Drew was not convinced.
“Andrew, listen to me, I know whereof I speak. Evil comes in many forms, oftentimes pleasing. Why, it is even taught that Lucifer himself masquerades as an angel of light. So let’s not hear any more of this. In my mind, it is over and forgotten.”
He slapped his knees and stood.
“Come! Cook has a delectable meal prepared for us. Let’s celebrate our victory!”
The trial of Christopher Matthews was a macabre circus of ecclesiastical power with Bishop William Laud serving as keeper of the menagerie. The event was held in the notorious Star Chamber at the Palace of Westminster. It was a royal prerogative court, meaning that its authority rested on sovereign power and privilege. It was not bound by common law, and it did not depend on juries for either indictment or verdict. This allowed the king and his chief adviser, Bishop William Laud, to pursue their adversaries with a free hand.
The court was made up of the Privy Council, two chief justices, Laudian bishops, and, at his discretion, the king of England. When King James was alive, he attended Star Chamber trials regularly; he loved the debate and especially his royal privilege of announcing the verdict and passing sentence. His son, King Charles, did not share his father’s fascination with things judicial, and rarely did he attend the Star Chamber proceedings. So when rumor circulated around London that the king would be at the trial of the notorious Justin, people arrived as early as three o’clock on the morning of the trial for the privilege of standing to watch the event.
When Drew entered the packed chamber, he was immediately reminded how the court received its name; the ceiling was spangled with various representations of stars. Rows of chairs formed a U shape around the small arena, which was hardly bigger than a hallway. At the open end of the court were more rows of tables at which the various judges sat. Elevated above the tables and to one side was the king’s chair.
Drew and Ambrose Dudley were ushered to their seats directly opposite the judges by an undersheriff. In accordance with chamber proceedings, the bishop had filed a petition against Matthews, and depositions had been taken, including Drew’s. To the chagrin of the bishop, his favorite operative proved to be an uncooperative witness. Drew’s presence at the trial was unnecessary, but Bishop Laud requested he attend. The bishop intended not only to convince the court of Christopher Matthews’ crimes, but to convince Drew as well. Drew went hoping to be given the opportunity to speak a good word on behalf of the accused.
From his seat he could see the curate in profile already seated on the lowest level in the chair of the accused, but Matthews didn’t see him. As Drew scanned the crowd, he could see a curly black head bobbing in the back of the crowd that lined the walls of the courtroom. As tall as he was, Edenford’s cobbler had to stand on his toes to see what was happening in the pit below him. He must have waited half the night outside in the cold to get in, Drew thought.
At precisely 9:00 a.m. the judges filed in and took their places behind the tables. Behind them, Bishop Laud strode confidently to the center of the court. In hushed anticipation, the court spectators looked in the direction of the king’s chair. Their expectations were fulfilled when King Charles entered the court.
After a few required preliminaries, Laud addressed the judges. He spoke to them in the same way he would address an alumni reunion of old college friends. He began with a popular little poem that was currently circulating through the halls of Whitehall.
A Puritan is such a monstrous thing
That loves democracy and hates the king.
The bishop paused appropriately for the anticipated chuckles.
A Puritan is he whose heart is bent
To cross the king’s designs in parliament.
Another pause and more chuckles. The bishop was clearly enjoying his prosecuting role in this particular trial.
Where whilst the place of burgess he doth bear,
He thinks he owes but small allegiance there.
So that with wit and valor he doth try,
How the prerogative he may deny!
“Your Highness, my lords and colleagues, before you today is one of these monstrous Puritans, Christopher Matthews, curate of Edenford in Devonshire,”
Laud pointed to the accused.
“I contend he is the worst of the lot. I say this because of his cowardly actions. This man is accused of spreading seeds of sedition in the village of Edenford, using his position of trust as curate. Endowed with the authority of the Church of England, this man has poisoned the minds of its faithful members! Not only that, he has scattered his ruinous seed throughout all England with his writings, while hiding behind a cloak of anonymity!”
A reading of the charges against Matthews followed:
“One, Christopher Matthews did willfully violate the laws of the Church of England to rail off the communion table. Witnesses have testified that they saw the table used for common purposes, including its use as a judicial bench wherein it was repeatedly pounded by the high constable.
“Two, Christopher Matthews did willfully violate the order of the Church of England that all duly appointed ministers wear a ministerial surplice in the performance of their worship service duties.
“Three, Christopher Matthews did willfully violate the directive prohibiting the lectureship of ill-educated ministers. He failed to use the old homilies assembled for that very purpose, choosing instead to use extemporaneous preaching not once, but twice each Sunday to spread his seditious lies.
“Four, Christopher Matthews did willfully write, publish, and distribute illegal and seditious literature under the name of Justin. In these writings he encouraged Englishmen to follow his example of disobedience to the Church of England and its leaders and to the English monarchy. This treason is the greatest crime of all.”
At this point, the lord chancellor asked Christopher Matthews if he had anything to say in response to these charges.
Matthews rose with deliberate slowness. He looked at Laud and the assembled judges.
“The good doctor,” he nodded toward Laud as he addressed the judges, “saw fit to begin this hearing with a poem. I would respond with a prayer:
From plague, pestilence, and famine,
From bishops, priests, and deacons,
Good Lord, deliver us.”
Howls and hoots reverberated from the gallery. Color rose in the bishop’s face until he was beet red. The lord chancellor pounded the bench for quiet.
For over an hour a succession of prosecutors read depositions, called on witnesses, and hammered away at Matthews as he faced his accusers. During the entire time Matthews stood tall, his head held high as his attackers swarmed around him, sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs. First, one would attack, then another; when one got tired, a fresh prosecutor took his place, yelling, accusing, denouncing, charging, indicting the lonely curate.
Drew was reminded of the bearbaiting event he attended with Eliot. Christopher Matthews was the bear, dragged from his home, shackled in an arena, set upon by dogs to the amusement of the crowd. Like the bear he stood proudly, fending off the snarling mastiffs as they came at him, teeth bared, relentlessly tearing at him. And like the mastiffs at the bearbaiting, they weren’t going to let up until the bear was dead.
Edenford’s curate was visibly tired when the chief prosecutor rose to his feet. Christopher Matthews’ eyes were red, his mouth dry, and his face drawn as the relaxed Bishop Laud approached him.
“What degree have you taken at a university?” the bishop asked.
“I have never taken a degree,” Matthews replied.
“You have no degree at all?”
“None.”
“Have you ever attended a university?”
“I have not.”
“Not even a single class?”
“No.”
“You do not have a degree, you have not attended a university, not even one class. Then tell me, sir, by what right do you preach and teach the things you do? What makes you qualif
ied to discard the teachings of learned men—men who have devoted their lives to studies in our finest English universities—and substitute your own backwoods brand of theology?”
“It is only by the grace of God that I minister, sir.”
Laud fell into a fit of rage.
“You chattering fool! You think by that statement you can place yourself above all the godly men of England? Do you think that all learning is in your brain? That our universities stand for nothing? That ministers are best uneducated? That God cannot be found in England’s halls of learning? What arrogance! What blasphemy!”
The bishop didn’t give Matthews time to respond before asking him another question.
“How long have you been the curate in Edenford?”
“Upward of a dozen years.”
“Who has maintained you all these years?”
“Lord Chesterfield has graciously supplied my living.”
“And this is how you repay his graciousness? By tearing away at the foundation of his beloved country? By luring his villagers to revolt against him?”
“My sole intent was to meet the spiritual needs of the poor people of Edenford.”
“Poor people? You made them a company of seditious, factious bedlams. And you prattle about calling them poor people? They organize and finance a countrywide publishing ring that secretly prints and distributes antimonarchy literature?”
“The people of Edenford are a good people—”
“Spare your breath, you prating coxcomb! I’ll have no such fellows in my church who lead astray innocent people, using them for their own selfish ends.”
For over two hours Bishop William Laud paced and ranted in front of the accused. His voice was high and harsh. His temper, which broke out frequently, was outrageous, and he threatened with passion. It was as though blood would have gushed from his face; he shook as if haunted by secret venom.
As the bishop’s ranting slowed its pace, Drew stared in admiration at the man accused. Christopher Matthews was exhausted, yet unbowed. This angered his accuser even more.
“May God Almighty preserve England from devils such as you,” the bishop concluded. “And He will. Rest assured, He will. For there are still those who desire England’s glory, not her destruction. In the tradition of England they risk their lives to ensure that our land will forever be free from the clutches of scoundrels like you.”
Drew could see what was coming. No, he prayed, please no.
“When you are punished, it is not enough for men and women to point to you and warn their children against a life of infamy.”
No, no, no! Drew screamed over and over inside.
“They need someone they can point to and say, ‘My children, there is a man of courage, a man who loves God and his country. Follow his example!’”
No!
“They’ll point into the crowd, to the men who rescued England from the seditious lies of Edenford’s scoundrel curate. And they’ll say, ‘Son, make me proud of you. Grow up to be like him!’”
By now Bishop Laud’s short, fat finger was leveled at his two Edenford operatives.
“Grow up to be like Ambrose Dudley! Grow up to be like Drew Morgan! Crusaders of truth and justice who saved England from her greatest enemies.”
Everyone in the Star Chamber stared at Dudley and Drew. But there were only one set of eyes that mattered to Drew. Edenford’s curate turned his head toward Drew. Their eyes met. For Christopher Matthews, it was the final blow. His legs buckled as he crumbled into the chair. His head hung in defeat. The noble curate could take no more. There were too many attackers— snarling, snapping, biting—too many of them to fight. He was weary. Exhausted. The spectacle was over. There was no fight left in him.
Bishop Laud, the promoter and conductor of this Puritan baiting, his face red and dripping with sweat, smiled in victory as the chamber erupted in applause for the brave men who had hunted and captured this wild and dangerous enemy of England.
“We have a precedent, Lord Chancellor,” the bishop argued.
Christopher Matthews’ guilt had been established by the court. The judges had rendered their verdicts. The consensus— normally announced by the lord chancellor—was read by King Charles. The bishop was now arguing the penalty. Punishments varied, depending on the severity of the crime, but the Court of the Star Chamber never condemned anyone to death. The bishop sought to make Christopher Matthews the first exception.
“Publishing without license has always been considered a high offense,” he said, “deserving a proportionate punishment. Earlier monarchs set the standard. For example, Queen Elizabeth executed the Separatists Greenwood, Barrowe, and Penry for their secret printing. Can we do less and still uphold the law in England?”
It was soon evident that his plea was falling on deaf ears. To Drew’s relief neither the king nor the judges desired to use this case to set a standard for the Star Chamber. Already the common courts were furious with the intrusion of the maverick Star Chamber into their territory. The resulting decision was a political one. The king didn’t want to goad the out of session members of parliament needlessly.
So the sentence against Christopher Matthews was set and announced by the king. For his criminal activity he would be fined ten thousand pounds. It was a ridiculous sum, one he could never pay in his lifetime. So this part of his penalty would be shared by his village and heirs until paid in full. In addition, Matthews would be pilloried with one ear nailed to the pillory. His ear would be cut off when released. Also, his cheeks would be branded and his nose slit. In this way he would remain a living reminder of the punishment that awaited anyone who considered following his example.
Drew’s eyes jumped back and forth between the curate and the bishop as the sentence was read. The curate’s head was still bowed; he had hardly moved since he looked at Drew. But it was the bishop’s reaction that disturbed Drew even more. The rotund cleric sat calmly in his chair as the verdict was read. It was unlike him to take a setback this calmly.
Just as the court was about to adjourn, a messenger ran into the chamber, handed a long cloth covered bundle to the bishop, and whispered something in his ear. The bishop peeled back a layer of cloth and looked at the contents of the bundle. As he did, he grabbed his heart and fell back into his chair.
“Dr. Laud, is something the matter? Are you all right?” the lord chancellor asked.
“A moment, Lord Chancellor,” the bishop said breathlessly.
The room was deadly quiet as everyone waited on the bishop. His legs shook as he stood on unsteady feet.
“Most disturbing,” he said weakly. “This is horrible.”
“Do you have something that concerns this court?” the lord chancellor asked.
“Not directly, my lord,” said the bishop. “But it does have to do with Christopher Matthews.”
“We would like to hear it.”
“It’s a civil matter, sir.”
“Still, it won’t hurt us to hear what you have to say.”
“It has come to my attention,” the bishop said in tones so low that people leaned forward to hear him, “that not only is this man guilty of sedition, but he is also guilty of the murder of Lord Chesterfield’s son.”
The words sent shock waves throughout the room.
“It’s true!” the bishop shouted. “We have eyewitnesses! And,” the bishop unwrapped the bundle recently handed him, “we have the instrument of the boy’s death!”
He held an arrow over his head, the crossbow arrow Drew had extracted from the head of Lord Chesterfield’s son.
“It was a failed kidnap attempt! Matthews and his cohorts were attempting to extort money from the boy’s wealthy father. When the boy proved too much for them to handle, their leader, Christopher Matthews, shot him through the eye with this! The boy’s body lies in a shallow grave between two giant oak trees under the leaves of a bush. My informant can provide detailed directions as to where the sheriff will find the poor boy’s broken body!”
Drew jumped to his feet. The word “liar” was on his lips, but never made it any further. Just as he began to shout, there was an explosion of light and pain, then darkness.
Chapter 19
A bright light hammered his face. His head felt ready to explode. He turned to one side, then the other, but couldn’t avoid the light. Lifting a hand up, he shielded his eyes. That was better, but the pain was still there.
It took him several minutes before he discovered where he was, not because the place was unfamiliar to him, but because it hurt him to keep his eyes open longer than a few seconds at a time. He was on his bed at London House. It was the morning sunlight that was falling heavily on his face.
With a groan he sat up. It wasn’t a sure proposition that he would remain that way. His head was pounding and he felt dizzy and nauseous. He swallowed the pain as best he could and fought to hold on to his senses. Now that the sunlight was behind him, the greatest pain came from the back of his head. He reached there.
“OW!” he cried.
That was a mistake. Instant pain.
Lowering his hand, a flash of gold caught his eye. At almost that same moment he felt an unusual weight on his finger. It was an enormous gold ring with a large ruby stone setting.
Just beyond his window he could hear clipping in the bishop’s garden. He balanced himself on unsteady feet and went to the garden to get some answers.
“I’m disappointed in you, Andrew,” was the first thing the bishop said to him.
He had paused in his rosebush clipping and was kneeling on the lawn, feeding a blade of grass to his pet tortoise.
Drew blinked at him, trying to keep everything in focus.
“I’m sorry we had to injure you.”
“You did this?”
The bishop plucked another blade of grass and lowered it to the lipless mouth of the tortoise. His pet chomped the end of the blade appreciatively.
The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1) Page 30