“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” he said sheepishly.
He tried the next door.
The last key he tried opened it.
The room was dark.
He called the curate’s name several times.
No one answered.
There’s got to be a better way than this, Drew said to himself.
He looked down the hallway at the yeoman who hadn’t moved. Drew moved to the next door.
It swung open.
Christopher Matthews sat behind a wooden desk in a high-backed wooden chair. An open Bible lay before him.
Drew stepped into the room and closed the door.
“Drew!”
The curate rose. He stared at a wet Drew Morgan carrying a sword and jailer’s keys and said, “Oh no—”
“Hurry!” Drew motioned Matthews to follow him.
Matthews sat down.
“Drew, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Rescuing you! Follow me, we have to hurry!”
The curate didn’t move. He looked at the fire crackling in the fireplace to the right of the desk.
“No,” he said. “I’m not going with you.”
Drew was too dumbfounded to speak.
“Get out of here quickly, Drew. Save yourself.”
“They’re going to kill you!”
The curate said nothing.
“I can save you if you’ll just follow me!”
Drew didn’t realize it until later, but when he was old and reflected on this incident he came to realize that it was this single sentence that galvanized the curate’s decision. Matthews was far too wise to trust a headstrong young man for his salvation.
“Drew, were you the one who handed me over to Bishop Laud?”
The words struck Drew like a blow. He had known this question would ultimately arise between them. At the moment he was focused on the rescue effort, and the question caught him off guard.
“We don’t have time for that now,” he said. “Let’s go!”
Christopher Matthews got up and walked toward him, a slow leisurely pace, not the pace of a man about to escape from England’s famed prison tower.
Placing both hands on Drew’s shoulders, he said, “That’s all we have time for. You didn’t turn me over to Bishop Laud, did you?”
There was no avoiding the question now.
“That was my mission. I sneaked into your study and compared your handwriting to a Justin manuscript. Of course I knew after the meeting in the back of Master Cooper’s shop. But I couldn’t do it. I told the bishop you were not Justin.”
Tears filled the curate’s eyes.
“During the trial in the Star Chamber when you were singled out as my accuser, I was devastated. Then when the man attacked you, I knew better. But I had to ask.”
The curate turned away from Drew.
“You were right when you told Bishop Laud that I am not Justin.”
“Not Justin? You’re not Justin?”
Matthews faced Drew and shook his head.
“I’m not Justin.”
“Then what … why?”
At that instant it was as if a light shone on Christopher Matthews’ face. He raised his face heavenward.
“Of course! Thank You, Lord!”
Grabbing a dumbstruck Drew Morgan by the shoulder, he pulled him toward a chair and shoved him in it. Pulling a chair opposite his rescuer, he leaned toward Drew.
“Listen carefully, we may not have much time. It all makes sense now.”
Again he raised his head, his lips silently forming the words.
“Thank You, Lord.”
There was a steady flow of tears down his cheeks as he continued.
“Drew, I’m going to tell you something that only three people know. You will be the fourth…. Nell is Justin.”
“But your handwriting … I compared your handwriting,” Drew objected.
“A precaution in case something like this happened. I copied Nell’s manuscripts before they were sent out, to protect her. No one except Jenny, Nell, and I know the true identity of Justin, and now, of course, you.”
“Not even David Cooper?”
“David thinks I’m Justin.”
Drew was beginning to understand. Christopher Matthews would die to protect his daughter.
“But you can still escape!” Drew cried frantically. “You can assume another identity in a different city. Nell and Jenny could join you. Your secret would still be safe.”
The curate smiled at him. His smile was odd for the occasion. It was a relaxed smile, contented even, the kind of smile a proud father shares with his son when there is no one else around.
The smile infuriated Drew.
He was risking his life to save Matthews, and Matthews was acting as if they were having an after dinner conversation in his sitting room.
“I know why God sent you to Edenford,” Matthews said.
“Laud sent me, not God!” Drew shouted.
“God sent you,” the curate insisted with a quiet intensity. “I’m more sure of it now than ever before. But you’re right in your feelings. You’re in danger, and you must escape before you’re captured.”
“I’m taking you with me.”
“No. I’m confident this is God’s will for my life. Drew Morgan, the time has come to find God’s will for your life. Not your desires, not your hopes, not all the selfish things you’ve dreamed of all your life, but God’s will, God’s plan for you.”
Matthews pulled Drew from the chair and pushed him toward the door.
“They’re going to kill you!” Drew shouted.
“I’m sure they will. ‘And fear ye not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul; but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.’”
“Is that from the Bible?”
“You’ll have to look the reference for yourself. Drew, listen to me, you’re the key to all of this. God knew all this would happen. He sent you to Edenford for one reason. You will protect Nell and Jenny after I’m gone. Through all of this, my only concern was for them, who would look after them if I died. Now I know! It’s you. I place them in your hands.”
“How can I protect them? The people will kill me if I go back to Edenford!”
“Don’t you see, Drew? It all fits! Edenford must fly to the wilderness. England is no longer safe for them. They cannot survive the penalty my capture has placed on them. They cannot continue in a land that substitutes outward conformity for faith in God. Edenford must fly to the wilderness where they can build a new community, where they can worship God freely. My death is the best thing that could happen for Edenford; it will force them to flee. And you will go with them. Drew, I entrust my daughters into your hands. Keep my girls safe! Tell them their poppa loves them.”
There was a commotion on the other side the door.
“You must escape!” the curate whispered.
It was the first time Drew heard any note of panic in his voice.
Reluctantly, Drew reached for the door latch. He had to get out. How do you rescue someone who refuses to be rescued?
Christopher Matthews placed a hand on his shoulder.
“God be with you, my son.”
Drew cracked the door open just wide enough to look out. The hall that led to the narrow stairs was empty. The yeoman’s body was gone. But what about the other direction? He’d have to open the door all the way to see that part of the hallway.
All right, Drew reasoned, the guards know something’s up, but they don’t know where I am.… I could be anywhere in the tower compound. There’s only one way to find out if anyone is in the hallway.
Swinging the door wide, Drew jumped into the hallway with sword drawn.
It was empty!
His chest heaving, he made his way to the stairway. His bare feet felt something wet. He looked down.
Blood.
He was standing in the yeoman guard’s blood.
Approaching the
stairs, he craned his neck to see down the corkscrew stairway. No sign of movement, no sound. He would have felt better if he could hear something, preferably distant sounds.
With his back to the stone wall, he inched his way down the stairs.
CLANG!
The blade of a pike struck the stone wall, inches from Drew’s nose.
“Halt and surrender!” cried the yeoman warder.
Drew retreated backward up the stairs, defending himself with his sword. The passage was too narrow for him to swing it. At the top of the stairs Drew slipped and fell. It was the yeoman warder’s blood again.
CLANG!
The pike struck. The only thing that kept him from being impaled was the circular stairs; the pike couldn’t bend far enough around to reach him.
Drew had an idea.
Instead of getting up, he crawled down the stairs feet first as fast as he could.
The yeoman warder saw him and raised his pike. But before he could bring it down, Drew planted a foot in his chest and sent the warder sprawling backward down the stairs.
Reversing course, Drew ran up the stairs, jumping over the bloody top step.
A couple of yeoman warders were waiting for him at the end of the hall, pikes leveled.
He turned back to the stairs.
His stairway opponent had recovered and was coming up, pike first.
Drew stepped to the side, away from the oncoming pike. With one blow of his sword he knocked it to the ground; with another, he swung at the yeoman warder.
Missed.
His sword—the cutlass his grandfather had given him, the one that had saved the seaman from countless Spaniards—clanged against the stone and broke. Drew was left standing helpless with the hilt of a broken cutlass in his hand as three yeoman warders’ pikes were leveled at him.
Bishop Laud was furious.
When the yeoman warders learned that Drew’s residence was London House, the bishop was notified. An hour later Drew was sitting in the bishop’s library while a scarlet faced, ranting bishop screamed at him.
“I’ve given you everything!” he shouted. “What did you have when you came to me?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing!” the bishop repeated. “I gave you a home. I fed you. I gave you clothes.” Then quietly but with no less intensity, “I gave you my love. What has bewitched you? What could possibly make you do this to me?”
Drew didn’t respond.
“Answer me!”
Still he said nothing.
The bishop seethed in fury.
“I made you and I can break you!” he yelled. “What were you thinking? What could make you care so much for a spiritual heretic that you’d break into the Tower of London and injure a yeoman warder?”
“He isn’t dead?”
“Who?”
“The warder.”
“No. You just split his forehead open.”
“Thank God.”
The words just hung there. They startled both Drew and the bishop. It was the first time either of them remembered Drew thanking God for anything.
“What has that curate done to you?”
Bishop Laud didn’t return Drew to the tower. Nor did he send him away immediately. Drew’s punishment was that he would be forced to watch the execution of Christopher Matthews; then he would be set free.
The bishop gave him a choice: return to London House in repentance within three days or become an enemy to crown and country. If Drew did not come home to him in three days, Bishop Laud would have him hunted down and arrested for attempting to free Christopher Matthews.
It was quite simple: Drew could choose to live as a fugitive or come home.
The bishop made it clear that if Drew was caught anywhere near the village of Edenford, he would suffer the same fate as Christopher Matthews.
The sky was menacing; its partner, a stiff north wind, planted a chill in everyone it touched. And on this execution day there were plenty of people for it to touch.
Tower Hill was so crowded with spectators it seemed to Drew that the entire countryside was there to watch the execution. People crammed onto elevated platforms constructed especially for events like this one. For the people of England, executions were free entertainment. They didn’t have quite the excitement of bear or bullbaiting, but then the people weren’t charged anything to attend.
Drew was escorted to the front of the scaffold by two mountains of flesh. He still hadn’t given up on the idea of rescuing the curate.
Several scenarios had played in his mind the night before the execution. One was that David Cooper was leading a rescue attempt and Drew could assist their efforts when they struck. Another idea was for him to break free from the guards, jump to the scaffold, overpower the executioner, grab his blade, fend off the sheriff and henchmen, free Matthews, and escape. It was the escaping part he hadn’t figured out. He had no horse, no way to make a getaway through the crowd. He’d just have to trust his wits to figure out something when the time came.
He scanned the crowd of spectators, looking for familiar faces. He recognized no one. All he saw were faces of strangers wearing the same expression of anticipation. They couldn’t wait for the headsman to hold high the prisoner’s head.
A cheering arose as the prisoner was escorted to the scaffold. In solemn procession came the headsman, the executioner carrying his ax, the bound prisoner escorted by the sheriff, and the chaplain.
Bishop William Laud had reserved the role of chaplain for himself.
The moment the procession came in sight, Drew was seized by big beefy paws on both sides of him. The two man mountains were apparently following the bishop’s orders to ensure that Drew watched the execution. He struggled to shake loose, halfheartedly at first to test their strength. Meaty grips clamped down on his arms.
Now, with full effort, he yanked and pulled. He couldn’t budge them, let alone break loose. He couldn’t even knock them slightly off balance.
The headsman and executioner reached the top of the scaffold.
Christopher Matthews came into view, the sheriff directly behind him.
Since the night of the failed rescue attempt, the curate had received his Star Chamber punishment. There was a bloody stump where his left ear had been; his nose was slit open; and his cheeks were burned red and black, branded with the letters S.L. for Seditious Libeler.
Drew closed his eyes and shuddered, fighting back tears and bile.
Bishop Laud was the last to reach the top of the scaffold. Everyone moved into place, and the crowd quieted.
Time for the festivities to begin.
The sheriff read the charges and the sentence. Then the prisoner was given an opportunity to speak the last words he would ever say in this life.
On other occasions, preachers who had preceded Matthews to the scaffold had taken the opportunity to deliver a sermon, sometimes a rather long one, and thereby extend their lives a couple of hours. The curate of Edenford chose not to follow their example.
As Matthews stepped forward on the scaffold, it was evident he was in pain. He started to speak, then stopped, wincing from the fire on his cheeks and the fresh cut on his nose.
Drew kicked the mountain of flesh on the right at the same time he shoved the one on his left.
His efforts were in vain. The grips on his arms tightened until he was lifted off the ground. His guards glared at him but said nothing, then dropped him to his feet again without relinquishing their vise-like grip.
Matthews straightened himself, raised his head and then his voice.
“As God is my witness—”
His voice had a breathy, nasal quality to it, the effects of a slit nose.
“I have lived my life in accordance to the dictates of God’s Holy Word. I stand here today because I have chosen to obey God rather than men.”
The acting chaplain reacted to this verbal slap.
Loud enough for all to hear, Laud shouted, “The voice of the holy Church of England is the voice o
f God!”
Matthews ignored him.
“The throne of England and its church condemn me. But in a matter of minutes I will stand before the throne of God. And of this I am confident: Before His throne I am without fault. Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ my Lord.”
A murmur went through the crowd.
Then, on the platform there was a commotion.
Shouts.
The rescue attempt! Drew thought.
He glanced at his two guards, then at the platform, then for the quickest way to the scaffold. The commotion died down as two men were hauled away.
There was no rescue attempt, only two drunkards fighting over a wager.
The sheriff whispered something to Matthews.
Matthews continued.
“With overwhelming sorrow in my heart, I can only conclude that those in control of England will no longer tolerate God-fearing men who speak their minds. To these merchants of hate who have the form of godliness, but not its power, I prophesy that you may win temporary victories, but you will ultimately fail. A great exodus is about to begin. For those who are faithful, God will provide a land of promise. And, just like Israel of old, a godly nation will rise out of a wilderness.”
At this point the curate spotted Drew.
Matthews’ expression was one of compassion; his face grew wet with tears. He spoke his final words directly to Drew.
“This new nation will not be founded on man’s wisdom or by man’s strength; the greatness of this nation will be that its foundation rests on the Word of God. ‘Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, saith the LORD of hosts!’”
Christopher Matthews was led to the block.
Drew fought to pull himself free.
Matthews declined a blindfold when one was offered. He lay his head down on the block.
Bishop Laud approached the condemned man.
He said, “Do you not think you ought to be lying with your head facing east, for our Lord’s rising?”
“When the heart is right,” Matthews replied, “it matters not which way the head lieth.”
With all his strength Drew Morgan struggled to free himself, kicking, yanking, screaming. He couldn’t do it.
The executioner raised his ax.
“No!” Drew shouted.
The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1) Page 32