“Clever boy,” Marbury said brightly. “Off you go, then.”
The boy had vanished into the low shrubs beside the road before Marbury’s last syllable had gone from the air.
The driver sat scowling. “What could you possibly want him to do that’s worth ten shillings?”
“I pray we never find out,” Marbury said softly.
“He won’t do it, whatever it is,” the driver complained. “He’s gone and so is your coin. You’ll never see either again.”
“Well,” Marbury answered, looking down, “what could be the worst of that? I lose a bit of money, but one less boy starves to death this month.”
The driver’s face changed, slowly at first, but with a dawning realization. “You gave him that coin,” he said haltingly.
“We should hurry along,” Marbury said, taking hold of the carriage door. “I really do need to get to Hampton Court almost immediately.”
“I never met anyone like you, Deacon Marbury, and there’s the truth.” The driver’s face was briefly illuminated, as if an invisible candle had been held close to it. “I’ll have you to London inside of an hour.”
14
Every street in London seemed to thunder as if the entire world ran on wheels of carts and coaches. Hammers beat, tubs rolled; pots clinked. Porters, as if at leapfrog, skipped out of one shop and into another; tradesmen, as if dancing lust-legged galliards, never stood still.
Hampton Court Palace lay fifteen miles southwest of London on a curve in the Thames. The main entrance was built to intimidate the uninitiated. Huge wooden doors arched between two walls; those walls, in turn, were flanked by thin brick spires that shot heavenward. Two larger octagonal turrets rose nearly four stories above the ground. Marbury counted four enormous brick chimneys, all doubles, rising higher than the turrets. No Tudor structure in England could match it. Going through that gate, a small man felt smaller, and a great man was humbled.
Such is the aim of all palaces and cathedrals, Marbury thought as he approached the great edifice.
The morning watch, though uncertain of the exact importance of the coach, knew the King’s markings on the doors and flew to hold the horses as soon as they came to a halt in the stable yard.
Marbury climbed from the interior, pulled off one of his gloves, and handed it to the captain of the Guard.
“Please present this to His Majesty as quickly as possible,” Marbury said in as commanding a voice as he could muster. “I have urgent business with the King.”
The captain only hesitated for an instant.
“He will know the glove,” Marbury assured the captain sternly. “He gave it to me.”
Immediately Marbury was ushered across the yard, through the gardens over huge white paving stones, and into the Banqueting House. Built for Henry VIII, the high, arched beams of the main hall seemed to Marbury to make it more like a cathedral than a dining room. The hall was dark, and Marbury was rushed through it and into a corridor black as a cave.
Down the narrow stone hall, he was eventually admitted to a small kitchen. The perfectly square room had stone for floor and ceiling. Nondescript, utilitarian, uncluttered, it somehow managed to seem inviting.
The captain pointed to a certain chair at the single dining table in the room. “You are to sit in the same spot as Dr. Andrews.”
The captain could only have meant Lancelot Andrews, Bishop of Winchester and president of the London company of translators; also elder brother of Roger Andrews, one of the Cambridge translators. Much had been made of the enmity between the two brothers, a contest made more bitter by the disparity in their positions.
So Lancelot Andrews had already been to see the King. Marbury burned to know more about that.
The captain whispered something to one of his men. That man hurried to a cupboard at the far end of the room and brought Marbury a plate of sweet cakes and a large tankard of pear cider.
“Do not leave this room,” the captain said. It was as much a threat as an instruction.
Marbury nodded.
“I cannot assign men to stay with you,” the captain continued, “but if I return to fetch you and you are not here, your next room will be considerably less comfortable than this.”
Marbury smiled. “I have urgent business with the King,” he repeated. The instructions he’d been given the year before were fairly narrow. He was only allowed to say certain phrases.
The captain blinked once and vanished, followed, somewhat less smartly, by his men.
Marbury sat back in his chair and looked around the room. There was only one stove; it was warm; the kitchen was lit by no other flame. The stone walls, the sturdy wooden table, the relatively small size of the room, meant that this was the Privy Kitchen, the one that Elizabeth had commissioned. The rumor had been that the Queen would meet certain men in this kitchen in order to disorient her victims. A woman in a kitchen was not a queen in a palace—and the subsequent confusion in her visitor’s mind could prove a useful tool of interrogation for Her Majesty. Marbury suspected, as he settled into his chair and looked down at the golden cakes on the plate before him, that the room had been built for a simpler reason: it was comforting. It warmed Marbury’s bones, eased his thoughts; gave peace to his soul. He was suddenly seized with a desire to devour the cakes. He thrust one of them, whole, into his mouth. Instantly the burning delight of fresh ginger and the numbing ease of cloves filled his mouth. The pear cider fizzed on his lips.
He was done with the food in an instant and immediately wanted more. Alas, the combination of the warm coals in the stove and the warm food in his belly conspired to make Marbury drowsy. God help him if he were asleep when someone came to fetch him.
Marbury stood deliberately and paced the room. He brushed his front three times, praying he’d rid himself of any hint of crumbs. He’d worn his best clothes, and he shook his head absently to think what his costume, including sleeves, breeches, and cloak, had cost. Fifteen shillings had gone to the tailor for his work, and nearly fifteen pounds spent for materials: velvet, silk and fustian lining, double taffeta, gold braid and gold lace, hose, and three dozen buttons for the doublet. It was a shameful indulgence—more money than three household servants would see in a year—more than that boy on the road was likely to see in his short lifetime. Still, the King favored fashion, and clothes were as essential to this meeting as a dagger would be in the London streets.
Long moments stretched into half an hour. Try as he might, the waiting did nothing to abate his sense of chaos. His heart nearly leapt through his shirt when, at last, he heard a rattle at the kitchen door.
A pale young man rushed in. He was dressed in ice white and cold blue, and his face had been made up: a bit of powder, a bit of rouge, and just the touch of shading at the eye.
“A thousand pardons, Deacon Marbury.” The young man winced. “Insufferable and inexcusable to keep you waiting so very long. It was entirely my fault. There has been some lengthy discussion . . . if you would not mind, the King would prefer to meet you here. He comes by and by.”
The servant shook his head as if he had just told a joke but forgotten the final line, then shrugged once.
Marbury tensed. He had never heard of the King coming to a visitor. Why would he do it? A visitor went to a King—always. Something was amiss. Marbury found that his head was pounding and his lips were dry. Clearly, others had been just as surprised by this turn of events and attempted to dissuade the King from such a breach of precedent.
Before any other thought could plague Marbury, two armed guards burst in through the door, each in armor, scowling.
“King James!” one of them bellowed.
The sound of the guard’s voice battered all four walls of the small kitchen, and Marbury forgot how to breathe.
15
Guards parted smartly and revealed His Majesty. He had Marbury’s glove in one hand, waved it once, then gave it to the nervous servant behind him. The servant squeezed past the King and thrust the glove i
n Marbury’s direction just as Marbury was attempting to bow as low as he possibly could without falling over.
The King watched with a distant eye. The long white lace of his royal collar seemed to accentuate the reddish tint of his beard. His doublet was ash white, piped in rust-colored patterns, a design echoed in his cape. He wore no hat. A long, downward curving nose gave the King’s face regal bearing, and he affected a weary look. That expression was the product of long years of instruction.
Marbury looked up from his uncomfortable bow to see his own glove dangling before his face. He was momentarily uncertain whether to stand upright and take the glove or to remain in his correct posture until the King spoke.
“For God’s sake, Dibly, take that damned glove out of the deacon’s face,” the King sighed.
The glove disappeared. Marbury straightened. The King took two steps forward.
“We are happy to see you,” James said slowly.
“Your Majesty,” Marbury answered tentatively.
“Well, then.” The King swung his arm wildly. “Leave us!”
The guards stood a moment, perplexed.
“We would speak with Deacon Marbury alone,” the King assured everyone. “Leave us.”
The guards turned at once and moved quickly. Dibly remained.
“I only,” Dibly began, his lower lip trembling, “a thousand pardons, Your Majesty—the glove, I wonder—should I—”
“Please take your glove from Dibly,” the King said to Marbury, “or we will spend the rest of the morning sorting out the protocol of the business.”
Marbury snatched the glove from Dibly, who retreated toward the door, nearly at a run.
The King listened to him go. “It doesn’t pay to have personal servants who are overly intelligent, because they begin to think, and thinking can only lead them into trouble. But there are drawbacks to such a philosophy, do you agree?”
“Indubitably, Your Grace,” Marbury sighed.
When Dibly’s noise vanished, the King himself closed the door to the kitchen, took a seat at the head of the small table, and turned a different face toward Marbury. He spoke in startlingly familiar and confidential tones.
“I am certain you will forgive this bizarre setting for our meeting, Deacon.” The King looked about for a moment and sighed. “But I confess that I find this place comforting. When I was a boy in Scotland, and my sleep was troubled by nightmares, I would often come to our kitchen, sit by the fire, have a bit of cake, and consider the world of dreams.”
Marbury smiled indulgently, uncertain how to proceed.
“But to the business at hand.” James tapped the tabletop. “Please sit down.”
Another breach of courtly etiquette. How could he sit in the presence of the King? Even in a kitchen, certain rules must be observed.
“You have urgent news of my Bible,” James said sternly, “or you would not have appeared so suddenly, without forewarning, in my coach. I beg you, dispense with this mincing courtly courtesy and speak plainly. That is one reason we are meeting here, alone. I can barely stand the modes of the court today, and when a man such as yourself brings what I suppose to be news of a holy nature, I would rather stew in boiling grease than to hear obsequious speeches.”
The King’s eyes burned into Marbury’s. Marbury, against every courtly instinct in his training, sat down and did his best to keep a steady voice.
“Here, then,” Marbury began in hushed tones, “briefly and without adornment, is the reason for my visit. One of our translators has been murdered. I have hired a man to investigate the crime. That man has uncovered troubling evidence of great confusion in certain texts from which our scholars are translating. He has concluded that these texts may be at the root of the murder. There are larger issues at stake, he believes, than the killing of any single man.”
James’s face did not change.
The silence in the Privy Kitchen was alive. It seemed afraid to admit any sound after such a rush of disturbing information.
“Who is this investigator?” the King said at last.
“I know him only as Brother Timon. Surely an invented name, but I acquired him through certain members of the Anglican communion whom I have trusted before—a group of men recommended by one of Your Majesty’s counselors on a previous—”
“Yes, yes!” James stopped Marbury short. “I would know more of him and his investigation. But you must first expand your news. Do you know the nature of this evidence of great confusion, as he calls it?”
“Yes.”
“Go on, then. Give me the worst.” The King did not breathe.
“It would appear,” Marbury continued, steel in his voice, “that our translators are in possession of an ancient text of the Gospel of St. Luke in which our Savior is named Yshua—Joshua—not Jesus.”
Marbury found, when his words were out of his mouth and in the air, that he could scarcely believe he’d said them. He had the dizzying sensation of a dream rather than a waking moment. The kitchen’s warm comfort had turned to hot sweat.
“I see.” James did not appear to move the slightest atom of his body.
“So I thought it best,” Marbury continued hesitantly, “to bring the entire matter—”
“Your assumption,” James interrupted, “is that I was already aware of this startling information, since I delivered the text in which it was found. You came to ask questions as much as to deliver news.”
Marbury opened his mouth to protest, though the King had spoken utter truth.
James held up a jeweled hand. “And I have answers for you. But first things first. Tell me which of the translators has been killed.”
“Harrison,” Marbury said instantly.
“Oh.”
Marbury was astonished to see a very human face on the King of England.
“Harrison, you may know, was my countryman—though I did not know the man.” James looked down at the tabletop. “Our families, I have been told, were acquainted.”
“So I was given to understand,” Marbury said, surprising even himself with the sympathy his words betrayed.
“Do you see now the wisdom of meeting here in this private place, instead of at court?” James asked quietly, looking around the room for a moment.
“Absolutely, Your Majesty,” Marbury answered confidently.
“I knew or sensed—even feared you might be bringing news of this ilk. I had reason to believe you were here on a delicate mission. You see, I have recently spoken with Dr. Lancelot Andrews. Andrews, the presiding scholar of our London translators. Alas, he came to me two days ago with similar concerns—odd occurrences.”
“God in heaven,” Marbury whispered before he could prevent himself.
“Praise Him, no one has been murdered there,” James assured Marbury quickly, “but there have been incidents of theft, and then several bizarre notes. These are matters which we will not discuss at this time. I only mention them to assure you that you are not alone in your troubles. There is more at work here than you can possibly imagine. The details of these ancient documents—several of which were delivered to each group of translators—have vexed me from the first moment I read them. How I came to possess them is a tale itself. You see, Deacon Marbury, I have a mind that will not quiet itself. It has come to my attention that certain facts pertaining to the Savior have been hidden from us, even altered to suit some dark motive. This is the work of the Catholics. These popes are insane, of course, but there is more to it than that. Something has strangled our religion from the very beginning, since the days when our Savior walked this earth!”
The King shot up from his chair, his eyes were white flame. Marbury scrambled to stand himself, tossing his chair backward with a clatter on the hard gray stone floor.
“This is the true reason you have commissioned the new translation,” Marbury concluded, amazed.
“Oh,” James answered, waving his hand, “I have a desire for a new translation to replace the Bishops’ Bible also for petty political
reasons. I know that the Geneva version is more popular, but I do not care for the marginal notes in it which proclaim disobedience to a king necessary, if the king be like Herod. And as you know, the public face of it is that we are creating a Bible for all England—all the world—a translation to end all translations. And it must be favorable to Our political ends. But there is much more to the picture.”
The King took three strides toward the oven coals, seized an iron poker that leaned against the wall, and stabbed the red glow until it yielded flame.
“I see that,” Marbury said hesitantly, “though my brain seems unable at the moment—”
“In the first place,” James declared, bashing the poker against the sides of the oven, “our new translation will open a window to let in the light. It will break the shell so that we may eat the kernel; pull aside the curtain, that we may look into the most holy place; remove the cover of the well, that we may come by the water, even as Jacob rolled away the stone from the mouth of the well by which the flocks of Laban were watered. Indeed without our translation, the unlearned are but children at Jacob’s well, without a bucket—lost. But that is only the first step.”
The King whirled, pointing the steaming poker directly at Marbury. Marbury stared at it. James was trembling with rage.
“Did you know, Deacon Marbury,” the King whispered savagely, “that when I brought my Lady Queen Anne home from Denmark, a tempest of ghastly proportions nearly destroyed us? We were given last rites on ship, certain of our deaths. Several able seamen cast themselves overboard in anticipation of our ship’s going down. We only made land by the grace of God, barely alive. And do you know the cause of that great storm?”
Marbury began to speak, but was interrupted by the merest breath from his King:
“Witches.”
Embers shot upward in the oven fire; several popping explosions sent red devils in all directions. Marbury began to form a sentence in his mind, thought better of it, and exhaled silently. The King paced back and forth in front of the fire, tapping the poker on the floor as if it were a walking cane. His voice was hotter than the sparks that sprayed.
The King James Conspiracy Page 8
