At Lord Chesterfield’s signal the trumpets announced the beginning of the hunt. The grassy expanse became a seething staging ground for horses, hounds, and hunters. Well-bred mounts mirrored their masters’ nobility as they allowed preening touches from stable workers. Dogs barked and strained at their leashes as masters rubbed vinegar on the hounds’ nostrils to increase their scent. With great pomp Lord Chesterfield paraded his magnificent greyhounds. He had a full kennel of bloodhounds, but since this would be a sight hunt, he chose the greyhounds. Besides, the speed of his dogs would shame the slower bloodhounds of his guests. The hunters inspected their bottles to ensure they carried enough wine with them, checked their weapons, and gave one last kiss or witty remark to their ladies before embarking on the hunt.
To say the event was a hunt gives too much credit. Although many of the assembled were expert hunters and falconers, this particular event was a social event, and so the killing was staged. Once the trumpets sounded the hunters would storm the woods, which had been stocked with over four hundred deer, chasing and shooting anything resembling an animal. They would do this until another trumpet call would gather them to a staging area where a paling had been erected. The servants would flush the deer from the woods into a funnel of pales. The frightened animals would be packed together by the narrowing fence, and the nobles would kill them. This was a gracious host’s way of seeing to it that every guest went home with a kill.
“Drew, I want you to come with me.” The bishop pulled at Drew’s arm. The cleric was carrying a crossbow and some arrows. Drew smiled wryly. There was something about a churchman with hunting weapons that struck him as odd.
“Do you know anything about these things?” the bishop asked.
“The crossbow?”
The bishop was examining the weapon as if he didn’t know which end to point away from himself. In answer to the bishop’s question, Drew took the weapon and loaded it. Trumpets sounded. The bloodhounds were cast off, and Lord Chesterfield let slip his greyhounds. There was a thunder of hoofs as the party descended into the forest. Drew carefully handed the loaded bow back to the bishop.
“Have you ever shot a crossbow?” Drew asked.
“When I was younger…much younger.” The thought of younger days brought on by the feel of the crossbow seemed to fill the bishop with a youthful vigor. He took a deep breath and said, “You know, I feel good being out here. I just may get one of those deer today. Wouldn’t that be something if I could get one in the wild? I could mount its head in my library, in that space over the small desk next to the fireplace. That would be a good spot for it, don’t you think?”
Since coming to live at London House, Drew had seen Bishop Laud in a variety of moods, from depression brought on by intense anxiety to his present state of giddiness. Drew liked the bishop this way best.
“Let’s go get my deer!” The bishop started jauntily down the hillside toward the forest. “Where’s Elkins? He’s supposed to join us.”
“I’m sure we can get your deer without his help, Your Grace,” Drew offered.
The bishop swung around with a surprised look on his face.
“‘Your Grace’? Why so formal, Andrew?” An eyebrow raised as he caught on. “Ah, it’s Elkins, isn’t it? You don’t want him coming with us.” The bishop put his arm around Drew and spoke softly. “I share your feelings. He’s a dirty, disgusting creature, but he serves our purpose for the time.”
Scanning the area the bishop spotted his Devonshire informant near the edge of the forest. The groundskeeper had apparently caught up with Lord Chesterfield’s son, and now the person chasing had become the person chased. The boy was buzzing around the groundskeeper like a pesky bee, jumping at him, grabbing first an arm, then a leg. Elkins was trying to shoo him away.
“Elkins! Come here, I need you!” the bishop yelled.
The groundskeeper turned and nodded, lectured the boy with a stern finger, then proceeded toward the bishop. The boy was unimpressed. He attached himself to Elkins’ leg like a leech.
“Son, go away!” The bishop made a shooing motion with his hand. “Go on, we have business. Go on, I say.”
The boy released the groundskeeper. He stood, hands on hips, and sized up the bishop, as if debating whether this was a voice to be obeyed. The boy chose not to challenge the bishop, or maybe he just thought of something better to do, for he ran toward the woods and disappeared.
With his hunting party assembled, the bishop and the others entered Lord Chesterfield’s wooded park, going in the opposite direction from all the other hunters. This was for two reasons: First, the bishop had business to discuss with Elkins and didn’t want to be overheard; second, Elkins claimed to know a place where the deer fed. This fueled the bishop’s desire of getting a deer in the wild.
Drew lagged behind slightly. He was doubtful they would see a deer, let alone come close enough to shoot one. Elkins’ smell would frighten them all away.
As they stalked through the woods, the groundskeeper gave his Devonshire report to Bishop Laud in a loud whisper. There was a strong Puritan element in Devon, Elkins told him. Feelings and commitments ran deep, but so far there had been no outward actions he was aware of that could be prosecuted. He reported that although Lord Chesterfield was not sympathetic to the Puritan cause, he didn’t want to persecute them because they were industrious workers and good tenants. Their products, especially their bone lace, were of the highest quality and brought a handsome profit. Chesterfield didn’t want to do anything that might endanger this revenue.
Just that morning, Elkins continued, the local curate of Edenford, a man by the name of Christopher Matthews, delivered the yearly wool production report to Lord Chesterfield. Upon hearing the name of the curate, the bishop held up his hand for Elkins to stop. The bishop searched his memory for a moment, then bid the groundskeeper continue. Elkins said he overheard his master talking to the curate.
He quoted Lord Chesterfield as saying, “As long as you do your work and pay your rent and keep your beliefs to yourselves, you will be left alone.”
This last statement brought a loud “Humph!” from the bishop, loud enough to frighten a rabbit from under a bush. The animal darted in front of them, ran down the path a short way, then slipped into heavy brush.
“Oh no!” Elkins cried. His eyes were wide, and his mouth had a strange twist to it.
Drew couldn’t believe the man’s fear. What kind of groundskeeper is this to be frightened by a hare?
“The hare! It’s an evil omen!” Elkins cried.
“Nonsense!” said the bishop, continuing forward.
“If by chance by the way,” Elkins was quoting from some unknown source, “you should find a hare, partridge, or any beast that is fearful, living upon feeds or pasturage, it is an evil sign or presage that you shall have but evil pastime that day!”
“I say it again, superstitious nonsense!”
The bishop, with Drew right behind him, pressed on down the narrow path. The shaken groundskeeper reluctantly followed from a distance.
Their business concluded, Bishop Laud returned to his earlier giddy nature as he stalked through the forest with his crossbow, calling out to the deer in a singsong whisper.
It was a curious sight in Lord Chesterfield’s forest that morning: three would-be hunters crouched in a line as they sneaked up on the feeding grounds, an oversized bishop leading the way and carrying the only weapon, followed by a skinny would-be adventurer, with a filthy commoner trailing behind. It would be a miracle indeed if this unlikely hunting party even saw a deer.
“I never knew hunting was so exhilarating,” the bishop whispered back to them.
The groundskeeper held a dirt crusted finger to his lips, signaling quiet. Then, with the same finger, he jabbed the air, pointing just beyond a thick row of bushes. The deer’s feeding place. As quietly as his inexperienced bulk would allow, the bishop pushed past the bushes with the crossbow at the ready.
His disappointment was unmistak
able.
When Drew made his way into the small clearing, he saw a tiny brook but no deer. As if to vindicate himself, Elkins pointed out every evidence of their prey. He showed them the trees upon which the deer frayed their antlers; from the height of the marks on the trees he judged their height and said the marks indicated the deer’s antlers had a crowned top. Judging from one set of tracks he guessed one of the deer to be an adult buck; the heel marking was large and widely cleft.
But the bishop wasn’t interested; he was too disappointed at not finding something to shoot.
Suddenly, there was a rustle in the bushes to their right. The three hunters froze. Another rustle.
Drew’s heart was pounding as he watched the wide-eyed bishop raise the crossbow at the thick row of bushes. The bushes moved again, as if an animal was eating berries from them. The bishop took aim. It was definitely a larger animal, not a rabbit. The bishop steadied himself.
Elkins whispered to him, “Hold your breath before you shoot.”
The cleric drew a deep breath and held it. The bushes rustled again. Drew smiled; Bishop Laud would be telling people about this kill for years to come.
There was a click and whoosh as the bishop fired. The arrow slipped through the air and penetrated the bush with a thud. A second heavier thud indicated the bishop had hit his target. There was the sound of feet pawing helplessly at the ground, then silence.
“You got it!” Drew shouted.
“Excellent shot, Your Grace!” Elkins echoed.
The short, chubby bishop straightened himself to full height. In his mind Drew could already see the proud cleric relishing in the event before King Charles and their host. To have excelled in this manly sport would increase the bishop’s stature among all the men in the king’s court.
The bishop handed the crossbow to Drew and triumphantly proceeded behind the bushes that concealed his prey. He spread the bushes apart and then froze.
Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. The bishop’s shoulders slumped, and he made a whimpering sound.
“Bishop?”
No response. The bishop stood there, dead still.
The bushes were so thick, Drew had to steady himself on the bishop and lean around him to see what the cleric was staring at. Fear gripped his throat when he saw it.
Lord Chesterfield’s son!
The bishop’s arrow had pierced the boy’s left cheek and was protruding out the back of his head. His left hand still gripped the arrow’s shaft. He was trying to pull it out when he died.
“My God, forgive me!” Bishop Laud sank to his knees and wept.
Chapter 9
The note appeared on Drew’s bed pillow three nights after he returned to London from Devonshire. There was a single encrypted notation on it: (18/3/3–8).
Even before he translated it, the message made Drew uneasy. The handwriting was jagged and uncertain, uncharacteristic for the bishop who normally penned large, sweeping numbers and letters. But that wasn’t all that bothered Drew about the note. Never before had the bishop sent him a coded note while they were both at London House. There was no need. What prompted a secret note now? Why couldn’t the bishop tell him face-to-face?
Ever since the hunting accident Bishop Laud, the rock of England’s church, had been unstable. During the four day return trip to London he was silent and sullen. He ate nothing. Drew never saw him sleep. For the entire journey the bishop propped himself up in the corner of the carriage and stared out the window. He looked like a rag doll as the rocking motion of the carriage jostled him back and forth.
When they arrived at London House, the bishop marched up the steps to his room like a condemned prisoner going to his execution. A locked door shut him away from the rest of the world.
Several attempts were made to get the bishop to open his door.
He didn’t respond to the round cook’s sugary pleading. Nor did he respond to Timmins, who tried first the quiet tones of diplomacy, then the loud demands of authority. Drew added his voice of concern, all to no avail. For two days London had no bishop. It was as if he were dead. Then the note appeared on Drew’s pillow.
As far as Drew knew, this was the bishop’s first communication with anyone since the accident. He opened his Bible and found the passage. It was from the book of Job.
Drew scribbled the translation on the paper below the code: “Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, There is a man child conceived. Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it. Let darkness and the shadow of death stain it; let a cloud dwell upon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it.”
He read the message over and over, not knowing what to do.
The next morning there was no change. Drew sat in the bishop’s library after breakfast, with the note in his hand. He ached to talk to someone about it, someone who would know what to do.
“Ain’t ya got nothing better to do than sit around suckin’ your thumb?”
Drew looked up. Eliot was standing in the doorway. With jaunty cheerfulness Drew’s wild-haired friend flopped into the chair opposite him.
“How was the hunt in Devonshire? Get a kill?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly? What does that mean? Either you killed a deer or you didn’t.”
“I didn’t kill a deer.”
“Not surprised. I’ll bet you didn’t even try, did you?”
Drew shook his head.
“No, I didn’t think so. You’re not the killing type.”
Eliot vigorously scratched the top of his head, which only messed up his hair even more.
“Where’s the bishop?”
“In his room. I don’t think he’ll be available today.”
“He sick?”
“Not exactly. Just unavailable.”
“Unavailable? What’s that supposed to mean? I have a meeting with him this morning—just got back from Scarborough.” Eliot swung at the air, “Forget I said that—nobody’s supposed to know. But then I guess the bishop wouldn’t mind you knowing.”
Looking around to see if they were alone, Eliot Venner’s discomforting eyes opened wide with fiendish delight.
“There’s a preacher up there who’s gonna be sportin’ a new set of letters on his cheeks. Laud’s gonna love it—he’s been after this guy for years!”
Drew stared hard at his pockmarked friend. He desperately needed to talk to someone about the bishop. Could he talk to Eliot? He was hardly the sympathetic type, but then his devotion to the bishop was beyond question. And the bishop’s condition affected him too. Still Drew hesitated and he didn’t know why. That disturbed him.
Drew had stared at Eliot so long it made Eliot uncomfortable.
“Why are you looking at me that way?”
Drew searched for a way to begin.
“The bishop really trusts us, doesn’t he?”
Picking up on the somber tone of Drew’s voice, Eliot leaned forward. “Yeah, what of it?”
Drew paused. Something inside him was telling him this was wrong.
“Come on, give!” Eliot shouted. “Something’s going on with the bishop, isn’t there?” Eliot leaped to his feet with a sudden realization. “He’s not hurt, is he?”
“I don’t know,” Drew said.
“Again with ‘I don’t know’!” Eliot was getting angry. “Tell me what’s going on!”
Drew told Eliot all about the accidental killing and the cover-up that followed. As the bishop wept over the still form of Lord Chesterfield’s son, he had refused to be comforted. Nor could Drew pull him away from the boy. The arrow protruding from the boy’s skull seemed to disturb him especially. A couple of times the bishop reached for it, then recoiled. So Drew grabbed the arrow by its shaft and extracted it from the boy’s head. The task was harder and more messy than he’d thought it would be. He started to toss the arrow to one side when the bishop grabbed it. At first Drew feared the bishop might harm himself with
the arrow, but it seemed to calm him down. He clutched the instrument of the boy’s death to his chest and rocked back and forth.
Elkins was in no better shape than Bishop Laud. He stood there immobile, with his mouth gaping open, staring at the dead boy.
A trumpet sounded, the signal for everyone to gather at the paling.
Drew tried again to get the bishop on his feet. He offered to explain to Lord Chesterfield. At the mention of their host’s name, the bishop grew frantic. He grabbed Drew by the arm, squeezing it hard. Terror was in his eyes.
“No, no, he must not know!” the bishop cried. “No one must ever know!”
“But it was an accident!”
“No!” The bishop’s face was red and wet. He fell to his knees. With one hand still clutching the arrow, he began scooping handfuls of dirt onto the dead boy with the other.
It was then that Drew took charge. After several attempts, he managed to coax Elkins into helping him. Together, they pulled the bishop away from the body and leaned him against a tree a short distance away.
There was a large bush beside the stream between two giant oak trees. The limbs on the bush could be moved aside easily. Drew decided that was the best place to bury the boy; the freshly dug earth would be hidden underneath the limbs of the bush.
After scratching out a shallow grave using tree limbs for a shovel, Drew carried the boy and placed him in the hole along with the crossbow. He filled the grave and then asked the bishop if he wanted to say a prayer. The bishop turned away and said nothing.
Drew described to Eliot how he guided the bishop back to the Chesterfield manor just as the king was breaking up his deer to the cheers of the assembled party. The stag was lying on his back as the king approached him with a knife, the chief huntsman holding down the deer’s head with his knee. The bishop whimpered and hid his face against Drew’s chest as the king cut a slit along the brisket. The deer’s flesh was thick, an excellent cut of meat.
The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1) Page 12