Witness of Bones

by Leonard Tourney

  “A lot of good a reward will do hanged men,” said Simkins.

  “And who would testify that you are mutineers?” Morgan shot back. “This woman who would have great cause to love you for your service to her? Her husband who would likewise be grateful? This great lord, his patron, who would no doubt be doubly generous? You might retire from this profession of seaman for all the wealth you’d have.”

  ‘You'd tell,” said Simkins accusingly.

  “Oh yes, I’d tell,” said Morgan with a laugh. “I’d tell and send myself to the gibbet.”

  “How s that?” asked the cook.

  “What,” said Morgan. “Accuse you of mutiny when I myself can be charged as abductor of this woman? It was I, after all, who brought her aboard my ship. The responsibility is mine, not yours. Believe me, I’m not so offended by the mutiny that I am prepared to hang myself to avenge you. My interests are in keeping silent, and in taking a share of the reward. You, Drury, were always a good man.”

  “You were a good master, Captain,” said Drury, looking somewhat sadly in at the door. Joan recognized by his voice that Drury was the one who had spoken in defense of Morgan earlier.

  “There now,” said Morgan with easy assurance. “You’d have the reward, freedom from this ship, and a clean conscience.”

  “All that we’d enjoy without you,” Simkins said. He had a smug look on his face.

  “No you wouldn’t,” Joan said. “For without the captain’s safety there’ll be no reward, of that I assure you. If the captain’s killed, I’ll swear you abducted me, not he. Your reward will be the hangman’s blessing. Let the captain and me go and no harm’s done. Your fortune’s made.”

  “This is a fool’s game,” Simkins said, his face contorted. “Seize them. Over the side with the both of them and be done with talk.”

  The other crewmen made no show to move. They looked at each other uncertainly.

  “Not so fast, Simkins,” Drury said. “Let’s think the captain’s offer through.”

  “We’ve thought it through,” Simkins retorted, casting a menacing glance at Drury.

  “I think Drury’s right,” said the cook, who had been silent for some time. “What’s the point of putting our own necks in jeopardy? What’s to gain? Now here’s a fair offer from the captain and the lady, which, if they give their words and we ours, then a pact is made and all’s well that ends so.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Simkins, turning on the cook and

  Drury, who had now come farther into the cabin and was standing by the cook.

  “Do you promise, Captain, to lay no blame for mutiny at out feet?” asked Drury.

  “With all my heart,” Morgan said.

  Drury turned to Joan. “And you, Mistress, do you promise not to say aught evil against us and to help us to a reward for your freedom.”

  “I do,” Joan said.

  “Well then,” Drury said, “a pact is made and I am satisfied.”

  “And I am satisfied too,” said the cook, turning to the men who were watching from the passage. There was a murmur of consent from them as well But Simkins looked unyielding. He held the sword firmly in his grasp, pointing it at Morgan.

  “What say you, Simkins?” Morgan asked. “You have no followers now that a pact is agreed upon. Will you join the pact or stand on your own—without clemency or reward? You can’t have these without giving over your sword.”

  “I’ll not give over my sword, or make a pact,” Simkins said. He turned on his heels and pushed the cook and Drury aside as he went up the passageway. Morgan ran after. Joan followed.

  On the main deck the ruin the storm had caused was more than evident in the clutter of fallen rigging and spars. Simkins had made his way to the afterdeck, a lone rebel now that the crew had been pacified, perhaps as much by the calmed sea as Morgan’s compromise. He stood for a moment by the untended helm and then clambered over the rail. Rushing aft with the others, Joan heard the splash.

  From the rail she could see Simkins in the water. He was already a dozen yards from the ship’s side, swimming with powerful strokes toward the white cliffs in the distance. She watched with the other men for a moment in awe of his ability before being deafened by an explosion that seemed to go off not a foot from her ear.

  She had not recovered from this before a second explosion

  occurred. She turned to look and saw Morgan standing against the rail, a heavy musket in his arms. The broad flaring muzzle still emitted a noxious vapor of gunpowder. She turned again to where Simkins had been but he was gone.

  “Did you get him, Captain?” she heard Drury say from somewhere in the crowd of faces.

  “God help me, I did,” said Morgan.

  Joan looked at Morgan. There was a broad grin of triumph on his face. “I hate a mutineer more than a rat,” he said, noticing her look of surprise.

  She turned toward land again, toward cliffs, searching the watery expanse that was now less tranquil with the approaching surf. Once, she thought she might have seen a head bobbing in the waters, but afterward there was nothing.

  Morgan now gave orders that the anchor be set and the ship saved from going aground, but two crewmen returned presently to say that the anchor had been lost during the storm. “There’s no help, then,” said Morgan, “but to abandon the ship.”

  At this there was a general scurrying around the decks. Joan watched as at least a dozen men jumped overboard, while others clung to the railings and called after their brethren or threw spars in after them. The ship itself was beginning to pitch violently, even though the shore still seemed some distance. All around her now was a swirling of white water. The ship twisted, no longer heading in stern first but athwartships. A sudden jarring knocked her to the deck. The ship leaned onto its side and convulsed as though it had received a terrible wound, then righted itself but seemed lower in the water.

  She heard men screaming—some cursed and others prayed. Someone pulled her to her feet and she saw it was Morgan. Only the two of them remained at the stern. What was left of the crew had congregated on the main deck and were looking toward the beach, which now lay about a furlong distant.

  “We’ve hit the rocks,” he yelled. “The ship’s lost.”

  “Will we drown?”

  “Not if I can help it, but we must wait until the last minute.”

  She saw that more men were leaping from the side. Most could not swim. She saw them bob in the water for a moment and then disappear under the waves. Meanwhile the forepart of the vessel began to sink lower into the water and at the same time slip over on its side so that she was at some effort to stand upright. Like Morgan, she gripped firmly to the helm. Above her the cloudless sky was in its repose in sharp contrast to the chaos on deck as the last of the crew gave themselves up to heaven and dove over the side.

  “Wait here,” said Morgan. He slipped down the deck and disappeared into the cabin below.

  The ship gave another great jolt, but this time Joan was not knocked to her knees. She stood upright by the helm, as though she were piloting the Plover to its destruction. The forecastle, half-submerged before, rose up gracefully, while the stern began to slip under. Joan watched, frozen, as the ship twisted and leaned precariously, and water washed across the deck. She heard a loud cracking from below deck, and then with a more thunderous report the ship broke in half, the forecastle sinking again and then pulling away, while the after part of the vessel, nearly submerged, now rushed toward the cliffs.

  Joan clung still to the helm, petrified. She could not remove her gaze from the white cliffs that seemed now to rise immediately before her. The broken vessel on which she rode twisted and then suddenly there was a loud scraping noise. She was flung so violently forward that she lost her grip, and the next thing she knew she was in the sea, flailing around in icy water and nearly blinded by salty spray. She could barely make out a few yards from her the carcass of the vessel, breaking into smaller pieces as it foundered in the turbulence.

  A
t the same moment she was caught up in a powerful embrace. She looked up and saw it was Morgan. For a moment he was standing above her, his legs braced in the surf; the next he was in the water with her as both were seized by a huge wave and hurled toward the cliffs.

  Sixteen

  Matthew had a dream of Joan. He saw her in his mind as clear as day, standing in her kitchen in the big Chelmsford house that was also his shop. She wore her gown of pale green with the full slit sleeves. Her face shone with happiness, so much that it made his heart ache to see it. Their daughter Elizabeth was also there and his grandchild and namesake. It was some sort of family celebration, for all went to sit at the long trestle table, the surface of which could not be seen for all the plates, bowls, cups, and trenchers loaded with food of every sort.

  Then Matthew looked up to see that a guest sat at his own place at the head of the table. It was His Grace, with his elbows firmly planted on the table. He was dressed again in that immense ruff collar, that fine cloth of one who wore his wealth. His Grace smiled and served himself. No one else ate.

  A covered dish sat before His Grace. He lifted the cover and out crawled a serpent that began to wind itself across the table. Everyone but His Grace looked at the serpent fearfully, but he was calm. He smiled with his thin lips, smiled at Matthew.

  A noise awoke Matthew, not the dream. It was not yet dawn; the chamber was dark. He tried to remember Joan s face, her expression. But only the image of his captor remained.

  He lay brooding for a while, disturbed by his vision, then got out of bed and dressed by the faint light of early morning. He looked out the window. They had given him a chamber in the back of the house where his view of the city was cut off, making it impossible for him to know exactly where he was. But the neighboring house was a fine one too, built in an older style, not the newer fashion of timber and plaster. If the front of the house was like the side he viewed, Matthew believed he could recognize it again.

  When it grew light enough to read he fetched his confession. During the next hour he committed a good half of it to memory. Then Stearforth came. Buck was with him.

  He told them of his progress.

  “Very well,” said Stearforth, with a skeptical glance at Buck. “We shall see. His Grace has asked to hear you recite this morning. I hope you will have the wisdom not to disappoint him.”

  “His Grace hates to be disappointed,” Buck added.

  Buck was very well dressed and acted cocky, like a new heir eager to show off before his old friends. It was hard for Matthew to associate this young dandy with the person with whom he had shared a prison cell. But of course Buck had never been a real prisoner.

  “Shall I have breakfast first?” Matthew said.

  “There will be time enough to eat after you’ve learned your part,” Stearforth replied. “Give us a sample of what you know now.”

  Matthew could see in Stearforth’s stony visage that his request was more a challenge than a mere invitation. He imagined Stearforth had been complaining to Buck about Matthew Stock’s difficulties with the text. Had Stearforth realized that Matthew was merely buying time, or had he put him down as an idiot without the capacity of memory?

  Matthew handed Stearforth the confession. Stearforth passed it to Buck.

  Matthew recited, right up to the part where Cecil’s name was first mentioned.

  Afterwards, Stearforth looked surprised but pleased. Buck smiled agreeably. “That was well done, Stock,” said Stearforth. “Wasn’t it, Buck? You can’t imagine the difficulty he had yesterday. But see what a good night’s rest will do. It’s as though he were a different man altogether.”

  “He is most perfect in his part,” Buck agreed genially. “I can not fault him for missing a single word.”

  “Now you must work upon your expression,” Stearforth said. “You must stress the important words. Raise and drop your voice to strike the right tone. Creating belief is not a matter of merely saying certain things. You must say them with conviction.”

  Matthew noticed how easily this counsel flowed from Stearforth. Had he been a teacher that he knew so much about oratory? Or perhaps just a very practiced liar.

  “Come, let’s go to breakfast,” Buck said.

  Matthew accompanied his jailers downstairs. He never saw servants in the big house. He supposed there was an army of them, invisible somewhere behind the walls. Perhaps the idea was to keep him isolated. But didn’t His Grace trust his own servants? Did he think he had some store of money about him to bribe one of them?

  Ajid to bribe them to what? To reveal to him the identity of His Grace? To tell him where his wife was kept? To send a message to Cecil?

  They ate in the same chamber as before. The table was set with a rasher of bacon, boiled eggs in a bowl, bread and cheese, a pitcher of milk. Buck and Stearforth fell to eating at once, almost seeming to forget his presence. Matthew helped himself to a boiled egg and some cheese. His dream of feasting in his own house had left him without appetite. He thought about escape and its problems.

  There was Joan, captive. His own escape might well mean her death. Stearforth had implied as much and the very fact

  he was allowed his own chamber suggested not so much that they trusted him as that they knew he would not risk his wife’s safety. He was as much a prisoner in the great house as he had been in Marshalsea.

  But between escape and resignation to his lot there was a middle thing—a message to Cecil. Matthew had not believed Staunton’s discouraging words when he heard them, although sometimes since he had had terrible fears that he might have been truly abandoned by his patron. In his better moods he had faith still in Cecil, who might, as far as Matthew knew, be ignorant of his fate and Joan’s.

  The question was how to get word out of the house.

  Breakfast done, Stearforth led him into an adjacent room into which he had not come before. It was a kind of salon or music room, longer than it was broad with a magnificendy ornate ceiling depicting clouds and angels, as in a church. Dark portraits adorned the walls, a succession of faces and forms. At one end was a pair of virginals of highly polished wood. All around were elaborately carved chairs and the vague odor of incense.

  “What happens now?” he asked Stearforth.

  “We wait,” said Stearforth.

  He and Buck sat down and pointed to a vacant chair where Matthew was to sit.

  A few minutes passed in silence, then Buck got up and walked over to the virginals. He began to play, badly Matthew thought, who did not play himself but had a very good ear for music and was somewhat gratified to find Buck so lacking in skill.

  The sound of voices at the end of the room now attracted Matthew’s attention. Buck stopped playing and rose from his seat. Two men entered, His Grace and a second gentleman, wizened and stooped and who by his clothes and grave bearing was no mean personage of the kingdom.

  The grave gentleman took a seat at the other end of the room while His Grace approached.

  “Good morning, Master Stock. I trust you slept well and

  that such rest as you had has invigorated your memory and your consciousness of your crimes.”

  Matthew gave a low bow of assent while Buck and Stear-forth took turns assuring their master that Matthew truly had made progress.

  “The proofs in the pudding, then,” said His Grace with a tolerant smile. He sat down heavily in front of Matthew and crossed his legs to reveal silk hose and shoes with silver buckles. He nodded toward Matthew. Matthew knew the nod was a command to perform.

  His nervousness at his captor’s sudden appearance and the silent observance of the grave gentleman at the other end of the room caused him almost to forget the opening lines, but after a moment’s hesitation he came out with them.

  “I appear before this honorable body with fear and trembling as one who has defied man’s laws and God’s.”

  Matthew paused and looked at the grave gentleman who was a silent witness to these proceedings. In the poor light Matthew could make o
ut the contours of the man’s face, which was somewhat shriveled with lines so strongly scored about the eyes and mouth that Matthew could discern them even at the distance he was from him. The man’s beard was white and cut in the French fashion to a sharp point, and he plucked at it thoughtfully as though he were somewhat unnerved himself. Matthew could not tell whether this unidentified personage was superior to His Grace or an inferior, who as a consequence of Matthew’s success or failure would then be given instructions concerning him.

  “I confess I took the life of Stephen Graham, rector of St. Crispin’s Church. I slit his throat with a knife with my own initial carved in the haft and the worthy sexton of the church as a witness.”

  “And why did you do it?” His Grace interrupted suddenly. “Be prepared for interruptions such as this one and don’t let them cause you to lose your place so that you forget something important.”

  “To silence his railings against the true faith.”

  “The Bishop of Rome, His Holiness,” His Grace prompted with a kind of enthusiasm.

  “Yes,” Matthew continued, “and his calumnies against Christopher Poole, a martyr of the true faith.”

  “Excellent, Stock. You make a better Papist than half of those who worship at St. Peter’s. Now tell us again how you killed Graham.”

  “I gained admission to the church on some pretext.” “What pretext?”

  “That he had sent for me.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “To inquire into the truth of Poole’s disappearance—that is, the disappearance of his body.”

  “And—?”

  “We conversed on this point. I asked him to show me the church monuments, where Poole’s grave was, or had been, and then the belfry. I asked to see the bells. We were quite alone there, or so I thought, ignorant of the sexton’s presence. I came at Graham from behind, drawing my knife across his throat before he could cry out.”

  The old man at the end of the room suddenly spoke. “Who bid you do this wicked deed?”