“One of my men did. He was seated behind you in case he was needed. We had to protect you from yourself.”
“Not a very subtle way of doing it. Weren’t people a little suspicious?”
“Not at all. You see, he was arrested for attacking you. As they dragged him from the courtroom, he screamed something to the effect that he was one of the curate’s followers, that there were hundreds more like him who would willingly give their lives to free their leader, et cetera, et cetera. In truth, he’s a common highwayman I use occasionally for little jobs. He was taken to Fleet Street Prison where he was promptly released. It looked good and served our purpose. People are more convinced than ever that Christopher Matthews is a serious threat to England. So you see, my dear boy, your misguided attack of conscience did the curate no good.”
“What’s to stop me from telling the truth now?”
The bishop was genuinely hurt.
Andrew,” he said quietly, “I am the authority in England next to the king. God has ordained that Charles be king of England and that I serve as his spiritual adviser. Together we are England. Whatever we do is right because we do it for England and in the name of God.” He resumed feeding his pet as he added, “If you spoke out now, you would only embarrass yourself. You see, while you were unconscious, you became England’s most recent hero.”
Drew looked puzzled.
Bishop Laud rose and brushed the grass from his knees.
“Have you noticed the ring yet?”
Drew raised his hand and looked at the ruby ring.
“It’s the first of King Charles’ rewards for your efforts. Handsome, isn’t it? You see, the king feels England needs a hero right now. Someone who will take the people’s minds off his refusal to call parliament to order, the ship tax, and countless other petty controversies. Don’t you see? You’re the perfect answer! You’re young, handsome, and have dedicated your life to serving crown and country. You just returned from a dangerous mission in which you were almost killed. You uncovered one of England’s most notorious enemies. Then, you were almost killed again while testifying against the man in the Star Chamber! The king is quite impressed with you.”
Now the bishop was standing directly in front of him. He held Drew’s hand by the ends of his fingers, raising the ring closer to Drew’s face.
“This is a token! King Charles has arranged a reception in your honor to be held one week hence. He wants to reward you publicly as a friend of the crown. Andrew, this is everything you have ever dreamed of! You are Lancelot, and King Arthur wants to honor his best knight!”
The week passed without incident. Drew rarely saw the bishop, who was preoccupied with affairs of state. With London House all to himself, Drew agonized over his situation. To his dismay, the memories of Edenford dimmed with each passing day. Now that he was back in luxurious surroundings with comfortable bedding and rich food, he realized how much he had given up while at Edenford.
He couldn’t get Christopher Matthews out of his mind, but what could he do? Besides, the curate was guilty of writing illegal pamphlets. Legally, Matthews was wrong. How could Drew fault himself for upholding the law of the land?
And speaking of the law of the land, the king of England was giving a reception in his honor! Just like Grandpa! The admiral had Queen Elizabeth; Drew had King Charles.
Drew’s hands were cold from nervous anticipation as he dressed for his reception. He forced himself not to think of Christopher Matthews and Edenford and Nell.
Whitehall’s banqueting house sparkled with lights and fashion and merriment. London’s finest were in attendance—the powerful, the rich, the noble—all by special invitation of the king, all for one reason, to celebrate Drew Morgan, England’s young hero.
They stood and applauded when he entered the room, wearing the clothing of nobility and, by special permission, the cutlass that belonged to his famous grandfather.
They stood reverently when King Charles awarded him a medallion for courageous service. They laughed when they heard how he was dyed blue saving a boy’s life. They stood in line to shake his hand. Young boys looked up to him as if he were a god.
His parents, Lord and Lady Morgan, journeyed to London to join London’s elite in honoring their son, and they brought a jealous Philip with them. Lord Morgan sported a new suit of clothes and Lady Morgan wore a breathtaking diamond necklace purchased for the occasion. His parents gushed over him, telling everyone how they always knew he was destined for greatness. Drew saw genuine fear in their eyes as they looked at him, a silent plea not to spoil the illusion of a happy home they were creating. His success was their success, and if Drew knew his parents, they were sure to make the most of it.
Throughout the evening, Bishop William Laud stood near Drew, acting like a proud father.
Drew had never before met most of those who stood in line to shake his hand. There was one man, however, whom he knew. He had traveled a great distance to be there. Lord Chesterfield offered Drew his hand, but there was no smile to accompany it.
“It’s with mixed feelings I congratulate you, young man,” he said. “England’s good fortune is my devastation; with a single blow you have uncovered my son’s killer and deprived me of my town manager. I cannot replace the one, and it will be difficult to replace the other. Interested in the position?”
The real killer of Lord Chesterfield’s son stepped forward quickly, lest Drew be tempted to say something foolish. He grasped the lord by the hand and led him away.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere,” the bishop said, with a wooden smile. “Andrew is too valuable to the king and me. We could never let him go.”
Lord Chesterfield returned the bishop’s smile kind for kind.
“My dear bishop, there’s no need to protect your protégé. My offer was in jest.”
The bishop need not have been concerned. The thought of telling Lord Chesterfield the truth hadn’t occurred to Drew. His mind was elsewhere, in a village four days’ journey west. It wasn’t what Lord Chesterfield said that sent him there, but what he was wearing. A lace ruff. Lace cuffs. And an abundance of lace trim. Expertly crafted bone lace from Edenford, made by the skillful hands of two beautiful young women who lived on High Street. Who at this moment of Drew’s glory were in their sparse sitting room, mourning the absence of their father, who was shut away in the Tower of London.
The thoughts of Edenford and Jenny and Nell overwhelmed him—their beauty; their laughter; morning breakfast with Christopher Matthews at the head of the table, reading the Bible, praying for his daughters, then asking the same question he asked every day, What are we going to do for God today? The horseplay on the bowling green between the curate and his old friend, David Cooper, their good-natured joking, the solemn passion in their eyes as they met in secret, the displays of love shown the curate by the villagers for his selfless acts on their behalf.
The instant he saw Lord Chesterfield’s lace, these thoughts welled up inside of Drew like a thermal spring. In comparison to the depth of life lived by the humble people of Edenford, the lights of Whitehall, the jewels, the wealth, the accolades, all the pretense of London’s royalty were empty vessels.
There was nothing for him here. Nothing the king could bestow upon him could compare to the wealth of emotion he felt in one Sunday afternoon alone with Nell Matthews.
He knew what he had to do. Drew Morgan would become a lone crusader. A man with a mission.
Shivering in the darkness, he sat at water’s edge, fingering the sheath of his cutlass, waiting for the prison barge. The curate’s murder trial had gone as expected. The body of Lord Chesterfield’s son was found exactly where Laud said it would be, the crossbow with it. Together with the crossbow arrow and Ambrose Dudley’s eyewitness testimony (he described the late Shubal Elkins’ point of view as told to him by the bishop), there was little for the judges to decide.
They ruled that after Christopher Matthews endured the punishment as set forth by the Star Chamb
er, he would then be taken to Tower Hill where his head would be cut off. This too was an unusual form of punishment for a man of such low estate. Beheading was usually reserved for England’s elite prisoners; the normal form of punishment was hanging. But Bishop Laud’s passionate court arguments gave the case such widespread notoriety that the judges felt the circumstances warranted the more gruesome punishment.
Following sentencing at Westminster, the prisoner was moved to the tower by barge on the River Thames. This was the safer route, since surface streets were narrow and had too many blind corners to ensure a prisoner’s safe passage. Christopher Matthews had been safely transported to the tower two nights previous. Drew had watched discreetly from Upper Thames Street, noting the procedure and formulating an escape plan.
From the shadows of the bridge footing, Drew caught sight of the prison barge. It carried two guards and their hooded prisoner, a woman, if the rumor he heard was true. Drew scurried up the embankment to the street and ran as fast as he could along Upper Thames Street toward the tower. The street was deserted except for two drunks leaning on each other as they walked. They shouted at him as he ran by, yelling something about reckless running. To his right Drew caught an occasional glimpse of the barge’s progress between buildings and trees.
His heart pounded in his chest and his lungs burned. Ignoring the pain, he ran faster. Just before the street emptied onto the wharf, Drew left the road, sliding down a rutted embankment covered with wet, slippery leaves. He slid to the water’s edge. His chest heaving, he crouched low, looking for the barge. It was darker near the river’s edge, and now that he was at water level, the slight mist on the surface obscured his view. He heard oars slapping the water before the barge appeared in the mist, with its three silhouetted figures.
Drew removed his shoes, flinging them aside, and slipped his sheathed cutlass down the back of his shirt. As soundlessly as he could, he waded into the river and launched himself into the river’s current. He was well ahead of the barge’s progress.
He swam to the stone wall at the edge of the wharf, staying close to the wall to avoid being seen by anyone on the wharf. With deliberate speed he silently worked his way beneath the battery of four cannons positioned to salute incoming ships. Just beyond the cannons he stopped. There was an inset where the Queen’s Stair descended from the wharf to the water’s edge. He submerged until he was past the stone steps. He paused to locate the position of the barge—it was right where it should be. He had plenty of time.
Several feet beyond him, the stone wall took a sharp turn toward the castle. Drew followed it into a corner where the wall resumed its parallel course with the river. It was here he would temporarily lose sight of the barge. If the yeoman guards followed the same course as they did when transporting Matthews, they would keep distant from the wharf as long as possible. Then they would approach the tower’s water gate at a perpendicular angle. That would give him the time he needed. While he waited, he took deep breaths.
The sound of his heavy breathing echoed against the stones of the wall. Wiping water away from his eyes, he strained to focus on the center of the river. Nothing. I should be able to see it by now, Drew thought. He waited, but still no barge. His mind flashed the possibilities: Someone or something alerted them to my presence; someone else intercepted them; they turned back or altered their course—but for what reason?
Suddenly, an oar slapped the water, and the bow of the barge appeared from around the corner just a few feet from him. It was so close he could see the white and gray whiskers of the yeoman jailer.
He fought back a sudden rush of panic. Leaning as far back into the shadow as he could, he looked for alternatives. The plan was to track the barge as it approached the water gate that led under the wharf, through Traitor’s Gate, at the tower walls. He would swim under it just as it reached the gate, letting it carry him in. The barge’s altered course brought them dangerously close to him while it was still several yards from the gate. Drew’s only chance was to swim under the barge now, but it was too far; he couldn’t hold his breath that long.
Drew’s determination overrode his good sense. He took a deep breath, submerged, and swam toward the barge. The water was dark and murky, and he couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of his face. He swam forward. When he thought he’d gone far enough and still hadn’t found the boat, he looked toward the surface.
Splash!
An oar sliced into the water inches from his head. Drew ducked down as it swept passed him. With a strong kick he was under the barge, holding on to the edge as it pulled him toward the water gate of the Tower of London.
The barge entered the gate. Drew knew they had gone through because everything was darker now, pitch black actually, as the barge sailed beneath the wharf. The barge stopped. Drew’s lungs were bursting, but he didn’t dare surface yet. In the tunnel the slightest sound would give him away. He heard the muffled command of the yeoman guard. Almost time. He worked his way to the back of the boat, his lungs screaming for air. He wondered what it would feel like to gasp and, instead of air, feel nothing but liquid pour into his lungs. He heard the sound he was waiting for.
Traitor’s Gate creaked on its hinges. He could feel a swirling current as the gate moved through the water. He surfaced, hoping the movement of the gate would be enough to conceal any noise he might make. His face broke the water just inches away from the bulging backside of the paddling yeoman. Drew gasped silently for air, then submerged under the barge again. He watched for signs that the yeoman heard him. To his relief the barge moved forward again.
The prison barge entered a chamber just inside the walls of St. Thomas’s Tower. Still underwater, Drew heard muffled commands. The yeoman guard’s oar hung in the water at a sharp angle, and the back of the barge slid sideways. There was a jolt as it hit the bottom step of a stone stairway. Drew waited for his chance to surface.
The craft rocked back and forth a couple of times. Not yet. Then it dipped toward the steps. The prisoner was disembarking.
Now!
Drew surfaced on the far side of the barge.
“Watch your step, m’ lady,” he heard a yeoman say.
Drew submerged again; this time he swam down deep until he could feel the base of the stone steps. He followed the steps to the edge, then around a corner until he came to a wall. He continued along the wall until he reached the corner of the chamber. Cautiously he surfaced and gulped for needed air while he looked toward the steps. The guards were all business.
One of the barge yeomen joined a tower yeoman as they escorted the hooded prisoner up the steps. The other barge yeoman pushed off the steps and paddled the barge back the way it came. Traitor’s Gate was closed behind him. Drew had made it into the Tower of London.
For several minutes he hid in the shadows of the watery corner, listening for sounds of movement. The only sound he heard was the gentle lapping of the water against the stone steps.
He swam to the steps and climbed out of the water onto the first one. He pulled the cutlass from the back of his shirt and unsheathed it. He stood barefoot and dripping on the steps. Until now he hadn’t thought about the fact that he would leave a wet trail wherever he went. He laid the cutlass down. Removing his shirt and pants, he wrung them out, wiping as much water as he could from his shivering skin. Clothed again, he shuffled as he ascended the stairs to dry the bottom of his feet. He still dripped, but only slightly.
Emerging into the open from St. Thomas’s Tower, he glanced both directions for guards. An open expanse called the Water Lane separated St. Thomas’s Tower on the outer wall and the other tower structures. If anyone was on top of the Hall Tower, Bloody Tower, or the wall walk as he crossed the lane, they would see him. Drew inched his way along the wall toward the rectangular tower on the east end of St. Thomas’s where it jutted out into the lane. Opposite the round Hall Tower, it was the shortest distance across the lane. He scanned the walls and towers opposite him.
A guard on the wall
walk was going the opposite direction. Drew sprinted across the lane with one hand holding the cutlass and the other holding the sheath. He followed the circumference of the Hall Tower and ducked under the gate into the Bloody Tower.
Christopher Matthews was imprisoned in Bloody Tower.
“The same room as Sir Walter Raleigh,” the bishop had boasted, as if that were an honor.
Drew was determined that the room’s current resident would not meet the same fate as its former famous occupant. King James had Sir Walter Raleigh beheaded.
A narrow, circular staircase led upstairs. It looked like it was cut out of stone. There was room for only one person on the stairs. Drew stepped lightly on them, following their circular path, his cutlass leading the way.
The top emerged into a hallway with several heavy wooden doors. Is the curate behind one of them? How can I find out? It didn’t seem like a good idea to start knocking on doors. There had to be guards with keys around someplace. That’s why he brought the cutlass.
He started down the hallway when he heard footsteps behind him, not only footsteps but also the jangling sound of keys. Drew ran to the top of the stairway.
Just then a yeoman appeared; he was thickset with a black beard and moved slowly. His head was down as he sorted the keys, choosing the one he needed.
Drew smashed him in the face with the butt of the cutlass just as the guard looked up. The force of the blow sent the man’s head pounding against the stone wall. He fell in a heap to the floor, bleeding profusely from a huge gash on his forehead. There were no signs of life.
Drew grabbed the keys but had no idea which door to try.
He ran to the first door and tried several keys before one worked. He swung the door open gently.
A wide-eyed woman stood on the far side of the room, holding a bed sheet in front of her. The woman on the barge? Drew couldn’t tell.
The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1) Page 31