by Anna Castle
Then the door squealed open again, this time admitting Steadfast Wingfield. Tom’s interrogators fell silent to stare at the intruder.
Steadfast looked askance at Mrs. Eggerley, bowed shortly to Dr. Eggerley, and said, “Mr. Barrow wants to see you, Tom. Now, if you have a minute.”
“Of course,” Tom said. “Mustn’t keep him waiting.” He slid past Margaret with a tooth-grinding grin and followed Steadfast out the door, down the stairs, and along to the north range, where Barrow had his chambers.
Tom assumed Barrow wanted to ask him why it had taken so long to deliver the letter to the yeoman in Grantchester. Missing dinner was always noteworthy and he’d missed the after-dinner divinity lecture as well. But he’d practiced his excuse all the way back and was ready to be questioned.
He wasn’t prepared for the scene that greeted him, however. He’d never been in Barrow’s chambers before. If asked, he would have guessed they were much like his or Jenney’s — sparsely furnished with an eye to essential functions, as neat as could be expected of a space inhabited by undergraduates. Barrow’s study chamber, in astonishing contrast, was more like the workshop of a mad apothecary who had just returned from a long sea voyage. Every inch of the walls was hung with some tool or toy: bows and arrows, fishing poles, hats, musical instruments, nets, mallets of unknown purpose. Every corner was stuffed with curiosities ranging from oddly shaped pieces of polished wood to giant seashells. Three bells of different sizes hung from a beam near the window. There were even cages all around the room — on the floor, on tables, hanging from the beams — with creatures inside. A ferret watched him with bright-eyed curiosity. Birds chirped and twittered overhead.
Tom gaped goggle-eyed in amazement. No wonder the man was the most popular tutor in the college!
“You’ve never been up here, have you?” Barrow chuckled. “I like to provide a well-rounded education for my boys. Keep them from wandering astray, looking for whatever it is they think they might be missing.” He gestured Tom to a stool near the window and perched himself on the corner of his central table.
Now Tom noticed Abraham Jenney sitting on the backed stool behind the table. Jenney spoke first. “We wondered if you had trouble finding our man in Grantchester.”
“The yeoman?” Tom asked. “I did, as a matter of fact. He was washing his sheep, way down along the stream. I sprained an ankle coming back across his fields.” He lifted his foot as evidence.
“I see,” Jenney said. “Still, I should think a fit young man like you would hop all the way back rather than miss his dinner.”
“You can’t hop very far,” Tom said. “You get wobbly. I caught a lift from a carter and his boy, who passed me as I came onto the main road. They were bringing hay to an inn outside Trumpington Gate. The Cap and Bells. Do you know it?”
“I know of it,” John Barrow said. “Not the sort of place you should be visiting, Tom.”
“No,” Tom agreed. “I could see that at once. But my ankle was swelling up like a balloon ball and —”
Barrow leaned over to study Tom’s leg. “It doesn’t look swollen to me.”
Tom studied it too, holding it out again so they could all get a good look. “No, it doesn’t, does it? It’s gone down a lot. Hurts less too.” He set the foot gingerly on the floor and smiled bravely. “I’ll be good as new by morning.”
“Hm.” Barrow did not return the smile. “What did you do in the Cap and Bells? Who did you talk to?”
“Nobody,” Tom said. “Except the serving wench. If she really was a wench.”
Jenney looked startled. Tom wondered if he’d gone too far. His plan had been to stick to the truth as far as he could to keep from getting caught in a contradiction.
“I had dinner,” he added. “I was hungry and I knew I’d miss commons here.”
“What did you have?” Barrow asked.
“Uh, let’s see,” Tom said. “Rabbit pie. And a strawberry tart. We never have that here.”
“Sounds delicious,” Barrow said. “So you waited until your foot felt better?”
“My ankle,” Tom said. “Yes.” He cocked his head to show confusion. “Why wouldn’t I? Has someone been telling tales about me?”
Wrong question. Barrow leaned forward again, hands on his knees. His hazel eyes glittered. “Who would tell tales about you, Tom?”
Tom felt like he’d stepped into a hole. “Nobody,” he answered, floundering. “Why would they?”
A breeze gusted through the window. A curtain flapped, something rattled, and one of the bells went bong. Tom startled and turned. “That’s a pleasant . . .” His voice trailed off as his gaze traveled from the bell to the clapper to the rope hanging from it, with a distinctive noose gathering up the extra length. A noose exactly like the one he’d seen around Mr. Leeds’s neck.
He stared — he couldn’t help it — then blinked and slid his gaze toward Barrow to see if he had noticed.
He had. He was watching Tom through narrowed eyes, his tongue pressing into his cheek. He knew Tom had recognized that knot and was waiting for his reaction.
Tom’s brain whirled. What could he say?
Chapter Forty-Four
The authorities might not arrive for a day or more, and even then, they’d be coming for the wrong man. Tom had to do something — say something — to salvage his commission. He could stall, but for how long?
As he met Barrow’s eyes, the answer came to him. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t know where he’d seen the knot or that he’d been looking at something else. Too late for that. He had to acknowledge his knowledge and pretend he approved. However loathsome, however false, all he could do now was brazen it out.
He summoned an imitation of Steadfast’s steely grin. “I could have helped, you know. I was right there, in Leeds’s rooms.”
“So you were.” Barrow flashed his genial smile and raised one finger. “Hold that thought.” Then he turned to Jenney and said, “Shouldn’t you start preparing your reading for supper, Abraham?”
“You’re right, I should.” Jenney rose from his stool.
Barrow walked him to the door. “If you see any of my boys, have them go directly to the hall and work together on their Greek translations until supper.” He opened the door and paused on the threshold to murmur something. Jenney murmured something back and left.
Barrow closed the door and returned to his perch on the edge of his table. “Now, Tom. What were you saying about helping?”
Tom had been racking his brains for a relevant quote from the Bible. He tried Luke: “Woe unto that man by whom he is betrayed.”
“And they began to inquire among themselves, which of them it was that should do this thing.” Barrow chuckled. “Not entirely inappropriate. Your knowledge of Scripture has improved a hundredfold since you came to us in January.”
“I have you to thank for that,” Tom said. “You and Mr. Jenney. You’ve been my guides in so many ways. I can never thank you enough.”
“All I ask is loyalty, Tom. And commitment.” Barrow gave him a measuring look. “What, or whom, do you imagine Bartholomew Leeds betrayed?”
“Us,” Tom said, not understanding the question. “Our cause.”
“What exactly did you know about ‘our cause’ way back at the beginning of March?”
Tom felt the ground shift beneath him as if the whole building had tilted on its side. He cursed himself for a downy-feathered fool. He’d always had trouble keeping straight what he was supposed to know and what he wasn’t, and this time he’d really made a mess of it.
“You had barely settled in at that time,” Barrow said. His tone was cool, casual, as if setting up a standard exercise, but he held Tom’s gaze while he spoke. “You hadn’t shown any special interest in divinity lectures or Bible study. You seemed a perfectly ordinary student. And Barty was hardly the type to confide in an undergraduate.” He nodded, seeming to see something in Tom’s face that satisfied him. “You couldn’t have known anything, not unless someone e
lse told you. Someone outside our circle. So tell me, Tom: what manner of woe do you think a betrayer should receive?”
Tom licked his lips. The game was over. His cards were all laid flat. “Traitors to the queen are hanged.” He got to his feet and moved toward the door, but heard steps on the landing. His heart sank, knowing it wouldn’t be one of Barrow’s boys or pudgy Abraham Jenney.
Steadfast walked in, glanced at Tom, and then looked at Barrow with raised eyebrows.
“Come in and close the door, Steadfast,” Barrow said. “Tom was just telling me how traitors ought to be punished.”
“Traitors?”
“He was talking about Bartholomew Leeds,” Barrow said, “but I believe we have another traitor to deal with now.”
“I knew it.” Steadfast showed Tom his teeth. “Something about you never rang true. Your jokes about our names, the way you agreed with everything so easily. You were always a little too smooth. You smelled false, but it wasn’t my place to judge you.”
“No,” Barrow said, “that is not your role. It’s mine. And I do not discard a useful tool until I’m sure it is beyond repair.” He cocked his head. “You were reading a letter as you came into the yard, Tom. I saw you fold it up and put it in your pocket. It looked like good news. There was something in your step, and I don’t mean the fake limp.” He grinned. “I’ll bet you put a rock in your shoe, didn’t you? That’s an old schoolboy’s trick. Did you think I wouldn’t know it?”
Tom bit his lip. Why had he trusted Marlowe, of all people? Ah, well. He’d be better off with two good feet. He toed off his shoe, bent to pick it up, and shook out the rock. He slipped the shoe back on and stood balanced on both feet, ready for what he suspected was coming next.
“Thank you,” Barrow said. “I’d like to see that letter, Tom.”
“I don’t have it. I left it on my desk.”
“No, you didn’t.” Barrow shook his head, smiling. “You never leave your letters on your desk. I’ve kept an eye on you, of course. A new soldier entering the field at a critical juncture. I always hope for the best but prepare for the worst. Now my caution has been justified.” He sighed, a man of infinite patience sorely tried. “Steadfast, will you do the honors?”
“With pleasure.” He rolled his shoulders and flexed his hands.
Fisticuffs, then. Good. Tom was tired of the verbal fencing. He rolled his neck and shook his own hands out. “I owe you a good blow. The day we met, remember?”
“I remember,” Steadfast said. “You didn’t even try to hit me back. That’s one of the reasons I’ve never trusted you.”
Tom raised his fists and set his feet shoulder-width in a good fighting stance, feeling a little ridiculous in this overstuffed chamber with all the birds and animals watching. Barrow crossed his arms and leaned against his desk with that patient air he adopted while his boys did something especially boyish.
The two lads faced each other in the area before the door, the only open space in the crowded room. Tom wanted to punch Steadfast’s round face so badly it was like a lust. But how to get there? He’d have to step in and get closer, but he had no wish to feel Steadfast’s rock-hard fist on his own face again.
He threw a jab, which Steadfast ducked. Then Steadfast swung a blow Tom could have seen coming a mile away. He leaned out of its path. If that was how he fought, all Tom had to do was wait for another wide swing and jump in with both fists. A sharp left-right — bang bang — and he might be able to make it out the door.
They danced a little in the narrow space, not big enough for circling. A couple more feints, another missed jab, and Tom heard Barrow say, “I don’t have time for this.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw him stand up, but he didn’t dare shift his focus from his main opponent. Then Steadfast lunged at him, arms out to grab him around the trunk. Tom dodged back and came up against something hard behind his leg. Before he could shift his weight, the thing slid and toppled under him, his foot slipped in the rushes, and he felt himself falling. The side of his head caught the edge of a table as he went down.
Next thing, he was on the floor with his face in the rushes while both men pulled his wrists together behind his back and his feet together at the ankles, binding him tightly with thin ropes. His head swam and he wanted to puke.
“Get his knife,” Barrow said. “Good. Now get that letter.”
They rolled him onto his back. Steadfast patted at his slops until he found the pocket, then dragged out the contents.
“Let’s sit him up,” Barrow said. “I’ll want to ask him some questions.”
They hauled him into a chair. He groaned and tried to say something, but his tongue didn’t work and when he opened his eyes, everything was clouded with a yellowish haze.
“Give him some water,” Barrow said. “I don’t want him to vomit in here.”
A few seconds later, cool water splashed over Tom’s face and a cup was held to his lips. He swallowed, gasped, and took another gulp. It helped. He blinked and gently moved his head. He could hear blood throbbing in his ears.
Barrow pulled up a stool and sat before him, knees almost touching. Like the intimacy of the study group, but with a deadly difference. He scanned the letter quickly, nodding as he read. “This is interesting, if ambiguous. Proof, if I needed it, that you certainly did not come here to please your father by becoming a clergyman. Does he even know you’re here?”
Tom just blinked at him. He wasn’t sure an answer was really expected.
Barrow said, “What a fool Old Eggy was to keep records of his crimes! Although, perhaps he had to. I don’t know anything about such matters. My concerns are with the eternal, not the temporal. My company of the faithful demands all my strength and consideration.” He looked past Tom’s shoulder and said, “This says constables are to be expected.”
Steadfast must be standing right behind him. Tom twitched, a small flinch. He didn’t want to be hit, especially not by surprise from behind.
Barrow returned his gaze to Tom. The warmth had vanished from his hazel eyes. “When do you think they’ll arrive?
“Don’t know,” Tom said. His voice sounded odd, but his vision was clearing. He wished they would just leave him alone. “Anytime.” He cleared his throat. “If Mr. Bacon sent his letters Sunday morning by a special carrier, the sheriff could be on his way right now.”
“That’s possible,” Barrow said. “Possible. But you don’t know the local authorities as well as I do. Several of the justices in this area are members of our fellowship. They’ll create a delay, at least for my part. No one would object to arresting Dr. Eggerley, who has grown far too ostentatious for our humble college. And this letter is ambiguous. Eggerley is the only person specifically accused of a crime.”
He re-read the letter, chuckling to himself. He seemed happy, almost exultant. “Your Francis Bacon is a nephew of Lord Burghley,” he said. “The most powerful man in the kingdom. I’m flattered, to be honest, that His Lordship should be so fearful of my power as to send a spy to catch me. I must be quite the thorn pricking him in the side. Although, I have been expecting something like this. I wasn’t sure Barty would betray me so explicitly, but he began asking questions he shouldn’t have asked. Names, places, dates — all too soon and too insistent. I thought I caught him in time, but he must have gotten one letter off, or you wouldn’t be here, would you?”
He patted Tom on the knee and smiled. “I’ve managed to keep a barrister at Gray’s Inn — one of the ancients, I believe — and the Lord Treasurer himself dancing a merry jig, haven’t I? God throws obstacles in their path, knowing my work is necessary to fulfill His plans. It won’t be long now, Tom.”
He rose and went to his desk, where he unlocked his writing box and withdrew a small bottle. He poured wine — the smell made Tom’s stomach roil — from a tall jug into a cup and added a few drops from the bottle. He swirled the mixture in the cup and drank it down. Then he filled the cup again and poured in a stout measure from his bo
ttle. This time he left it standing. He tucked the small bottle into the pocket of his slops.
When he returned to his stool, he seemed even more buoyant than before. “I must say, Tom, I never imagined anyone would recognize a bell ringer’s noose! How many times did I make that knot in my father’s church, rising early to fill his place while he snored off another night of drink? I loathe idolatry in all its forms, but I do love a good, sound bell. And there’s nothing like ringing to get a man’s blood up in the morning.” He flashed his old genial smile. “You’re a man of hidden talents. No one else even thought to look at those knots.”
Tom shrugged. “I spent a year on my father’s ship. I learned a thing or two. And Francis Bacon has taught me to be observant.”
“Has he?” Barrow eyes glittered. “What manner of reports have you been sending him?”
“Lists of things, mostly,” Tom said. His head still throbbed, but the nausea had passed and he could see well enough. He didn’t know what they had planned for him, but he didn’t like the thought of that cup waiting on the desk. His best hope was to keep Barrow talking until the constables arrived. “I made lists of everything I saw or heard. Names of the men in my study groups, folk who came to hear sermons in Babraham, who owned which books. I had to write every day. It isn’t easy to come up with something fresh and relevant.”
“Yes,” Barrow said, “I suppose even deceivers have their struggles. Who are these chief suspects of yours, Tom? The ones your Bacon mentions. I suppose I’m first on the list.”
“No,” Tom said. “As a matter of fact, Jenney was my first pick. He’s so passionate.”
“Jenney, eh? An obvious choice. But he’s no leader. He has always been too narrowly focused on his own personal salvation. My view takes in the whole world, the whole landscape of history. I mean to save you, Tom, as well, you know. You’ve had no true pastors, no teachers, no deacons in your hollow Church. You’ve been bound without knowing it, subject to the falsehoods and idolatry of the pope’s hirelings. It may be too late for you, Tom, but others will thank me, in time.”
