rapidly over England, as the decaying year plodded inexorably toward its end. Even the dwindling daylight hours were dim and colorless. A bitter, northerly wind screeched and howled like a widow at the gallows, driving leaves and drizzle in sweeping circles against the narrow windows of the castle.
Normally, despite the weather, there would still be the buzz of excitement in the air, well into the darkening hours. The Earl and Lady Frances always insisted on having an early family holiday feast with the children before going off to Whitehall for Christmas with the King. Their servants would ordinarily be busy late into the evening with cleaning and decorating for the event. This year, however, there was only the cold stillness of waiting, interminable waiting for the sound of approaching horses and a percussive knock at the door.
They took their supper as a family, as was their custom, but the table was uncharacteristically muted. Earl Henry tried to put on a cheerful face, but Lady Frances was clearly troubled and distracted. The meal concluded almost without conversation, and then there was more whispering and murmuring in the parlor before Lady Frances called the nanny to put the children to bed. The young boy, Henry, walked slowly and lingered in the hallway long enough to overhear his mother say: “If only we can remain undisturbed tonight, we just might make it.” In that instant, the child was seized by a violent chill, goose bumps on his arms and the back of his neck. He was certain (he didn’t know how) that his father would not get that peaceful night. Reluctantly, he went to bed, but not to sleep.
The boy tossed and turned until the bed clothes came completely undone and were all twisted in ribbons and tossed in a heap on the stone floor. Unable to pretend to sleep any longer, he arose as noiselessly as he could and took hold of a pewter candle stick that was on his night table. Just outside the door of the room he shared with his older brother, who clearly had no trouble sleeping through all of this, he stretched on his toes to light the candle from a wall sconce. Pressing himself as close as possible against the wall, he made his way downstairs, concealing himself behind the large pillars that supported the roof and separated the rooms. As the hushed voices in front of him came closer and closer, he paused, blew out the candle and then held his breath for a minute or so, until he was sure that he was undetected. Looking around, he found concealment behind the curtain that separated his father’s study from the hallway leading to the room where his parents received guests in times past. His father was speaking rapidly to Townsend.
“Here is a list of the deeds for all the tenants. This mark (You see, here?) next to a name indicates whether or not each has paid his rent for the year.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Lady Frances is to have absolute authority to deal with the tenants, as well as with all of my debtors and creditors. You will take orders only from her.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Dear Frances, you will take the children and go to some place safe. Don’t come anywhere near London or try to visit me in the Tower. They will be quick. They have to be. The King, they say, is seriously ill. He uses a stamp because his right side is immobile and he cannot even sign his name.”
“No! I won’t let them have you! Command the sentries to raise the drawbridge. We can hold out for days…weeks with the provisions already secured for Christmas.”
“I will not impede the officers of the King. There is to be no resistance. I’m responsible for everyone who lives and works here. We will give them no pretext for slaughter.”
“…but what’s to become of us?”
“They wouldn’t dare to harm you; they have no cause. Above all, you must keep the children safe. Our sons carry the Howard name…”
If you enjoyed this excerpt, read more in The Fall of the Sparrow, available on Amazon and anywhere books are sold.
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