This Other Eden by Marilyn Harris

pressed his hand inside his wet shirt against a roll of flesh. In
a last attempt to rid himself of her image, he prayed, "God be with
her," though it was less a prayer than an angry command. . . .
     
    The
Banqueting Hall, the most magnificent room in Eden Castle, measured thirty-six
feet high, with finely arched and complex saddle-topped ceiling, sixty-eight
feet long and thirty-four feet wide. Built in the fourteenth century, but
within the twelfth century curtain wall, it was richly decorated with a fine
series of Brussels tapestries. The sixteenth-century screen at the end of the
Hall retained its original painted decoration. The three low-hanging pewter
chandeliers were ablaze with one hundred candles each, casting shimmering light
on the elegantly carved oak table where Thomas Eden sat alone, in a mauve-velvet
dressing gown, picking at cold mutton.
     
    On
the plate next to him were the remains of Captain Girard's dinner, a
hard-driving oaf who had eaten with his fingers and then filled the air with
French gibberish. It seemed to Thomas that every time money had been discussed,
the man had lapsed into his native tongue. Not the Parisian French at which
Thomas was fairly skilled, but a rural, provincial, unintelligible tongue with
strains of Flemish and German mixed in.
     
    It
occurred to Thomas that perhaps for future negotiations he should travel to
London where, so he had heard, the French population was increasing as
Frenchmen ran to escape the coming bloodbath. Perhaps in the future he should
be more selective in his choice of "business partners," try to find
one at least more compatible with his own sensibilities.
     
    Well,
no matter. He had accomplished his purpose, the bargain made, dinner over, the
foreign rascal on his way back to his ship under the protection of night,
Thomas now sat awaiting a final visitor, this last caller not as important as
Captain Girard, but a man about whom Thomas was most curious.
     
    He
stretched backward in his chair, reaching up toward the mahagony beams
overhead. A bit of port would suit him well, help to ward off the chill of the
vast room which persisted in spite of the enormous fire ablaze at one end.
     
    With
a snap of his fingers he summoned the serving girl who stood at the edge of the
shadows. Without looking at her he ordered her to clear the table and bring him
a bottle of port.
     
    "And
two glasses," he called, still not looking at her.
     
    Alone,
Thomas stood up and stretched. He felt impatient. And bored. He missed Ragland,
though he knew the old man had gone on an important journey that day. His
stablemaster had reported the absence of a horse and sheep cart and even the
identity of the small baggage which had ridden in the back of the cart.
     
    Standing
directly before the fire, Thomas stopped, his face glazed. He was mildly hurt
that Ragland had not told him where he was going and why. He would have been
willing to pay the girl's passage. He was most grateful to Heaven that God had
permitted her to survive. How many nightmares he had suffered since that hot
August morning!
     
    Still
she had invited it on herself. Unless insubordination were nipped in the bud,
not a peer of the realm would be safe. England performed as the greatest
civilization the world had ever known because everyone born had a place and the
wisdom to stay in it. If it were otherwise, the nation would dissolve into
chaos.
     
    Satisfied
with his thoughts, he shifted his gaze from the fire to the ornate screen
depicting thirteenth-century knights on their way to battle, a glorious
reproduction with banners flying, horses neighing on their hind legs, the very
excitement and fervor of the moment captured in rich and highly polished wood.
     
    He
turned slowly and looked over his shoulder. The entire room pleased him
immensely, the only room in the castle in which he felt the full, pleasant, and
reassuring weight of his birth and breeding. He deserved it. If on occasion he
behaved like an