Edenford was a village with a secret. Most everyone in the village knew there was a secret, but not everyone knew what it was. There were some who thought they knew the secret, but they didn’t; and those who knew were content to let those who didn’t know continue in their ignorance.
Situated on a sloping range between a river and a mountain, Edenford was known throughout England for its wool serges and on the Continent for its delicate lace. The city was founded upon wool by the Chesterfields.
William Chesterfield, Lord Chesterfield’s great-grandfather, was Edenford’s founder and first known resident. In truth, a long forgotten Saxon king was there before him, as evidenced by his castle on the hillside. But no one could remember the king’s name, when he lived or died, or anything about him. So, for all practical purposes, William Chesterfield was considered the town’s founder.
The first structure on the Edenford plain was nothing more than a hut erected by its enterprising founder. Having inherited a flock of sheep, Chesterfield set out to make himself a fortune, which he did quite handily. Succeeding generations of Chesterfields built upon their ancestor’s foundation until a traveler would have to journey almost five miles north to the outskirts of Tiverton before reaching the far side of the Chesterfield property.
William Chesterfield established the wool business in Edenford by increasing the size of his flocks and building houses for workers; his son expanded the family industry by erecting looms and huge dyeing vats and bringing in more workers; his son, Lord Chesterfield’s father, built Chesterfield Manor, expanded the family trade, and brought in even more workers; Lord Chesterfield collected rent, saved the best lace for himself, and lived lavishly off the fruit of his ancestors’ labor.
For almost one hundred years Edenford and quality wool products had been synonymous, but not until the Matthews family arrived did the village earn its reputation for lacework.
The wife of Edenford’s curate, Jane Matthews, worked a loom. She was a skilled worker, her hands were fast, her fingers nimble. However, she was bored with the repetition of her job and dreamed of doing something more challenging, more artistic— like making lace.
When her mother died, Jane Matthews inherited her mother’s meager possessions. Among them was some delicate bone lace from Antwerp. Jane had always admired the intricate patterns. To her they conjured up impressions of summer daydreams and wistful fantasies. More than anything she wanted to create some white lace fantasies of her own.
For years she scrutinized her mother’s Antwerp lace, following each delicate strand to its end. Then, while she was pregnant with her first child, she began her efforts. By the time her second surviving child was born two years later, she began showing her work to some of the townspeople who were favorably impressed. When her girls reached their twelfth and tenth birthdays respectively, word had reached Lord Chesterfield of her product, and he called her to Chesterfield Manor to examine her work. He was impressed, not only with the quality of the lace but also with the opportunity to make even more money. Jane Matthews was taken off the looms and set to work exclusively on lace.
Demand for her lace far exceeded her ability to produce it, so Lord Chesterfield ordered her to teach her craft to others. Although many of her students were competent, none could match the elegant work of Jane’s lace, that is, until her two daughters took an interest. At the time of Jane’s death, her oldest daughter’s lace rivaled that of her mother.
Jane Matthews died of consumption during the winter of 1627. It was a deadly winter for all Edenford. Fourteen people died, nine of them children. Publicly, Lord Chesterfield expressed the proper amount of grief over Edenford’s loss, especially the loss of Jane Matthews. Secretly, however, he was quite pleased with himself. Because he had insisted on Jane teaching others her craft, his lace industry would be unaffected by her death; her daughters would simply take her place.
Jane Matthews had been dead for nearly three years when her husband, Christopher, invited Bishop Laud’s spy to stay with him and his family.
“Ugly business.”
Drew’s host led him past the village church situated on the edge of a grassy, tree-lined common.
“It’s hard for me to understand what would motivate one man to kill another,” he said, “and harder still to understand mutilating the body.”
It was the same road that brought Drew into Edenford. It had a three arch stone bridge at each end, both of them crossing the River Exe. To a traveler this north-south highway was a mere detour on the road between Tiverton and Exeter. That is, unless Cyrus Furman stopped him.
“I saw Cyrus standing near the door,” Drew’s host continued. “Can’t blame him. This killing is making everyone nervous. Anyway, I assume you heard everything, even though you were voted out.”
Drew looked at his host. There was no outward guile in the man. He was slightly undersized, but stocky and solid. Deep wrinkles around his eyes and bushy black eyebrows gave his face a look of constant concern.
“It was hard for me not to hear what was being said,” Drew said.
The host laughed. It was a hearty laugh, nothing bashful about it.
“There are a lot of things that can be said about the townspeople of Edenford,” he said, “but being timid or quiet is not one of them!”
“Forgive me, sir,” Drew stopped in the middle of the street as his companion turned a corner leading uphill away from the town common, “but I don’t know who you are or where you’re taking me.”
His host turned toward him with a sheepish grin.
“No, it is you who must forgive me,” he blushed. “I’m afraid my manners have been distracted with all this turmoil.”
He extended his hand.
“I’m the curate of Edenford. My name is Matthews, Christopher Matthews.”
A slightly wicked grin crossed Drew’s face as he gripped the man’s hand. He couldn’t believe his good fortune.
The moon lit their way as Christopher Matthews led his guest up a sloping road away from the village green. They turned left onto High Street, an upper road that ran parallel to the main thoroughfare. This road was not nearly as wide or as well pitched as Market Street. It was a cobblestone lane lined with a series of small residences wedged against one another. The houses huddled together, as if bracing themselves against a common enemy. Supper smells of boiled fish and roasted beef filled the lane; the din of clearly audible voices and the dancing light of candles peeking through cracks in the shutters added a family element to the street. This was a close community in every sense of the word.
Matthews didn’t slow down until they were one house shy of the end of the street. Had they continued walking, they would have walked into a cornfield. The curate reached for the door latch of a thin dwelling of two stories. The lower half rested on a granite stone foundation. Two shuttered windows to the left of a narrow wooden door filled the width of the house. Wooden beams jutted out overhead, supporting the second story and providing a covering over the doorway. Above the beams four smaller windows framed by white paneling looked out over the cramped street. A person could easily lean out the upper window and join hands with someone in the window of the house opposite. The entire edifice leaned noticeably to the left, a fact that would have concerned Drew, except that there were more than a dozen houses on that side to hold it up.
“This will be your jail cell for the night,” Matthews said with a wry chuckle. When Drew didn’t smile back, he said, “Forgive me, friend. It was a poor attempt at humor. Both Cyrus and Ambrose mean well. They are just doing their jobs, protecting the town. If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about the charges. When the constable gets here on Market Day, we’ll get everything resolved. You don’t strike me as the dangerous sort. If I thought you were, I never would have volunteered to bring you home with me.”
I’m more dangerous to you than you think, Drew said to himself. He was trying hard to dislike the curate, but finding it increasingly difficult to do.
Matthews swung open the door.
At first glance, the girl setting the dinner table on the far side of the room made no strong impression on Drew. The sound of the door caused her to look up, throwing back her dark brown hair, revealing sparkling brown eyes and a relaxed, warm smile. It soon became evident that the sparkle and smile were reserved for her father. When she saw Drew, her eyes clouded with suspicion, and a tight, nervous line replaced her smile.
“Good news, girls!” Matthews announced cheerily. “We have a handsome houseguest!”
The unsmiling girl at the table folded her arms. With knives in one hand and spoons in the other, she looked like an armed griffin on a knight’s coat of armor.
A happier reception came from the stairway to the left.
“Poppa!”
A slender form flew down the steps and jumped into Matthews’ ready embrace. From her build it was clear she was no child, but still she was small enough to get lost in her father’s arms. Bright blue eyes peeked around her father’s shoulder for a look at the stranger. Her long, straight hair, fair complexion, and pixie smile staggered Drew. There was something about her that touched him as no other woman had, a stirring inside of him so powerful it was almost frightening. For the first time in his life Drew Morgan understood how Lancelot must have felt the first time he laid eyes on Guinevere.
“Master Morgan, allow me to introduce my two greatest earthly treasures. This is my elder daughter, Nell,” he gestured toward the unsmiling girl at the table.
Drew bowed slightly. Nell returned a nod and a curt, “Master Morgan.”
“And this bundle of giggles,” he squeezed the younger girl, “is Jenny. We just celebrated her sixteenth birthday.”
“Master Morgan,” she said coyly.
Drew mustered up a chivalrous tone in his voice. “Always pleased to meet a fair maiden,” he said.
An exasperated sigh came from the far end of the room.
“May I speak with you, Father? In the kitchen?”
Not waiting for a response, Nell deposited the utensils in a heap on the table and stalked through the doorway.
If Matthews was embarrassed about being summoned to the kitchen, he didn’t show it.
“You can put your things over there, next to the fireplace,” he said to Drew. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Jenny trailed after her father, her long brown hair bouncing side to side. There was a quick, smiling glance backward before she disappeared into the kitchen.
Drew found himself standing alone in the curate’s humble home.
Humble was an understatement. Before him was a long narrow room that featured a common eight-foot fireplace on his right and a narrow staircase leading upstairs on his left. The fireplace, which was presently boiling supper, was the main source of light for the room after the sun went down. There were two candles on the dinner table and a soft light coming from an unknown source at the top of the stairs. The entire room was half the size of Drew’s bedroom at Morgan Hall.
The furniture consisted of six chairs and two tables. Four straight back wooden chairs were arranged around the larger table, which had been left unset for dinner; a fifth chair was pushed into a smaller table under the twin windows overlooking the street, to Drew’s immediate left. Stacks of lacework, lead weights, scissors, and balls of wool yarn cluttered the tabletop. A high-backed rocker sat motionless in front of the fireplace on a large woven rug, the only covering for the wooden floorboards.
Drew unslung his bag from over his shoulder and placed it quietly beside the fireplace. He was reminded of his confiscated cutlass and made a mental note to ask the curate about it.
A variety of whispers drifted through the open kitchen doorway, but Drew couldn’t make out what was being said. He thought about edging his way toward the kitchen, then decided against it.
The secret to learning people’s secrets is to act uninterested, Eliot had instructed him. Don’t be in a hurry to get information. Be patient, be friendly, and look for ways to earn their trust. That’s the best way to get the goods on them.
Besides, the risk wasn’t worth it. There was little doubt he was the subject of conversation in the next room. No matter which way the verdict went, he was determined to make every effort to stay at least for dinner.
The first meal with your prey is the most important—and the most dangerous, he remembered Eliot saying.
The word prey never set well with Drew; for him, it brought his work down to the level of animals. Drew preferred to think of himself as an undercover operative infiltrating a traitor’s camp.
Just then Jenny emerged from the kitchen, carrying pewter plates. She didn’t look at Drew directly, but the impish smile on her lips acknowledged his presence. Slender hands placed the pewter plates for each setting—one, two, three, four of them! A quick glance at Drew brought a flush to her cheeks. When she saw he was watching her, she made a hasty retreat to the kitchen.
I love it when my prey offers me dinner like sheep inviting a wolf to join them for a bite. Eliot’s had chortled when he said this. And, let me tell you, religious people love to eat. And when they eat, they talk. Put a plate of food in front of a Puritan, and he’ll tell you the secrets of his life! As they eat I imagine what their cheeks will look like when they’re branded!
“What do you hope to find?”
Christopher Matthews placed another bite of mutton in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully as he looked at Drew for a response.
A sparse meal of cold mutton, boiled corn, and wheat bread lay between the curate, his daughters, and their guest. Drew had just finished telling them the story he had fabricated for this assignment. Much of it was true, but embellishments had to be added in order to gain their sympathy.
For example, he told them that he was the son of a wealthy English country gentleman and that he was raised in an abusive home. That was true. But he added that his father was a drunkard and subject to fits of violence, when, in fact, Lord Morgan shied away from alcohol. Two glasses of wine were enough to make him pass out. Drew also lied about his grandfather, saying that he was a deeply religious man. The curate was pleased to hear that a public hero the likes of Admiral Amos Morgan had a deep reverence for God.
Finally, Drew lied about the fight that led him to flee from Morgan Hall. He claimed his father drove him out of the house at sword point when Drew started to take an active interest in religious matters. He concluded that he had wandered from town to town for nearly a year when he was arrested by Edenford’s watchman.
“What do I hope to find?” Drew echoed his host’s question. “I don’t understand.”
“In Plymouth. Why do you want to be a merchant sailor in Plymouth?”
Act like you’re confused and hurting, Eliot had tutored. They love that. In their minds it marks you as a prime target for salvation.
Drew shrugged his shoulders and rearranged the corn on his plate.
The curate smiled.
“Well, I know one thing for sure. God brought you here for a reason.”
Matthews sat at the head of the table, to Drew’s right. The girls sat opposite Drew, listening as the men dominated the conversation.
Nell sat straight and formal in reserved detachment.
Jenny stared at Drew outright, at least until he glanced at her, at which time she would lower her eyes.
“No matter how things work out for me,” Drew said, “I want you to know I’m grateful for your gracious hospitality.”
He couldn’t resist stealing a glance at Nell as he said it. Her expression remained unchanged.
“‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares,’” the curate quoted from the Bible.
Nell was incredulous.
“Father! Certainly you’re not suggesting Master Morgan is an angel!”
Matthews laughed his booming laugh.
With a twinkle in his eye he said, “One never knows!”
“I could believe it,” Jenny said softly, then wished she hadn’t. When everyone looked at her, she flushed and ran to the kitchen, empty plate in hand.
“Master Morgan,” Nell pushed her plate away and rested her folded arms on the table in front of her. “You say your grandfather was a religious man. In what ways?”
“Drew. Please call me Drew.”
Nell nodded and waited for a reply to her question.
“Well, for one thing he went to church a lot,” Drew offered.
Nell nodded her assent but waited for more.
“And, um, he was always praying.”
“Praying?”
“Sure! Grandpa prayed for everything—the queen, Morgan Hall, his ships, the defeat of Spain—”
Nell smiled. Something he said amused her, and it made him feel uncomfortable.
“And Grandpa read the Bible a lot too. He was always reading the Bible.”
Knowing how strongly the Puritans felt about the Bible, Drew felt he was on solid ground with this piece of information.
“Grandpa was big on the Bible. In fact, he gave me a Bible just before he died. I carry it with me wherever I go. That was one of the things that upset my father the most—when I started reading the Bible. But I told him that the Bible was God’s Word and no one could keep me from reading it. That’s when he drove me out of the house.”
Apparently the Bible gambit worked. Nell had sobered and was no longer amused with him.
“You have the Bible with you now?”
Drew nodded and motioned to his bag by the fireplace.
“What version is it?”
The bishop had said he could use his Bible version to his advantage. Now was his chance.
“Version?”
Drew pretended not to have the slightest idea what she was talking about.
“It’s an English version, of course,” he said.
The smugness reappeared on Nell’s lips. The look really intimidated him.
“There is more than one English version,” the curate offered. His tone was warm and fatherly. It was quite evident he didn’t share his daughter’s condescending smugness. “May I see your Bible?” he asked.
Drew retrieved his Bible and handed it to the curate. Matthews opened the cover and read the title page. He looked up at Nell and said, “King James.”
“It figures,” Nell replied sarcastically. “I’d better help Jenny with the dishes.”
She rose, grabbed a few dishes from the table and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Is there something wrong with my Bible?”
Drew pretended to be perplexed.
“You are our guest,” the curate replied, handing the Bible back to Drew. “My apologies if we have offended you.”
“No, please, I want to learn. It’s evident you don’t like my Bible, and I don’t know why. How is it different from your Bible?”
Matthews examined Drew’s face to see if he was sincere or merely being polite.
“Let’s sit in front of the fire,” he said.
While Drew pulled his chair over to the fireplace, Matthews went upstairs and returned carrying another Bible. He eased himself into the high-backed rocker.
“This is my Bible.”
He handed it to Drew.
“It was my father’s Bible. He was a cobbler in Exeter. Like your grandfather, a very devout man.”
Drew flipped the pages.
“What makes this Bible different from mine?”
“This is the Geneva Bible. It was translated in a time of great persecution, during the reign of Mary Tudor. In those days many godly men fled to the Continent, Geneva specifically. This version of the Bible was published by those exiled men with one thing in mind—to meet the spiritual needs of men and women who refused to be intimidated by an earthly crown.”
“And mine is not a Geneva Bible?”
Matthews opened Drew’s Bible and turned to the title page. He pointed to the words. Drew read aloud,
THE HOLY BIBLE
Conteyning the Old Testament, and the New:
Newly Translated out of the Originall Tongues:
and with the former Translations
diligently compared and revised,
by his Majesties speciall Commandement.
Appointed to be read in Churches.
IMPRINTED at London by Robert Barker,
Printer to the Kings most Excellent Majestie
Anno Dom. 1611
Cum Privilegio.
“Your Bible is the result of the Hampton Court Conference,” Matthews added. “Have you heard of it?”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“In 1603 when Queen Elizabeth died and James of Scotland was crowned king, he was presented a petition of Puritan grievances. It was called the Millenary Petition, because it had 1,000 signatures. My father was one of the signers. I was just thirteen at the time. I remember the excitement of the people as they passed in and out of my father’s shop. ‘Now we will have a king who agrees with our doctrine,’ they said. It was widely believed that the new king would help us shed the last traces of Catholicism and establish a completely Bible-based church. It seemed as if God had answered our prayers.”
The last of the dishes rattled behind Drew as Jenny removed them from the table. Nell slipped behind the two men, hurrying up the stairs.
“By order of the new king the Hampton Court Conference was held the next year. With much anticipation, we sent our best Puritan leaders. The conference proved to be a disaster for us. When our representatives brought up the issue of reviving the preaching ministry in the church, the king flared up. He said that if ministers were allowed to deviate from the Book of Common Prayer, then every Jack and Tom, Will and Dick would be given opportunity to censure the king and his council at their pleasure. Turning to the Church of England bishops, he said that if the Puritans ever assumed their authority, the king would lose his supremacy. He told our representatives that he would make us conform or harry us out of the land—or worse.”
Matthews reached over and patted Drew’s Bible.
“This translation came as a result of that conference.”
The curate straightened in his chair and, taking the Bible from Drew, turned a few pages.
“The king had warnings printed against us in the preface,” he said, as he scanned the print. Finding the section he was looking for, he continued, “The translators expected to be ‘maligned by self-conceited Brethren, who run their own ways, and give liking to nothing but what is framed by themselves, and hammered on their own anvil.’ We are the ‘self-conceited Brethren’ to whom they refer. And here, ‘Lastly, we have on the one side avoided the scrupulosity of the Puritans, who leave the old ecclesiastical words, and betake them to other, as when they put “washing” for “baptism,” and “congregation” instead of “Church.” But we desire that the Scripture may speak like itself, as in the language of Canaan, that it may be understood even of the very vulgar.’”
Matthews closed the book.
“They were right in thinking we would not openly embrace their new translation when we already had a translation which came, not as a result of a conference of hate, but from godly men whose only wish was to serve God in peace.”
“Poppa! You’re boring Master Morgan!”
Jenny stood in the doorway of the kitchen, wiping her hands with a towel.
“No!” Drew objected. “I’ve learned a great deal.”
“Are you and Nell finished with the dishes?” Matthews asked.
“Yes, Poppa.”
“Then it’s time you get to your journals.”
“Nell’s already upstairs,” Jenny offered.
Matthews nodded. “Then you had best join her. Say goodnight to our guest.”
Jenny smiled shyly. “Goodnight, Master Morgan.”
“Drew, please call me Drew.”
“Goodnight, Drew.” She giggled and ran upstairs.
“Can I get you anything before we retire?” Matthews asked.
“If you don’t mind, I have one more question. Are you saying that my version of the Bible is not a good one?”
Matthews shrugged his shoulders.
“I really can’t say. I’ve never read it. In fact, yours is the first one I’ve actually held. Everything I’ve told you I’ve learned from others.”
He leaned forward with clasped hands, resting his forearms on his knees.
“I can’t bring myself to read a translation that bears the name of a man for whom I have no respect.”
Drew had to stifle his reaction. Matthews’ open antagonism against King Charles’ father was foolhardy. Talking like this about a king of England, even a dead one, could get a man in serious trouble if the wrong person heard it. And for Christopher Matthews, Drew was definitely the wrong person. Drew attempted to get more.
“What do you mean?” he said.
Matthews hesitated. Had he sensed Drew’s deception?
“King James may have been a learned man in matters of state and religion, but he was immoral, and for that he will be judged.”
“Immoral?”
“Surely you’ve heard of his indiscretions. It’s common knowledge that pimps and procuresses lived by the vices of his court, ranging from court laundresses ready to earn sixpence in a dark corner to highly paid courtesans. I’ve heard the king himself preferred men to women in this regard. And when it came to his family, his actions were abominable. When Prince Henry suffered fits of fever and diarrhea, the king abandoned him and fled to Theobalds, leaving the young prince to die alone. I cannot read a Bible that bears the name of such a man.”
In truth, this was not news to Drew. In fact, Matthews’ description of the court of King James was mild compared to the stories Drew overheard from his father. Even so, Drew spotted a flaw in the curate’s logic and decided to press his advantage.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that you’re responding to this Bible as if King James himself wrote it. He commissioned it, true, but still it’s a translation of God’s Word, isn’t it?”
A surprised look spread across the curate’s face followed by a slow smile. He added to Drew’s observation, “And hasn’t God always used imperfect men to transmit His perfect Word? An interesting thought, Master Morgan.”
Drew lay in front of the dying fire. With only two bedrooms upstairs, he was bedded down on the rug in front of the fireplace. For a long while a light shown from the upstairs landing as someone worked into the night. Drew could hear an occasional shuffle of pages and the movement of a chair. Then the light went out.
Before retiring, Drew searched his Bible for his first message to Bishop Laud from Edenford. He scratched it on a piece of paper and hid it in his coat pocket. It read: (9/24/4/20–40) (41/3/18/2). “I will deliver thine enemy into thine hand, that thou mayest do to him as it shall seem good unto thee. Andrew.”
Drew turned over and slept contentedly.