Marbury’s breath was a white ghost of words. The cellar was deadly still. Lively’s face was tinged with blue. The candle flame seemed frozen in the air.
Timon’s eyes searched everywhere in the grim room. An answer to Marbury’s question quickly presented itself.
“There.” Timon pointed.
Marbury focused his gaze on the floor. A freshly made quarter-circle pattern disturbed the dust of the floor beneath the vegetable bin.
“That is the result of the scraping I heard,” Timon continued. “This bin moves.”
Both men moved to the stacked wooden shelves and tugged until it began to give way. Once opened, its hidden hinges were easy to find. Through the opening they could see a low hallway behind the bin.
Timon headed straight into it, heedless of the impenetrable darkness.
Marbury went to grab the candle at Lively’s head as Timon’s footsteps receded into the hollow stone cave. Clutching the candle in front of him, he followed the increasingly faint sounds down the tunnel.
The cellar had been cold; the tunnel was frozen hell. Marbury felt his joints freezing; his lungs burning. Still, he moved as quickly as he could, the candle sputtering in his left hand, his blade shivering in his right, until he came upon Timon standing at what appeared to be a dead end.
Timon was running his hand across the surface of a solid stone wall.
“Somewhere there is a release or a handle,” Timon muttered.
“How did you run down this hallway without light?” Marbury asked, staring at Timon.
Marbury’s breath filled the small space with white vapor, but Timon barely seemed to breathe at all.
“I spent a great deal of time in darkness when I was imprisoned,” Timon answered tersely. “Instead of going blind, I acquired a kind of preternatural sight. The brightest sun burns my eyes, but they can see in the darkest recesses of night. Damn this wall!”
His sudden outburst startled Marbury.
“Our man has surely vanished now,” Timon hissed. “But where?”
“Could this lead to some kitchen?” Marbury guessed. “A convenience for the cook—so that he might fetch things from the cellar without having to brave the elements?”
“When did a builder ever care about a cook’s ease?” Timon shook his head. “And I am an imbecile for not wondering until now why there would be a root cellar in the Great Hall.”
“Wait.” Marbury massaged his forehead with his fingertips, as if encouraging some thought to free itself from the tangle of his memories. “The Great Hall is one of the oldest buildings of the university. It was—am I remembering this correctly?—a chapel or even a monastery at one time. Is that possible?”
“Some of these buildings are four hundred years old,” Timon answered, staring back down the hidden hallway toward the cellar, “and many monasteries of that day had escape tunnels. Which, it would seem, is exactly what this is: our man has eluded me. Again.”
“Are you certain it was the killer?”
“I suppose it could have been anyone.” Timon leaned against the wall for a moment. “But who else would have run?”
“Well, we’re no worse off than we were: we already knew there was a killer lurking nearby.”
“Yes.” Timon’s head snapped back suddenly and he started back down the hall toward the cellar. “Anne and Chaderton are alone in the hall. We have lost our man here. I would like to make certain he has not returned to—”
“God!” Marbury exploded, breaking into a run, past Timon, back down the tunnel and into the cellar.
Timon caught up with Marbury and they raced together up the stairs, into the Great Hall.
Anne and Chaderton sat side by side, reading something on Chaderton’s desk.
Anne stood, startled by their entrance, but her eyes were wide for another reason.
“Mary Magdalene wrote a gospel. I am reading it!” She could barely breathe.
“I have come to a certain conclusion with which I hope everyone will agree,” Chaderton interrupted, addressing Marbury and Timon. “I believe that we should hide as many of the secret books as we can gather—and I believe that Anne should be their custodian.”
“No!” Marbury exploded.
“Hear me,” Chaderton continued, holding up a solid hand. “Andrews expressed an attitude toward her that I believe the other scholars all share to some extent. None of them can believe that a young woman could have any understanding of these matters. They will never consider that she might be hiding the texts.”
“What you suggest,” Marbury growled, arriving at Chaderton’s desk, “places my daughter in the utmost jeopardy. I will not allow it.”
“I am already in harm’s way,” Anne responded, iron in every syllable. “And I am sufficiently invisible to these scholars to ward off scrutiny. I believe that Dr. Chaderton’s plan is perfect.”
Anne’s primary concern was obviously complete access to the volumes she so desperately wanted to devour.
“Deacon,” Timon said quickly, “I agree that we must hide these secret books. Leaving them with Anne is a sound idea. It is a woman’s advantage in an age of men that she is often invisible.”
“No!” Marbury insisted. “If they are to be hidden, let me take them!”
“You do not have the time!” Timon shook his head. “Your suggestion that Lancelot Andrews must be consulted is also a sound one. He will surely have more influence with the King than anyone else. He may even have come to some of the same conclusions as we have.”
“It is likely that Lancelot has come to some understanding of these matters himself,” Chaderton suggested. “He is possessed of an exceptionally keen mind. I have conferred with him many times over the years. We remain eager colleagues.”
“How can I leave for Westminster with my daughter’s life in danger and the men here in Cambridge—,” Marbury began
“I will remain here,” Timon said, only then putting his dagger away. “Lancelot Andrews will speak to you alone more readily than he would if I were there. I will remain here, vigilant. I swear to you that no harm will come to Anne.”
Clearly no one in the room doubted Timon’s determination.
“Go to Westminster this moment?” Marbury asked, tapping his fingers on Chaderton’s desk.
“The men will work in groups,” Timon snapped, “and Anne will remain in her room. I assume there is a lock on her door.”
“There is,” Anne said, “though rarely used.”
“Make good use of it now,” Timon said firmly. “I envy the reading you have in store. What servants are your most trusted?”
“Say no more. I know best how to secure myself in my quarters.”
“And I will be everywhere,” Timon announced loudly, as if someone might be listening.
“But are we certain that the documents ought to stay with Anne?” Marbury insisted desperately, his voice lowered.
“I am not a child!” Anne rasped. “I can take care of myself.”
“Dispense with coaches, Deacon,” Timon said briskly, ignoring both Marbury’s concern and Anne’s ire. “You have no need of royal display at this point. Lancelot Andrews will see you, will he not?”
“Yes, but,” Marbury said, then moved closer to Timon to whisper, “if there are more like Pietro Delasander after me—”
“I should have told you before,” Timon answered softly. “When I searched Delasander’s body, I discovered a document—a coded missive—that told me his true purpose.”
“So you said.” Marbury’s brow furrowed.
“You were not his target. He was only following you back to Cambridge so that he could kill me. I have no idea why, but I know who sent him: the same men who told you to hire me; the same men who told me to work for you. The missive was in their code.”
“God in heaven,” Marbury swore. “We are swimming in madness.”
Anne took in a breath, clearly on the verge of asking a hundred questions.
“Dr. Chaderton,” Timon snapped in
full voice once more, “you know Dr. Lancelot Andrews well, did you say?”
“Quite well,” Chaderton answered, a bit confused.
“Well enough to know where he might be of a late afternoon?”
“Let me see,” Chaderton said to himself, thinking as quickly as he could. “When I am in London, and we meet, we often walk in the College Garden before sunset. I believe he told me that it was his custom every evening before prayers and dinner. Why do you ask?”
“Time is of the essence. Deacon Marbury may not wish to waste it searching Westminster for the man. The College Garden is as good a place as any to start.”
“I know that garden,” Marbury affirmed.
“If you ride at top speed and exhaust the first horse,” Timon said, his words racing, “you can exchange mounts at the halfway point. You could arrive at Westminster by late afternoon, would you say?”
Marbury hesitated for only an instant, but it was too long for Timon.
“You must speak with Lancelot Andrews.” Timon insisted. “We must have him as an ally in the cause of saving our religion!”
“He may also offer some information,” Chaderton added, “in the matter of his brother, Roger, the man who may well be the killer.”
“Make haste, Deacon,” Timon encouraged. “The sooner you finish your work at Westminster, the sooner you can return and help me catch a killer.”
43
Twenty minutes later Marbury threw his leg over a worn brown saddle, wondering how he had gotten there, when only moments before, it seemed, he had been asleep in his bed—in his clothes.
Another trip to London, he thought exhaustedly, and this time to another group of translators, as if my bunch were not trouble enough. How have I offended God?
Marbury sighed, urged his horse forward, out of the courtyard and into an open green field. The air was filled with red birds. The sky through the trees was a stained-glass window, blue and hard. Cowslips were blooming, nodding in the morning breeze.
Gathering his strength from the sight, Marbury leaned down and whispered something to his horse. The horse shot forward. The wind against his face was cool but soft, its scent now and again sweetened by early-spring pleasures: narcissus and daphne, the loam of leaf mold, a riot of birdsong, the early green on every tree.
He was glad to be on horseback because it allowed him to take a route no coach could travel, through thick woods and over rolling hills. The trip would be quicker than before thanks to the less traveled roads, and Westminster was closer than Hampton Court.
But the best reason to take this particular way, Marbury thought to himself, is that it avoids the woods where those boys live. Best not to be distracted, more important work was at hand. There will be another time, another day, to think about them.
He occupied himself, instead, with the ten feet of road in front of him, then ten more, the trees and fields flying by. The sound of his horse’s breathing was everything.
By four o’clock that afternoon the road turned west before Shoreditch. Marbury stayed north of Red Bull and Gray’s Inn so as to skirt the worst of the city’s afternoon chaos and avoid a Thames crossing. He finally turned south to head through Charing Cross and onto King Street.
Before too long he made out the towers of Westminster, not far away in the haze. Marbury had come to the outskirts of London and slowed his horse to a walk. Only then did he allow his fears for Anne, and the translators, to distract him. They mixed with his apprehension of the coming conversation with Lancelot Andrews. Those twin concerns bled into one another. He found he was more fretful than he had been in a decade.
On the larger open grassy spaces, here and there, sheep grazed and almost gave the illusion of bucolic peace, but in the distance Marbury could hear, piercing the blue fabric of the air, city voices screeching: “Mussels lily-white? Herrings, sprats, or cockles? And Wallfleet oysters!” They were throats rattling, in want of grease. “Old shoes for new brooms!” They were distant sparks of the hot coal of London, searing the sky and smearing the wind. “Boy, works cheap! Has no tongue!”
Marbury began to imagine the faces from which those distant sounds emerged, marveling at how far the voices carried in the spring air. After a moment he began to wonder if he was imagining them, not really hearing them at all.
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Marbury was seated on the stone bench beside the infirmary beds at the College Garden of Westminster. The open expanse between the grand buildings was abundant with grass, already tall, soon to be made hay feed. Its green was matched by the sky’s cloudless blue. Soft winds had polished the air, rid it of all clouds. Everything in that great open yard was clear. At the far end stood aged buildings of the college whose walls seemed to glow with a sort of golden vapor, a kind of complicity with the more ancient past discussed and argued within them.
Lancelot Andrews appeared in short order for his daily constitutional. If he was surprised to see Marbury, he did not show it. He moved deliberately, his great blue coat and robe trailing behind him. His white beard grew to a perfectly groomed point.
Marbury stood. “Dr. Andrews,” he began quickly, “we met at the Hampton Court Conference, though you would surely not remember me. I am Deacon Marbury from Cambridge.”
“I will not say that I have been expecting you,” Andrews called, his voice a low, solid bell. “But I am not surprised to see you, Deacon Marbury. I would not have recognized you. You have changed since I saw you at Hampton. But your reputation is greatly to be admired.”
“Your Grace,” Marbury said with only the faintest hint of irony.
“I assume,” Dr. Andrews said, coming to take Marbury’s hand, “that you are here to tell me what strange things have been happening with Mr. Lively’s group of translators in Cambridge.”
“Mr. Lively is dead,” Marbury said instantly. “As is Mr. Harrison. There is a monster loose in Cambridge. But that fact means nothing, you must believe me, compared to the primary reason for my visit.”
“I know.” Dr. Andrews did his best to make his face a stern mask where nothing could be read.
“You know of the murders?” Marbury asked. “Then the King told you about my visit.”
“He did, though I confess I did not know of Lively’s lamentable death.”
“The entire translation is in danger.” Marbury’s words burst from him like a pistol shot. “The work of generations is at stake. I have been convinced that this is, indeed, of greater import than any man’s life. The very nature of our religion may be in grave danger.”
Dr. Andrews sat down on the bench.
“Someone is killing the translators to stop their work,” Marbury said, still standing. “It is only a matter of time before the same thing happens to the group here at Westminster and to the Oxford men as well. I came to tell you this news—and more.”
“In the hope that I will speak with His Majesty.” Dr. Andrews scowled. “But he already knows about—”
“We hope that you will convince him to produce a complete Bible—a true Bible.”
Dr. Andrews looked up from his place on the bench. “I do not take your meaning when you say ‘a true Bible.’”
“The men in Cambridge have discovered so many things,” Marbury whispered, eyes darting. “Surely your lot here have done so as well.”
“Discovered?” Dr. Andrews folded his hands in his lap.
“Thousands of errors in translation dating back to the time of Christ,” Marbury said impatiently. “There are dozens, perhaps hundreds, of gospels and genuine ancient texts which have been expurgated from the various Bibles over time. Yes, we must prevent the translators from being murdered, but we must also see to it that the true Bible—”
“I see.” Dr. Andrews stood abruptly. “We must work quickly.” Marbury exhaled. “Then you see the import of this, Dr. Andrews. I am relieved. Dr. Chaderton speaks so highly of you, I should have known your decisions would be swift.”
“Of course.” Andrews seemed deep in thought. “First, to the mur
ders. How may I help?”
“I must be bold to ask you several questions,” Marbury stammered, “concerning your brother Roger.”
“What?” Dr. Andrews’s hands dropped to his side; his face slacked.
“This is a part of the investigation,” Marbury rushed to invent. “We fear that he may be the next victim.”
“I see. Well, Roger is my younger brother. Have you siblings?”
Marbury shook his head.
“They are a blessing and a curse,” Dr. Andrews said, smiling. “When he was younger, Roger used to copy everything I did—to the point of distraction. He would dress the same, walk the same—and when I was talking to my school fellows, he would often repeat what I said, verbatim, under his breath until the other boys shrieked and drove him away. If I had been more aware of the nature and the intensity of his adulation, I might have been kinder, but brothers argue—even wrestle—and there is nothing to be done.”
“You have made amends as an adult, surely,” Marbury said, looking away. “You saw to it that your brother was taken on as a translator.”
“He resents my success.” Andrews sighed. “He laments my high position; my nearness to the King.”
“Indeed it has been said that you are to James what Burley was to Elizabeth.” Marbury looked down at the tall grass that enveloped his boots.
“But enough of my troubles. You have questions about Roger.”
“You may have just answered them,” Marbury mumbled.
“Curious.” Andrews looked Marbury up and down. “Then perhaps you will tell me about your plans to insure—how did you phrase it?—this complete Bible.”
“It must include all points, all of the rediscovered books,” Marbury answered instantly, “the ancient texts, if they are true and verified by all the translators. All errors, no matter how small, must be corrected.”
“To what end?” Andrews folded his arms. “You do not agree, in general, with the Bishops’ Bible?”
“This goes well beyond disagreement with—”
“What is the point?” Andrews interrupted, demanding a direct response.
The King James Conspiracy Page 21