The King James Conspiracy

by Phillip DePoy

  “We are being murdered to prevent the revelation of Christ’s true meaning.” An instant of stunned silence had separated Timon’s comments from Chaderton’s realization. “This means trouble for the other translating groups. Clearly something could happen to them.”

  “It already has,” Marbury said softly. All eyes turned to him. “James informed me that Lancelot Andrews visited Hampton Court before I did.”

  “Yes, you saw the King, I nearly forgot,” Chaderton moaned. “I should have asked you about it immediately.”

  “The King mentioned the other translators?” Timon began.

  “Only to say that the Westminster group had received strange notes,” Marbury hastened to tell everyone. “No one there has been killed. Texts have been stolen.”

  “Wait!” Anne demanded, stunned. “What lies?”

  All eyes turned her way.

  “Tell me what you mean about the lies!” she exploded.

  “As you already know, because you overheard, our Savior’s true name was Joshua,” Timon said flatly.

  “But,” Anne sputtered, “there must be more to it than that.”

  “Mary Magdalene may have written a gospel that has long been suppressed,” Marbury offered tentatively. “Why it was kept from us, I do not know.”

  Anne held her breath.

  “Christ’s resurrection could have been, in truth, of a more spiritual than physical nature,” Chaderton sighed. “He might have discarded his body and presented his True Self, his spirit, to the disciples after his crucifixion—not his earthly form.”

  Anne clasped her hands so tightly that they turned colors: rose red at the tips, bone white at the joints. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

  “A woman wrote a gospel,” she whispered at last.

  “And not just any woman,” Chaderton added.

  “And the resurrection of the body—,” Anne gasped.

  “Brother Timon and Dr. Chaderton have expressed opinions,” Marbury said uncomfortably. “There are no facts to support his rash and, incidentally, extraordinarily illegal speech.”

  “On the contrary,” Timon responded at once. “Facts abound.”

  “Yes, but these facts may be interpreted in a hundred different ways,” Marbury argued feverishly.

  “The mistake was in soliciting language scholars,” Chaderton interrupted, “men whose academic spirit of competition might get the better of them. That is where James went wrong.”

  The comment seemed out of place; Chaderton appeared lost in a world of his own.

  “I only mean to say,” the old man told everyone when he saw the way they were staring at him, “that James made a mistake hiring men of keen intellectual curiosity. We are all, alas, scholars who will follow the idea more than the assignment.”

  “Yes. Even if all these men were told to copy the Bishops’ Bible word for word,” Timon agreed, “they could not curtail their pursuit of the truth, their thirst for knowledge—”

  “And their desire to be one step ahead of everyone else,” Chaderton interjected. “We are, I admit, a competitive group.”

  “Pause a moment.” Anne bit her upper lip. “The men hired to translate the Bible could not stop at clarifying what had already been translated. They sought to return to the original texts, translate from ancient documents. And some of these contain the information you have just revealed.”

  Timon did his best not to stare at Anne. Her zeal matched his. Her eyes burned with a similar fire. Her questions were in his mind too.

  Is this what Marbury feels? he wondered to himself. Is this the pride that every father knows?

  “In so far as was possible, we did revert to original texts, yes,” Chaderton said to Anne, the strength returning to his voice. “We have all found or been given texts that we believe were written within a hundred years of our Lord’s lifetime.”

  “There are other Gospels,” Anne struggled to say. “There are books of the Bible—written about Christ—that I have not read. How is this possible?”

  “Decisions were made in the year of our Lord 325,” Chaderton began.

  “The Council of Nicaea.” Anne nodded.

  “The documents to which you refer were casualties of that conflict,” Timon said quickly. “Many were destroyed. Others were hidden.”

  “Years of research in the matter,” Chaderton asserted, “have provoked me to disagree with the Nicene decisions.”

  “But you said you were given certain texts.” Anne’s eyes had not left Timon’s. Clearly she still suspected him of hiding something.

  “By James himself,” Chaderton said. “He too has had a lifelong interest in spiritual matters. His tastes differ from mine, but his thirst is the same as mine, I believe.”

  “I have read Demonology,” Anne sniffed. “You differ in more than matters of taste. Your level of scholarship—”

  “What is the point of this speculation?” Marbury exploded.

  “If the physical body of Christ was not resurrected,” Anne replied with equal force, “then our religion would be fundamentally different. I am willing to call Christ by whatever earthly name I may, but if his body did not rise from the grave—”

  “Certain texts I have read,” Chaderton interrupted in a bid to ease the tension between father and daughter, “find the concept of a body coming back to life revolting—the province of necromancy! They suggested that the fathers who prevailed at the council were possessed by devils. Their grotesque insistence on the reanimation of a corpse was made more monstrous by the concept of ritual cannibalism: eating flesh and drinking blood. Who but a demon would suggest such behavior?”

  “You are talking about Holy Communion,” Anne railed.

  “Yes.” Chaderton tried to smile.

  The very air stood still around his word. Atoms refused to engage it. Anne found she could not exhale, and Marbury was beginning to sweat in the cold room.

  “I can see the truth of this,” Anne said slowly. “Christ had a body on earth, but it was unimportant, as are all bodies. When He died, He had no further need of it. His spirit arose from the grave.”

  “The fire of the spirit is essential,” Timon agreed. “The flesh is only a prison.”

  “The miracle of Resurrection is essential to Christian belief,” Marbury insisted, dabbing his hairline with his fingertips. “And the body is a temple, not a prison.”

  “My body is a nuisance,” Anne muttered. “Every third woman in the world would agree.”

  “I must see these hidden texts!” Timon said abruptly. “I must see them for myself. I must see them now or my mind will capsize. I must know the truth of these matters today! This morning!”

  The urgency of his voice stopped all further conversation.

  Timon charged toward his doorway, leaving Anne and Marbury to stare.

  He did not turn their way as he crossed the threshold. “I find myself at a crossroads, you see,” he told them, vanishing down the hallway. “I feel a new season is about to begin.”

  39

  The others followed Timon into the common yard, the bright air, headed for the Great Hall. The morning wind raked its bone-cold fingers across the sky, cleaning it of clouds.

  Marbury struggled with one sentence after another trying to find the exact words that would make time stand still. He needed time to think.

  Anne caught up with Timon and matched his strides, staring at the side of his face.

  Chaderton brought up the rear, talking to himself. “We could begin with the secret documents I received,” he offered reasonably, “and then ask each one of the others to present. In this manner, Deacon, you will soon see what we are facing. But will they share their work with Brother Timon? There is a question.”

  Anne listened to Chaderton with one ear and whispered her first question to Timon at the same time.

  “What has happened to you?” she asked plainly.

  “Pardon?” Timon murmured, his eyes locked on the entrance to the Great Hall.

&nb
sp; “You bear a new aspect this morning.”

  “I do?” But he smiled.

  “There. That smile is different from the one you gave me when we first met.”

  “How is it different?”

  “I cannot say, but it would seem to be the smile of a man let out of prison.”

  Timon stopped dead still. Marbury almost ran into him. Anne continued for several steps before she realized what had happened. Marbury glared at his daughter, wondering what she had said.

  “Yes,” Chaderton said, joining the group. “We had best agree on a plan before we proceed further. Some of the men will already be in the hall working this morning.”

  “Deacon,” Timon said, staring into Anne’s eyes, “your daughter may well be England’s best secret weapon. She has the bold mind of a man and the subtler perceptions of a woman.”

  “We had a queen like that,” Anne reminded Timon, “until recently.”

  “Yes,” Chaderton said, lost in thoughts of his own, “our plan must not be too bold.”

  All eyes turned to him.

  “I suggest,” he continued, “that I show you what documents I have, and you all gather around me eagerly. Make such praise as you might if you were surprised. Such attention is honey to our bees. We all are drawn to it. If one of us has discovered something that would cause the three of you to convene, then I can assure you that the others will horde around.”

  “Let them think that they must compete with you for our attention.” Anne folded her arms and smiled. “Perfect.”

  “It will provoke them to show their work.” Timon nodded. “Even to me. They will believe it was their own idea.”

  “So,” Chaderton clapped his hands, well pleased with himself. “Follow me.”

  He headed at once for the door with a greater speed than he had managed before. The others surrounded him.

  “You did not answer my question,” Anne whispered to Timon.

  Timon nodded. “Let my actions be your answer.”

  Chaderton grasped the cold iron handle of the tall oak door, but hesitated.

  “We must be careful, of course,” he whispered, “not to reveal too much. The killer may be near. And, as I believe we have considered, there may be demons at work.”

  Without further conversation, he thrust forward, jolting the door open with a loud scraping noise.

  The hall was, indeed, occupied. Three of the remaining scholars were hard at work, each at his separate desk. The thunder of the door disturbed them only slightly, but the sight of Chaderton followed by the odd trio piqued interest.

  Chaderton began his gambit in an all-too-theatrical voice. “Right this way, Deacon,” he said vigorously, and with enough volume to echo through the hall. “You will soon see for yourself that what I have told you is the truth!”

  The strange quartet moved almost as one directly to Chaderton’s desk. He made great show of unlocking his top drawer and pulling out several documents.

  The other scholars in the room glared. Timon was glad to see, out of the corner of his eye, that Spaulding was not among them. His intrusion would muddy the waters of Chaderton’s efforts.

  “Here, for example,” Chaderton announced, “is the gospel most curiously excluded, in my opinion. It is perfectly in line with Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. I have no idea why it should not be included in our King’s Bible.”

  He held the document aloft for all to see.

  “By Thomas?” Marbury asked, staring at the top page in genuine wonder. “Is my Greek correct? The apostle Thomas?”

  “Exactly!” Chaderton shouted. “Why was this eliminated from our Bible?”

  “What could it say that was so offensive?” Anne whispered.

  “Read here!” Chaderton pointed to a phrase a few lines down from the top.

  Timon read them aloud. “‘We asked him, “Do you want us to fast? How should we pray? Should we give to charity?” And He said, “Do not lie, and do not do what you hate. If you know what is in front of you, then what is hidden will be disclosed.”’”

  “Why would such words be kept from us?” Anne gasped.

  Chaderton sighed. “In two sentences, our Lord eliminates the need for rules, laws, and priests to interpret them for you.”

  “Which eliminates the money,” Timon said softly. “A decidedly un-Catholic sentiment.”

  “The simple perfection,” Chaderton began.

  “Stop!” a voice from behind them exploded.

  They all turned to see Roger Andrews bearing down on them from his desk a few rows away.

  “Stop this at once!” he demanded, a scowl burning his face.

  Andrews was dressed in his academic regalia, a pretension that Timon found as laughable as it was telling. He was the only one of the translators who exhibited his credentials on his sleeve. His deep blue robes carefully avoided the appearance of being black. Gold piping and an ornate family crest emphasized the color of the material. His cap, foolishly cascading over one side of his forehead, bobbled wildly, threatening to fly away. He was thin, and the bony finger he pointed at Chaderton was a twig of birch in the dim light. His blond hair and fair complexion exaggerated the flush in his cheeks. The total effect made him seem younger than he was.

  “Dr. Spaulding has given express instructions,” Andrews continued as he marched toward Chaderton’s desk, “that we are to avoid this monk. He is not a scholar, he is a stranger among us, and he is the likely murderer of our fallen comrades!”

  “Dr. Andrews,” Marbury began, his voice pitched perfectly to soothe and calm, “our Brother Timon is here to help.”

  “And I am astonished that there is a woman in this hall gawking over our secret texts!” Andrews seemed close to violence. “A woman!”

  “Dr. Andrews!” Chaderton’s volume matched his comrade’s. “Cease yelling in this holy place!”

  “Do you not find it curious,” Anne said to Timon, a devil dancing in her eye, “that Dr. Andrews objects more to the presence of a woman than that of a murderer?”

  “A murderer,” Andrews stammered, his throat closing on the words, “who should be in our prison, not our hall. This is a place of scholarship, not a haven for misbegotten children and vile assassins!”

  “A place of scholarship,” Timon mused. “Anne, did you know that Dr. Roger Andrews was not chosen for his duties here in Cambridge?”

  “I—,” she began.

  “The departed Harrison was, I have been told, the man who selected the rest of the scholars for this group. He did not choose Andrews.”

  “The matter is more complicated than you can imagine,” Marbury interjected, realizing what Timon was after. “Harrison was—shall one use the word encouraged?—to include Andrews here.”

  “What word, in truth, would fit the situation better than encouraged?” Anne smiled calmly.

  “Well,” Marbury answered back, a grand wave of his hand flaying the air around him, “say forced, then. No one would argue.”

  “Who could force such a decision?” Anne did her best to manufacture an innocent pronunciation of her words.

  “When Harrison rejected Roger Andrews, there came a decree inclining Harrison to change his mind,” Marbury asserted. “A brief but precise letter, royal seal affixed.”

  “The King insisted?” Anne stared into Andrews’s eyes.

  “More likely it was Roger’s brother, Lancelot Andrews, who affected this turn of events,” Marbury responded. “Lancelot is the bishop of Winchester, and the man who presides over the first company of translators.”

  Andrews’s face had grown from crimson to mauve. His shoulders began to shake involuntarily.

  “But it was the King,” Marbury went on lightly, “who commanded that Roger Andrews be a part of the work here at Cambridge.”

  “Unfortunate,” Timon said, his smile growing. “The rest of the scholars resent it. They have no regard for Andrews as an intellectual force and do not seem to care for him outside of the working environs.”

  “Dr.
Andrews, alas, made matters worse by accusing Harrison of slighting him,” Marbury added. “Which claim lacks all meaning since Harrison slighted everyone equally.”

  Timon exhaled noisily. “There you have it.”

  Andrews was so enraged that he could not speak. His entire body quivered, and his face pulsed with an ocean of blood. Low, growling sounds disturbed the air around his head.

  Chaderton seemed confused. “What do you mean, Brother Timon, by saying, ‘There you have it’?”

  “I mean,” Timon said, taking a quick step toward Andrews, “that Dr. Andrews has the best reasons for murder. He is our killer.”

  Roger Andrews struggled desperately to speak. His breathing was labored. His eyes were popping.

  Timon could see that his goading plan was about to work. Andrews would bolt from the hall, unable to respond to derision, and Chaderton could continue with his plan.

  Alas, Andrews had other ideas. He took an unsteady step forward, reaching for Timon’s throat, then collapsed. He lay like a sack of turnips on the floor at Timon’s feet.

  40

  “I only meant to make him leave,” Timon apologized, kneeling on the floor beside Andrews.

  “You do not believe that he is the murderer?” Chaderton whispered.

  “I only thought of it while we were talking. A bit of improvisation. But considering his reaction, have I made a discovery?”

  “He is the killer,” Anne whispered. “He was humiliated that Harrison did not choose him, that this group was forced to take him. He lashed out with a jealous heart.”

  “May I point out,” said Marbury, the only one of the quartet not bending over Andrews, “that Andrews would have no reason to kill Lively?”

  “But you see,” Anne responded, “Lively, for all his faults, was a competent man, a man bent on finding the truth. He would have eventually found Andrews out. Spaulding on the other hand—”

  “Call the constables,” Andrews mumbled weakly, his eyes still closed.

  “Ah, good,” Timon said briskly, helping Andrews to sit up, “I have not slain you.”