Witness of Bones

by Leonard Tourney

  Near St. Paul’s, the crowd became so great that Joan lost them entirely, although she kept going west for some time in hopes of spotting them again. The trouble was that in that part of the City there were considerable numbers on horseback and at a distance she could not tell one from the other. The streets went in all directions. Matthew and his captors might have taken any one of them, indeed might be at their destination now, the horses stabled and Matthew concealed again. She wept with frustration and grief.

  There was nothing to be done but to return to Cecil House and report. This she did, but since Cecil was out for the afternoon at Richmond Palace where the queen lay, she had to wait until nearly supper for him to return.

  Meanwhile, Morgan came back. Joan was relieved to see that he was all right.

  “Did you conclude your business?” she asked, hoping that he would spare her the details.

  “I did.”

  “With the two of them?”

  “Only with Simkins,” he said grimly. “He will lead no more mutinies, set no more fires. You need not be afraid of him.”

  Morgan said he wanted to go home, see his wife, kiss his children, fondle his cat. He had had enough, he said, of the sea and of conspiracies. He wanted peace.

  Joan could not deny him his wish. “Go,” she said, “with my blessings. You’ve done all you need to do—and more. God bless you, Edmund Morgan.”

  “When you tell Sir Robert of what we saw at the churchyard, say nothing about Simkins. I mean, say he was there and what he was doing, but not that I—”

  “Trust me,” Joan said. “I’ll say nothing beyond what they said and did.”

  Around seven o’clock Joan had the chance to keep her promise. Seeing how weary Cecil was from his ride and distraught, she assumed, over the queen’s condition, she did not at once begin her report but asked how Her Majesty fared.

  “The City puts on its mourning garments. The theaters are ordered closed. Her Majesty sits upon her cushions, staring ahead. She will take no medicine but spiritual.”

  “May God make her suffering short,” Joan said.

  “Amen,” said Cecil. “And now to your matter, Joan, for we must look to the living, even as we grieve for the queen.”

  Her report seemed to rouse Cecil from his melancholy. He listened carefully, seated at his desk as though he were prepared to write down her words as she spoke them. She told

  Cecil about the events at St. Crispin’s, describing the men and what Morgan had overheard in the charnel house.

  “Only Stearforth and Motherwell did I recognize. Morgan said Simkins was there—the mutinous first mate who tried to bum us alive in the Kentish bam/'

  “They uncovered Poole’s corpse, did they?” Cecil asked. “Morgan stood on tiptoe staring in the little slit in the wall. I didn’t see anything, but I take his word as gospel.”

  “It stands to reason, then,” Cecil said. “Why disinter the body and go to the trouble of transporting it to the outskirts of the city when they can conceal it in the charnel house? Who would think of looking for it there in so obvious a place? Who would want to sift through dead men’s bones?” “They say Matthew dug Poole up and then concealed the body.”

  Cecil nodded. “That, too, fits the scheme. Matthew is forced to confess to the murder and to the Papist plot, which is verified in his showing these other officers where Poole’s body was hid. What more is needful, but that the dead man rise up in fact, his own witness of bones, and declare Matthew and me murderers and traitors both?”

  “What will happen to Matthew?”

  “I pray to God nothing but his exoneration from these falsehoods, Joan. At least I know the full scope of their intent. You have done well, you and your captain. Like naughty boys with rocks, the plotters will cast them and they may wound, but they will not surprise, and that snatches from them much of their advantage. My only curiosity is who in the Privy Council will speak on their behalf. Tomorrow, we shall see. For now, go rest. You deserve it as much as I. It will turn out as God disposes.”

  Twenty

  Matthew did not sleep all that night, but thought of how he should face the ordeal to come. The prospect of his execution might have been easier, in which case he might have prayed for his soul’s salvation and then been done. What else was there to do in such an extremity, given that every man owed God one death at least? He would die, but it would be an honest death; his conscience would be clear if his name wasn’t. But to be dragged before such an august assembly and to have his confession thrust under his nose, to be forced to lie under solemn oath and say, yes, these things I did, may God forgive me. These were heavier matters. Such a lie, violating God’s canon against false witness, would surely kill the immortal part of him.

  His religion offered no assurance that his desire to protect Joan’s life would acquit him of that sin. He should then owe God two deaths—one of the body and one of the soul. Two graves should be his, one in some earthly plot and the other in hell, where his soul would writhe in torment.

  Yet he had no doubt in the world that he would lie, all the same, whether it condemned his high-born friend or

  whether the lie cost him a place in heaven. Joan’s life must not be sacrificed.

  Stearforth and Buck came for him in the morning. They gave him no breakfast, but caused him to dress hurriedly, manacled him and marched him to the stable where he mounted and was led by an even larger troop of officers and officials of the court toward the west, toward the great rambling palace and that noble chamber from which England was ruled, where the queen’s counselors deliberated on the affairs of state.

  The journey was not long, and it passed as a dream. They had not blindfolded him, and his face was so set on events to come that he had not taken the trouble to take in the outward appearance of his place of confinement or noted landmarks, or which church steeple thrust up where, or where the broad river lay. Rain fell in a steady drizzle, and by the time they reached Westminster Matthew was soaked and chilled to the bone.

  At the jumble of buildings that was Whitehall, his escort was reduced by half. Stearforth and Buck stuck by him, as much overawed by the place and circumstances as he; they were joined by Sir Thomas Bendlowes and Master Harking, the latter having a load of documents beneath his arm, so that he looked all the world like a harried clerk. There were also several other gentlemen whose identity was not made known to him, but who were addressed with such respect by Bendlowes and Harking that Matthew was certain these must be persons of high place in the government. They talked in urgent whispers for a while and then he was led through a succession of rooms and up several flights of stairs and down corridors of increasing width and splendor with guards in shining breastplates and fierce halberds lining the walls, and candles blazing in huge candelabra even though it was broad day.

  From a distant room, glimpsed briefly as he was led by in a quick march, he could hear the strains of pleasant music, but the harmonies disappeared in the clack of guards’ boots on the marble floors. Finally, he was brought into a sort of

  anteroom hung all about with ornate tapestries and portraits and with fine chairs to sit upon. There was a fire going in the hearth, tended by three young servants; the other men drew close to it to warm their hands, but they made Matthew stand in the corner where he shivered for his damp cloak and the chilliness of the room and felt anticipation gnaw within him. He asked if he might draw near to the fire to dry his clothes, but Bendlowes said to keep well back from the fire—that he not throw himself in for very fear of what was to follow.

  They had told him he would be taken before the council at nine o’clock. The appointed hour came and went, and it was nearly an hour after before someone came into the room to say that their lordships had been caught up in some more urgent business, and they must be patient.

  During this time, Matthew was forced to stand while the others occupied stools or chairs or walked to and fro. There was almost no talking and such as there was concerned the most trivial of matters,
so that Matthew thought the men might have been congregating at a tavern rather than assembled to address the most powerful lords in the kingdom.

  All this while he thought of how he should conduct himself and arrived at no solution to his dilemma. He sent up a prayer to heaven for an answer. Perhaps the heavens were as perplexed as he.

  It was a little past noon before the same gentleman returned to say that the council was now ready. Stearforth walked over to Matthew and whispered:

  “Buck and I will be going in with you. Remember, you must agree to whatever you wrote in your confession which their lordships will have already read. Recant a word and I swear to you your denial will not refute the power of the written document and will be a sentence of present death to your wife. It will also infuriate the lords of the council.”

  “Will His Grace be there to accuse me?” Matthew asked, thinking that at last he should know the chief conspirator’s name and rank.

  “Don’t be foolish,” Stearforth said. “But greater than he

  will be there; fear them, Master Stock, if you fear anyone at all.”

  Stearforth took him by one arm, Buck by the other and they left the waiting room, went down a long passage, and entered a very wide door that was held open by two tall guards with pikes.

  Inside a spacious and ornately decorated chamber about a dozen or more men were assembled about an oblong table covered with maps and other papers. The men were dressed like princes with chains of office about their necks and a king’s ransom of lace ruff, fur facing, satin doublets of green and gold, and white. At least one seemed a prelate by his dress, and several wore daggers at their belts with silver or jeweled pommels. While some were middle-aged most were old men with drawn faces as though the very weight of their garments, chains, and jewels were as much a burden as their office. A large fire roared in a fireplace, but seemed to do little to remove the chill that pervaded the palace and left the council chamber as frigid as the anteroom. Matthew had heard that the queen had moved deliberately to Richmond to escape the cold, making the journey in a downpour. He could understand why. This royal palace was not friendly to the thin blood of the aged.

  Matthew stared at the faces that stared at him, looking for Cecil and almost hoping that he would be absent, perhaps with the queen at Richmond. The faces looking back were unfamiliar faces and they were unfriendly. They glared, more than stared, with a mixture of hostility and contempt. He felt like some outlandish creature just arrived from America.

  Stearforth and Buck who had entered on either side of him, forced him to kneel and then stepped back against the wall as though touching him somehow contaminated them. At the same time, Matthew glimpsed Cecil at the end of the room.

  It was a wonder to Matthew that he had not spotted Cecil at once, given his desire during the past week to communicate with him. But the little hunchback had been partially concealed behind a taller lord, and only now did he emerge

  into Matthew’s full view, an isolated figure even in the company of his peers.

  Cecil’s strained expression confirmed Stearforth’s remark that the council would have heard Matthew’s confession prior to his being led into the chamber. He saw that his case had already been judged, although he had been assured that his appearance would not be a trial but a mere interview to determine what further action might be taken.

  The first to speak was not Cecil but a wizzened old man with a tuft of white hair at his chin. Despite his years, the old man stood very erect and spoke with a loud voice used to command. Suddenly, Matthew realized he knew who this personage was. The old lord had been pointed out to him once as he rode by in a procession of other dignitaries of the court. The old lord was Henry Howard, the great Earl of Northampton, Lord Admiral of England, and he who commanded the fleet that destroyed the Armada, but one who, Cecil had once noted, was not unfriendly to Spain or to Catholics, although he changed the outward form of his own religion according to the season. Matthew felt humbled. His patron Cecil might be the most powerful man in England, but the Lord Admiral was a legend whose family had enjoyed ducal dignity when royal Elizabeth’s had been Welsh yeomen.

  The earl took several steps in Matthew’s direction and regarded him sternly. Between his thumb and bejeweled forefinger he held a piece of paper. Matthew recognized his confession.

  “Matthew Stock?”

  “He is, your lordship,” Stearforth and Buck said in unison.

  “Herein, Matthew Stock, you have confessed yourself to fraud and murder—the one in exhuming the body of Christopher Poole. The other in taking the life of Stephen Graham, late rector of St. Crispin’s. How say you to these charges?”

  Matthew was cold; the kneeling position was hard on his joints; his teeth chattered and his mind clouded with fear. He knew not how to answer. He could hardly bring himself to

  face this intimidating nobleman, nor could he look at Cecil. He did not answer the charge.

  “I take by your silence that you give consent to the charge,” said the earl. No one else in the room spoke.

  “You have also identified Master Secretary Cecil as he who put you up to these crimes, saying here that he did so that Papistry should thrive in the kingdom and the princess of Spain should succeed to the throne. These are serious accusations. Do you affirm them?”

  Matthew shuddered at the words. Somehow in the mouth of the old earl the accusations seemed all the more repugnant. He felt as though they were really true, these calumnies, and that he must appear to the nobles present as the most abject of traitors, not worthy to breathe another breath. He felt an irrational shame, the worst he had ever felt and something within him wanted to confirm the false confession if only to put an end to his mental and physical suffering. But he did not speak, and the silence in the room became even heavier.

  The earl repeated the charge, then said, “Again, your silence along with your hand to this confession confirms its contents.” The old man sounded weary. Matthew looked up into his face. It was not as hostile as before. But it was a politician’s face, not easily read.

  “May I put a question to the prisoner?” asked another lord, a younger man with a breastplate visible between the folds of a green velvet cloak.

  “Put the question,” said the old earl.

  “This confession. Did you write it?”

  “I did, my lord.”

  “Well,” said the second lord. “We have now shown that the prisoner is capable of speech, if there was any doubt before.”

  “And confirmed that his silence is not without significance, since he can say yea or nay at will,” said a third gentleman.

  Matthew looked up at Cecil, who during all this time had

  not spoken but continued to look at Matthew. There was no fear in his face. He seemed extraordinarily calm.

  “We have other evidence against the prisoner and against Sir Robert,” said Bendlowes from behind Matthew. “The weapon by which the murder was done, with the accused’s initial carved in its haft. That’s damning enough, but also the testimony of one eyewitness to the murder—the sexton of the church. The new rector, Master Hopwood, will also testify of the accused’s presence at the church. Lastly, we have the body of Christopher Poole, which this fellow disinterred at Sir Robert’s instructions so that a miracle might seem to have occurred.”

  “Where was the body found?” asked the earl.

  “In the charnel house, your lordship. Beneath a pile of bones. Stock showed Master Harking and me where the body was concealed. There can be no doubt who it was. I knew the man when he lived. I knew the face as well as my own.”

  Then Cecil broke his silence and asked if he could question the accused. All heads turned toward him.

  “The evidence is powerful, Sir Robert,” said the earl. “I think it would do little good to his case or to yours.”

  “Surely the custom is that the accused may face his accuser,” Cecil said. “At least, it has always been so, unless English law is to be turned upon its head. I don’t need t
o remind Your Lordships that I am accused of murder and also treason. To foment rebellion among Her Majesty’s Catholic subjects could be hardly considered a lesser offence.”

  “Speak then,” the earl said. He stood aside and Cecil walked toward Matthew, stopping about a foot away.

  “To the charge that you have served me and Her Majesty in the past I make no denial, Master Stock. Your efforts were applauded by this very assembly when your quick wit saved Her Majesty’s life from a brazen assassin at Smithfield, two summers ago. There was no talk of murder or treason then, but of courage beyond duty and of yeoman service to your queen.”

  “I did what any of Her Majesty’s subjects would have done,” Matthew said.

  “Oh, I think far more,” Cecil said. “You had good opportunity then to keep silent and let the crazed wretch accomplish his purpose. The queen would have been slain and those purposes now attributed to you might have been advanced considerably, but you spoke out.”

  “It was my wife who cried out, sir,” Matthew said.

  “Your wife? Yes, it was Joan Stock, if memory serves. I’m coming to her presently,” Cecil said, with an expression that hinted to Matthew that he should make no further interruptions.

  “My point, Master Stock, is that this new role imputed to you of traitor and murderer fits very incongruously with your previous service. Such incongruity might well make a reasonable man suspect that these charges are a transparent effort to undo me by incriminating you.”

  “We have the man’s signed confession, Sir Robert,” said the earl, who seemed to Matthew not unhappy to find Cecil accused. “And he has confirmed that it was his hand that wrote it, denying it not, whereby I think we can take the whole story to be true.”

  “I only ask Your Lordships’ indulgence for a few more questions of the accused man,” Cecil said. “If proof be as certain as the Lord Admiral declares, surely he won’t begrudge me a little more time. Who knows, I may dig my own grave more deeply, which I suspect would please more than one of you present.”