The King James Conspiracy

by Phillip DePoy

  “In the town of Trenent in Scotland,” James went on, his voice hoarse, “there lives one David Sarton. He was a bailiff and had a maidservant named Geillis Duncan. She was often secretly absent from her master—every other night. During such time she helped the sick people of that town. In a short space of time she did perform many matters most miraculous. This, quite naturally, caused her master to be curious. He suspected that she did those things not by natural and lawful ways, but rather by some extraordinary means.”

  Marbury shifted his weight. The strain of standing in the increasingly hot kitchen, especially after the torturous coach ride, caused a sudden sharp cramp in his right leg. He struggled to hear his King’s voice, which continued at a whisper, occasionally obscured entirely when the King turned away in his restless dance.

  “Her master inquired of this maid by what means she was able to perform matters of such great importance. She gave him no answer. Her master and I—for he had called upon me for help—did then torment her with the torture of clamps in her mouth. When that failed, we bound her head tightly with a rope and strong men pulling it. Yet she would not confess a thing. This lead us to conclude, of course, that she had been marked by the devil. Witches commonly are. We tore her clothing from her and indeed found Satan’s mark! It was a wine-red blemish upon her throat. When this was found, she confessed that all she had done was by wicked incitements of the devil. Do you see? That she had done them by witchcraft! Have you not heard this story?”

  “Ah,” Marbury stammered, “no, Your Majesty, but—”

  James bashed the poker against the back of the stove again, and bits of flame flew onto the King’s coat, his legs, his shoes. They were cold in seconds, but left visible dark points. James seemed unaware of them.

  “She confessed!” the King declared. “She said she kept a black toad hanging by its heels for three days. She collected the foul venom that dropped from the toad’s mouth into an oyster shell. She then obtained a napkin which I had used and dipped it in this venom. This she did in order to cause the storm which nearly killed Us!”

  “She confessed to this?” Marbury managed to stammer.

  The King spun suddenly and bore his gaze into Marbury’s eyes. “Now you see the importance of my work! Many—too many have been licked by the tongue of the devil since this world began and borne such a mark as was found on the throat of that poor maid.”

  Marbury stumbled backward, startled by the King’s vehemence. He rattled the chair behind him and swallowed.

  “The devil’s minions are everywhere!” The King’s eyes were wild. “And they are most certainly found inside the present Catholic Bible. Which means they are also in your scholarly libraries in Cambridge; in the London and Oxford offices of our translators. They have killed Harrison, do you see? No one is safe. Now do you understand the true nature of our work? We labor to destroy the ancient demons which were provoked by the birth of our Lord! These devils live in the very ink and paper of wicked, corrupted translation. They feed on the ignorance they produce. This new translation will be my legacy to the world! We must open the window and let in the light; burn these demons with illuminating truth, or humankind is lost!”

  Marbury realized that his hands were trembling. His hairline dripped with sweat. He fought to quell his worst fear: that King James had lost his mind.

  16

  “I see by your expression that you are amazed.” The King nodded once. “It would seem that you have not read my work on this important subject.”

  “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon,” Marbury stammered, racing to collect his thoughts, “if you mean—”

  “My seminal work on the subject,” James continued, ignoring Marbury completely.

  “Demonology,” Marbury rushed to insert. “I have indeed read it.”

  “Ah.” The King smiled “Then you may know the three passions that incite a human to witchcraft.”

  A test.

  “Curiosity, revenge, and greed.” Marbury answered his King with calm assurance. “These, I believe, are the passions to which His Majesty refers.”

  “Indeed! And the worst of these is the first. If a man is curious, he will try to find answers. And answers, for small minds, are holes in the brain through which Satan will enter. Thinking is the worst thing a man of limited intellect can possibly do. Translate our Bible into an easy language, and you rub out a portion of that curiosity. A mystery makes men curious, you see. The Catholic Church is filled with mystery, the secret Latin words, the whispered vespers unheard by the common congregation. Our translation removes that mystery. That is its first cause. Therefore we must know all there is to know about the hidden secrets of the Bible and expose them to the light of day. Or eliminate them completely. Some of the texts I sent to your scholars must be eliminated completely—expunged from human knowledge. They are too vexing for the ordinary mind. Your plowman, wheelwright, glove maker—their skulls would swell and pop like melons in the sun should they learn what lies in some of these texts.”

  “I do beg the King’s pardon,” Marbury began, at sea, “but you are saying there are some documents that should be entirely eliminated from our Bible?”

  “Yes,” James snapped. “Some of these works will not translate properly no matter what a scholar does. They contain information too complex for most minds.”

  “These are,” Marbury ventured cautiously, “actual books of the Bible?”

  “Four unknown gospels were sent to your group.” The King sighed impatiently. “Surely your scholars have discussed them. You have alluded to the Gospel of Luke. There are also gospels attributed to Philip, Thomas, and Mary the Magdalene. The other groups received other texts. They may be sharing with each other now—one cannot say what men of the academy will do.”

  Marbury swallowed hard. “There is a gospel written by Mary—”

  “It must be dismissed!” Clearly the King would say no more on the subject. “Have you not heard my accusation? The Bible has been tainted by the work of demons. This Magdalene was almost certainly a witch herself. One of a species of Original Witches that beset Our Lord Christ from the beginning. Her words must not be translated, but destroyed!”

  The heat in the room seemed to increase. Marbury stared at the blistering coals in the oven, trying to find the best response.

  “Alas,” Marbury managed, sweat pouring down his chest, “I have not the King’s wit for such matters.”

  “Witches, you see,” James continued, almost gleefully, “are servants only—slaves to the devil. It is easy to see why women become witches.”

  Marbury responded by slumping against the wall.

  “Deacon? Are you ill?” James peered objectively into Marbury’s eyes. “Your face is pale. Your brow is quite wet.”

  “I—I”—Marbury struggled—“have journeyed all night with little sleep in order to bring my news to Your Majesty. I beg pardon: I am but exhausted.”

  “And the sudden rush of my knowledge has unsettled you. I should have been more sparing. My thoughts are too overwhelming for most men.”

  “Indeed.” Marbury clutched the wall beside him to keep steady.

  The King was mad, and Mary wrote a gospel. A thousand walls would not be enough to steady a man who knew those two facts. Still, the wall did its best and Marbury did not succumb to the allure of the floor.

  However, as he attempted to stand without support, Marbury realized that the room was insubstantial. A rising fever scratched at his neck and ears. He was suddenly seized by a piercing pain, as if something alive in his stomach began to stab him with razor claws from the inside. He recognized the sensation.

  “Your Majesty,” he rasped. “This is poison. I fear someone has given me poisoned cakes and perry—here in this kitchen.”

  The King squinted. “Are you certain?”

  “I have been poisoned before. I must have—” Marbury’s thought was interrupted by another violent pain, and he crashed to his knees.

  “Dibly!” the King bellowe
d

  Dibly instantly appeared in the doorway, crouched low, dagger in hand.

  Even in his dizzy state, Marbury realized that Dibly had feigned walking down the hall or had silently returned. He had been waiting for his King, just outside the kitchen door.

  “Put that away,” James said quickly, glancing at the blade, “and take out one of Our blue vials.”

  Dibly sheathed his blade and reached into a hidden pocket. He produced a vial the size of the King’s thumb.

  “Give it to the deacon,” James commanded. “He has eaten food intended for me.”

  Dibly moved silently across the stones in the floor and uncorked the vial. “Drink this at once,” he said gently to Marbury. “And pray we are not too late.”

  “The effect of this elixir is unpleasant,” the King added, “but I have had occasion to use it several times with, as you can see, a good end. You may step into the hall, with Dibly’s assistance. You will not be able to walk further.”

  Dibly helped Marbury up and the two men struggled through the door and into the hall before a churning sensation overcame Marbury.

  “The vial contains an instant purgative,” Dibly began.

  The remedy was instant and effective. The rest of Dibly’s explanation was as lost as it was unnecessary.

  17

  For ten interminable minutes, Marbury could do nothing but expel poison and cough. For that same amount of time, Dibly wiped Marbury’s face, uttered soothing sounds, and assured Marbury that shortly everything would be fine.

  At last Marbury stood, light-headed, and nodded his thanks to Dibly. Only then did he notice that the captain of the Guard and the men who had taken Marbury to the Privy Kitchen were standing at the door, stone-faced, barely breathing. How they had gotten there, when they had come, Marbury could not have said.

  Marbury leaned his head close to Dibly’s and whispered, “I saw how quickly you came into the kitchen when the King called you; how easy the dagger lay in your hand. And the fact that you were equally adroit with this antidote for poison assures me, Mr. Dibly, that there is more to you than meets the eye.”

  The mask of the sycophant vanished from Dibly’s face for an instant. “There is an advantage to being underestimated, Deacon Marbury.”

  “Do you believe that the poison was intended for the King?”

  “His Majesty often comes to that kitchen to think, to drink, and to be alone. No one knew you would be there this morning.”

  “They knew,” Marbury said, his eyes darting in the direction of the captain and his Guard. “They knew I was to be brought here.”

  “Are you quite recovered from your illness, Deacon?” the captain of the Guard asked, his voice a bit louder than it needed to be.

  “The foibles of travel,” Marbury said, clearing his throat.

  “Captain,” Dibly said, assuming his mincing character once more, “I would know what prompted you to offer Deacon Marbury food. I feel there may be something spoilt in the cakes that has caused our guest to be so stricken.”

  “Royal order,” the captain said, his disdain for Dibly dripping from every syllable. “I was instructed by my superiors on direct command from the King. I am to escort any visitors who arrived in a royal signet coach to this kitchen. Then I am to offer them what refreshment might be available in the cupboard.”

  “And when did you receive these orders?”

  “No more than a week ago.”

  “From which of your superiors?” Dibly took a few steps in the captain’s direction.

  “Baxter.”

  “I see.” Dibly turned to Marbury. “Shall we return to His Majesty?”

  Marbury nodded.

  “And, Captain,” Dibly continued, “see to it that this corner of the hallway is cleaned before the King emerges from the Privy Kitchen, would you? There’s a good man.”

  The captain let go a harsh breath; said nothing.

  Dibly made his way past the guards and into the kitchen; Marbury followed. Dibly closed the door. Marbury noticed, from the corner of his eye, that the cupboard had been cleared: doors open, shelves empty.

  “You heard, Majesty?” Dibly whispered.

  “I did.”

  “And your orders to Baxter?”

  “Were to bring the men here to this kitchen,” James answered. “Nothing more.”

  “Your Majesty,” Marbury began, swallowing, his face a bright vermilion, “words fail to express my great humiliation at this unforgivable—leaving the royal presence—”

  “Do not apologize,” the King said grandly. “Imagine how much more uncomfortable it would have been for both of us if you had died in my presence!”

  Dibly managed a troubled laugh.

  “And my gratitude—,” Marbury attempted once more.

  “Pish!” James insisted.

  “You have been poisoned before, Deacon?” Dibly asked, his voice returned to a normal volume. “You seem to have recognized the symptoms in good time.”

  “I have been poisoned.” Marbury nodded, beginning his story. “I was involved in some matter—”

  “Yet you lived.” Dibly cocked his head, willing Marbury to cease his tale.

  “Barely. My young daughter nursed me. I was delirious for several—”

  “I have been poisoned five times,” the King said proudly. “This concoction which Dibly carries has done the trick each time.”

  “It is a wondrous potion,” Marbury admitted. “I feel remarkably steady considering what I have endured.”

  “Scottish kings have never been without a remedy for poison,” James declared at a stage whisper. “This is an ancient medicine.”

  “To the matter at hand,” Dibly insisted, “if the poison was intended for His Majesty, we must move quickly to ferret out the culprit. If the poison was intended for Deacon Marbury, he should, if his business here is concluded, return to Cambridge, where he will be more secure. And perhaps the deacon might employ the journey to consider who would want to kill him, and why.”

  Why is Dibly so anxious to curtail my meeting with the King? Marbury wondered. I have only just arrived.

  But the King seemed ready to agree; nodded once. “Exactly. Marbury, return to your home at once. Consider all that I have told you, and keep your translators well in line with what I have said. Do you understand the urgency of the matter?”

  “Absolutely, Your Majesty.”

  “I would know more of this Timon, incidentally—the investigator you mentioned. Please give Dibly the particulars as he escorts you to your coach.”

  Instantly and without a glance, the King strode to the door, pulled it open, and began bellowing questions at the captain of the Guard.

  “Follow me,” Dibly said softly.

  The last words Marbury heard, as he exited the dark hallway back into the astonishing dining hall, were the King’s.

  “Bring me Baxter!” His Majesty roared.

  Marbury began to consider, as he walked through the great dining room, that the poison might, indeed, have been intended for him, not the King.

  Only three people know where I am, he thought. Anne, of course—she knows everything. Obviously the coach driver knows where I am, though he would have had scant opportunity to communicate anything to the palace: he was on the journey from Cambridge with me. That leaves only one man.

  “Now,” Dibly whispered, interrupting Marbury’s train of thought. “Who is this investigator whom His Majesty mentioned?”

  Brother Timon tried to have me poisoned, Marbury realized slowly, only half-hearing Dibly. What in God’s name have I brought into my house?

  18

  Marbury was surprised to find his coach waiting for him when he arrived at the royal stables. The courtyard was bustling with people coming and going. The stones were clean and the noise was pleasant. Except for its size, it was not unlike the stables at Cambridge—and there was his coach, ready to leave.

  That efficiency alerted Marbury’s suspicions. If a message could travel the bread
th of the palace with such speed, and in such secrecy, it would have been possible for this coach driver to say something to a servant that would result in poisoned cakes. Perhaps Timon was not the only suspect in that regard.

  Marbury offered Dibly a few superficial particulars of Timon’s hiring. This included a scant mention of the secret Anglican brotherhood that Marbury had consulted on several other occasions. He was quick to remind Dibly, however, that the group had been recommended by the King himself. Without a word of farewell, Dibly turned with a flourish and vanished into the shadows of the courtyard.

  Marbury drew near to the coach and caught his driver’s eye. “That’s done, then,” he said briskly.

  “Quick business for such a long trip.”

  “Brevity is the soul of wit,” Marbury assured the driver. “Let me see—I wonder if you would mind my riding beside you for the first leg of our journey? I have been cloistered in a rather stuffy kitchen.”

  “Suit yourself,” the boy said, moving to one side of his seat. “It’s cold up here.”

  “I could use a bit of fresh air.” Marbury climbed up beside the driver. “Shall we?”

  The driver nodded once and the horses lurched forward.

  “We were in such a hurry last night,” Marbury began over the noise of the carriage, “that I obviated amenities. I would now like to know your name.”

  “Thom.”

  The coach creaked its way to the grand entrance. The gate was opened and they were on the road before Marbury spoke again.

  “How did you get this job?”

  “I saved a man’s cat from a bull.”

  The coach picked up speed. The day was attempting spring—still cold, but the sun was out and the air was clear. The wind did, indeed, feel good on Marbury’s face.

  “Might you elaborate?” Marbury asked.

  “The owner of the stables, he loves his cat. The cat got into the bull’s pen just at the time that bull was about to stud. This is a time when a bull is what they call antagonistic. Especially to little annoyances like a mewing cat. The bull was intent on stepping on same to smash it flat. I slipped in, grabbed up the cat, and got out. Good thing too. The bull had become antagonistic toward me. The owner saw all, and I was rewarded with this job.”