Witness of Bones

by Leonard Tourney

  Matthew looked straight at the man and said, “Sir Robert Cecil, whom I have served on more than one occasion and whom all the world knows as Her Majesty’s principal secretary.”

  “And why, why?” said the old gentleman.

  “Because he would please the Infanta of Spain, whom he would have succeed Her Majesty when God pleases to call her hence.”

  The old gentleman rose from his chair and came forward. He spoke to His Grace.

  “Who will believe that Cecil has turned Papist, or favors Spain when he has been so zealous a suitor to James?”

  His Grace answered, “No one need believe anything regarding Cecil’s faith, since some question whether he has any at all. His political acumen is another matter. That he corresponds regularly with the Scots king is no state secret, except

  perhaps from the queen. Why should he not be thought to have dealt with the Spanish claimant?”

  “This is an enterprise fraught with risks,” said the old gentleman, shaking his head.

  “What enterprise worth its salt is not so?” His Grace said. “But our friend Stock here will stir up such a cloud of doubt regarding Cecil that King James will rather have one of our people as his minister than one besmirched beyond redemption, linked to murderers, Papists, and pious frauds. Trust me, this is only the beginning.”

  “How much did Sir Robert give you to murder Stephen Graham?” His Grace asked Matthew abruptly.

  “Twenty pounds,” Matthew said.

  “A paltry sum,” said the old man.

  “All the more credible,” His Grace answered. “Murderers are always poorly paid. What else?”

  “A house in Suffolk—a manor, with one hundred acres attached.”

  “Ah, yes,” said His Grace, “a more substantial reward. Land does not so readily slip through a man’s fingers.”

  “Well, it shall be as God disposes,” murmured the old gentleman. He gave Matthew a long look and then returned to his chair.

  His Grace told Buck and Stearforth that they had done well, shook Matthew’s hand firmly, and said, “Master Stock has evidently learned not only testimony but where his advantage lies. Look after him well. If he wants anything within reason, provide it to him.”

  He left the room, taking the old gentleman with him.

  “I have learned my part, done what was required of me,” Matthew said to Stearforth when they were alone again. “When shall I see my wife?”

  “You will see her soon enough. Tomorrow, after your appearance before the council,” said Stearforth.

  “Can I not know where she is, that she is safe?”

  “Oh, she is safe, Master Stock. You can trust me on that point. Indeed, she’s out of harm’s way. Where no London

  constable can apprehend her. We’ve taken very good care of your wife, haven’t we, Master Buck?”

  Buck agreed and said they had taken good care indeed of Mistress Stock and that Matthew should be more grateful than otherwise, for had they not taken care of her she would be languishing even now in the same prison he had been held in and charged as an accomplice.

  The three men walked toward the door and into the passage. As they walked, Matthew noticed a bundle of letters sitting on a long narrow table next to the wall. He caught a fleeting glance at the letter on top and saw that it was addressed to a person in London. He surmised that these were His Grace’s letters, waiting for some servant to carry them to their destinations.

  “Come, Master Stock,” Stearforth said. “Your performance was able, but far from perfect. You must practice the rest of the day, prepare yourself for the council.”

  Stearforth did not leave Matthew in his chamber. He propped himself up in the corner with a book, a faithful if somewhat preoccupied guardian.

  Matthew paced up and down restlessly, worrying about Joan and his ordeal to come at the same time. Then he remembered the letters he had seen on the table in the passageway and said, “Were I to write a letter to my wife, would you see that it is delivered?”

  “You’ll see her soon—perhaps tomorrow afternoon.”

  “It would please me to write her. Your employer said you were to gratify me. Any reasonable request, he said. It’s a small thing I ask. What effort will it cost you?”

  “Oh, well, I suppose there’d be no harm in it,” Stearforth said. “Now that you’ve proven yourself a little more cooperative.”

  “I’ll need paper and pen.”

  Stearforth laid down his book. “I’ll see what I can find.” It seemed an hour before Stearforth returned, during which time Matthew considered what he would write to

  Joan. He knew the letter would be read by Stearforth—even by His Grace. It would be unthinkable that they would allow an uncensored letter to leave the house. Stearforth would pounce upon the text no sooner than it was indited. Matthew would have to choose his words carefully.

  Stearforth returned with paper, pen, and ink. He handed them to Matthew and Matthew sat himself at a little desk in the corner. Stearforth was reading his book again, but Matthew felt he was still being watched.

  Out of some surprising magnanimity Stearforth had brought him three sheets of paper. Matthew took the first, dipped the quill in the ink, and began to write. He had already thought of some words—an assurance of his well being, a testament of his love. Innocent words that would not arouse the suspicions of his captors. But as he wrote, he regretted he could not use some secret language to communicate his true condition, some furtive code revealing the fullness of his heart. Then it occurred to him to exchange the names of their household cook and their daughter, Betty and Elizabeth. Joan would know the letter was tmly his own, but that the confusion was a signal of distress.

  If she received the letter at all.

  It would do more good to get a message to Cecil. But he knew there would be no bribe he could offer Stearforth to match the value of his service to His Grace.

  He finished his letter, blotted the ink, and read over the text. It was brief and simple. He turned to look at Stearforth. The man was still absorbed in his book, his legs propped up on a stool in front of the chair he sat in.

  Matthew looked down at the two clean sheets remaining. He recopied the first letter quickly and then even more quickly wrote upon one of the remaining sheets.

  This new letter was not to Cecil, but Matthew knew that it would get to him. He wrote:

  Stock is held a close prisoner in my house. His wife we have as credit for his faithfulness. He confesses before the council tomorrow that Cecil is the only

  true begetter of Poole’s resurrection and Graham’s murder. Your presence at the council meeting is urgently sought for whatever help you can give.

  Matthew would have signed his captor’s name had he known what it was. He folded the letter and put the name of Michael Hickes on the front, trying to imitate the penmanship of the letters he had seen in the passage. Hickes was Cecil’s former secretary and good friend, a man of unquestionable loyalty and integrity. Hickes would get the message to Cecil if anyone would.

  He tore up the first letter he had written to Joan, trusting that Stearforth would not recall the precise number of sheets he had given to him, or if he did, think Matthew had made two false starts rather than one.

  The sound of ripping paper made Stearforth look up.

  “Second thoughts?” he asked.

  “Yes. I badly worded the first.”

  “My ambition in life is to be able to employ one to do all my writing for me,” Stearforth said. He continued his reading.

  Matthew folded the letter to Hickes and slipped it inside his jerkin. Then he folded the letter to Joan.

  “Have you any wax?”

  “I’ll take care of the sealing,” Stearforth said, rising from his chair and coming over to take the letter. He did not examine it in Matthew’s presence, but carried it out.

  As soon as he was gone, Matthew removed the letter to Hickes and read it over again. How he wished he could provide some clue to his whereabouts or
to his captor’s identity. He regretted not having wax to seal the letter, but then perhaps he who was to deliver it would think the lack of a seal a mere oversight. And if the deliverer stooped to read the letter, he might reasonably conclude Hickes was another of the conspirators.

  Stearforth returned promptly and resumed reading, without commenting on the letter. Matthew thought it better to say nothing himself.

  By late morning, Buck came to relieve Stearforth. “I have read the letter you wrote to your wife,” he said.

  “I regret the hospitality afforded me did not extend to a little privacy,” Matthew said.

  “Bless us, Master Stock, I regret the invasion of your privacy, but on the other hand we can’t have everything in life. Be grateful a means has been found to your salvation. Isn’t it enough that you have been spared the rope, your children from ignominy?”

  Matthew said he supposed it was.

  Within the hour Buck was escorting him downstairs. It was time to eat again. Matthew walked slightly behind his companion. When they came to the passageway he noticed that the bundle of letters that had been on the side table before had been removed, and a new group left in their place.

  He slipped the letter to Hickes in with the others, not on the top where it might be noticed and the differences in handwriting observed, but towards the bottom. If God blessed him, the deliverer would take no notice of the missing seal or the alien hand.

  “We did not find her, Your Honor, but we did discover where she had been.”

  Cecil could not remember the names of the men before him. They were young men, neatly dressed; they looked very much alike, each in his early twenties—half Cecil’s age, mere children to one of his experience. The new breed of courtier, not like his or his father’s generation, men of probity who served one master. They were all recently down from the university, the young men, eager for a place in Cecil’s household, not caring much as to what the place was but only that there was one. Every place was a beginning, at least, and in their circumstances the opportunity of working for so important a person as Cecil was sufficient. Therefore they had not asked to know why Cecil was so interested in learning how a murderer imprisoned in Marshalsea fared, or the where -

  abouts of a Chelmsford clothier’s wife. They had only done his bidding and inquired at every inn in the city and in the suburbs too.

  “There is no prisoner named Stock in the Marshalsea.” “What?”

  “There’s no record of him. We spoke to the master of the prison and to the chief warder. Neither would say there was a man named Stock there.”

  “He’s been moved, then. What of Joan Stock?”

  “A woman answering her description lay at the Rose for two nights, then according to the host, departed with her husband.”

  “What makes you think it was Joan Stock?”

  “He mentioned she had gone off without her belongings, had left all of a sudden. We thought this suspicious.”

  “Had she settled with the host?”

  “Her bill was paid by another man.”

  “Her husband?”

  “No, sir, another. He did not give his name or his relation. The host assumed he was a servant of the husband.”

  “What name did the woman give?”

  “Gray, sir.”

  “That might be Joan. She was a fugitive. Of course she would give a false name.”

  “There was another thing, sir.”

  “Which was?”

  “We talked to a boy who works at the inn. He said he was paid a sixpence by two men to lead them to the woman. He said she was taken by force, because she would not return to her husband.”

  “Did he say where she was taken?”

  “No, sir. Only that she was.”

  “Did he describe the men who took her?”

  “One was young, tall, well favored. Well spoken. The other was an old man, stout, evil featured. The boy said he had a big knife at his belt.”

  “But he couldn’t say where they took her?”

  “No, sir.”

  Cecil told them to keep looking.

  “But where shall we look, sir?” the tall one asked.

  “Just look, will you?” Cecil answered. The day was starting badly. His rheumatism was killing him. Joan Stock seemed beyond retrieving and perhaps her husband too.

  In the afternoon Matthew was left alone for about an hour. He used the time to inspect the windows, having discovered immediately that he had been locked in. He also searched desk drawers and cabinets, thinking he could find a clue to His Grace’s identity, perhaps an initialed garment or bookplate. There was nothing.

  When Buck returned Matthew was surprised to see that he was not alone. His Grace was with him, as was Stearforth.

  “I understand you have written a letter, Master Stock?” His Grace said.

  “Yes, sir, to my wife. Master Stearforth said he would deliver it to her.”

  “I don’t mean the letter to your wife. I mean your letter to Master Hickes.”

  He held out the letter.

  Matthew didn’t know what to say.

  “Did you think my servant so unobservant as to overlook an unsealed letter addressed to Master Hickes, who all the world knows is snug in Cecil’s pocket? I must admit the letter is artful, as was your plan. Had the letter been delivered, I’m sure Hickes would have carried it straightway to him for whom it was really destined. As is, it has only cleared up some doubts of my own—doubts about your honesty.”

  “There’s nothing amiss in my honesty,” Matthew said, deciding further duplicity was futile. “I am a prisoner here. I’m being forced to comply with your wishes for my wife’s sake.”

  Stearforth stepped forward and slapped Matthew hard in the face. Matthew reeled from the blow; tears came to his eyes.

  “Easy, Stearforth,” said His Grace. “I think such measures can wait. We still have his wife, and if he wants to see her again he will cooperate. But since he’s proven himself a ready penman, we’ll put his demonstrated talents to use.” Matthew noticed now that Buck was carrying paper and pen. He handed these to Matthew.

  “You will write out the confession you have been at pains to memorize. Then it will be witnessed.”

  “You mean I won’t have to stand before the council?”

  “Oh, yes, we still have that planned for you. But the writing is a kind of security for us, you see. I underestimated you, Stock, and I am heartily sorry for it. But, believe me, I won’t make the same mistake again. And if you should be so unwise as to try another effort to communicate beyond these walls—or to escape—then we will use your signed confession and you and your wife will be taken care of in such a manner as not to hurt our cause. Do you understand?”

  His Grace turned to Stearforth and Buck and said, “You will not leave Stock alone again. Imagine that your very lives depend upon it. Your imagination will not fall short of reality.”

  Seventeen

  So weary was she from her struggle with the sea that she sprawled face downward on the wet stones for a long time. She was half-conscious; the surf pounded in her head, filling her mind with strange images.

  It was a while before she remembered Morgan, who had helped her landward, supporting her by his strong right arm and determination that the sea should not have them. When she did remember she sat up and looked about for him.

  Above her the cliffs were naked but not so white as seen from the sea at a distance. The stones at her feet were shiny wet. Unsteadily, she turned to look at the sea. The stern quarter of the Plover was being battered by the waves about twenty feet off shore, where it had been fixed on a large rock. Around her, the shingle was strewn with wreckage and the twisted forms of drowned men.

  Alarmed that Morgan might too be dead, she picked herself up and began searching among the bodies, dreading what she might find. Joan had never seen a field of battle, but she imagined it must be like the scene before her, except the bodies were not wounded with swords or arrows. They lay, rather, unblood
ied as if asleep, as if at any moment they would wake from their exhaustion and congratulate themselves on their salvation. But the men were not asleep; they would not wake in this life.

  Some of the faces she recognized. Faces she had seen of men working on the deck to raise the sail and, later, to save the ship from the storm. Some of the dead had been in the mutinous gathering in Morgan’s cabin. They were no threat to her now. God had blessed her: He had stretched down His great hand and snatched her from the deep, as He had done the old prophet Jonah. For this she was profoundly grateful. But she also felt guilt and confusion. Why she, and not the others? Was she really more deserving than they? Or was it all happenstance? Joan could not believe that sad philosophy. “God in heaven be thanked,” she said aloud once, and then she said it again, softer, in a reverential whisper, as though He to whom she spoke were beside her.

  She almost stumbled over a piece of wreckage that upon closer view proved no wreckage at all, but another body. It was the ship’s cook. His huge frame was bent over a rock. His eyes were wide open and staring at the stones with that intense interest the dead take in the last thing they look upon.

  A little farther on she found the man Morgan had called Drury, the one who had spoken in Morgan’s defense, had been first persuaded that freeing the captain and the woman was a good plan, of profit to them all. Some profit it had proved to them. Morgan had said the ship would survive the open seas but not the vengeful land. He had been right. The rebellious crew had turned the ship around to their own destruction and found disaster where they sought safety.

  Drury’s head was bloody from being battered on the rocks. His arms and legs were scraped and tom, and she turned away quickly to say a prayer for his soul.

  She was so appalled by this scene of desolation and death that when presently she turned her gaze from the stony shingle to the near distance and saw a company of living souls approaching her they seemed dead men made alive again.

  She almost cried with joy when she saw Morgan among them. His clothes were tom and he was limping badly, using a piece of the wreckage for a staff to lean on as he navigated amidst the wreckage. As he drew nearer she could see a large gash in his forehead.