Anne and Timon, indeed the entire assembled company, watched as Lively stormed over to the closest door, burst out into the daylight, and was gone.
Someone sighed, and pens began scratching on paper once more.
“That was Mr. Lively,” Anne told Timon. “He is one of the translators. He often leaves abruptly by that door.”
Without another word, Anne headed toward the same door. Timon followed.
“One hopes that he is the most tightly strung of the lot,” Timon said softly.
“They are all tense. There has been a murder here. Lively is a suspect since he found the dead body, but all these men are worried. Can you not feel it?”
Timon paused a moment to take in all six of the remaining men, absorbed as they were with the documents before them.
“We must also consider,” he told her softly, “the great weight they must shoulder, creating a new Bible for a king.”
There was a hint at Timon’s secret, Anne thought. He was clearly interested in the scholars’ work. He was putting himself in the place of those great men. He had done that kind of work himself. Her father had not merely brought her a tutor. He was there for an additional purpose.
“King James will have his new translation,” Anne whispered over her shoulder, “but surely the Bible remains the same.”
Anne watched his face closely, looking for any unusual reaction.
Timon’s eyes held her gaze, betraying nothing—but behind his eyes it was clear he read Anne’s suspicion.
“Yes,” he said, his lips thinned slightly. “Surely it must.”
7
Early that evening, Brother Timon stood in the hall outside Deacon Marbury’s office, a high window above the back of his head. He had been watching a band of light from the setting sun shrink, watching it for nearly a quarter of an hour. It was almost gone. He had also used the time attempting to remove a bit of mustard spilled on his black robe, the product of a hasty supper. The spot remained, and he decided that he might clasp his hands in front of it, as if in prayer.
The appearance of piety may often hide a stain, he thought to himself, smiling.
Without warning, the door thundered open and Marbury appeared, leaning on the frame and shaking his head.
“Absolutely inexcusable, my keeping you waiting so long,” he said briskly.
The deacon had changed from his afternoon clothes. He wore a comfortably loose blue doublet, no cap, and slippers instead of boots.
“Come in, come in,” Marbury said warmly, stepping aside.
As Timon passed the man, he caught the scent of brandy. Was Marbury already in his cups?
The room was warm, embraced by low beams; paneled walls. The fire’s light turned everything in the room to gold, even the air.
“My duties to Christ Church are never-ending,” Marbury went on, “not to mention the trouble here with the translators. And on top of it all, of course, there is Anne. She is quite remarkable, thinks like a man, behaves like a criminal.”
“Hardly that,” Timon objected.
“Like a petty criminal,” Marbury amended with a wave of his hand. “Do take a seat there.”
The chair he indicated was a backless, cushioned bench. Marbury sat first, in the more comfortable armchair laden with pillows. Timon took the opportunity to survey the rest of the room. It was lined with bookshelves. The light was too dim for him to see titles, but the sheer number of books impressed. Apart from the table where Marbury sat, and the chairs in front of the fire, Timon saw no other furniture. It was a study, then, and a place to discuss delicate issues.
“To the point,” Marbury said as Timon sat. “This is your key to the hall. Only scholars currently working on the translation have had such a key until tonight. Do guard it.”
Timon stared at the key. It seemed to burn in the golden air. “But you have one, of course.”
“Well—yes.” Marbury shook the key impatiently. “Now, then. What did you make of Lively’s outburst when you were talking with Anne? She reported it to me.”
Timon took the key; held it in both hands. “Mr. Lively is the presiding scholar of this Cambridge group, one of the best linguists in the world, and a King’s Professor of Hebrew. He was involved in the preliminary arrangements for the translation and has the confidence of the King. He has lost his wife, I believe, and must now take care of eleven children on his own. These are ample reasons, taken in all, for such a display as he gave us this afternoon.”
“Mr. Lively,” Marbury said after a moment, “is my chief suspect in the murder.”
“Why?” Timon could not sit still. He stood and roamed the room as he listened to Marbury, running his hand over the dust of books. As he did, he memorized every detail of the room.
If Marbury found this wandering a distraction, he did not address it.
“For one thing, he was found in the room with the body,” Marbury sighed.
“Though it was his alarm that called you and the rest to the scene.” Timon let his hand rest on the marble mantel and gazed into the fire.
“But Mr. Lively is also, as you mention, a widower with mouths to feed, and the stipend for his work here is meager.”
“You do not imagine that the motive for the murder was robbery?” Timon turned, eyes cold as the marble he caressed.
“I imagine, in fact,” Marbury said, a bit more strongly than he should have, “that the motive was academic jealousy. Lively is the leader of the group, as you say. Harrison, a man barely in his thirties, tested all the rest of the Cambridge scholars.”
“Tested?”
With a single glance Timon saw, by the dim light of the fire, that Marbury carried a knife hidden in his left sleeve. Marbury saw Timon’s face and must have realized that his weapon had been discovered.
Timon turned his gaze to Marbury’s glass. It appeared to be filled to the rim with brandy, but the brandy bottle on the shelf behind him was barely touched.
Marbury dilutes his brandy, Timon thought. The reason for this was uncertain, but Marbury would move more quickly than a drunken man. Would he be willing to use that dagger? That was the question.
The fire popped. A flaming ember leapt into the room. Timon bent and calmly picked it up with his fingers, tossing it back into the hearth. The action was meant to impress. Here was a man to whom pain was not even a nuisance.
“You were saying that Harrison tested—whom?” Timon’s shoulders relaxed as he leveled his gaze at Marbury.
“Harrison’s skill in Greek and Hebrew was so notable,” Marbury explained, choosing to ignore Timon’s display, “that he was responsible for picking the rest of the translators in his group. For this he did receive an extra stipend, money above what the rest were paid. It was, of course, an enormous burden. To make matters worse, Harrison did not have a doctorate.”
“Ah.” Timon brushed sooty fingers on his robe. “This provoked Mr. Lively.”
“All of the scholars chafed,” Marbury assured Timon, “but Lively was especially uncomfortable.”
“Lively is a man more interested in academic credentials than in actual knowledge.”
“Exactly. This may, in fact, have caused his reaction to you today. He heard you discussing Aristotle, about whom he knows little.” Marbury sighed heavily—a bit theatrically. “He should apologize, but he will not.”
Marbury’s eyes, but not his head, followed Timon wherever he went in the room. Did he suspect a method in Timon’s movement?
“I shall try my best not to disturb him, then.” Timon came across an open book on the edge of one shelf. He was surprised to find that it was a copy of King James’s treatise called Demonology.
“The humility you must exhibit as a monk,” Marbury sighed, “surely it has a bitter taste for a man such as yourself, a person of your learning and achievement.”
Timon’s posture settled. “I have been the object of jealousy in my past. Envy is a poison which often kills. Surely you are not immune to such thoughts. I mean to say, how is
it that a man of your scholarship is forced to host, but not to head, this team of translators from King James? Why is Edward Lively in charge of this group instead of you?”
“I am not a linguistic scholar.” Marbury’s eyes closed, avoiding Timon’s glare. “I have been appointed—somewhat in secret—to guard over the men who do have such training. In fact, a guardian such as myself is ensconced with each of the groups of translators—”
“At Oxford and Westminster as well as here?” Timon pursed his lips. “Do you know these other men, know their names?”
“I do not. No one does. These translators here at Cambridge, they believe, as you have just suggested, that I am merely their host. It would be best if they continued in this belief.”
“I understand. I am, perhaps, more capable of keeping such secrets than any man alive.”
“Incidentally,” Marbury said, opening his eyes, “the final reason Lively hated Harrison was a question of heritage. Harrison was a Scot. Some of his family members were apparently associates of our King’s family in Scotland, though I do not know the nature of that association. It was another reason Harrison was chosen for his position here.”
“I see,” Timon whispered knowingly.
“Do not mistake my meaning,” Marbury hastened. “Harrison was our most qualified scholar. His kinship only gained him notice, not favor.”
Timon stood with his back to Marbury. “Possibly,” Timon said to the man behind him. “Is there anything else you would have me know at the moment?”
“Yes.” Marbury’s voice filled the room. “There is the matter of the note found in Harrison’s mouth. I have it here.”
“I know what it said.” Timon’s hand flourished. “‘Wandering through the world as God’s hangmen.’ Written in Harrison’s own hand.”
“How could you—how could you know that?”
Good, Timon thought. He’s off-balance. Now is the time to test him—an aggressive attack, I think.
Timon suddenly spun about facing Marbury, a small, dull knife in his hand.
Startled, Marbury gripped the arms of his chair.
“I know a great many things,” Timon said softly. “It would be best not to ask how I know them.”
With that, Timon’s knife vanished.
Marbury had failed the test.
Timon nodded once. In that single, brief moment, he had established his dominance.
“The note is either a deliberate attempt to mislead,” Timon went on, as if nothing had happened, “or it is a genuine communication from the murderer. Time will reveal everything. But I do not need to see the actual note. I find it distasteful to handle anything that has been in another man’s mouth.”
“Of—of course,” Marbury murmured, quite unsettled, “then there is nothing further to say for the moment. You have your key.”
“I do.” Timon held it up as proof.
“Good, good.”
“Incidentally, where is Harrison’s body? Are the laws of Cambridge the same as London’s? Must the body be kept somewhere aboveground for a number of days to make certain that the victim is dead?”
“The law is the same,” Marbury confirmed, “but the wounds on Harrison’s face, the loss of blood—there was no doubt that he was dead. His body has already been laid to rest in our cemetery.”
“Interesting.” Timon moved to the door.
Marbury rose from his chair, following. “It means nothing. If you think—”
“You may place your faith in me.” The sound of Timon’s voice was crisp and cold as he stepped into the hall. “Lively is not the murderer. I shall soon know more.”
Timon strode into the darkness of the corridor and vanished.
8
Timon moved quickly through the candlelit hallways, down the stairs, and into the chill night air. Thin clouds shot through the stars above his head. The moon was not yet high. Timon hastened his steps toward the Great Hall, all the while clutching the key in his right hand so hard that it bit into his skin.
Immediately to work, he thought. No time to waste.
His boots clattered on the stone path, and in no time his key had found its way to the lock. The door gave the slightest discernible sigh as it swung open, as if the Great Hall had been holding its breath.
He stepped inside and closed the door; was immediately plunged into darkness. He felt for the flint he always carried—he was never without a means of producing light in the darkest places. He found it, struck it, and sparked the wick of the nearest candle. A halo of white gold surrounded him. Within its round perimeter there was illumination enough to make out twilight images: the tabletops, the neatly lined chairs, the books and notes and inkwells, all without color save the ghost light of the flame. Outside the candle’s glow, the rest of the hall was pitch-black.
Timon moved deliberately in the direction of Harrison’s desk. He glanced about for a second in the dim candle’s light, taking in every translator’s desk. So much work, and before All Saints’ Day. He smiled as he thought of the Pope’s code phrase, the turning of the wheel by the tilling of the wheat.
Clement loved such arcane phrases—thought them clever—but Timon’s task was plain. He was to steal the King James Bible.
Timon could accomplish this feat without a soul in England ever knowing it had been taken at all. He was going to memorize it—every word, every comma, every footnote, every source, down to the very ink stains on each page. He was to be a human repository of everything written by the translators.
He was the only man on earth capable of such a task.
Timon had not been told what Mother Church hoped to do with such an ocean of words, but he could guess. The Pope somehow hoped to destroy the Anglican communion and restore England to the Catholic Church—England and its wealth.
It would never work, of course. All popes, all rulers, were mad—the very nature of ruling insisted upon it. Timon convinced himself that he did not care, he only relished being lost in his work.
Once he stood before Harrison’s desk he drew a small wheel from a concealed pocket in his robe. He began to turn it, slowly at first, tapping the letters and symbols there, as he read the writing before him.
He focused his attention, a blade-sharp concentration, to the immediate task at hand and found he knew the first lines he saw. They were from Leviticus, chapter 26, verse 30: “And I will destroy your high places, and cast down your images, and cast your carcasses upon the carcasses of your idols, and my soul shall abhor you.” A note in the margin insisted that the word cut should replace the word cast. What tedious work it would be if this was all that the translators were doing.
Timon knew his lips were moving as he read, a childish trait he had long struggled to snuff out. It seemed to help in memorizing long passages. His memory wheel was the primary instrument of his remarkable abilities. It was his own invention based on the Llullist system. It always seemed to be aided, however, by his whispering the words to himself. Timon suffered the sin of pride, but felt justly satisfied with his remarkable ability. No one on earth had greater powers of memory. It was his secret weapon, his telum secretus.
He was about to turn the page when a sharp crack in the shadows broke the silence of the empty room.
Timon smothered the candle with the palm of his other hand. Soundlessly he returned his memory wheel to its secret pocket. The building was old. The walls might creak. It was nothing.
Two heartbeats later, a sudden footstep shuffled in the darkness not twenty feet away.
Timon reached for his knife, straining his eyes for any movement. Moonlight did its best to help through the high windows, but was a poor assistant.
When light was not enough, Timon reminded himself, what other senses might be used?
Could he hear the intruder’s breath? Could he smell the man? Could he feel the air swirl if the man moved?
The intruder had two advantages. He had been waiting in the darkness, so his eyes would be more accustomed to the lack of light in the room.
He also knew exactly where Timon was because of the candle that had been lit. Timon willed his eyes to adjust to the darkness and slowly crouched down and away from Harrison’s desk.
Without warning the intruder leapt though the air. He nearly landed on top of Timon, blade flashing in the moonlight. Timon rolled under Harrison’s desk, kicking and grunting. The attacker landed on the floor with a thud, the point of his knife narrowly missing its mark. The killer spat and scrambled in Timon’s direction, spiderlike.
Jabbing a boltlike thumb toward the man’s face, Timon hoped to catch an eye. Instead he grazed the hairline, but it was enough to make the man jerk backward for an instant. Timon scrambled out the other side of Harrison’s desk and stood. In a flash he found his flint and struck it, lighting the nearest candle. In its sudden glow, the intruder appeared. He was wrapped in a black robe, masked from forehead to chin.
Timon could only see the man’s weapon, a long blade with two cutting edges and barbs on the hilt.
It was good that a thick oaken desk stood between them.
Timon drew in a deep breath and smiled, making certain that the man could see his face in the candlelight. It wore an expression of complete assurance, absolutely lacking in fear—or conscience. Timon had practiced it for years.
The man’s blade hand began to shake.
Timon’s foot flew forward then, kicking Harrison’s chair from under the desk. The chair crashed into the man’s legs. Timon sprang upward, leaping onto the desk. He seemed to fly. The intruder gazed up at him, momentarily stunned, and Timon kicked the blade from the hand.
The man stared at his empty fist for only an instant. Then he grunted and withdrew a pistol from some hidden fold in his robes. He cocked it and stepped back out of Timon’s reach.
Timon, the smile never leaving his face, jumped over the man as if gravity did not apply to him. He landed on the next closest desk. The man spun, but found a heavy leather book headed toward his skull. He barely had time to duck.
The King James Conspiracy Page 4