She struggled from the bunk and made her way to the door and from there up the stairs to the main deck. The first things she saw above her were the flapping sheets of canvas; the next the horizon that seemed awry as though the whole world had tilted. About a dozen of the crew labored to raise a sail on the forward mast. She braced herself against a railing, filled her lungs with the bracing sea air, and looked to see where Morgan was.
He was high on the afterdeck, his hand on the helm and a second man helping him turn the great wheel. Joan saw now what had occasioned the sickening motion. The ship was changing course. Ahead was the open sea, an expanse of green and blue and flecks of white where the wind scattered the spume.
The vessel completed its turn. The horizon became even again, and the stinging air lessened Joan’s nausea. She looked toward the bow. The crewmen had finished their labors and were staring at her. Their looks were more hostile than merely curious. She could tell how unwelcome she was. One, a big-chested man with bare arms, separated himself from the others and walked to the ship’s side, where reaching into the coarsely made breeches he wore, he pulled something from inside and while looking at her but standing at an angle to her he urinated over the side.
The other men laughed. Joan turned away in anger and disgust.
“I advised you to stay below, Mistress Stock.”
Morgan’s voice at her ear startled her. She wouldn’t have thought he could make his way from the helm to where she was with such speed.
“I needed air,” she said, still seething from the insult offered to her by the big sailor. “I was sick.”
Morgan nodded understanding^ and made a serious face. “My crew is an uncouth lot. You’re well to stay out of their way. They may decide you’re a witch.”
“I hope I do not look like one,” Joan said, bristling at this new offense to her dignity.
Morgan laughed. “It’s not how you appear, but what you are—a woman. The men take your presence as bad luck. We didn’t expect these rough seas, which have come on a sudden. The voyage over was as smooth as glass, but see now how the Plover is tormented.”
Morgan looked up into the rigging; Joan followed his gaze and saw it wasn’t the rigging that occupied his attention but the glowering heavens.
“Is there to be a storm, then?”
“There surely will be,” said Morgan. “And for that reason I must ask you again to go below. Did cook bring you your breakfast?”
“No.”
“Then he shall. And mine too, for God knows when I shall eat again if those clouds fulfill their promise.”
She wanted to ask whether given such stormy prospects it wouldn’t be wise to put back to land, but she knew his answer would be no. Besides, there was hardly time, for already he was ushering her below deck again.
He had not left her alone for a minute when the cook entered. He came in without knocking. He was a very fat man in a fouled apron, and he averted his eyes from her as he put a covered bowl and a flagon down on the table and went out, without having said a word in greeting or in response to her thank you. She uncovered the bowl and inspected its contents, finding neither its greenish watery appearance or fishy odor appetizing. Even had she done so, she probably would not have eaten, fearing that some obnoxious ingredient or poison might have been added by the superstitious crew. Besides, she decided practically, why eat
if the seas roughened as promised and all was to be vomited again?
There was a seat by the stern window and she sat down there and looked out. The waves were higher now and she could barely make out the coast in the distance. The thought that she was at sea, really at sea, divorced from the solid earth and bobbing precariously above God knew what depths with strange monsters lurking beneath filled her with unspeakable dread. So despairing she was that she forced herself to think of Matthew, although his condition was no better. She wondered what he must be doing now, what he must be suffering. She wondered if he had been made aware of her own captivity and was sure he had. It would be another thing hanging over his head: his wife’s danger if he did not do what he was told. Curse Stearforth, she thought. And that damned villain Motherwell.
Nor were her thoughts particularly kindly toward Sir Robert Cecil, whose golden words of concern for his faithful servant were all very well, but by his own admission considerably short of what was needed to work Matthew’s deliverance.
Stearforth, now jailer and servant, brought Matthew a fresh suit of clothes. They fit badly but offered him a chance to air his own, which reeked of the prison and his own fear. Then he had been left alone in a bedchamber, locked in as he quickly confirmed, to learn his confession, word for word as His Grace had commanded.
Matthew had decided earlier that professing a poor memory would be a plausible delay, and yet he knew sooner or later he must recite as ordered or he was done for—and Joan too. It was hard to imagine why his captors would spare either of them if his feigned compliance was discovered. It was time he needed, time to think, time to escape.
Stearforth returned in the early evening to escort him to supper. He was relieved to find that Stearforth would be his only companion at table. His Grace was eating elsewhere,
Stearforth said somewhat mysteriously, although with the implication that the company would be considerably more elevated than the present.
All of which was well and good with Matthew. He had no stomach for another of His Grace’s self-indulgent discourses on court life. Stearforth was abhorrent too, but somehow his down-to-earth vileness was more palatable. A liveried servant brought in a succession of dishes, the chief ornament of which was a goose of such succulence and expert seasoning that Matthew had never had the like. There was an assortment of other meats, and Matthew concluded that whatever His Grace lacked in true grace, he did not want for an excellent larder and cook.
Matthew ate ravenously. Stearforth talked, largely about women he had seduced since leaving the university. As they were concluding the meal, he came around to the matter at hand and Matthew paid more attention.
“So how stands your learning of the confession?”
“Not well.”
“But certainly you know the first page.”
“Not so much.”
“The first few sentences then? Can you repeat them for me now?”
Matthew did in fact remember the first few sentences, but in reciting them he deliberately confused the words, omitting a negative so it ruined the sense and stuttering over a phrase before shrugging in a semblance of utter helplessness.
“My God, man, you’ll look more village idiot than murderer. Do you want to get out of this mess, or no?”
“Of course I do. Who would not move all the world to escape hanging?”
“You, evidently,” Stearforth shot back. “You must do better. You go before the council in a few days. It is all arranged. You must have every word then. If not, it will be my neck as well as yours, and I assure you mine is of proper length already.”
“I am doing my best,” Matthew said, feebly, finishing the last piece of goose from his plate.
“Come, do you have the text about you?”
“It’s upstairs.”
“Marry, let us go then and practice. I’ll be your tutor.”
Upstairs, Stearforth took over his new calling with perverse enthusiasm. He made Matthew sit in a chair before him while Stearforth, standing, held the text of the confession, read a sentence or two aloud and then had Matthew repeat it word for word.
Matthew stumbled over the sentences; Stearforth became angry.
“Oh this is too much, Stock. The sentence is plain on its face.”
“I am undone by your sitting there demanding this of me,” Matthew replied.
“The council will do so,” Stearforth said. “You must not only have your confession down pat. You must also be prepared to endure their questioning. They won’t let one of their number stand accused without questioning you. There will be hell to pay. What, do you think to find sal
vation from this charge by faith alone? No, you must work. Learn your part. Prepare to be questioned.”
Matthew said he would try to do better. Stearforth sighed heavily and handed him the papers. “Here, try it again. I’ll leave you. When I come back, know the first five sentences. That will bring you up to the part where Cecil secures your services with a promise of twenty pounds and a house in Suffolk.”
“Does he have such a house to give?” Matthew asked.
“Who knows? It will be thought he has even if he does not. Rumor has him landlord of every other house in England.”
Stearforth shut the door behind him. Matthew decided he had provoked Stearforth enough. The man was beside himself with fear that Matthew would not perform. And why shouldn’t he be? It was his neck too. His Grace would hold Stearforth responsible if Matthew failed. So politic a gentleman as Stearforth was would understand that.
Matthew decided he might as well learn his text. If he scratched Stearforth more, he would bleed for sure. Matthew
still had a few days until he was to be taken before the council. Between then and now he could contemplate his escape. But before he did that, he would discover the identity of His Grace.
The pain was so excruciating that Staunton momentarily lost consciousness. The dash of water in his face brought him to his senses again and he had time to cry out to his captors that he would talk after all before the man he had once been contemptuous of because he endured a menial job in Cecil’s stable could twist the leather strap even tighter around his skull.
Pinkerton—that was the man’s name. “You will say what you promised to say, or I shall twist again.”
“Yes, yes, God, I’ll talk.”
His place of confinement was a room in the stable. They had set him down in fouled straw with his hands tied behind him and to a post. Around him was the smell of horses and leather and his own excrement, for his cleaning of himself had wanted thoroughness. Sir Robert had sent the three of them there because he didn’t want his new house polluted by torture, which he despised, he said, yet he would know to whom Staunton was conveying information or else.
The safety of the state depended on it.
Whose state? Staunton had thought while they were dragging him from the house, a gag in his mouth. Hers the state of England now was? Or his who was to come?
The second man, Chumley, one of the household servants, an ex-soldier whom Cecil employed more as bodyguard than butler, for Staunton had never yet seen the man do aught but lurk behind the master, went off to tell Cecil Staunton would talk. Pinkerton, a stout fellow with the knavish face of a highwayman, perched on a barrel top and watched his prisoner.
“Can you ease my wrists? They’re bleeding,” Staunton asked.
“They shall bleed more,” Pinkerton said.
“Sir Robert won’t be pleased if he comes only to find me dead.”
“He won’t find you dead. Peace, now, or I’ll twist a few times more before he comes.”
Staunton shut his eyes, remembering the agony of the tourniquet. He thought his head was going to explode. The pain had drained him of strength and will. What did it matter if he told? He would probably die anyway. Confession would at least reward him with a quick death. Then Pinkerton and Chumley or perhaps the both of them would slit his throat and his body would be found floating in the Thames. That’s how it was done—where there was no body, there could be no murder. He had no strong loyalties to those who had promised him so much. A position in the new government— an undersecretary to some undersecretary. Enough to buy a new suit of clothes or a manor house where he could play country lord and have his way with the serving wenches, populating the neighborhood with his bastards. Perhaps he should have harkened to the voice of conventional wisdom that warned of such an ascent. But he couldn’t stand the thought of ending up a mere cleric or worse, a schoolmaster drilling village brats in their Latin parsing.
Staunton heard Cecil’s voice and turned his head to see the little hunchback strutting in with Chumley at his heels like a faithful hound. He realized suddenly how much he had always hated Cecil, quite without realizing it. Surely the man’s physical deformity was a sign of some inward corruption. The very idea had helped Staunton justify his disloyalty. But now he felt he needed no justification. Pure hatred was enough. He tried to express it through his defiant glance, but Cecil refused to meet his eyes. He seemed to look everywhere in the stable but at the man he had ordered to be tortured, and his long aristocratic face was sad rather than triumphant.
“What has he to say?” Cecil asked, addressing the question to Pinkerton, who out of respect for his master was now standing at attention behind him. Staunton was so offended by Cecil’s putting the question to another, as though he
himself were absent, that he almost resolved to endure more torture than speak.
“Only that he is prepared to confess now, Your Honor,” said Pinkerton.
“Then let him do so.”
At last Cecil looked directly at Staunton. Staunton said nothing.
“Does he need more time with you alone?” Cecil asked. “I’ll speak,” Staunton said, remembering the tourniquet that still bound his forehead.
“For whom do you spy?”
“My cousin.”
“The house you were followed to.”
“His house. I gave the copies to him.”
“To what end?”
“Money. Surely you’ve found that too in my chamber.”
“I mean what end were the papers to serve? They have no value in themselves.”
“I don’t know.”
“Your cousin’s name again?”
Staunton said the name.
“I’ve never heard of the man. What business does he have with me?”
“He works for another.”
“Whom?”
“Some lord, someone important. He wouldn’t tell me his name.”
“He’s lying, Your Honor,” said Pinkerton from behind Cecil. “Surely a man knows for whom he works.”
Cecil seemed to ignore the interruption. He kept studying Staunton’s face; the intensity of his gaze made Staunton more fearful than the thought of another twist of the tourniquet.
“See if you can loosen his tongue, Pinkerton,” Cecil said. He walked away into the shadows. Pinkerton moved forward to obey his master’s order even before Staunton could tense his body for the agony to come. He screamed with the pain, but this time did not faint. He was blinded by tears and when he spoke it was more wail than words.
“For the life of my soul, I don’t know, Sir Robert.”
Staunton was vaguely aware of Pinkerton’s hand at the strap and he screamed in anticipation of the pressure, but Cecil’s command prevented it.
Cecil walked out of the shadows and looked down at Staunton again. “He probably doesn’t know. To think that a man would sell his integrity to a master he was ignorant of. What if it is the devil you serve? How would you know it? Or would you even care as long as there were something in it for you in the short run? Unbind him. The very sight of him disgusts me.”
Staunton breathed easier. Cecil’s contemptuous words seemed almost to relieve his fear. Perhaps that would be the end of his punishment.
“Oh, one more thing,” said Cecil. “What was it you told Matthew Stock in prison?”
Staunton thought about the question before replying. He had betrayed his cousin. Was there any point in concealing anything now? “I told him that you could do nothing for him. That you believed him to be guilty of the parson’s murder. That he should pray to God for his soul.”
“You lied to him then,” Cecil said.
“Shall I kill the liar?” Pinkerton asked.
Cecil shook his head. “No, clean him up and bring him back into the house.”
“If I had been the master, I would have twisted until your eyes popped out,” Pinkerton said as soon as Cecil was gone.
Chumley untied him and helped him to his feet. His ordeal had left him a
lmost too weak to stand. He wept silently with relief while Cecil’s servants roughly brushed the foul straw from his doublet. Chumley said traitors deserved no dainty treatment and that the master was the soul of kindness in light of what Staunton deserved.
They brought him into one of the downstairs rooms which had been furnished as a waiting room for Cecil’s many clients. Cecil was waiting there. Before him on a table was a silver goblet Cecil had recently received as a gift. Staunton had made his admiration of the article known to Cecil.
Cecil spoke sternly. “Chumley will gather your belongings from your room. From this day forward I don’t want to see your face. You admired this goblet. It’s yours. Consider it as severance pay, if you will. Or compensation for your torture, or even a bribe for your continued silence, what you will. But if you trouble me again with your treasons, or if you pass on to this cousin of yours another word of what passed in this house, it will be stolen, no gift. Pinkerton and Chumley will be my witnesses that you stole it. You will be arrested and tried for larceny and hanged. Your cousin will also be arrested. Don’t ask on what charge, I’ll find something and his imprisonment will not be sweet. It’s as simple as that. Do you understand?”
Staunton said he did.
When Staunton was gone from the house, Cecil went upstairs to bed. It had been a very long day and the little man was weary, physically and otherwise. His health had not been good recently; he had already commenced his mourning for the queen, whose physicians daily prophesied her imminent death. And he missed his wife fiercely. The treachery of Staunton which he abhorred and the resort to torture, which he had no liking for either, deepened his melancholy.
Then there was Matthew Stock’s situation. What must the poor man have thought when Staunton told him Cecil had repudiated him? And where was Joan Stock, who had been told to give him daily reports on her findings? He had his operatives out all over London in search of her, but there wasn’t a trace.
Prepared for bed, he fell on his knees to pray. He prayed for his dead—his father, mother, wife. He prayed for his children, for his own soul. He prayed for his enemies and lastly, he prayed for Matthew Stock who was in prison and for Joan Stock, who seemed to have vanished from the earth.
Witness of Bones Page 16
