“This cut? No.” Timon looked up again. “The problem is that I—this afternoon, in Cambridge, in the public house which we have just mentioned? I am afraid I killed those men, Samuel and Isaiah.”
“What?” Marbury’s head snapped back.
“In all fairness, they tried to kill me first.” Timon raised his sleeve, showing the binding on his upper arm. “This wound came from Isaiah’s dagger. He threw it at my heart. I felt justified in killing him with it. Both men sent Pietro Delasander to kill me and would have hounded me until the job was done. They would have stopped at nothing to accomplish their bizarre plans. I find myself in absolute sympathy with Harrison’s cause, if not his methods.”
Marbury gaped at Timon. A thousand thoughts muddled his mind, none were coherent.
“I let the third one go,” Timon continued. “They called him Daniel, but he is Cardinal Venitelli, did you know? A simple servant of the Pope, a man whose duty and honor are pure, however misguided. I sent him with a message to Pope Clement. I told him that I was resigning my commission in the papal armies of the damned.”
Marbury managed a smile. “Is that how you put it?”
“Well, not exactly.” Timon tied the piece of cloth around the wound in his forearm. The cut from the claymore and the swelling from the cudgel had mixed. “God’s blood, this hurts.”
“You may not be using that arm for a while.” Marbury winced as Timon pulled the cloth tightly around the swelling.
“Yes, well, you see the true problem is that I really cannot use this arm at all. I will very shortly be the object of a secret papal injunction.” Timon knotted the cloth and pulled his sleeve down over it. “I will be as useless as this arm to the cause you have just mentioned. I must flee England or forfeit my life. Oddly, it is a life which I have come to appreciate only very recently. I must leave tonight, if I can. I will endanger you and Anne if I stay.”
“How would your presence endanger us?” Marbury asked slowly.
Timon looked away. “Those men I killed in the public house, they are not the only agents of—there will be others. They would find me. I must lead them away from you.”
“Others,” Marbury realized softly. “Then it is possible that men like them—and men like you—may visit us again; may endanger Anne.”
“And you. And the translators. They would stop at nothing, these men, as we have seen. They were demons, infecting poor Harrison until he was mad, and then using him as their weapon.”
“You killed those men,” Marbury said, nearly to himself, “and in doing so, you have given up your own life. They will pursue you.”
“Yes.” Timon drew in a gasping breath and stood, steadying himself on Harrison’s desk. Without another word, he headed toward the open door, and the moonlight.
“Wait,” Marbury said suddenly. “Wait a moment.”
“If I stay, I will be a great hindrance to the work that must be done here.”
“Give me time to think.”
“Think about what?” Timon said, still striding toward his egress.
“You have saved my life,” Marbury said firmly. “I would like to return the favor.”
58
Twenty minutes later, Marbury pushed open the door to his dining room. As he had expected, Anne and all the translators were arguing around the table. His entrance silenced everyone.
“Harrison is in Brother Timon’s room?” he asked of no one in particular.
“Secured to the bed,” Spaulding assured him, “with two men guarding the door.”
Marbury glanced at Anne, hoping his expression gave nothing away. “Daughter, perhaps you might be kind enough to remove Brother Timon’s meager effects from that room—especially from under the bed and the desk.”
“Where is Brother Timon?” Spaulding demanded to know.
“Attending to his wounds,” Marbury shot back, deliberately exaggerating the irritation in his voice. “Wounds which he received in the process of saving your life.”
Spaulding, at a loss for words, looked to Richardson.
“Brother Timon is a true gallant,” Richardson announced grandly, “and shall be rewarded.”
“His best reward,” Marbury said quickly, taking on Richardson’s pomp, “would be for you all to resume your work. He fought to save it. Let us complete our portion of the translation as he urged: translating this Bible to perfection, leaving nothing out, correcting all errors, adding every conceivable text in order that the true Word of God may be given to all.”
“Let us swear to it!” Richardson roared.
“No!” Spaulding stood, pounding the table. “No, by heaven! We have been given a direct order by our King!”
Spaulding reached inside his gray wool coat and produced the page that Dibly had delivered. He pointed to the royal seal.
“It is genuine,” Richardson assured everyone. “I have, of course, seen the King’s seal many a time.”
Spaulding held the paper before his eyes. “This states, ‘The translators of Cambridge in the matter of His Majesty’s Bible are hereby commanded to copy, as precisely as their scholarship will allow, the existing Bishops’ Bible.’” Spaulding looked up. “We are to ‘alter nothing, add no new work, delete only the most grievous of Catholic errors.’”
He lowered the paper and cast his eye about the room.
“But, no,” Marbury began.
“Do you mean to say, Deacon Marbury,” Spaulding said softly after a moment, “that you would subvert the King’s wishes?”
“Truly,” Chaderton said, his eyes avoiding Marbury’s, “if we go against the King’s command, there will be talk of treason for us all.”
“At the very least,” Dillingham sighed, “the King would simply replace us with men who would do his will, and the translation would adhere to this command. Any work to the contrary would be, I fear, in vain.”
“But the Bishops’ Bible,” Anne protested hesitantly, “is an instrument of the Crown in the exact way that the Latin Bible is an instrument of the pope.”
A long silence coalesced, at last, into assent, an agreement with Anne’s assessment.
“We can bring poetry to the text,” Chaderton ventured, if a bit sadly. “What has already been done with Psalms and the Song of Solomon—it has a great beauty that was not there before.”
“We can correct the most grievous errors in the existing texts,” Dillingham sighed. “That must count for something.”
“The Word of God is inviolate,” Spaulding stewed, his face tightening and his eyes dark. “No matter how it is written on the pages of a book.”
“But the murders,” Anne protested.
“Those must be kept silent!” Spaulding pounded the table once more. “I have said so from the beginning. We must admit that Edward Lively has died so that all may know why I have taken charge. Let us say that he died of a quinsy, after four days of illness.”
“He has left eleven orphans,” Chaderton interjected. “Let us, one and all, see to their care. Each of us could contribute—”
“Stop this!” Anne shouted. “You cannot decide in a matter of seconds an issue for which men have died; for which Timon and my father risked their lives. You cannot merely acquiesce to this coward’s path without at least—”
“Coward’s path?” Spaulding demanded. “What would you have us do? The King has commanded.”
“But these beautiful books of Thomas and Philip and Mary,” she implored.
“They were expurgated for a reason,” Richardson said softly, “by men much closer than we in time and element to the person of our Lord. We would presume too much were we to seek to out-guess those immortals.”
Anne turned to her father. Her eyes wrote volumes in the air, begged a thousand questions.
Marbury, alas, looked down.
At that, Anne’s distress turned to rage. She shoved the chair away from her as she stood and raced for the door.
“Brother Timon must know of your decision at once,” she muttered. “He wil
l set a fire under this pile of petrified scholars!”
“Anne,” Marbury called, his eyes following her.
The men at the table immediately began to argue once more; the din of their voices rose, sounds of bully challenges that might more readily fill a crowded market street than a hall of learning.
Marbury ran after Anne.
Anne plunged through the wooden doorway and into the black night. Her ire burned her face. Her fists were tightly clenched.
Marbury had to race to catch up.
“Anne,” he begged, taking hold of her elbow.
“I will tell Timon this instant.”
“No,” Marbury corrected, his voice a granite wall. “You will not.”
She spun to face him. “Do you think you could prevent me?” Anne’s eyes were narrow and her voice was a long needle, a slender thorn.
Marbury drew in a monstrous breath. “He is gone.”
Anne was suddenly aware that the night made a net to hold her in place, forcing her to gaze into the infinite sky.
“Gone?” was all she could say.
“I have given him the means to secure passage aboard a ship that leaves London in the morning. He took poor Dibly’s signet ring and the King’s coach from our stables. I also forced him to take a large sum of money and a letter from me. I wrote it to certain true friends of mine who own a trade ship. In that coach, with that ring and my letter, he will be as safe as the King until he is aboard a ship.”
“What trade ship?” Anne stammered. “Surely you do not mean—”
“I will tell you all in the morning, but for now you must collect any documents he might have hidden under the stone at the foot of his desk. He told me to dispose of his box and pipe. He said it was the cause of his falling asleep and allowing a man to die. He is done with it.”
“No,” Anne sobbed.
“You must believe me when I tell you that all this is done to save his life,” Marbury said soothingly. “He is in mortal danger. I will explain the rest tomorrow. Suffice it to say that he is gone. He will not return.”
“This trade ship,” Anne whispered, “it is bound for—”
“You must never tell a soul where he has gone!” Marbury whispered back. “He would not be safe even there if the truth is known.”
“But it is a savage place,” she mourned, “filled with wild beasts and murderous half-men. No one should ever go there. God in heaven!”
“It is done, Anne.” Marbury suddenly realized that he was speaking to his daughter as if she were seven years old.
“Father,” she began.
“Shh.” Marbury sighed. He had a sudden longing for that time, which seemed so long passed, when she was a child. His eyes softened and the cold edges left his voice. “He is gone to America. You and I will shortly return to our smaller lives of peace and petty bickering here in Cambridge.”
Anne looked toward the stables, her eyes wet. “America. What in God’s name can save him now?”
Anne whispered a single prayer onto the wind. She bade that wind to find Brother Timon, wherever he might be, and to fill his senses with the certain knowledge that his student wished him farewell.
59
Just after dawn the next morning, in rose and amber light, London docks were bustling with business. Timon shivered in the salt wind, his back against a post. He had discarded his monk’s habit in Cambridge. A thin, white shirt did little to save him from the damp morning air. Years of wearing a black robe had robbed him of his natural, robust nature.
Time will repair that shortcoming, he thought.
The journey to London was a blur. A boy had come to the stables in Cambridge and harnessed the horses, but stable master Lankin had been the driver. Timon was too exhausted to wonder why. He had fallen asleep before the coach had left the courtyard. He had awakened beside the Thames in predawn light. Each baker, bookseller, or beggar there seemed to call to him as if they knew he would never again pass by.
At the end of the journey, on the outskirts of London near the open field of Finsbury, Timon had climbed out of the King’s coach.
“Good-bye, Mr. Lankin,” Timon had said, giving the man his hand.
“I’ve been studying how to say this all night,” Lankin had answered. “Those men at home in Cambridge? All they know is duty, and fear, and the little tempest that hangs on a disagreement no bigger than a thimble. Worst of all: the good they try to do is nearly always wrecked by the demon of self-preservation.”
Timon had done his best to wake up. “What are you saying, Mr. Lankin?”
“I think you understand,” he’d said, looking at the horses. “So God keep you. I have to go. Marbury has me on some fool’s errand, finding boys in the woods. I’ll not see you again.”
With that, Lankin had slapped the horses gently, and they’d taken him away.
Timon had then found his way down the Ratcliffe Highway to the north of the Wapping waterfront. Ratcliffe was a filthy street, infested with sotted sailors and wanton women.
The prostitutes were wide-awake, white hands outstretched, inviting. Timon was a rarity to them because he smiled gently and said, “No thank you.” One of the women actually sighed as he passed by.
Walking east along Wapping High Street, he had eventually found his way to the Prospect of Whitby. The sign over the door said proudly FOUNDED IN 1520.
Behind its pewter bar stood the wordless, ancient landlord. He clearly thought Timon a smuggler or a thief. There were, after all, several visible daggers at Timon’s waist. The old man’s eyes were steady; his hand was on a well-used club hidden behind the bar. His apron was nearly as stained as his teeth, and he sucked in a sick breath as Timon approached.
“Francis Marbury sent me,” Timon whispered, although he was alone in the bar with the landlord.
The landlord exhaled. He took a second. He cocked his head.
“Deacon Marbury further instructed me to tell you that Bridget Dryden bids you give me the item in question.” Timon’s eyes remained locked on the landlord’s.
Those were the words the landlord needed to hear. He handed over an open passage bill, signed by the proper authorities. The space where the name should have been was blank.
Timon could not help noticing that the landlord’s eyes had softened at the mention of Marbury’s deceased wife. He wondered what story lay behind that bit of tenderness.
Evoking a ghost to secure an escape, Timon thought to himself, seems a risky portent.
Still, Timon had given the man some money, taken the document, and left the place at once.
After that, Timon wove his way though swaggering crowds, all shuffling, swearing, jostling, jeering. The glut of men and women grew as the light in the east increased: bawds in feathered hats, young men with new beards, spitting. Every voice seemed to raise a noise, building an invisible Tower of Babel all the way to the roof of the dawning sky. Foot by foot, elbow by elbow, he came, at last, to the solitary post against which he leaned his back. He watched as his ship, the Concord, was loaded with supplies for the long voyage to America.
Only then did he take time to consider Lankin’s odd parting words. “The good they sometimes try to do is nearly always wrecked by the demon of self-preservation.”
Would the Cambridge translators ignore fifteen centuries of prevarication in favor of their immediate comfort? Surely not.
Timon was prevented from further introspection. A sailor, barely able to walk, crashed into him. A powdered prostitute was on his arm. Her hand was down the sailor’s pants. She smelled sweetly of French honeysuckle.
The sailor growled an incoherent insult in Timon’s direction. He shoved the woman away and steered in the general direction of the Concord. The woman was the one who had sighed at Timon’s passing earlier that same morning. She remembered him and smiled.
“Concord’s boarding.” Her dainty voice surprised Timon.
He glanced toward the ship. “So it is.”
“You going away on her, then?”
“I am.”
“Pity,” she said softly.
Timon smiled at her once more. “It is a fair morning,” he said with a deliberate abundance of manners, “and on another such day I might walk with you along the riverside, if only to see the swans gliding there. But today I am bound away.”
He reached in his pocket, produced a silver crown—a gift from Marbury—and held it out to her. “I would, however, like to leave a good impression.”
She stared at the coin as if it might bite her. “That’s ten weeks’ lodging for the likes of me.”
“I wish I could give you more.” He put the coin into her hand.
“But—,” she protested, her fist clutching tightly around the coin.
“All I ask is that you return that sailor’s purse to him before he gets aboard our ship,” Timon said softly. “I saw you take it from him as he pushed you away just now.”
“Oh.” She looked down. “You saw that, did you?”
“Yes, but that crown I gave you should more than make up for your loss.”
“It does, it does.” She looked Timon up and down. “You be a minister of the gospel, then? A priest in some ruffian disguise, is that you?”
“It was,” Timon whispered. “Will you give the sailor back his—”
“Johnny!” she sang out.
The sailor stopped in his tracks. He took a moment to find the direction from which the voice had come. He turned, doing his best to focus on the girl.
She held up his purse. “You dropped this in the street, dear.”
He patted his pants where his purse ought to have been, eyes popping. He looked around for a moment, then staggered back toward the girl.
“This what you want?” she whispered harshly to Timon.
“I will tell you a secret,” Timon said, watching the sailor slowly stumble their way. “A miracle has happened. I have been newly baptized, as surely as if John himself had dropped me in desert waters. Only I have been drowned in words. My old self died in black ink. My new self rose up from letters on a page. The oldest words in my religion have brought me to this newest of dawns. I have been changed by the syllables of the saints. Best of all: I remember every single line. I am, you see, the new and living Bible.”
The King James Conspiracy Page 30