“Well,” Marbury answered uncomfortably, “we have discussed the nature of Christ’s body. The insistence that he was primarily flesh, and that his flesh rose from the grave, is a concept that enabled so many of the other decisions made by the early Church.”
“But this is the foundational belief of Christianity,” Dr. Andrews roared, startling Marbury. “If we do not believe that Christ rose from the dead as flesh and blood, then we cannot partake of the miracle of the Eucharist! The clear words of the Bible are that ‘the Word was made flesh.’ The flesh and the Word may not be sundered. We celebrate both; honor both by taking His flesh so that He may replenish us with His grace and truth.”
“I do know—I have heard your sermons on the value of the Eucharist,” Marbury stammered, trying to gather his thoughts in the face of Dr. Andrews’s power.
“Christ’s flesh is the cornerstone of our religion!” Dr. Andrews turned his overwhelming gaze upon Marbury.
“Your friend Dr. Chaderton,” Marbury answered, “made bold to suggest that an insistence on the reanimation of dead flesh, and the cannibalistic ritual of eating that flesh, was the province of demons rather than of our Lord.”
“No!” Dr. Andrews growled. “Dr. Chaderton never said such a monstrous thing.”
“He did, in fact.”
“God in heaven.” Dr. Andrews ground his fingertips into his temples. “Too much to take in. My mind is at sea. I do comprehend the grave import of your concerns. I must find myself. Please, be seated. I must collect what men we have here and—and we all shall meet. You must dine with us—yes—and we shall work out what can be done. Wait here. I shall send for you shortly.”
Without another word, Dr. Andrews turned, his blue robes rising in a flurry, and sped away toward the nearest building.
What to make of that? Marbury observed to himself, watching Dr. Andrews disappear through a black door.
Even when he saw the armed guard, only moments later, he did not realize what was happening—until it was too late.
44
Cambridge, That Night
Timon stood frozen outside Anne’s door. He had been standing there for ten minutes unable to knock. Finally he called out, “Anne! I have forgotten a name.”
A silent pause hung in the air for a moment, then her voice answered, “Brother Timon?”
“Will you come to the door?” The panic in his voice was obvious. There was a clatter of bolts, the click of another lock, and the door inched inward only slightly. Anne peered out. “Forgot whose name?”
“The stable master!”
“Lankin?”
“God!” Timon rolled his head and took an unconscious step sideways. “Lankin!”
“You seem upset.” Anne opened her door a few inches more, puzzled.
“I could not remember his name.” Timon’s face was drained of blood. “You have no idea what this means.”
“That you could not recall—?”
“My memory is my life!” Timon snapped.
Anne read genuine terror in Timon’s eyes, though she could not understand it.
Timon began mumbling to himself, pacing back and forth in front of her door.
After a moment Anne felt she must ask, “Is that Greek you are whispering?”
“I am reciting a certain passage from Erasmus.”
“Why?”
Timon looked into Anne’s eyes. “Something is happening to me.” His words shook like new leaves in the wind. “I am not myself.”
Anne’s lips thinned. “You have not slept.”
“I have not.”
“The mind often betrays itself when it wants rest,” she chided. “And when did you last eat?”
“Did I have a breakfast this morning?” Timon answered, still dazed.
He stared at the floor. He swallowed, licked his lips, eyes darting furtively all about him.
“Then perhaps a bite of food,” Anne suggested.
“I am not myself because I feel my life may have changed its course. Abruptly. Rather abruptly.”
Anne’s face was a stern as any nun’s. “I have no idea how your habit of smoking nutmeg in that pipe might disturb your brain, but I do know that when my father has had a bit too much brandywine in the evening, he is in a mist the next morning.”
“Yes,” Timon began, but stopped himself. He was loathe to admit that he had taken a pipe instead of dinner. It had not helped his fever. How to explain what was burning in his mind? What to reveal and what to keep secret?
“Did you come to my room so late at night just to ask me the name of the stable master?” Anne’s hand on the door tensed without her realizing it.
Timon clutched the hilt of his knife and breathed slowly, silently, stilling his heart, readying his hand.
Anne did not move. “I watched the way you dealt with two dead bodies. Perhaps you are unsettled by death.”
“I have seen death many times. I was impressed with your ability to take charge of moving the boy’s body. You seemed—”
“I have tended men who died,” Anne said simply.
“And I have killed men,” Timon said before he thought. He did not recognize his own voice.
“You have fought in battle,” Anne assumed.
“No. I have killed men as a part of holy work—or work which, at one time, I thought of as holy.”
Anne’s breathing became more shallow. Her eyes longed to blink, but she thought, somehow, she should not. “A man who thinks that murder is holy is lost to darkness.”
“Yes” was all Timon could manage.
“Are you the man who is killing these scholars here in Cambridge?” Anne leaned her weight forward, scarcely believing that she had asked such a question.
“I am not,” Timon assured her unsteadily. “I am the man who will stop those murders.”
“Why?” It was a simple question.
“I am puzzled by that,” Timon admitted, slowly regaining his composure. “So many great comets collide in my brain, such disparate elements as to drive a man mad: a kindly old servant’s heart, a faithful dog, a disappointed barmaid, the loathsome nature of a certain trio of men, the many strange things revealed by the work of your scholars—the entire depth of—the history and scope—we must not allow the truth to be hidden any longer—because—” Timon found, to his great surprise, that he could not continue. His hands were shaking and his eyes stung.
Anne stared.
“I feel the very atoms of my flesh transposing,” Timon whispered, staring at his fingers. “I last felt this way on the day of my death.”
Anne swallowed. “There’s a sentence that needs an explanation,” she said tentatively.
“Well, then plainly: I was sentenced to die by the Inquisition.” Timon still watched the creases and folds in the palms of his hands. “On the morning of my execution, Pope Clement came to me. He knew everything about my life, and he was aware of my powers of memory. He instructed me to perform his work, which I have done for five years. Now—for reasons that are battling in my brain and which I barely comprehend—I am turning away from his instruction in favor of . . . you told me that I seemed to be a man newly released from prison. You may have been correct. It is possible that I am somehow released from my vows to the Catholic Church—to do other work.”
Anne could see that Timon was struggling to find the perfect words. “In his time a man plays many parts on the stage of this world.”
“How odd.” Timon smiled. “Only this morning I was considering how like a play my life seems.”
“You need sleep and food,” Anne insisted, distinguishing each word from every other. “Your eyes are wild, your hands are shaking, and you are developing very strange ideas.”
“Very strange,” Timon agreed, nodding.
Anne only took a second to decide her course of action. “Then let me take you to the kitchen,” she said firmly, “and fix you some supper.”
45
Westminster, That Night
Marbury watched
in disbelief as the iron bars of his prison door slammed shut and the armed guard marched away.
The cell was large enough for ten prisoners. It was well lit by torches in the hallway. There was gray stone in six directions, but there were also several elevated pallets with blankets, and a high, thin window through which one might at least imagine the setting sun.
I was a fool, Marbury thought to himself. An absolute imbecile. How could I ever have believed that King James’s favorite adviser would—what was I thinking? And now here I am in a prison cell while my daughter is left defenseless against a madman.
He went to the cell door and took hold of the bar closest to the lock. He shook the door, felt the lock with the tip of his finger, his cheek pressed against the cold iron of several other bars, and stuck out his lips. He closed his eyes, realizing how easy it would be to pick the lock. A few clumsy clicks with his knife, and he could be free.
A sudden voice in the darkness of the hall startled him.
“Shall we take an early dinner together?”
Dr. Andrews appeared out of the darkness, his right hand on the cell door. “I do beg your pardon for detaining you in this unhospitable manner,” he continued, slipping a key into the lock.
The door swung open.
Marbury stared suspiciously.
I have no idea why he locked me up, Marbury thought, and I have no idea why he would let me go. This is some sort of trick.
He absently checked his hidden blade.
Dr. Andrews seemed not to notice, turned, and led the way down a long hall to a great, empty dining room. It was a third the size of the Great Hall in Cambridge and dotted with candles swirling small circles of light around the dining table. Only two places were set; plates and bowls and tankards were all empty.
The long plank table was made finer by an embroidered golden runner down its middle. The floor of the place was inlaid with a single symbol too huge to take in, obscured by the darkness. The black rafters thirty feet overhead were thick and crossed, holding up their ceiling lost in shadow.
Dr. Andrews walked a few feet ahead of Marbury, silent as the grave.
Marbury did his best to form several perfect questions in his mind before he gave them voice. Where were the rest of the translators? Why had he been put in jail? Why had he been released? Was he in danger?
The last question was answered when Marbury was able to make out, barely, the outlines of hidden guardsmen at each door.
Dr. Andrews sat at his place, at the head of the table, and indicated that Marbury should take the place on the right-hand side of his host, which he did. Andrews seemed to be waiting for Marbury to speak. Marbury was determined to remain silent. The first man to break such a silence would be the man to lose the advantage of it.
Both men sat in absolute stillness, then, for long minutes. No food came. No one seemed to breathe. The men guarding the doors could have been made of granite for all their movement.
Suddenly Dr. Andrews pounded the table with his fist, sending plates aloft and toppling tankards.
“Who are you?” he bellowed. “Tell me this instant! You are not Deacon Marbury!”
Marbury was only at a loss for an instant. When he recovered, he settled back into his chair and smiled. He determined to let Andrews go on.
“To call yourself Marbury,” Dr. Andrews snarled. “I knew you did not remotely resemble the man. I only saw him once, but his bearing and grace were enviable—unlike your slouch and sneer.”
“Who am I, then?” Marbury asked, feeling for the knife hidden in his sleeve.
“Guards!” Andrews called out.
Instantly twenty men surrounded the table, blades unsheathed.
“You,” Andrews announced triumphantly, “are the well-known assassin Pietro Delasander!”
Marbury could not stifle his momentary grin.
Andrews continued, quite satisfied with himself. “And now you will tell me the true meaning of your visit to Westminster, though I think I know it.”
Marbury sat silently, slowly realizing that he would not be reported to the King. The man whom Andrews would report as a visitor to Westminster—the assassin Delasander—was, in reality, already dead. All that was left for Marbury now was escape. And for that, all that was necessary was to return to the flimsy cell, wait until everyone had gone to bed, pick the lock, and ride home.
Marbury’s stomach growled—a good sign, he thought. Fear had been replaced by hunger.
“Speak!” Andrews demanded, his head snapping in Marbury’s direction.
“Pietro Delasander is, as you know, the greatest assassin in Europe. If I were he, I would be forced to kill you. That was not his goal here, but it may be a necessity.”
“Kill me?” Andrews laughed. “My guard may have something to say about that.”
Several of the men in the guard laughed too. Marbury noted them for future reference—laughter betrayed overconfidence in such situations. One man stepped closer to Marbury, his rapier poised to strike. He was obviously the captain of the guard.
“And pray,” Andrews went on, “what was your original goal here?”
“As you know, there are odd rumors abroad,” Marbury explained calmly, “concerning the work of all the translators for our King’s Bible. I am working for the King. We are to discover if there is treason afoot here in Westminster by positing such treason to you as a fact of the Cambridge group. If you had agreed with our rebellious suggestions and offered to help, we would have—reported it.”
“Do not mince words,” Andrews objected. “You were to execute anyone who evidenced betrayal in this regard. Why else would the King set an assassin upon the task? And the King’s great awareness of how the supernatural is at work to subvert his plans would only lend more reason for such executions.”
“I could not say,” Marbury drawled, looking away.
“Come, come, sir.” Andrews shook his head. “You have already done as much in Cambridge. Are there not two men dead in that place?”
“One hears strange stories,” Marbury agreed.
“Clever,” Dr. Andrews muttered to himself. “King James is clever.”
“Is he?” Marbury shrugged.
“I understand,” Andrews said at once. “You are not at liberty to say.”
“And now I wonder,” Marbury said delicately, “if there will ever be anything on these supper plates. I am ravenous.”
Andrews stared at the plates, trying to make up his mind.
“No,” he said at last, “I think not. To be on the safe side, you understand, I must insist that you return to a temporary imprisonment until I seek council with the King. I must affirm the veracity of your claims. Captain, please take this man to the lower level now.”
“You are returning me to cell?” Marbury asked before he could think. “Without dinner?”
“Not exactly, Master Delasander,” Andrews answered, standing. “The room wherein you were detained briefly is not as secure as the lower levels, but have no care. You shall be well looked after while you are there—only several days, I should imagine.” Andrews turned to the captain. “And see to it that he is given the dinner—the complete meal—that we were about to receive at this table.”
“Of course,” the captain answered instantly.
This will never do, Marbury thought, his blood rising. I must not be placed in a secure cell for several days. He grasped the handle of his knife.
“Well then.” Andrews stood, patting his chest once. “I go to compose a brief query to a king.”
Without warning Marbury sprang from his chair in a blur. He landed behind Andrews, dagger pointed upward under Andrews’s chin. With his other arm he had pinned both of Andrews’s arms from behind.
In the next second, the point of the captain’s rapier was half an inch from Marbury’s right eye.
The tableau held for a single breath before Marbury pricked a bit of blood from the throat of his captive. The captain did not move.
“Both of us will be de
ad,” Marbury whispered into Andrews’s ear, “if your captain does not lower his rapier now.”
Andrews nodded. “He will. But you will never leave this room.” The captain took a step backward, lowering his blade slightly, but a chaos of other cutting edges and points surrounded Marbury.
Suddenly Marbury shoved Andrews forward, grabbed a leaden plate from the table, and tossed it directly at the captain’s head. Other guards lunged, but Marbury leapt onto the table and fended them off, kicking. In their confusion, Marbury pounced upon the hapless captain, who thudded to the floor, hand over eye. Marbury jumped on top of him, grabbing his rapier, and was on his feet instantly, rapier in his right hand and his dagger in the left. He began turning slow circles and breathing hard. Most of the guard surrounded him.
“You know that Delasander is someone who could kill your men,” Marbury announced loudly. “All of them. You know his reputation. You will die, Dr. Andrews, unless you call off your guards now.”
Each word seemed so filled with truth that Andrews held up his hands immediately. “Stop!” he commanded. “Put down your arms, all of you. Stop!”
The confused guard turned to Andrews, saw the way of things, but hesitated to lower weapons.
“Captain!” Andrews shrieked. “This is the world’s greatest assassin. He is not human!”
From the floor the captain groaned, “Down.”
Marbury backed carefully toward that door.
“Pause a moment,” Dr. Andrews said, a desperation edging his words. “If you are bound for Cambridge—if you have a mind to—please—I love my brother Roger, but I know he is jealous of my achievements. Such jealousy has caused him to do foolish things in the past. I beg of you, do not kill him. Arrest him if you must; hold him. I will see to his confinement; I will consult with the King to assure it. Please.”
“I will do what I can.” Marbury nodded.
“Thank you,” Andrews said, though it obviously hurt his throat to utter the words.
Marbury found the cold, black door handle at his back, grabbed it, and gave it a tug. Sometimes a clever captain would lock a room behind him to trap his prey. As luck would have it, the guard at Westminster, though numerous, were not so thoughtful. The door pulled free.
The King James Conspiracy Page 22