The first meal with your prey is the most important—and the most dangerous, he remembered Eliot saying.
The word prey never set well with Drew; for him, it brought his work down to the level of animals. Drew preferred to think of himself as an undercover operative infiltrating a traitor’s camp.
Just then Jenny emerged from the kitchen, carrying pewter plates. She didn’t look at Drew directly, but the impish smile on her lips acknowledged his presence. Slender hands placed the pewter plates for each setting—one, two, three, four of them! A quick glance at Drew brought a flush to her cheeks. When she saw he was watching her, she made a hasty retreat to the kitchen.
I love it when my prey offers me dinner like sheep inviting a wolf to join them for a bite. Eliot’s had chortled when he said this. And, let me tell you, religious people love to eat. And when they eat, they talk. Put a plate of food in front of a Puritan, and he’ll tell you the secrets of his life! As they eat I imagine what their cheeks will look like when they’re branded!
“What do you hope to find?”
Christopher Matthews placed another bite of mutton in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully as he looked at Drew for a response.
A sparse meal of cold mutton, boiled corn, and wheat bread lay between the curate, his daughters, and their guest. Drew had just finished telling them the story he had fabricated for this assignment. Much of it was true, but embellishments had to be added in order to gain their sympathy.
For example, he told them that he was the son of a wealthy English country gentleman and that he was raised in an abusive home. That was true. But he added that his father was a drunkard and subject to fits of violence, when, in fact, Lord Morgan shied away from alcohol. Two glasses of wine were enough to make him pass out. Drew also lied about his grandfather, saying that he was a deeply religious man. The curate was pleased to hear that a public hero the likes of Admiral Amos Morgan had a deep reverence for God.
Finally, Drew lied about the fight that led him to flee from Morgan Hall. He claimed his father drove him out of the house at sword point when Drew started to take an active interest in religious matters. He concluded that he had wandered from town to town for nearly a year when he was arrested by Edenford’s watchman.
“What do I hope to find?” Drew echoed his host’s question. “I don’t understand.”
“In Plymouth. Why do you want to be a merchant sailor in Plymouth?”
Act like you’re confused and hurting, Eliot had tutored. They love that. In their minds it marks you as a prime target for salvation.
Drew shrugged his shoulders and rearranged the corn on his plate.
The curate smiled.
“Well, I know one thing for sure. God brought you here for a reason.”
Matthews sat at the head of the table, to Drew’s right. The girls sat opposite Drew, listening as the men dominated the conversation.
Nell sat straight and formal in reserved detachment.
Jenny stared at Drew outright, at least until he glanced at her, at which time she would lower her eyes.
“No matter how things work out for me,” Drew said, “I want you to know I’m grateful for your gracious hospitality.”
He couldn’t resist stealing a glance at Nell as he said it. Her expression remained unchanged.
“‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares,’” the curate quoted from the Bible.
Nell was incredulous.
“Father! Certainly you’re not suggesting Master Morgan is an angel!”
Matthews laughed his booming laugh.
With a twinkle in his eye he said, “One never knows!”
“I could believe it,” Jenny said softly, then wished she hadn’t. When everyone looked at her, she flushed and ran to the kitchen, empty plate in hand.
“Master Morgan,” Nell pushed her plate away and rested her folded arms on the table in front of her. “You say your grandfather was a religious man. In what ways?”
“Drew. Please call me Drew.”
Nell nodded and waited for a reply to her question.
“Well, for one thing he went to church a lot,” Drew offered.
Nell nodded her assent but waited for more.
“And, um, he was always praying.”
“Praying?”
“Sure! Grandpa prayed for everything—the queen, Morgan Hall, his ships, the defeat of Spain—”
Nell smiled. Something he said amused her, and it made him feel uncomfortable.
“And Grandpa read the Bible a lot too. He was always reading the Bible.”
Knowing how strongly the Puritans felt about the Bible, Drew felt he was on solid ground with this piece of information.
“Grandpa was big on the Bible. In fact, he gave me a Bible just before he died. I carry it with me wherever I go. That was one of the things that upset my father the most—when I started reading the Bible. But I told him that the Bible was God’s Word and no one could keep me from reading it. That’s when he drove me out of the house.”
Apparently the Bible gambit worked. Nell had sobered and was no longer amused with him.
“You have the Bible with you now?”
Drew nodded and motioned to his bag by the fireplace.
“What version is it?”
The bishop had said he could use his Bible version to his advantage. Now was his chance.
“Version?”
Drew pretended not to have the slightest idea what she was talking about.
“It’s an English version, of course,” he said.
The smugness reappeared on Nell’s lips. The look really intimidated him.
“There is more than one English version,” the curate offered. His tone was warm and fatherly. It was quite evident he didn’t share his daughter’s condescending smugness. “May I see your Bible?” he asked.
Drew retrieved his Bible and handed it to the curate. Matthews opened the cover and read the title page. He looked up at Nell and said, “King James.”
“It figures,” Nell replied sarcastically. “I’d better help Jenny with the dishes.”
She rose, grabbed a few dishes from the table and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Is there something wrong with my Bible?”
Drew pretended to be perplexed.
“You are our guest,” the curate replied, handing the Bible back to Drew. “My apologies if we have offended you.”
“No, please, I want to learn. It’s evident you don’t like my Bible, and I don’t know why. How is it different from your Bible?”
Matthews examined Drew’s face to see if he was sincere or merely being polite.
“Let’s sit in front of the fire,” he said.
While Drew pulled his chair over to the fireplace, Matthews went upstairs and returned carrying another Bible. He eased himself into the high-backed rocker.
“This is my Bible.”
He handed it to Drew.
“It was my father’s Bible. He was a cobbler in Exeter. Like your grandfather, a very devout man.”
Drew flipped the pages.
“What makes this Bible different from mine?”
“This is the Geneva Bible. It was translated in a time of great persecution, during the reign of Mary Tudor. In those days many godly men fled to the Continent, Geneva specifically. This version of the Bible was published by those exiled men with one thing in mind—to meet the spiritual needs of men and women who refused to be intimidated by an earthly crown.”
“And mine is not a Geneva Bible?”
Matthews opened Drew’s Bible and turned to the title page. He pointed to the words. Drew read aloud,
THE HOLY BIBLE
Conteyning the Old Testament, and the New:
Newly Translated out of the Originall Tongues:
and with the former Translations
diligently compared and revised,
by his Majesties speciall Commandement.
Appointed to be read in Churches
.
IMPRINTED at London by Robert Barker,
Printer to the Kings most Excellent Majestie
Anno Dom. 1611
Cum Privilegio.
“Your Bible is the result of the Hampton Court Conference,” Matthews added. “Have you heard of it?”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“In 1603 when Queen Elizabeth died and James of Scotland was crowned king, he was presented a petition of Puritan grievances. It was called the Millenary Petition, because it had 1,000 signatures. My father was one of the signers. I was just thirteen at the time. I remember the excitement of the people as they passed in and out of my father’s shop. ‘Now we will have a king who agrees with our doctrine,’ they said. It was widely believed that the new king would help us shed the last traces of Catholicism and establish a completely Bible-based church. It seemed as if God had answered our prayers.”
The last of the dishes rattled behind Drew as Jenny removed them from the table. Nell slipped behind the two men, hurrying up the stairs.
“By order of the new king the Hampton Court Conference was held the next year. With much anticipation, we sent our best Puritan leaders. The conference proved to be a disaster for us. When our representatives brought up the issue of reviving the preaching ministry in the church, the king flared up. He said that if ministers were allowed to deviate from the Book of Common Prayer, then every Jack and Tom, Will and Dick would be given opportunity to censure the king and his council at their pleasure. Turning to the Church of England bishops, he said that if the Puritans ever assumed their authority, the king would lose his supremacy. He told our representatives that he would make us conform or harry us out of the land—or worse.”
Matthews reached over and patted Drew’s Bible.
“This translation came as a result of that conference.”
The curate straightened in his chair and, taking the Bible from Drew, turned a few pages.
“The king had warnings printed against us in the preface,” he said, as he scanned the print. Finding the section he was looking for, he continued, “The translators expected to be ‘maligned by self-conceited Brethren, who run their own ways, and give liking to nothing but what is framed by themselves, and hammered on their own anvil.’ We are the ‘self-conceited Brethren’ to whom they refer. And here, ‘Lastly, we have on the one side avoided the scrupulosity of the Puritans, who leave the old ecclesiastical words, and betake them to other, as when they put “washing” for “baptism,” and “congregation” instead of “Church.” But we desire that the Scripture may speak like itself, as in the language of Canaan, that it may be understood even of the very vulgar.’”
Matthews closed the book.
“They were right in thinking we would not openly embrace their new translation when we already had a translation which came, not as a result of a conference of hate, but from godly men whose only wish was to serve God in peace.”
“Poppa! You’re boring Master Morgan!”
Jenny stood in the doorway of the kitchen, wiping her hands with a towel.
“No!” Drew objected. “I’ve learned a great deal.”
“Are you and Nell finished with the dishes?” Matthews asked.
“Yes, Poppa.”
“Then it’s time you get to your journals.”
“Nell’s already upstairs,” Jenny offered.
Matthews nodded. “Then you had best join her. Say goodnight to our guest.”
Jenny smiled shyly. “Goodnight, Master Morgan.”
“Drew, please call me Drew.”
“Goodnight, Drew.” She giggled and ran upstairs.
“Can I get you anything before we retire?” Matthews asked.
“If you don’t mind, I have one more question. Are you saying that my version of the Bible is not a good one?”
Matthews shrugged his shoulders.
“I really can’t say. I’ve never read it. In fact, yours is the first one I’ve actually held. Everything I’ve told you I’ve learned from others.”
He leaned forward with clasped hands, resting his forearms on his knees.
“I can’t bring myself to read a translation that bears the name of a man for whom I have no respect.”
Drew had to stifle his reaction. Matthews’ open antagonism against King Charles’ father was foolhardy. Talking like this about a king of England, even a dead one, could get a man in serious trouble if the wrong person heard it. And for Christopher Matthews, Drew was definitely the wrong person. Drew attempted to get more.
“What do you mean?” he said.
Matthews hesitated. Had he sensed Drew’s deception?
“King James may have been a learned man in matters of state and religion, but he was immoral, and for that he will be judged.”
“Immoral?”
“Surely you’ve heard of his indiscretions. It’s common knowledge that pimps and procuresses lived by the vices of his court, ranging from court laundresses ready to earn sixpence in a dark corner to highly paid courtesans. I’ve heard the king himself preferred men to women in this regard. And when it came to his family, his actions were abominable. When Prince Henry suffered fits of fever and diarrhea, the king abandoned him and fled to Theobalds, leaving the young prince to die alone. I cannot read a Bible that bears the name of such a man.”
In truth, this was not news to Drew. In fact, Matthews’ description of the court of King James was mild compared to the stories Drew overheard from his father. Even so, Drew spotted a flaw in the curate’s logic and decided to press his advantage.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that you’re responding to this Bible as if King James himself wrote it. He commissioned it, true, but still it’s a translation of God’s Word, isn’t it?”
A surprised look spread across the curate’s face followed by a slow smile. He added to Drew’s observation, “And hasn’t God always used imperfect men to transmit His perfect Word? An interesting thought, Master Morgan.”
Drew lay in front of the dying fire. With only two bedrooms upstairs, he was bedded down on the rug in front of the fireplace. For a long while a light shown from the upstairs landing as someone worked into the night. Drew could hear an occasional shuffle of pages and the movement of a chair. Then the light went out.
Before retiring, Drew searched his Bible for his first message to Bishop Laud from Edenford. He scratched it on a piece of paper and hid it in his coat pocket. It read: (9/24/4/20–40) (41/3/18/2). “I will deliver thine enemy into thine hand, that thou mayest do to him as it shall seem good unto thee. Andrew.”
Drew turned over and slept contentedly.
Chapter 11
Three days separated Drew from his trial. Plenty of time to gather sufficient evidence and flee Edenford before being brought up on charges before the high constable.
In their first encounter Christopher Matthews had revealed a fatal weakness—he had an openness about him that would get him arrested. The curate promised to be a veritable fountain of self-incriminating evidence. Still, Drew cautioned himself to be patient. This case was special to the bishop. Even so, given three more days before the trial, Drew felt confident he would have enough evidence to hang the man before Market Day.
Small villages like Edenford didn’t settle legal matters on their own. They depended on local watchmen like Cyrus Furman and civil servants like Ambrose Dudley to detain lawbreakers until a duly authorized official could hear the complaint and render a decision. For most villages this was done once a month by the high constable, or constable of a hundred, as he was sometimes called. The acting constable dispersed legal judgments on behalf of the justice of the peace for a designated territory. He was usually a gentleman, but yeomen could be appointed as petty constables if there were no qualified or interested gentlemen in the district. However, Edenford had a high constable, a gentleman from Exeter by the name of David Hoffman.
A sober fellow, Hoffman was nearly as wide as he was tall. From the age of eleven, the only growing he had done wa
s in circumference. A short man, he spared no expense on food and spent very little on clothes. Consequently, he looked like an overstuffed sack of grain. His arms and legs extended well past the ends of his frayed and threadbare coat sleeves and pant legs, and his shirt bulged open between every button and ribbon of his doublet.
An only child and never married, David Hoffman’s great love in life was food. The Matthews family had witnessed the high constable’s obsession with eating eleven years previous, on the day Christopher was appointed curate of Edenford. The Matthews had invited Hoffman to enjoy the hospitality of their home as they celebrated the appointment. Nell was just seven years old at the time. What she saw that day had a traumatic effect on her.
From the moment the high constable entered the house until the moment he waddled out, he did little but eat and drink. To the amazement of all, the man was an ambidextrous eater; both hands moved in concert, lifting food to his face. Nell remembered how for lack of air he periodically would be forced to pause; his head would fall backward, and he would gasp like a fish. The longer he ate, the redder his face turned, until sweat poured down his temples and dripped from the end of his cleanly shaved chin, staining the top shelf of his enormous belly.
For weeks afterward Nell had nightmares. She dreamed that the high constable had burst all over their living room rug.
The high constable’s gross eating habits aside, when it came to dispensing justice, Edenford could have had worse. David Hoffman knew the major laws and most of the minor ones, and justice was usually served. This was due to the fact that he loved his work. True, the office could be burdensome at times: the constable had to arrest rioters, felons, or vagabonds and supervise inns. He was also called upon to present those he arrested in court, and at harvest time he might be called upon to find laborers.
Still, Hoffman labored to maintain a good record in all these matters for several reasons. First, he enjoyed the respect that came with the office; also, it provided him frequent opportunities to be someone’s dinner guest and thus pay homage to his first love—food.
The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1) Page 15