Timon arrived at the stables in short order to find them empty of people.
“So much the better,” Timon continued aloud, “for mucking out the stalls.”
The horses heard him coming and began to stir, thinking they might be in for another breakfast. They sighed, pursing their lips.
The stable had once been painted white, but the wash had long since faded. The building was a comfortable gray. Inside, the seven stalls were solidly built: rough-hewn slats of weathered wood in lines as straight as a plowed furrow. The smell of the morning air mixed happily with the straw and the manure, a clean scent not at all unpleasant, or so it seemed to Timon.
The tool he needed lay nearby, a handle the color of ale and a fork of smooth, tan wood. He took hold of it, staring for a moment, beaming, when a voice from behind assailed the air.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Timon turned to see Lankin, the stable master. He was dressed all in brown, leaning on the entranceway, squinting at Timon. His head was cocked a bit like a hound dog’s.
“I heard you talking to yourself.”
“Well.” Timon hoisted the dung fork. “I thought I might muck out these stables.”
“Oh, you did, did you? And what do you suggest I do with the stableboys whose job it is to hoist that fork, then?” Lankin asked after a moment.
“Brush a coat, untangle a mane, check a hoof, or any one of the hundred things I know—”
“But what I want to know,” Lankin interrupted, “is what the hell you think you’re doing.”
“Mr. Lankin,” Timon said, his smile gone. “A monk is used to hard work; a harder life than most men can imagine. I am sickened by the creaking inactivity of the scholars in the buildings beyond this stable. If I do not perform a few hours of honest labor, I may lose what is left of my mind.”
Lankin seemed to relax. The grimace he displayed may even have been some sort of smile. “Well, you certainly have said a mouthful there. Them men in that hall, they would never recognize a day’s work if it grabbed them by the backside and gave a whistle. What was your name, again?”
Timon hesitated. The smell of the hay, the larks in the high trees, a river’s worth of pouring sunlight—all conspired to make him offer what might otherwise have been a foolish confession.
“Giordano is my Christian name.”
“And I be Matthew,” Lankin said softly, “named after the best apostle.” He shoved himself up from his leaning posture and turned away. “I may have to tell them boys to catch us a fish or two since you seem to be taking their measure of work at the moment. I fancy a bit of fish to eat at midday.”
He disappeared without another word.
Timon stared after him for a moment, then addressed the instrument of his labor.
“Brother Dung Fork,” he said softly, “you and I are both instruments of God, and in this life we have been given similar duties. Allow me to comfort you with a single notion. God will use us whether we want Him to or not. We can perform our task with joy and grace, or we can squall and squabble—but His work will be done.” Timon lowered his voice and put his lips close to the handle. “The secret is to surrender to the work and choose joy.”
Without another thought in his head for the next several hours, Timon flew through the stables until every stall was scrubbed as clean as a king’s kitchen or an apostle’s heart.
And when he was finished, he knew what must be done about the Pope’s men.
54
Several minutes before three o’clock that afternoon, the market street in Cambridge was spilling noise into the air: swearing, swaggering, shouldering, shuffling men at work; women singing. Here and there a cape cast itself open to display the new clothes beneath, while other cloaks might have concealed a broken elbow, the ready pistol, or small bits of stolen silver.
But the street in the next block was deadly silent. Timon stood there, across from the public house where his meeting was to take place. He sought to be invisible, searching for a way to enter without being seen, some side window or back entrance. An alleyway was to one side of the house, but he was loath to explore it only to find a dead end and be trapped there. After a moment a man in a baker’s apron, dusted face to shoe with flour, emerged from the alley carrying an empty tray. He turned down the street toward a bakery at the far end of the row of buildings.
So there was a service entrance, or perhaps a kitchen door.
Timon looked up and down the street. Satisfied it was empty, he drew his hood over his head, stooped to hide his height, and made for the alley. Once in, he could see, at the very back, a kitchen. He prayed, for some reason, that Jenny would not be there. The alley was wet, a bit chilly, and even quieter than the street. A few steps farther in, Timon could hear the sounds of the kitchen: plates and tankards clattering, grumbling, laughing, sizzling.
He turned his face downward, slumped his shoulders even more, and plunged in through the open door. The smell of smoking meat assaulted his nostrils. Someone by the fire whispered, “Look: another one.”
Timon kept walking. As he had hoped, in only a few steps he was in the main room behind the bar. He turned to his right immediately, lifted his eyes only long enough to see the door handle in the dimmer light. He took hold and slipped into the back room through the slightest possible opening.
He stood for a moment with the closed door to his back, listening to the sound of the other three men breathing in the room.
“Ah,” a voice whispered, “you arrive precisely.”
“If a bit theatrically,” another said softly.
“That is you, Brother Timon?” Venitelli asked hesitantly.
Timon drew in a great breath, stood to his full height, and drew back his hood in answer. He clasped his hands before him, though they were hidden in the sleeves of his robe. He stared at his hosts.
The three men sat as before, on the opposite side of a rough table from where Timon stood. The room was slightly more illuminated. Several candles seemed to have been added since the last meeting.
“I must tell you frankly,” Timon said, smiling, “I had hoped that there would be much more time between our meetings.”
“If you had engaged in proper work,” Isaiah exploded, “there would be no need for a meeting at all!”
“Why did you allow Marbury to visit Dr. Andrews at Westminster?” Samuel demanded.
Timon’s smile never left his lips. “Why did you send Pietro Delasander to kill me?”
The room was plunged into utter silence. All the men had stopped breathing. Not a single atom moved. Even the candle flames seemed to freeze, fearing what might come next.
“Have I served my purpose already?” Timon continued after a heartbeat or two. “Is that the reason? Cardinal Venitelli’s ill-conceived ploy to loose a rumor that the Pope condemned our King James translation—it might have worked. Except that human nature is never quite predictable. We can never be certain whether threats and fears will bend a man’s will or strengthen his resolve. It is a tricky business, the molding of a man’s soul—and messy.”
Venitelli attempted to speak. All three faces at the table had drained of color.
“Delasander misinterpreted his instructions,” Samuel began, all hint of authority gone from his voice.
“I deciphered his papers accurately,” Timon interrupted. “He was using your code—which, incidentally, I taught him. His orders were quite explicit.”
“Is he with you now?” Isaiah barely managed to say.
“No,” Timon said immediately. “His body is buried in several inches of dirt in Cambridge. His soul—who can say?”
“Dead?” Isaiah gasped.
“He seemed so when I put him in the ground.” Timon’s fingers played upon the handle of his knife.
Venitelli, wild panic in his voice, turned to the other two. “I told you!”
Without warning, Isaiah’s right arm swung from beneath the table and flung a long, thin dagger with impossible speed. It flew di
rectly toward Timon’s heart.
Timon managed to turn slightly to his left and lift his right shoulder enough to prevent the blade from piercing his chest, but it sunk its fang into the flesh of his upper right arm.
Instantly he crouched, yanking the knife from its wound and discarding it. Before any of the other men could move, Timon kicked the table where they sat. It crashed over on top of them.
At one leap Timon landed hard on the underside of the table. He hit with such force that their chairs splintered and collapsed, and the table came cracking down onto all three men at once.
Venitelli closed his eyes; passed out instantly.
Isaiah gasped for air, struggling beneath Timon’s weight, unable to quite reach his other knife. Samuel was unable to move at all. Both of his arms were pinned to his chest by the overturned table. He was directly under Timon.
Timon’s arm dripped blood onto the table. He held his own knife in his left hand, sucking in breath through clenched teeth, and put the slicing edge close to Samuel’s face.
But he did not move farther. The blade stayed poised over Samuel’s throat. Samuel’s eyes were mostly white and he seemed to be struggling to speak.
“The difficult thing for a man recently awakened to new faith,” Timon calmly explained to Samuel, “is that his old habits are not immediately broken. For the sake of my new self, I do not wish to kill you, but my old self tells me I must. If I fail to do so, you will continue to pursue me. And you will continue to kill other men and women for whom I have some affection. I cannot allow this. Is it right to do a little evil for a greater good? Never. But I believe that this particular moment was ordained by God before the world began. I am already condemned to hell, and so I am the man God has placed here in this room to stop you and your unholy work. I thought you should know this.”
Without another word, Timon’s blade flashed out and sliced Samuel’s throat from ear to ear. The jugular veins on both sides and most of the nerve endings in his neck were severed. Samuel died quickly; without a sound. Timon wiped his knife on Samuel’s shoulder and stood.
Isaiah was trying desperately to free himself, kicking, bucking the table; making noises like a wounded horse.
Timon stooped down, tapped Isaiah’s head with the tip of his blade. “Look carefully. This is the last thing you will ever see.”
Timon held that blade before Isaiah’s eyes long enough for Isaiah to fully realize what he was looking at. Then Timon stabbed Isaiah through the left eye—the point of the knife plunged directly into the brain, and he left it there.
Isaiah thrashed madly, the motion of his head a blur, his tongue out of his mouth but unable to squeeze a word past his lips, even with his dying breath.
Timon turned to the shivering Venitelli and grabbed his hair.
Venitelli’s eyes opened halfway.
“Get up and come with me now,” Timon said in Italian, “if you want to live out the rest of the afternoon.”
Timon backed off the table, dragging Venitelli with him.
Venitelli looked once at his dead compatriots, then kept his eyes lowered, head tucked, waiting for Timon’s death blow.
But Timon only pulled his own hood up over his head and said, “You should cover your head too.”
Venitelli complied instantly.
Timon took Venitelli by the arm; pulled him over to the exit. He opened the door a crack, surveyed the outer room, judged it safe to pass through, and slid quickly into the public room. He turned left immediately, still pulling Venitelli with him; steered through the kitchen with lightning speed, and out to the alley.
Once there, Timon pulled Venitelli close and whispered into his ear, “When it is my time to die, I will embrace the darkness as I would a bride, full in my arms. But that day is not today. I have more work to do. I do not know how you will receive your own death, but that, also, will not be today. I am sending you back to Pope Clement with a message. The King James Bible will be the first true book in the history of our religion. Tell him that sentence exactly. Tell him that nothing will be excluded; nothing will be added. The thoughts and words of our Lord will be plain, in all their confounding splendor, for any human being to read. There is nothing he can do about this because I have read and memorized all the secret, hidden, excluded documents—even Padget’s stolen text. Can you remember all of that?”
Venitelli nodded, whispering to himself what Timon had said so that he would not forget.
“Then go now.” Timon thrust Venitelli out toward the street with such force that Venitelli tripped and nearly fell.
“You are not going to kill me,” Venitelli realized slowly.
“You are not an evil man, Cardinal Venitelli.” Timon nodded. “You are not like the inquisitors who tortured me when I was in their jail, the men called Samuel and Isaiah.”
“Those men tortured you?”
“You are innocent, and you are stupid. You have been used by other men because of those God-given qualities. Do you think you could communicate one more message to His Holiness?”
Venitelli nodded slowly.
“He may surmise it on his own, but he is by no means the brightest man I know, either, so let me say it plainly.” Timon drew in a deep breath. “Tell His Holiness that I am no longer in his employ.”
55
That night as the sun was setting, a lone figure walked deliberately toward the Great Hall. He was dressed in an unadorned umber coat and a plain skullcap of dark gold, devoid of design or insignia.
Several stars flickered like candles, and a full white moon began to rise in the eastern sky. Nightingales offered vespers; doves hushed the evening. That particular part of the evening seemed a time for quiet reflection, a lover’s whispered call, or the comfort of night’s respite.
So when a window on the second floor of the Deaconage scraped open, every fiber of the night turned its attention in that direction.
Anne leaned out of the window and called, “Dr. Spaulding! What are you doing? It was agreed that no one should go into the Great Hall alone. Especially at night!”
The figure paused on the walkway, searched a moment for the source of the racket, and found Anne leaning out of her window.
He made a noise of utter disgust and dismissed the girl with a wave of his hand. Then he continued on his way toward the Great Hall.
“Suit yourself,” Anne grumbled, softer. She pulled the window closed.
The lone figure moved deliberately through the common yard, arrived at the door of the hall, and fumbled with his keys. He scratched his skullcap. With a bit of mumbling under his breath, he finally turned the lock and entered. Within seconds a candle was lit. Its flame spilled onto the threshold for a moment before the door slammed shut.
The umber robe moved a bit stubbornly across the floor toward Spaulding’s desk.
Once there, the man sat down in the high wooden chair facing the cellar door, placed the candle in its holder, and leaned back to survey his work.
The desktop was immaculate. A single stack of papers lay flat next to a clean white quill in a spotless inkwell. A row of books was lined up side by side at the top of the desk, alphabetically, left to right, according to title.
Order prevailed, but there was no comfort in it. His fingers ached, held at the ready. The back of his neck was an iron rod. The muscles in his face were pinched and tight. He ground his teeth. His ears twitched at every creak of rafter, click of beetle hidden in the shadows; every sigh of wind outside.
He moved the candle closer to the pages that were on the desk and made a great show of beginning to read. He did not realize that his lips were moving.
The first thing he saw was a note that read, Excluded by KJ. It was followed by a quote from a secret text, the Gospel of Philip. The rulers thought that it was by their own power and will, but the Holy Spirit in secret was accomplishing everything through them. Truth, which existed since the beginning, is sown everywhere.
The absolute perfection of that thought so absorbed his
mind that he failed to notice when the cellar door whispered open. He did not immediately see the slouching shadow.
In the darkness outside the candle’s influence, a spider of a man crept silently on hands and knees, elbows and feet, drawing ever closer to the lone figure in a round web of light at the desk. A black hood was pulled up over the intruder’s head. The space where his face ought to have been was a starless night. Bone white fingers clutched a thin fisher’s knife, a long razor of a blade. Dust on the floor lay smeared in the man’s wake as he inched ever closer to his prey, utterly without sound. His victim, the man in the light, was absently moving his lips as he read.
He moved around the desk, outside the circle of light, bony fingers and long-nailed toes eking out the distance between him and his prize. Still crouched low to the floor, only several feet away, the murderer drew in a slow, silent breath. He tensed his muscles, ready to spring upward and grab Spaulding from behind.
With no warning, the man at Spaulding’s desk stood upright. He kicked his chair backward directly onto his attacker. He spun about with dizzying speed.
“You!” the murderer whispered, clutching his head where the chair had hit him.
Timon threw off Spaulding’s skullcap as if to verify the murderer’s recognition. He kicked his right foot directly at the murderer’s throat.
The murderer barely avoided Timon’s blow. He rolled to one side on the floor and flicked his fillet knife. It sliced a deep gash across Timon’s boot into the flesh of his ankle. Blood oozed onto the floor.
Timon produced his own knife, backed up, and blew out the candle on Spaulding’s desk. The room returned to its natural state, a perpetual, featureless twilight. Timon’s years in darkened cells came to his aid. His pupils widened and he could see his attacker thrashing backward, under several desks.
Timon strode two giant steps toward him, ignoring the pain in his right ankle. He flung aside the desks with his left hand, barely grunting as he destroyed the murderer’s cover. The hollow wooden desks on the cold stone floor filled the room with deafening explosions.
The King James Conspiracy Page 27
