It was not a great ship like some that came up to London, but a merchant’s barque, of about a dozen yards in length with bulging sides, a high forecastle and poop, and two masts with sails furrowed. They approached under the stern and Joan tried to read the name but could only make out the the first two letters P and /. Motherwell maneuvered the craft to the side of the ship where there was a wooden ladder and secured the boat with a line. Motherwell nodded to Stearforth and Stearforth helped her to her feet and up the ladder.
On board she was nearly thrown off balance by the unfamiliar pitch of the deck, which shifted uneasily beneath her feet; and the stench of the vessel, a revolting mix of fish and offal, almost made her retch. From aft came a man who by his manner and authoritative voice, Joan took to be the captain. He was barrel chested and full bearded, and as much as Joan could make out of his face seemed not as cruel as she might have feared, but was fitted out with kindly, intelligent eyes and straight brows.
“Who do we have here?” asked the captain, addressing Stearforth, whom he seemed to know from some other transaction.
“One who could use a little sea air,” said Stearforth, moving to step between the captain and the sexton.
The captain drew Stearforth aside and the two men walked to the rail. They talked between themselves while Motherwell held back with Joan. Then the captain returned and said that he would take Joan aboard, but first he looked
her up and down as though he were thinking of recruiting her for the crew. She took offense at this insulting examination but was in no position to protest. She struggled to speak and made motions to indicate that the gag should be removed.
“I think we can comply with that request, seeing that there’s hardly a soul around but us,” Stearforth said. He nodded to Motherwell and Motherwell removed the scarf. Joan did not scream. She knew Stearforth was right, but how pleasant it was to breathe through her mouth again, pleasant but for the awful odors. Would she not die if she had to endure such conditions?
Two sailors, young men in ragged, filthy clothes, emerged from below deck and gathered behind the captain. A wiry seaman with an eye patch stood a little farther off. By his air of authority, Joan supposed he was second in command.
“We’ve been at sea for nearly a year, except for my mate,” the captain said stonily. “The men won’t be happy to know they’re putting to sea again.”
“Perhaps we can make them happier. Take this.” Stearforth handed the captain a purse. The captain took it and emptied the contents into his hand. He took a moment to examine the coins, looked back at Stearforth, and said it was enough. “Will Calais suit?” he asked. “I’m not provisioned for a longer voyage.”
“An excellent destination,” Stearforth said.
“What do you intend to do with me?” Joan wanted to know. Stearforth laughed. “You’ll see in good time, Mistress Stock. Much depends on the cooperation of your husband, which I trust this little sea voyage will all but guarantee if he’s the doting husband I take him for.” Turning to the captain he said, “It’s my master’s wish that she be made comfortable for the voyage so don’t put her in the hold. We may well need her in good condition later.”
The captain turned and told one of the two men behind him to escort Joan to his own cabin.
A door in the raised afterdeck of the vessel led to a narrow stairway and yet another door which when opened revealed a low-ceilinged cabin hardly bigger than her cook’s quarters in her own house in Chelmsford. Its walls conformed to the outward shape of the ship and the wood planks were varnished to a high sheen. Bunks were built into the wall. There was also a table on which charts were spread, a smaller desk with burning oil lamp and several mechanical devices Joan surmised the captain used to find his way in the wide sea. The cabin was filthy like the rest of the ship.
Having been so closely guarded before, she was now surprised to find herself left alone by her escort, although she heard the door locked behind the man and she knew she was as much a prisoner here as she had been before. She immediately began to give her cell a closer inspection.
The charts upon the table were beyond her comprehension, but she found the captain’s desk of interest. She noticed a knife with a long thin blade that she imagined the captain might have used to unseal his letters. This she tucked into the pocket of her cloak, hoping that the captain would not soon notice it was gone from its customary place. There was also a large book that proved upon opening to be the ship’s log and here on the first page she read the name that she had only partly discerned before boarding: Plover.
Pleased by this addition to her knowledge she was preparing to inspect several drawers built within the desk when the door opened and the master of the vessel entered.
She saw now how tall he was for his head almost scraped the overhead beams, and the breadth of his shoulders seemed to fill the doorway. He regarded her sternly, as though despite payment for her passage he considered her presence an annoyance, or perhaps as ill luck.
“You’ll sleep there,” he said gruffly, pointing to one of the bunks.
“And where will you sleep?” she asked.
The captain nodded toward the bunk opposite.
“Not on your life,” Joan declared. “I’m an honest woman and not accustomed to sharing my sleeping quarters with strange men.”
“Have no fear,” said the captain, removing his cap to
reveal an unruly mop of hair as curly as an Italian’s. “I am a married man myself and am devoted to my wife. You’ll be safe enough here.”
Joan started to continue to protest, not prepared to trust any man who was commissioned as her jailer, married or no, but the captain held up his hand to discourage further discussion.
“If my cabin does not please you, you may sleep with the crew. They are unmarried men who have tasted no female flesh these twelve months and will be as randy as hedgehogs. I cannot answer for their conduct, for they are vile knaves, every one. I have signed them on for want of a better crew. The choice is yours.”
The captain stood with his arms akimbo while Joan considered her options. By the firmness of his expression she had no doubt the captain meant exacdy what he said and she concluded that she might better handle the captain than his crew. She signaled her compliance with a nod.
“There’s a chamber pot in the corner,” he said. “We sail within these two hours and until then you can have the cabin to yourself. I trust you’ll not prowl amid that which doesn’t concern you.”
“I hope you don’t think I’m that kind of woman,” Joan said.
The captain made no reply to this. He put his cap back on his head and with a little wave of his hand bid her good night.
Joan thought about the bunk. It did look inviting and even the slight roll of the deck had made her stomach queasy. But she was determined to make use of her opportunity. She went back to the ship’s log and opened it. The captain was not a careful penman; he wrote in a reckless scrawl. The matter was not informative—dates, tides, points of embarking and arrival, an inventory of stores, crew members, an occasional passenger. But then she noticed something she had not noticed before. The captain had signed his name to the entries. Edmund was the first name. That was certain. But the second was less easily deciphered. Morgan, she thought he wrote. Edmund Morgan, master of the Plover.
Suddenly she was struck with an odd thought. Elspeth Morgan s husband was a shipmaster. Elspeth had said she hadn’t seen him in twelvemonth. Could the master of the Plover be Elspeth’s husband?
Thirteen
On the morning after his interrogation by Master Conley, Matthew left Marshalsea in the company of the same gentleman and also Buck, but by a back door, not the main, which was in plain sight of the street and as Buck hinted, well within view of Cecil’s spies, who by his departure would be alerted to Matthew’s intended betrayal.
Buck provided no explanation for his own discharge, nor did Matthew inquire of it. He was in manacles, and given to understand that he was not being
released from the charge of murder, but only being transferred into the custody of Conley and another gentleman he would presently meet who would answer for his appearance before the authorities at a later time.
Matthew wanted to know who the gentleman was and where he was to be taken.
“All in due course, Master Stock,” Conley said. “For now, keep you close beside us and never think of escape. Those manacles will affirm you a prisoner. And a reward for escaped criminals never fails to tempt our sturdy London yeomanry.”
His two guardians kept Matthew walking at a brisk pace, and they traveled about a half a mile through the city before stopping before a stately house in the Comhill ward that with its crenellated battlements and turrets looked like a small castle.
As he had been conducted from the prison by stealth, so now his guides led him into the house in the same fashion, by a back gate and door. From there, they immediately descended to a spacious cellar where he was placed in a locked room without windows or furnishings and told to content himself until he should be called for.
He stood there in his new cell, but without contentment. Removal from the Marshalsea was an improvement in his condition, the fresher air of outdoors energized his spirits and made him more hopeful of real freedom. Yet this new environment presented its own horrors, for where he was imprisoned by walls before he now felt himself entangled more than ever in a web of conflicting loyalties and shadowy powers. What had he got himself into?
And with whom?
Matthew had little time to debate these questions. Conley and Buck returned within a few minutes to let him out. He said his new patron would see him now.
“Am I ever to learn his name?” Matthew asked.
“You may call him Your Grace," Conley said.
The three men left the cellar and climbed yet another flight of stairs to come to a sumptuously furnished apartment with portraits and tapestries adorning the walls and a splendid turkey carpet upon the floor.
Of the two men already in the chamber, one was standing with his face toward a mullioned window so that Matthew could see only his back. The other was seated with his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. In his mid-forties, he was elegantly dressed in silk hose and doublet with a ruff collar of such ample circumference that his head seemed detached and too small for his corpulent body. He had the heavy face of a churchman or judge, a somewhat moody air, and a small delicate mouth that was out of keeping with his
broad forehead, dark penetrating eyes, and bulbous nose with its flaring nostils.
“This is Stock, Your Grace,” Conley said, bowing, and along with Buck, taking up a position in the corner.
At this introduction the man who was standing turned slowly, and Matthew saw to his amazement that it was the false Stephen Graham.
“Come in, Master Stock. Sit down,” said the seated gentleman, his small mouth widening into a smile. “May I introduce you to Master Humphrey Stearforth, whom I believe you met earlier—under a different name?”
Matthew accepted the offer, but kept his eyes fixed on Stearforth, who had the same mocking sneer upon his face as he did when Matthew had briefly seen him in the magistrate’s court. So that was his name. Matthew repeated it silently.
“I understand from Master Conley that you are prepared to plead guilty to your crime. And, more important, to name him who put you up to it?”
“I may be, Your Grace,” Matthew said. “If certain conditions are met.”
“One of which is, I suppose, that the charge against you be dismissed, or at least reduced?”
“Yes.”
“You appear to assume, Master Stock, that these matters are more dictated by negotiation than by law, the law being that if one man kills another he must answer for it. I can’t imagine who has given you such a false impression.”
“I have had counsel from your sagacious servant.”
His Grace raised a questioning brow.
“I mean my former cellmate, Thomas Buck.”
“Master Buck knows a good deal about the law. He should, having been so entangled with it during his few years. But let me explain how the matter stands with you.”
This explanation was interrupted by the entrance of a servant with some letters, which His Grace took in his hands, sifted, and placed on his desk before him. All this time Stearforth said nothing but looked on silently, although the mock-
ing grin had been replaced with a more malign regard of one who watches his enemy’s body twisting on the gibbet.
“You stand accused of murder in cold blood,” His Grace continued. “The weapon used to murder your victim was your own. There are two witnesses to your crime, the curate and sexton of the church.”
“Both are false witnesses,” Matthew protested. “Hopwood found the body after the fact, and the sexton Motherwell is a craven liar.”
“Be that as it may,” the man continued, unruffled by Matthew’s protest. “They will appear to be credible witnesses, and appearances are everything in these matters. Moreover, you are now an escaped prisoner, thus confirming your guilt.”
“But—”
“Remember, Master Stock, we are talking about appearances only. The truth is that the court will have no record of your release from Marshalsea. So you see your predicament is more serious than you supposed.”
“Then why have I been brought here if my release was a fraud?”
“To dig your pit—and the pit of your employer the deeper. You are without recourse. But if you testify against Sir Robert Cecil—say that he hired you to do the murder to silence Graham—then the rope will be snatched from your neck.”
“I see no reason it should be, if I am confessed of a murder. What will I accomplish more than dragging Sir Robert into the crime?”
“There are ways of getting around the law, Master Stock. Besides you have no choice. On the one hand, if you fail to accuse Cecil, your death is certain. At least with our proposal you may have a glimmer of hope that you will escape. I will also make it worth your while in other ways. As you can see, I’m not without the means. There’s also an additional inducement. Stearforth, why don’t you tell him?”
Stearforth, who as yet had not spoken a word, took a step forward and put his hands behind his back as though he
were a butler waiting for his master’s order of wine. “We have your wife now. She’s where Cecil cannot find her. If you wish to see her again, you’ll do as my master instructs.” “A wise man knows when he is beaten, Master Stock, and doesn’t flail against a stone wall,” said His Grace.
Matthew looked from the seated gentleman back to Stear-forth and knew from Stearforth’s malicious stare that he wasn’t lying about Joan. Matthew’s soul writhed with impotent fury. Who were these men who regarded truth with so much disdain as to frame this entrapment? Had they no fear of God’s vengeance on the false witness, no sense of the harm they did to the commonwealth in endeavoring to undo one of the queen’s good servants?
“Will you cooperate with us, Master Stock?”
“What am I to do?” he asked, trembling with a mixture of rage and fear.
“You will be my guest for a day or two. Then you will be returned to Marshalsea, but only briefly. On Friday you will be carried before the queen’s Privy Council where you will confess to the murder of Stephen Graham and accuse Cecil to his face.”
“And what if my accusation is not believed? I am an accused murderer, and even as an honest man am only a town constable and shopkeeper. How will my word fare against that of the queen’s principal secretary?”
“Better than you suppose,” said His Grace with the same composure. “There will be other evidence.”
“What other evidence?”
“Marry, you have no need to know, Master Stock. Have you not learned that wisdom of your employer’s family motto, Patiens qui prudens? But there will be other evidence, and your testimony will crown it. Even if the council is skeptical, Cecil’s reputation will be sufficiently besmirched so to ad
d credence to all rumors of his past intrigues.”
“I shall not know what to say to the council.”
“You shall be taught. Stearforth here is a graduate of our noble University of Oxford. He is a skilled writer and has already composed your text. You shall learn it by heart, for
it must be exactly spoken. The alternative to this is that Stearforth will write your epitaph—and that of your wife. You will be disgraced and buried in an unmarked grave. Now I offer you the hope of a glorious resurrection from such a fate. A chance for a second and better grave at the end of a long life rather than ignominy. What say you, Master Stock, can we come to terms?”
Matthew looked from one man to the next. Their faces were implacable; none appeared doubtful of what Matthew would say.
“You have left me no choice,” Matthew said.
“Which was my intent,” said His Grace, smiling. “We have an understanding at last. Good Master Buck, unlock Master Stock’s manacles. I don’t think he’ll try to avoid our hospitality, now that he is aware of his true position in the case.”
He unfolded his hands and placed them on his knees. “And now for dinner. What do you prefer, Master Stock, a plump partridge or venison? My cook is ready for either or both.”
“The partridge,” said Matthew, who had no appetite at all.
Matthew dined with His Grace and Stearforth. Conley and Buck had departed on some other mission. His Grace ate heartily, but Stearforth merely picked, and Matthew could not bring himself to do much more than sip the wine, which although sugared, had a bitter aftertaste. While he ate, Matthew’s host maintained a continuous stream of talk, most of it court gossip involving persons of whose names Matthew had not heard. The only constant reference was to the late Earl of Essex, the foolish courtier whose ambition had overreached reason and brought upon him disgrace and public execution, two years before. But the allusions were sufficiently positive to suggest that his host had been a follower of that lord, which meant that he was no friend to Cecil, no friend of the queen.
When the meal had ended, His Grace dismissed his dinner guests, and Stearforth took Matthew off to an adjacent room.
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