“Want to beat it out of me? Come on! Try it! I bet you couldn’t even land a blow.”
When Drew didn’t respond, Eliot moved toward him, punching Drew’s shoulder, slapping his face.
Drew winced, not so much from the blows, but from the pain on his burned flesh.
“Come on! Try an’ hit me. Use the cane if you want!” Eliot taunted.
Drew shook his head. “Stop it, Eliot! What else do you have?”
When he saw Drew wasn’t going to respond, Eliot lowered his fists. Facing Drew at all times, he retrieved the paper from the water’s edge. One corner was wet.
“There was a raid at Peterborough,” he said. “They was printin’ Justin pamphlets. We found some of these. Pages of Justin’s writing, in his own hand. The bishop wants you to match the writin’ on this page with this curate’s writin’.”
“Christopher Matthews?”
“That’s him. The bishop thinks this guy might be Justin. Maybe not. I took pages to a couple of other lads too. Same instructions.”
Drew took the paper. “Tell the bishop I’ll compare the writing.”
“Tell him yourself!” Eliot spit. “In one of those number love letters!”
Drew tucked the letter and the writing sample in his shirt. He wanted to get out of there as quickly as he could. Eliot had always been strange, but Drew had never seen him this wild.
“I’ve got to get back,” he said.
“What’s the matter? Blue boy doesn’t want to be seen with me?”
Drew planted the tip of his walking stick into the hillside and started up the slope.
“I’m not good enough for you? You can make love to a bishop, but not to me?” Eliot grabbed Drew’s injured arm.
Drew stifled a yell and pushed him away.
“Hey! Does blue hurt?”
Eliot came right back and began dancing around Drew, punching and squeezing every blue area he saw. Each contact brought fresh pain.
Drew tried to ward off the punches, but he had only one arm to defend himself. He took a wild swing with the stick, missing Eliot completely. The look in Eliot’s eyes showed he was clearly enjoying Drew’s pain.
Another swing and miss.
“You are slow, blue boy!”
Eliot landed a couple of blows to prove his point.
Drew was getting angry. He tried again to go up the slope, but Eliot jumped in his path. He tried to step around him, and Eliot jumped in front of him.
“Eliot, I’m tired of your game. Let me pass.”
“Try and get past me!” Eliot taunted. He stood on higher ground, hands on hips.
Drew looked around him. The river was too wide to attempt crossing it; immediately downstream the footing of the bridge blocked his way. The only way out of the river gorge was to climb the slope, the one blocked by Eliot Venner.
Drew moved straight at Eliot. Eliot pushed him back. A second attempt yielded the same results. On the third try, Drew lowered his left shoulder and tried to fake one way and slip past Eliot the other way. The fake worked, but Drew’s burned foot slipped on some leaves, and he fell with a thump. Eliot put a foot on Drew’s back and let out an animal cry of victory.
Eliot’s other foot was planted next to Drew’s good arm. He saw his chance. Releasing the walking stick, Drew seized Eliot’s foot and yanked with all his might, sending the half-naked man plummeting to the ground on his backside. Drew tried to scramble to his feet; they failed him, and he went sliding down the slope.
Now Eliot was up, his eyes filled with fury and his dirt covered cheeks puffing in and out with each exaggerated breath. Letting out a scream, he charged toward Drew who was still struggling to get up.
With hands held high, fingers extended like claws, Eliot charged. Drew did the only thing he could do. Having regained his balance, he stood in a crouched position, ready to take on his attacker. Eliot was hurtling straight toward him. At the last second, Drew dropped to the ground on his good shoulder and rolled into Eliot’s legs. The charging Eliot flew over him, into the river.
Before Eliot could get out, Drew stood over him with a large boulder raised unsteadily over his head; his burned arm was stiff and weak, and did little more than steady the boulder.
“That’s enough, Eliot!” Drew shouted.
Eliot spit water out of his mouth and shook his head.
“I was only havin’ a little fun.”
“Go have fun somewhere else.”
“I thought you were supposed to be some kinda knight or something.” Eliot shook his head. “Knights are supposed to like fighting. Some knight you are!”
With the boulder still aimed at him, Eliot climbed out of the river, grabbed his pouch, and headed upstream.
Drew watched him go. He wasn’t about to lower the rock or turn his back until he knew Eliot was gone. Just then he remembered something.
“Eliot!” he called in a forced whisper. “Eliot!” He had to call several times before Eliot turned around.
“Shubal Elkins,” Drew shouted. “Lord Chesterfield’s groundskeeper. Did you kill him?”
Eliot turned and walked upstream.
“Did you kill him?” Drew called after him.
Eliot Venner dropped his pouch. He raised both arms skyward and danced wildly in circles, around and around, howling like a wolf.
A hurt, exhausted Drew Morgan limped across the bridge into Edenford. He couldn’t get over how much Eliot had changed. He’d always been crazy, but this Eliot was unstable and dangerous. Drew made a mental note to tell the bishop of his fight with Eliot tonight. Then he returned to the task at hand, the Justin manuscript. He always knew there was a possibility that Christopher Matthews was Justin, but Nell told him her father wasn’t good at writing. Still, he’d have to check. That would mean finding a time he could sneak into the curate’s study. He just hoped that it wasn’t true.
“Master Morgan?”
Drew jumped at the unexpected voice. A tall, thin figure emerged from the tree shadows in front of the church. The scarecrow. Ambrose Dudley.
“A little late for a stroll, don’t you think?” the scarecrow asked.
Chapter 16
Drew was shaking. The bizarre evening had unnerved him. His toes were caked with mud and nearly frozen; his foot pounded with pain, which gave him an intense headache; his bandaged right arm was stiff, and he could barely move his fingers. He ached all over and wanted nothing more than to crumble onto his bedding in front of the fireplace.
He didn’t want to think about his fight with Eliot. It disturbed him that his trainer turned on him like that.
Why did Eliot want to hurt him?
Thinking of weird people, there was also Ambrose Dudley. Drew wasn’t convinced the scrivener accepted his explanation of a late night walk and accidentally falling down the river embankment. But then why shouldn’t Dudley believe him? He was out taking a stroll too!
Just then a frightening realization made Drew shiver.
It was Dudley who had delivered Eliot’s uncoded note! Had he read it?
It would certainly explain his presence. Drew fought to remember if the note showed signs of having been opened. He couldn’t remember any, but then he hadn’t thought to check. It didn’t matter. The fact was, Dudley was out there.
Had he overheard Drew’s conversation with Eliot? He had to have heard something. At least, the howling.
Drew nervously glanced behind him. The street was empty. The shadows were deep, though, deep enough to hide a skinny scrivener. Drew tried to walk casually, as casually as a blue man with frozen toes can walk. He took deep breaths to calm himself.
All right. Assume Dudley read the note and overheard my conversation with Eliot. Does that change anything? No. My plan can still work. To be safe, though, I will need to work quickly and get out of Edenford at the earliest possible moment.
Opening the Matthews’ front door as quietly as he could, he stepped inside the dark room. A snoring sound came from the floor. Puzzled, Drew waited a mome
nt for his eyes to adjust. After several blinks, the interior of the room came into view. The curate was asleep on the floor; Drew had assumed he would return to sleeping on the floor beginning tonight.
He stepped past the slumbering curate toward the staircase. A light at the top of the stairs guided his way up. The light came from the study where Nell was seated in her father’s chair, bent over his desk. Drew couldn’t see her face or what she was doing, and she couldn’t see him. Considering his failure to explain his muddy appearance once tonight already, he decided to slip past the door and into his room.
His next step landed on a loose board that squealed under his weight.
“Oh!” Nell started, her left hand slapping her chest. “Drew Morgan! You scared me beyond Land’s End!”
It was more than an expression. The horror on her face was real. Whoever she thought Drew was, it terrified her.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. You were busy and I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Nell turned some papers over on the desk.
“Did you have—”
She closed a ledger or journal of some sort before looking up.
“—a nice … Drew Morgan! What in heaven’s name happened to you? You look like you’ve been rolling in the mud! Have you been fighting?”
The sheepish look worked well with her moments before, so he stuck with it.
“Well, yes and no. I haven’t been fighting, but I have sort of been rolling in the mud. I guess I’m just naturally clumsy. I was walking along the river and fell down the bank.”
“You look a mess. Not real smart, Master Morgan. You could have fallen in and drowned!”
He shrugged.
“Maybe. It’s just that I like the river at night, the way the moon reflects on it. It’s peaceful, and I needed a place to think.”
He glanced at the papers she was hiding on the desk.
“You’re up late, aren’t you?”
“Well … yes,” she followed his glance. Satisfied that everything was covered up, she looked up again. “I do my best thinking at night. And journal writing.”
She tapped the cover of the book she had closed.
An uneasy silence hung between them. Nell fingered the edge of a piece of paper with one hand and adjusted her white cotton nightgown upward with the other. Drew wiggled his bandaged, mud crusted blue toes.
“I guess I’ll turn in,” he said.
“Me too.”
Drew went to his room, lit a candle, and closed the door.
Holding Bishop Laud’s note so it faced the candle’s flame, he scanned the neatly printed numbers: (41/3/18/2) (40/15/17/1–2) (10/2/21/6–16) (23/13/6/3–11) (18/6/8) (10/12/23/25–27) (42/1/23/8).
The first word was easy. His name. Huddled near the candle, he used his Bible to decode the rest of the message.
Do not turn thee aside to thy right hand or to thy left. For the day of the LORD is at hand. Oh that I might have my request; and that God would grant me the thing that I long for! Return to me soon.
Settling back in bed, resting his head on his good hand, Drew analyzed the message. It contained nothing new—hold your course, time is short, come home soon. There was, of course, the standard affectionate remark, which made him think of what Eliot said … the bishop’s lover. Eliot didn’t really think that, did he? Drew shuddered at the thought and dismissed it.
Sitting up, he reached for the page of Justin’s manuscript. It was crumpled, and the lower left-hand corner was torn off. Drew was confident it was in better condition when Eliot first received it. He smoothed out the wrinkles before studying it. The penmanship was careless and hurried, as if the author couldn’t get his thoughts on paper fast enough. Then there were the letters themselves. The capital T began with a large loop that swooped across the top of the stem. The lower loops on both the g and y were pointed at the ends, and the loops were so closed, so narrow, they were hardly loops at all. Drew hadn’t seen enough of the curate’s handwriting to tell just by looking at the manuscript if this was his. He would have to compare it with another writing sample. In the study he could probably find a letter or sermon notes.
Drew laughed at himself as he looked at the paper again. For the first time, words formed on the page. He had been so intent on analyzing the handwriting that he’d ignored the content of the page. It was the ideas behind the words that were throwing all England into turmoil. He smoothed the manuscript fragment again and began to read:
leaders of our government follow the Lord? Should we, like them, forsake God too?
Heaven forbid!
And what should be our response if, in the name of the Lord, they move against us with the laws of England?
Should we return hate for hate?
Should our response to evil be evil?
The Prophet Micah answers our questions. “He hath showed thee, O man, what is good, and what the Lord requireth of thee: surely to do justly, and to love mercy, and to humble thyself, to walk with thy God,” Micah chapter 6, verse 8.
Regardless of what evil men do to us, God’s requirements of us remain unchanged.
Will we forsake justice simply because we are treated unjustly?
Will we abandon mercy because others are unmerciful?
Will we refuse to humble ourselves before God to follow in the footsteps of evil men? Footsteps that lead to destruction?
“Alas!” Englishmen cry. “Unless we destroy the evil powers among us, surely they will destroy us!”
My response is, “Surely they will not!”
If there is one message in the Bible that rings clear and true, it is this: Evil men will ultimately fail; godly men will ultimately prevail.
Can you not see the truth in this?
If it seem unclear to you, use your eyes of faith and God will make it plain. The Ancients understood this truth. Though encompassed by evil men, they chose a life of faith.
By faith Abel offered a better sacrifice than Cain.
By faith Enoch pleased God.
By faith Noah condemned the world and became the heir of righteousness.
By faith Abraham obeyed God even though he did not know where he was going.
These men did not receive the things promised.
From this point to the end of the page, words were missing, lost with the torn corner of the paper.
m from a distance. And they admitted they were
rims
on the earth.
rd us any less if we are as faithful as
d not be dictated by our enemies,
in the living God who will
Drew set the manuscript on the table and snuffed out the candle. He doubted seriously that Christopher Matthews was the notorious pamphleteer Justin. But he knew one thing about the curate and the unknown writer—the two men were cut from the same cloth.
A scream awakened him. Bolting upright, Drew’s body jumped into action while his mind fumbled for details. It was a woman’s scream. Now there was another sound. Laughter? No, not laughter. Sobbing. It was sobbing.
He jumped out of bed. Surrounded by darkness and still somewhat disoriented, he felt his way toward the door. His arm hit something.
Crash!
The candlestick. He could hear it rolling on the wooden floor. Shuffling his feet, he kicked it aside. He reached for the door and felt the latch.
Fully awake now, Drew stood in the hallway, straining to hear more sounds that would give him direction. A sobbing came from Nell and Jenny’s room. He stepped toward the door. Now he heard hushing sounds and a soothing voice whispering words of comfort.
“Just a dream,” the voice said. “It’s all right now. It was just a dream.”
The voice was Jenny’s.
By Sunday morning Drew was able to squeeze his blue toes into a shoe. It was painful and he walked with a limp, but it suited his purpose. He could endure the pain for a day.
Both Nell and Jenny were unusually somber as Drew walked with them to
the church service. Drew concluded they were feeling the effects of Nell’s nightmare. As was his custom, the curate had gone ahead to open the church building. The solemn trio ran into the Coopers at the town well. Little Thomas, still blue from head to toe, was carried to church in his father’s arms as a thank offering to a merciful God. The boy was stiff and his eyes were barely open. He began crying halfway to the church from pain but settled down once he was inside.
Since the disaster in Norwich when the Reverend Laslett publicly unmasked him in the Sunday morning service, Drew was cautious whenever he entered a church building. He always took a quick inventory of transgressions. If things were suddenly put right, he was in danger. The altar was not in the prescribed place, nor was it railed off. Good. The curate was standing in front. He was not wearing a surplice. Good. The litany began strictly according to the approved order of service. The people listened when they were supposed to listen, stood when they were supposed to stand, bowed and prayed when they were supposed to, all according to the dictates of the English Church. No cause for alarm yet. Then Matthews stood to preach. Would he read an approved sermon, or would he preach his own? The curate opened a book. It was his Bible. Good. When he spoke, he preached from notes. It was his own sermon, not an approved one. Good. Drew relaxed. There were no indications they were on to him.
For his sermon Matthews had chosen a Scripture passage from Deuteronomy that recorded Moses’ final instructions to the people of Israel as they entered the Promised Land. Moses would not be joining them. For reasons that were unclear to Drew, this was the way God wanted it.
Drawing from the Scripture passage, the curate formulated three admonitions for the townspeople of Edenford:
First, set your hearts on God’s Word, he told them. For God’s Word is a sure and constant guide for your life’s journey. Second, command your children to observe God’s ways. A nation is never more than one generation away from apostasy, he warned. Third, observing God’s commands is not a vain thing; it is your life. He explained that this third admonition was the basis for true belief.
The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1) Page 26