The Prince of Eden (85 page)

Still he knew what his duty was. At the first whiff of trouble, he and his men would rapidly encircle the Royal Carriage and lead it forward out of danger. If any foreign dissident had designs on the Queen, he first would have to slaughter Colonel Stevens and his seventy-five men, then wade through their blood.

Quickly now he glanced over his shoulder, taking enormous pride in himself and his men. The cream, that's what they were, top-rank. Then at that moment, still looking over his shoulder, he saw the signal from the rear guard that all was in order. He turned smartly in his saddle, raised his hand to the Keepers of the Gate in signal that the gates could now be opened. Her Majesty was ready to commence.

In the throes of an overwhelming awareness of who and what he was, he glanced briefly to the right. At first he saw nothing but the curious parting of the crowd, as though they had mistakenly thought that the Royal Procession would be moving from left to right toward Birdcage Walk and Parliament.

He looked again more closely, slowing his horse. A distinct parting it was, even the conveyances drawing close to the pavement, the crowds there looking not toward Buckingham and the Royal Carriage, but rather in the opposite direction.

It occurred to him that he should rein in his horse completely and check further, but instead he proceeded on for several yards. Out of the corner of his eye, as he was just in the process of executing the turn, he saw what appeared to be a wagon, a single wagon, followed by—

Christ! What was it? From where he sat it looked like an army, unorthodox to be sure, but hundreds, all moving silently behind the wagon, coming steadily forward. The near crowd now saw it as well and grew ominously silent.

Quickly Colonel Stevens reined his horse and thrust his hand up into the air, signaling his men to do the same. If they proceeded to move forward, they would be on direct collision course with the steadily approaching marchers. For an instant his emotions vaulted as his mind turned over the horrendous possibilities. Mobs had marched on Versailles. Was this the same?

For a moment his horse whirled rapidly as though in imitation of his whirling brain. Then he drew himself up and gave his emotions over to

training. He knew where his position should be. Hurriedly he shouted to a near captain. "Take ten men and see to the nature of it!" Then sharply he brought his horse about and galloped rapidly back toward the Royal Carriage. Behind him, he heard the others following, good men, who like himself had sensed the danger and were now moving into protective position around the Royal Carriage.

As he approached, he allowed his eyes only to skim briefly over the occupants, then rapidly he took up a position directly to the right of Her Majesty. He did not speak or offer explanation concerning the delay. It was not his position to do so, though he heard a little girl's voice whisper, "Mama, what is it? Why did we stop?"

Then he heard a man's voice, faintly tinged with German. "Hush, be patient."

Still he kept his eyes straight ahead, searching for the Captain. Fortunately the Royal Carriage had not yet passed through the gates. There was at least a measure of protection, though he noticed the stillness which had fallen over the inner courtyard of Buckingham, a tense interim of waiting as all eyes apparently focused on the gates and the single wagon which was now passing directly before them. He could see it clearly from where he sat, a rough conveyance, a boy on the reins, as well as he could tell, a young woman seated beside him. Flanking the wagon on either side were four riders, and behind them, just coming into view the beginning of the silent marchers, Christ, even more than he'd first imagined, a thousand strong at least, an impressive match, if such was their inclination, for his men.

Where was the Captain?

Then, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a small white-gloved hand, rather stout, lift from the pink and silver gown and rest itself on the edge of the carriage. The voice was high and thin and it too bore traces of a German accent. "What is it?" this voice now inquired, almost plaintively. "Who would spoil this day?"

He lowered his voice. "I'm not certain. Your Majesty. I would respectfully suggest that you—"

But at that moment he spied the Captain galloping rapidly toward him. He held his position and let the man come to him. There was a brief whispered exchange, something to do with a death, a funeral procession, then slowly he lifted his head and held his horse steady beside the Royal Carriage and waited for the invitation to speak.

"Well?" The white-gloved hand lifted slightly, then settled again into a firm grip on the side of the carriage.

"It appears to be a funeral procession of some sort, Your Majesty," he explained. "It seems that one of the workers was killed last night on

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the Exhibition site. I can disperse them easily enough if you so desire, Your Majesty. They are not armed. It would be a simple matter."

There was a pause. He lowered his eyes the better to see the white-gloved hand. The fingers were short, almost like a child's, though the hand itself was fleshy, the glove stretched taut. The littlest finger lifted now, a graceful movement. "No," came the reply. "Give them their moment." Then the entire plump little hand seemed to go limp against the edge of the carriage. "Poor man," she whispered, and Colonel Stevens heard a kind, almost maternal mourning in the voice.

So he waited and kept a tight grip on his reins and watched, as best he could, the ragged procession still streaming past Buckingham Palace.

Who was the man? he wondered. Rabble, no doubt.

Give them their moment, she'd said.

As the silent mourners continued to file past, he sat erect, keeping his eyes opened, his nerves alert. They were rabble, he saw that much, all the rabble of London or so it seemed. In a way they alarmed him, in spite of their peaceful march. There were their vast numbers, their silent, drawn faces, the muted shuflfle of their worn boots. In the quiet moment, in the blowing of a mild wind barely perceptible upon his face, he felt a mysterious depth of power dominating the hushed crowds.

Give them their moment, he thought wryly, and hoped that Her Majesty was more prudent than that.

Give rabble such as that a moment, and watch carefully lest they steal an age.

In the late afternoon of May 2, 1851, having left the mildness of spring behind in London, in a cold rain, Elizabeth looked up to see the gray silhouette of Eden Castle in the distance.

Beside them now rode only three riders on horseback. At Taunton that morning, the fourth had galloped ahead to inform the inhabitants of Eden Castle that Edward Eden was coming home.

Approaching exhaustion, Elizabeth looked with pitying sympathy at John. Not one word had they exchanged during the entire journey. Not once had he partaken of food or drink, and not once had he relinquished his control of the reins although all the riders had offered repeatedly to spell him, as had Elizabeth herself.

But apparently there was a turmoil inside his young head that compelled him to keep silent. And silent he had been and silent he was now as, looking up, she saw that he too had caught his first glimpse of Eden Castle.

Suddenly she closed her eyes, unable to look at him any longer,

unable as well to view the great hulk of that castle drawing nearer. Her one thought now was to have done with it and return immediately to London. All she was bringing home was a broken shell. The spirit and memory of Edward Eden still resided in London, in the hearts of those men and women and children who had followed the wagon to the extreme western edge of the city before they had commenced to fall back. She belonged with them, and although she hadn't the faintest idea how, she fully intended to continue his work and reopen the Common Kitchen, to feed, clothe, and give shelter as best she could to anyone who came to her door in need.

Up ahead now, just emerging from the castle gates, she saw half a dozen riders on horseback, carrying lanterns in their hands. What was yet ahead of her? she wondered. Was Edward pleased to be home?

As the six riders approached, they joined the three who had accompanied them from London. Two of the men exchanged words of some sort and the third relayed a message to John. "Follow them," he shouted. "They'll show you the way."

Passing beneath the gatehouse now, Elizabeth looked up into the driving rain at the awesome facade of the castle itself. Grander than Buckingham, or so it seemed to her. Ahead she saw a small group of people moving down a flight of grand steps, all clothed in rain-wet black, a man and a woman as far as she could tell, while at the top of the stairs, inside the shelter of an arch, she saw, an old woman, clutching two small children to her skirts. And at that moment, she saw as well and recognized immediately poor Miss Jennifer. In stark white she was, hiding behind one of the arches, a box of some sort clasped in her arms, a fearful expression on her face.

Elizabeth had thought that the wagon was headed toward the steps, but suddenly the lead rider veered sharply to the left and led them down a narrow lane which skirted the castle wall, the north facade of the castle looming over them. As she looked up, she saw white-faced servants in prim lace caps peering down from mullioned windows. Every window, it seemed, contained a face.

Again she shivered and drew her cloak about her though it did no good, for the cloak itself was soaked through, as was the yellow dress. As she glanced behind, she saw the man and woman following steadily behind the wagon, their heads down and covered by thick heavy black-hooded cloaks.

Turning about, she looked ahead and saw that the guardsmen were leading them toward a black iron fence which surrounded a small graveyard. The gate was open and beyond she saw a scattering of impressive marble stones, and there to the left, near the fence, she saw

three gravediggers, silently standing, their spades in their hands. Then the grave itself was visible.

Through the narrow^ gate, John guided the horses into a small clearing on the left, brought them to a halt, then sat still for a moment, his head, rain-drenched, inclining slowly forward as though he were aware that his job was done. How she longed to speak to him, to somehow penetrate that awesome silence into which he had fallen. But she knew she couldn't and therefore didn't try and merely looked at him with eyes full of scared sympathy.

She was aware of activity at the rear of the wagon, saw the four guardsmen climbing aboard, each lifting one corner of the coffin and hoisting it down to earth. But instead of carrying it immediately to the freshly dug grave, they placed it at a spot not too distant from where the gentleman stood. The lady with him seemed to be protesting something, what, Elizabeth couldn't tell.

But she saw clearly the brief though heated conference, the gentleman insisting, his last words floating upward over the rain with perfect clarity. "It must be done. We must be certain."

Then Elizabeth saw the gentleman say something to one of the guardsmen, who in turn took from the lining of his heavy coat a piece of metal and as he slipped the metal lip beneath the coffin lid, clearly to pry it open, Elizabeth again averted her eyes.

Edward apparently must first be identified as the true Edward before they granted him the privilege of burying him in this sacred plot. Her eyes blurred by emotion and rain, she turned around in her seat and left the grisly ritual to others. Dear God, who else would it be? Who else would they drag to this dreary place? How much better, Elizabeth thought, to have buried him beside Daniel Spade in tiny St. Dunstan's graveyard. But no. John had assured her that this had been his wish.

She heard the sound of splintering wood and looked back in spite of herself to see two guardsmen lift the lid. The suspicious gentleman stepped forward. Simultaneously the lady retreated and walked rapidly away toward the iron fence, where, for a moment, she stood absolutely erect, eyes straight ahead, as though she'd laced herself into that formal pose and had vowed to let nothing penetrate.

At the instant the gentleman stepped away from the coffin with the soft announcement of, "It's him," she saw the lady reach sharply out for the fence, saw her hand grasp the iron spike, saw the second hand rise to a similar position, saw her standing now like a prisoner behind bars, her head inclining softly forward, a subtle collapse which moved Elizabeth for no other reason than at last she was glad to see that someone in this grim arena had feelings.

The collapse of the lady by the fence was very brief. As the guardsmen replaced the coffin lid, she turned back and to Elizabeth's surprise appeared to be gazing up at her. As yet no words had been spoken between them and Elizabeth thought for a moment that she was coming toward the wagon. But instead she seemed to hesitate, then fell slowly in beside the gentleman, both walking now behind the coffin where the guardsmen were carrying it to the grave.

Suddenly Elizabeth felt a flare of anger. If she wasn't going to be issued a bloody invitation to get down from the wagon, she'd get down without one. She'd not traveled all this distance under these terrible circumstances to sit atop a wagon and view the ritual of Edward's commitment to earth.

As she swung to the ground, she glanced back up at John. "Are you coming?" she asked, trying to stretch the stiff'ness out of her legs so that she might walk erect, like a lady.

Although that pale boyish face lifted and looked down on her, he gave no response.

Well, then— Slowly she turned and started walking through the gravestones, Edens all, she noticed. As she approached the open grave, she saw the lady look at her from out of the depths of the hooded cloak. She tried to read the expression on her face, but couldn't.

Then Elizabeth felt her attention being drawn to the grave, to the coffin being slowly lowered into earth. The rain, she noticed, made a peculiar sound on the coffin lid as though it were hollow. And in that instant, a new sense of loss swept over her.

No words? She glanced quickly about in search of a priest. No words at all? No one to tell the world about this man? Then although she'd vowed not to break, she bent her head over and gave in to one small moan. It sounded rude, out of place, weak, in that death yard, as though mourners and corpses alike must maintain the silence of the grave.