The preacher closed his eyes and bowed his head. Everyone in the sanctuary held his breath, waiting for what would come next. There had never been this much suspense in one of Peter Laslett’s services in his thirty years of ministry.
“Master Gilbert Fuller, if that is your real name, would you please stand and give us your testimony to the glory of God!”
All eyes turned to Drew. Some had an astonished look in them, others the look of the attack dogs at the bearbaiting. Drew jumped from his seat and made his escape through a side window. He held on tightly to the Bible the bishop gave him and didn’t stop running until he was a couple of miles out of town.
Eliot had prepared him for this possibility. His instructions were to take a slow circuitous route back to London. For the bishop’s safety, it was imperative that no one follow him back to London House.
Drew traveled north to Sheringham along the North Sea coast. There, he penned a coded message to the bishop.
Bishop Laud was about to sit down to dinner when he received Drew’s message. To the protestations of his round cook, he excused himself and went to his study. He reached for his Bible, the twin of the one he had given to Drew. The message was brief, consisting of a single entry of seven words: (23/6/5/4–10). Translated, it read: “Woe is me! for I am undone.”
Drew’s second assignment fared better. The bishop sent him to Bedford in the fertile valley of the River Great Ouse, just north of London and west of Cambridge. Determined to learn from his mistakes, Drew used a story that was easier to remember and more in keeping with his background. Upon arriving in the town he attended church services and afterward arranged to speak with the pastor. Robert Sewell’s services were a pleasant surprise after Peter Laslett’s church. Drew was especially impressed with his speaking ability. He probably had taken some courses at Cambridge or Oxford.
Immediately upon entering the sanctuary, Drew knew he had a possible conquest. The altar was not set against the eastern wall, and the minister was not wearing a surplice. These things were violations, to be sure, but what really caught Drew’s attention was the lack of priority given to the prayer book.
All ministers were under strict orders to adhere to the Book of Common Prayer for their services. They were discouraged from preaching their own sermons. The bishop was adamant about this. Preaching lent itself to personal opinion, which would not be tolerated. The bishop had determined that every church in England should worship in like manner; it was this commonality in the worship service that made them the Church of England.
The bishop also discouraged prayers not in the prayer book. If a person was allowed to pray anything he wanted, who knows what he might say? Better that he use the approved prayers of the church.
There was no doubt in Drew’s mind that Robert Sewell, the pastor at Bedford, was a Puritan. He prayed his own thoughts and preached his own messages. Drew listened, took notes, and took aim.
There was only one problem. Her name was Abigail and she was the minister’s daughter. In the three months Drew was at Bedford, he and Abigail grew very close. She was sweet, shy, and had the deepest dimples Drew had ever seen. The two of them would spend evenings strolling through a large grassy area behind the parsonage, just talking—nothing important—as they shared their hopes and dreams, their likes and dislikes. It was the first time Drew had ever felt comfortable with a girl.
It was a good thing he didn’t stay in Bedford any longer than he did, because he began to develop real feelings for Abigail. And feelings can be deadly for a spy.
Bedford was Drew’s first victory. When confronted with his crime, Sewell freely and unashamedly admitted his guilt. As a result he was censured for his actions and forced to relinquish his living as the parish minister.
Everything had gone right for Drew; he got the information without being discovered and transmitted it to Bishop Laud via code. It was the first time Drew signed his note. While flipping through the first part of the New Testament during a sermon, he made a surprising discovery. In his coded message, after informing the bishop of his success, Drew signed the note: (41/3/18/2). The 2 translated: “Andrew.”
All in all Bedford was a gem of a victory, but admittedly a gem with a minor flaw—Drew’s feelings for Abigail. The outcome would have bothered Drew more except that he didn’t see Abigail once the charges were brought against her father. Whether it was coincidence or by her father’s design, Drew never knew, but it was easier on him not having to face her.
If Drew’s second assignment was a success, his third one was a coup. This time he was in the eastern city of Colchester. His assignment was another minister, the Reverend Preston Oliver. And although Oliver was found guilty of Puritan sedition, Drew uncovered a greater prize.
Drew’s story for Colchester was that he had been thrown out of Cambridge University for his Puritan leanings. Reverend Oliver was not only sympathetic to Drew’s plight, but also introduced him to a young lady who had a gentleman friend with a similar story. The lady’s name was Mary Sedgewick; her friend, Marshall Ramsden, had also been expelled from Cambridge. The official story was that he was caught printing pornographic literature. However, Oliver let it be known that there was more to the story, that Marshall was a godly young man with the highest ideals, and that his expulsion from the university was because of his unpopular theology.
Drew liked Mary the moment he met her. She was open and cheerful, friendly almost to a fault. When she heard Drew’s story, she grabbed him by the hand and literally pulled him through the streets of Colchester to a blacksmith’s shop where Marshall had found work as an apprentice.
At first Drew felt threatened by Marshall’s good looks and easy manner and, even though he had just met her, jealous of the way Mary looked at him. But those feelings quickly passed, and soon the three of them became inseparable. They laughed late into the night, telling Cambridge stories; they shared meals on Sunday afternoons; they discussed their favorite books.
It wasn’t long before Mary invited Drew to accompany her on one of the pamphlet distribution runs. Just for company, she said; if they should happen upon dangerous men intent on doing them harm, Drew could protect her. Marshall showed no signs of jealousy. He trusted Mary and gave every indication he trusted Drew.
Before long, Drew was working with Marshall at a secret press, printing the pamphlets of the notorious Justin. The two men enjoyed each other’s company. Drew was shown the escape routes and the hidden door ploy. Mary would often bring them a late dinner. At times their laughter and horseplay got so loud it was a wonder they were able to maintain their secrecy.
To that point in his life, the hardest thing Drew ever did was to hand over Marshall Ramsden and Mary Sedgewick to Bishop Laud. He had never had a closer relationship with anyone else, and it was hard for him to think of Marshall and Mary as a threat to England. There was no doubt they were lawbreakers, but Drew liked them. He delayed his report to the bishop for two weeks while he agonized over the decision.
Marshall and Drew were in the middle of a print run when the shop was raided. As before, there was advanced warning and Mary was hidden, the press type was scattered, and the print bags were switched. However, this time there was no Essex Marvel to assist with the switch. Instead, there was Drew Morgan, Bishop Laud’s undercover operative.
Marshall Ramsden and Mary Sedgewick were arrested, tried, and convicted based on Drew’s evidence.
The Ramsden-Sedgewick case was the first of Drew’s assignments to be tried in the infamous Star Chamber, so named because the ceiling was studded with stars. Drew watched in anguish as his deposition was read, followed by the presentation of physical evidence. There was no jury.
At the conclusion of the presentations the members of the court pronounced their sentences one by one, beginning with the least of them; their consensus was announced by the lord chancellor. To the charge of seditious libel against king and crown—guilty.
As sentence was pronounced and then carried out, neither Marshall nor
Mary showed any remorse. They were whipped and their cheeks were branded with S.S.—Sower of Sedition. Since Marshall’s crime was greater, his left ear was cut off.
Chapter 8
“What’s troubling you?”
“Huh?”
Drew looked up from his book. He was sprawled over the arms of a chair in Bishop Laud’s library. The bishop, seated behind a desk overflowing with papers, laid his pen aside and studied the boy.
“You’ve been staring at that same page for a long time.”
Drew cleared his throat and sat up.
“My mind was wandering.”
The bishop didn’t return to his work, apparently waiting for a more specific response.
“I was thinking about my last assignment.”
“A first-class job, Andrew,” the bishop exclaimed. “I couldn’t be more pleased. In fact, I was thinking—” He rose, stretched, and came to the front of the desk. Resting his bulk on the edge, and scrunching several pieces of paper in the process, he continued, “I’m going west on a trip. A hunting trip actually, although I despise the sport. But the king has requested I accompany him, and I’ve declined too many similar invitations already. I’d like you to go with me. It’ll be a good break for you, just what you need. And your company would make the trip more pleasant for me.” He paused. A sly grin appeared on his face as he said, “Besides, you’ll meet an old friend there.”
“Oh?”
“Elkins.”
Drew furrowed his brow. He didn’t recognize the name.
“You know—you met him at Windsor Castle.”
The bishop’s grin grew enormous.
“At the time, I believe you were wearing a suit of armor.”
Lord Chesterfield’s manor was a spacious mansion designed and built by a promising young architect named Inigo Jones. Traditional in design, the exterior of the manor was formal and symmetrical; from an eagle’s viewpoint it would look like a giant capital E. Inside were splashes of the architect’s promising genius, with vaulted ceilings and serene pastoral paintings.
The mansion lay on the edge of a gently sloping grassy expanse that led down to the edge of the forest where the royal hunt would be held. Drew leaned against the building, with arms folded, and surveyed the gathering of hunters through squinted eyes. The sun had barely peeked over the horizon, backlighting the costumed figures as they buzzed about. There was a chill in the air; puffs of breath hung in front of people’s faces as they talked. The grass was heavy with dew, revealing a myriad of trails as the hunters crisscrossed back and forth across the lawn.
Drew was in no hurry to join them. He was content to lean against the mansion and feel the sun’s warmth. Closing his eyes, he retreated to the privacy of his thoughts. He hadn’t wanted to come to Devonshire, but Bishop Laud insisted, saying it would do him good. The four day journey to the southwest of England proved both interesting and boring. Nothing exciting happened along the way, and the trip was long, but he had never journeyed to this part of the country, and the anticipation of new discoveries around every bend in the road was a mild form of entertainment. The bishop was also right about the healing benefits of a holiday. The farther Drew traveled from London, the less he was haunted by the disfigured faces of Mary Sedgewick and Marshall Ramsden. This morning there was only sun, grass, trees, and the promise of an uncomplicated day.
“Well, if it isn’t Sir Drew!”
Drew smelled him before he saw him. Elkins. The groundskeeper’s breath was the rancid odor of stale beer, and he looked like he was wearing the dirt and sweat of a week’s work. Grinning yellow teeth lingered inches away from Drew’s face.
Drew closed his eyes without responding. In truth, he couldn’t think of anything to say. How does one defend one’s right to be caught wearing a suit of armor? He just wished the smell would go away and take Elkins with it.
“Now, laddie, is that any way to treat a friend who is the bearer of urgent news?”
“News?” Drew open his eyes.
“Why news from Lady Guinevere, o’ course,” Elkins guffawed. “She’s in her chamber waitin’ for ye, if ye know what I mean.”
“You’re disgusting. Leave me alone.” Drew closed his eyes again.
“What kinda knight are ye? Every knight I know is always ready for action.”
Exasperated, Drew took a deep breath, which he regretted immediately. The warm pungent odor of the unwashed groundskeeper nearly choked him.
“Excuse me,” Drew said, pushing his way past Elkins. “I think the bishop needs me.”
“I’ll join ye,” Elkins said, falling in step with him. “The bishop and me’s got a meetin’.”
Drew surveyed the sloping lawn for the familiar round figure of Bishop Laud. Everywhere he looked, lords and ladies were dressed in their finest hunting attire. The scene before him was more like a costume party with a hunting theme than an actual hunt. Men with plumes in their hats flirted with ladies in full dresses wearing a touch of jewelry and an abundance of frills. The guests gathered around low tables set underneath the outstretched limbs of majestic trees. A crystal stream ran along the base of the slope, jumping and splashing over smooth rocks.
The tables were laden with cold veal, cold capon, beef and goose, pigeon pies, and cold mutton. And, even though it was early morning, there were wagons and carts filled with barrels of wine, not rotten drams but noble wine rich enough to make men’s hearts swell.
Everywhere he looked, Drew saw people making extraordinary effort to balance their gaiety and nobility; too much of the one and they could be accused of acting like commoners; too much of the other and they would miss all the fun.
A waving motion caught his eye. It was Bishop Laud gesturing for Drew to join him. At first, he had to shield his eyes against the sun to verify that it was indeed Bishop Laud. There were two others standing with the bishop. He couldn’t quite make out who they were. In fact, he wouldn’t have recognized the bishop except that he had seen the same pudgy arm movements hundreds of times before.
The bishop didn’t get out often, so he exercised daily by holding books in both hands and elevating them over his head. The movement that caught Drew’s eye was the exercise minus the books.
It wasn’t until Drew was a few steps from the threesome that he recognized one other member of the party—Charles, King of England.
“Your Majesty,” the bishop said, “allow me to introduce Andrew Morgan.”
Drew bowed from the waist. “Your Majesty.”
“So this is the young man you have been telling me about,” the king said, appraising Drew with an amused eye. “The bishop’s quite taken with you, young man,” he continued, “and he’s not easily impressed.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” Drew bowed again.
The thirty-year-old king was surprisingly personable, a trait not inherited from his stiff and humorless father, James. Before now, Drew had seen the king only from a distance. Up close, the monarch’s most striking features were his calm, almost lazy eyes framed by a full head of long, dark hair. His ready smile was punctuated with a mustache and pointed beard, which had become the fashion of English noblemen. Long, thin fingers cradled an ornamented goblet.
A quick glance behind the king revealed that everyone around them—lords, ladies, magistrates, court officials—were spectators of this royal conversation. They still carried on their own conversations, to be sure, but always kept a ready eye and ear in the direction of the king.
“And this,” the bishop gestured to the third man of the party, “is Lord Chesterfield, our gracious host.”
Chesterfield nodded toward Drew. His countenance was as cold and stiff as the ruffs he was wearing. Drew had never seen so many ruffs and so much lace on a man. From his mother’s lifelong passion for delicate lace, Drew had become quite familiar with it. Lord Chesterfield’s lace was the finest he had ever seen.
Drew returned Lord Chesterfield’s nod.
“I’m really quite surprised you came,” the king
said to Bishop Laud.
“You invited me, Your Majesty.”
“I know, I know,” the king waved off the obvious remark with his goblet, spilling wine everywhere. “But I was sure you would dig up some emergency that would keep you in London. You always do.”
The bishop’s face turned red. “My only wish is to serve you,” he replied weakly.
“Oh, don’t be so blasted sensitive, my dear bishop,” the king said with an exasperated tone. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” Turning to Lord Chesterfield, the king added in a stage whisper, “The bishop isn’t much of an outdoorsman. However, I’m sure he would be a more willing participant if you had stocked your park with Puritans instead of deer.”
Lord Chesterfield laughed obligingly at the royal humor, a laugh that was cut short when a boy about eight years old with messy black hair darted between the king and himself. Chesterfield made a kicking motion at the boy but missed. Then he gestured to Elkins who had halted a discreet distance from them.
Elkins muttered a low curse and chased after the boy.
“Excuse my son, Your Highness,” was all Chesterfield said, but he was obviously infuriated.
Drew unsuccessfully tried to suppress a smirk. He recognized the parental fury in Lord Chesterfield’s face. It wasn’t long ago that he was the little boy running around at regal functions. Today he stood with the king of England, Bishop Laud (without doubt the second most powerful man in the country), and a prominent nobleman. In a few short months he had risen to prominence. But he was most proud of the fact that he was recognized for his actions on behalf of England, not for how much wealth he had. His grandfather, Admiral Amos Bronson Morgan, had consorted with the queen of England. Today, Admiral Morgan’s grandson carried on that noble tradition. This was a day Drew would never forget.
The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1) Page 11
