The King James Conspiracy

by Phillip DePoy

Marbury tried to nod. All he could think of was James’s rant in the kitchen at Hampton. His mind played over the image of sparks flying from a kitchen log, sent scattering by a poker in the King’s hand.

  “Confessions were extracted by the most extreme torture. My aunt, Geillis Duncan, was examined by James himself. She was fastened to the wall of her cell by an iron implement that had four sharp prongs. These were forced into the mouth: two prongs pressed against the tongue; the other two against the cheeks. She was kept there without sleep and drawn with a rope around about her head. At last she confessed and was strangled, then burned.”

  “It was said that she had taken a black toad,” Marbury said to Timon, nearly in a trance, “and collected from it some sort of venom—collected it in an oyster shell.”

  “You know the particulars of her case?” Harrison drew himself up a bit more.

  Timon stared.

  “I was told the story,” Marbury said to Timon, “when I was recently at Hampton Court.”

  Timon nodded slowly.

  “It is, in some circles, a well-known tale.” Harrison coughed once more. “By and by, James and his henchmen took my parents. He obtained confessions from them by the same methods. It went worse for my mother than it did for my father. It was always harsher for the women. I know this because James tied me to a chair and forced me, by means of the pinching mask, to watch.”

  “To—to watch as he tortured your parents?” Marbury stammered.

  “He said he was teaching me,” Harrison answered, his words hollow. “‘This is what comes of witchcraft,’ he would tell me over and over again. I shall spare you the details, if you do not mind.”

  Marbury had the impulse to comfort Harrison somehow. But before he could think what to do, Harrison went on, his voice increasingly lifeless.

  “I must tell you that in life my mother had miraculous healing powers. She acted as midwife for nearly everyone in our part of Scotland. The women of Scotland were most destroyed by this madness from James: Agnes Sampson, Barbara Napier, Effie MacCalyan—so many. So many. Can you imagine what happened to our hills when all the women who could birth a baby and stop a death were gone? All ashes. The air above our kirk was gray for a year with the fires that burned them. The smell still clings to the bush and the briar, as if the spirits of all those women held to them as their last hope.”

  “Harrison,” Marbury began softly,

  “And then,” Harrison raged, gaining hellish strength from great pain, “this monster became King of England!”

  “Peace,” Marbury entreated.

  “James let me go eventually.” Harrison’s breathing grew more labored and his eyes were vacant. “I changed my name several times. I went to Edinburgh. James began to circulate Demonology, hoping to reveal Satan’s plan. I began to study the Christian religion, hoping to discover why it would incite a man to murder my parents. I became a great scholar at a young age, and I have spent most of my life attempting to avenge my parents’ death.”

  “You made other attempts before coming to Cambridge?” Timon asked.

  “Yes.” Harrison nodded as he answered. “There was a certain incident involving Father Henry Garnet.”

  “The Bye Plot against James!” Marbury swallowed.

  “Yes, Deacon,” Harrison rattled, his throat thick, “I know you believe that you had a hand in uncovering that plan to kidnap the royal person.”

  “Believe?” Timon asked at once.

  “My compatriots,” Harrison said, “are the cleverest of men.”

  Timon struggled, suddenly desperate to get to his feet. “Compatriots?”

  “They are not here in this room, I assure you,” Harrison said. “But my cohorts will not cease in their efforts, even if I die.”

  “Your cohorts?” Marbury whispered.

  “Yes. They came to me,” Harrison ranted. “They found me at Edinburgh. They told me about this King James Bible. They gave me a perfect means to revenge. They showed me that James’s Bible will be a more influential book than Demonology. It will, in fact, create generations of Christians like James. It will help to destroy more people like my parents. I cannot allow that.”

  “These cohorts helped you to obtain a position here at Cambridge in order to murder the translators?” Timon asked, standing at last.

  “No. At first I only sought to halt the work by academic means, inserting absurd mistranslations, deliberately using incorrect words and phrases. That is why my three cohorts worked so hard to place me in the position of testing the others in their translation work. But these Cambridge men are all great scholars. Their knowledge surpassed my expectations. It soon became clear to us that the only way to stop their work was to kill them. My cohorts convinced me.”

  “But, I still do not understand,” Marbury said, struggling.

  “Christians!” Harrison spat. “This new Bible will create untold ages of believers like James, men who will feel certain of their righteousness. They will murder, torture, destroy in the name of their religion. There will be nothing good left on this earth! They must be stopped. They must be stopped!”

  “But killing these good men is surely not the way,” Marbury entreated.

  “They convinced me!” Harrison’s voice rose, thick and filled with thorns. “My cohorts!”

  “Tell us who are these men,” Marbury said as calmly as he could manage. “Where are they?”

  “They will continue my work!” Harrison too was trying to stand. His face was flushed, and the blood from his arm spattered red rain onto the floor. “They will come for me! You have no idea what loyalty there is amongst the survivors of my clan!”

  “God in heaven.” Marbury grabbed hold of the nearest desk. “There are others! Men like you have infiltrated the Westminster and Oxford groups.”

  Timon could see the blood pounding at Marbury’s temples.

  “Now will you understand?” Harrison’s voice had suddenly become a whimper. “Now will you come to my aid? My wisdom is right, my sentence is just. Did you not heed the words: ‘Wandering through the world as God’s hangmen’; ‘The enemy of man’s salvation uses all the means he can’?”

  “God in heaven,” Timon whispered, closing his eyes.

  “What is it?” Marbury demanded.

  “Those are the words found in the mouths of the dead translators,” Timon mumbled to himself. “I have only just realized that the notes left were quotations from Demonology. I was right to worry about my memory. If I could have recalled sooner—”

  “Until this moment,” Harrison marveled, “you did not know the origin of my quotes? How is this possible? They were plain as day! I felt certain that you or Marbury would understand. Are you both imbeciles?”

  “Those were lines from Demonology?” Marbury exploded.

  “I thought I was making it clear!” Harrison shrieked. “James is responsible for these deaths! James is to blame for the murders! King James is the killer!”

  But before Timon or Marbury could reply, the door to the Great Hall burst open, and a shock of white moonlight broke the darkness in half.

  57

  “Musket shot!” Spaulding shouted from inside the light. He was utterly out of breath, engulfed in a gray wool coat.

  The other translators stumbled in behind him. They all stopped after a few steps inside the doorway. A good thirty feet lay between themselves and the men at the other end of the Great Hall.

  Marbury looked down. “This is Mr. Lively’s musket. I have used it to aid Brother Timon in capturing the killer. If you would all be so good as to come over here, I think you will find yourselves as amazed as I was.”

  Spaulding craned his neck. Between the darkness and the desks obstructing his view, he could not see the man on the floor.

  Chaderton pushed past Spaulding. “You say you have captured the killer?”

  He hurried forward. Quickly, one by one, the others followed, murmuring to one another.

  Richardson was the first to arrive in the candle’s circle
of light. He peered down at the wounded man beside Harrison’s desk. His head twitched in disbelief.

  As the others gathered, they gaped in silent wonder.

  From the back of the group, a softer voice asked the obvious question.

  “Is that Mr. Harrison?” Anne stepped forward.

  “It is,” Harrison answered. “Anne, convince your father to help me. When he tells you my story, you will be on my side. You can imagine what you would do if a king killed your father.”

  “A king killed . . . ?” Anne’s voice trailed off when she looked at her father.

  “Mr. Harrison first altered much of the work that the translators have done here,” Marbury said slowly, his voice stone-gray, “and then he murdered and mutilated Lively and Andrews—as well as a total stranger from the town.”

  The silence that followed Marbury’s voice had a life of its own. Its tatters fell into the darkest shadows of every corner.

  “Why?” Chaderton whispered at last.

  “‘By falling from the grace of God, he continues through the world as God’s hangman,’” Timon intoned, the fingers of his left hand moving, just barely, “‘and being the enemy of man’s salvation, uses all the means he can to entrap them so far in his snares.’”

  “These are the words we found in the mouths of the victims,” Chaderton said, his voice still hushed.

  “They are the words of James himself,” Harrison snapped. “But apparently not a single brilliant mind in the room could remember them or decipher their meaning. If this is the best England can do—”

  “Decipher their meaning for us, then,” Spaulding sneered, “Mr. Harrison.”

  “You good men,” Harrison spat back. The sound of his voice was sick. “Christians. You call yourselves the followers of the Messiah, but you have no idea what He said. He said that you cannot take up a musket and be a Christian. You cannot torture a woman and be a Christian. And you cannot claim strength to rule this world when it was clearly stated that the meek were meant to inherit everything. I spit my vilest curse at you men who call yourselves one thing and behave as another.”

  “I believe that Mr. Harrison means to say that James,” Marbury said, his voice faltering, “and any Christian like him, has fallen from God’s grace. He is a hangman in this world, and is the enemy of man’s salvation.”

  “And then?” Harrison demanded.

  Marbury glanced in Harrison’s direction. “There is more?”

  “Are you all idiots?” Harrison growled. “I left behind a clue telling you what I had done; how I would enter this room to kill you. Another quotation from James: ‘By what way or passage can these Spirits enter in these houses? If they have assumed a dead body, they can easily open any hidden door and enter.’ Where did you put the dead bodies? Where is the hidden door? Christ!”

  “That was not found in anyone’s mouth,” Spaulding sneered.

  Harrison’s wild eyes searched Timon’s. “Did no one go through the things in my room after I died? Did no one see any of the clues I left? The lines from Demonology I laid on my pillow: ‘If the dead carcass be handled by the murderer, it will gush out blood, as if the blood were crying to heaven for revenge.’”

  “I never saw anything from your room,” Timon admitted, feeling foolish.

  “Brother Timon,” Harrison moaned, “you at least must help me. We must destroy them all. You can see the truth of that.”

  “He oozes blasphemy and treason!” Spaulding shouted. “He must be arrested at once!”

  “Let us arrest him today for the murders to which he has confessed,” Timon interjected softly, “and worry about the rest tomorrow.”

  Harrison’s elbow faltered, and his thigh slid on the floor. “You will not help me? You will not aid me in finishing my holy work?”

  Timon leaned closer to Harrison. “Let us leave it to Samuel and Isaiah.”

  Harrison’s head snapped in Timon’s direction. “Do you know them?”

  “I know that they are your compatriots,” Timon said softly. “They inspired you to this course of action. They told you of the King’s new translation when you were in Edinburgh.”

  Harrison closed his eyes. His side was drenched in blood. His face was white as milk. “Thank God you know them. Tell them what has happened. They will know what to do.”

  “I have seen them this day,” Timon assured Harrison gently. “They are already doing God’s work.”

  “All of you,” Spaulding commanded, “help me lay hold of Mr. Harrison. We must confine him until the proper authorities can be notified!”

  Spaulding edged his way toward Harrison’s slumped form. Richardson followed, a few steps behind. Chaderton heaved a mournful sigh.

  Anne pushed her way past the slow-moving men and flung herself to Harrison’s side, her hair in riotous disarray.

  “He is bleeding to death,” she husked. “His wounds need attention.”

  “Anne,” Harrison rasped. “Help me.”

  Anne looked around at all the men in the room, her eyes burning. “When the sick and the lame came to Jesus, he did not lay hold of them and contact the proper authorities.”

  “Take him to my room,” Timon told Anne. “Bind his wounds; let him sleep.”

  “And lock the door afterward,” Spaulding insisted. “We shall all go with Miss Marbury to aid her in her ministrations, and to assure her safety.”

  “Deacon Marbury and I will stay here a moment.” Timon’s voice was so completely unequivocal that no man dared argue.

  As Anne turned to Timon, she noticed that he too was bleeding. “You are also in need of—”

  “My wounds are slight. I can bind them myself. I have been doing so for thirty years. Thirty years or more.”

  The loneliness in Timon’s voice caught Anne unaware. She felt a sudden tightening in the corners of her eyes, a quick thickening of her throat. Before she could think what to say in response to her feelings, Spaulding and Richardson were upon Harrison. They tried to get him on his feet without touching him anywhere that blood had stained.

  Anne turned sharply and slapped Spaulding’s hand away. She took hold of Harrison, heedless of the way his blood soiled her quilted, azure robe.

  At that, the others helped her and managed to get Harrison up.

  “We will hear more of this, more of what has happened here!” Spaulding ordered Marbury. “And shortly!”

  “We shall convene in the dining hall of the Deaconage as soon as you have cared for Harrison’s cuts,” Marbury agreed wearily.

  “And locked him safely in a room,” Spaulding assured Harrison, his face only inches away from the wounded man’s, “with an armed guard at the door.”

  Harrison was barely conscious. He searched a moment, found Anne’s face, and said again, “Help me.”

  “That is what I am doing,” she assured him softly, clearly not realizing the true nature of his entreaty.

  Timon watched the odd assemblage moving haltingly away, across the floor toward the bright doorway. Spaulding was yapping little commands: move this chair, turn that way. Anne continued to whisper soothing things to Harrison, encouraging him to stay awake, to walk forward—a bed and some repose were only a few hundred steps away.

  When they were gone, Timon took a chair, sat, and examined his arm.

  “Were we really such idiots as Harrison said?” Marbury asked softly. “We did not decode the meaning of his messages; we did not even find half the clues he says he left for us.”

  “Most of his clues were products of a deranged mind. They meant more to him than to anyone else. I, myself, see so many things clearly in my own mind that no other human being alive can fathom, and I am nearly as sane as you are.”

  “Yes.” Marbury stepped close by. “How did you know?”

  Timon did not look up. “Know what?”

  “How did you know that those men were the ones who convinced Harrison to follow his insane course of action?”

  “What men?” Timon asked innocently.

/>   “Samuel and Isaiah—and Daniel,” Marbury said unequivocally.

  “Oh.” Timon nodded. “You heard me say that to Harrison.”

  “I did.”

  “It was a guess.” Timon’s eyes met Marbury’s. “But it seemed obvious. Harrison went to the public house where you and I both met with those men when he wanted to find a suitable body to substitute for his own. Why that place? I made the assumption that he had been in that back room with those men.”

  “Does the Pope know that Harrison is alive—and what he has done?”

  “I do not believe that Harrison knew his compatriots were the Pope’s men,” Timon answered softly. “He was under the impression that they were his friends. They found him a broken man in Scotland. This is their genius, these men: that they know how to use a man’s own desperation, how to twist it to their own ends. The men you know as Samuel and Isaiah were expert at that art. They seem to have taken matters into their own hands. It is possible that His Holiness is not entirely aware of the details of any of these events.”

  Marbury smiled at Timon. “You really are quite clever.”

  “Not clever enough to have remembered that the quotations in the mouths of the murdered men were from Demonology,” Timon sighed.

  “You do realize what you have done? You have not only caught a killer, you have saved the Bible. You have made it possible to accomplish the impossible. Everything will be corrected. Nothing will be excluded. Ours will be the first true Bible in the history of man.”

  “There are two other groups of translators,” Timon reminded Marbury.

  “Yes!” Marbury’s enthusiasm was growing. “And we must go to them. Now that we have Harrison’s confession, Lancelot Andrews will have to listen to us. So will Dr. Harding at Oxford.”

  “Have you forgotten that Andrews thinks that you are Pietro Delasander?”

  Marbury blew out a breath. “Oh. Well.” After another breath he brightened once more. “You could go. You could do what you have done here.”

  Timon pulled a bit of cloth from his belt and dabbed at the wound in his arm. “I fear I have a bit of a problem.”

  Marbury peered at the cut. “That cut? It does look bad.”