A bright light hammered his face. His head felt ready to explode. He turned to one side, then the other, but couldn’t avoid the light. Lifting a hand up, he shielded his eyes. That was better, but the pain was still there.
It took him several minutes before he discovered where he was, not because the place was unfamiliar to him, but because it hurt him to keep his eyes open longer than a few seconds at a time. He was on his bed at London House. It was the morning sunlight that was falling heavily on his face.
With a groan he sat up. It wasn’t a sure proposition that he would remain that way. His head was pounding and he felt dizzy and nauseous. He swallowed the pain as best he could and fought to hold on to his senses. Now that the sunlight was behind him, the greatest pain came from the back of his head. He reached there.
“OW!” he cried.
That was a mistake. Instant pain.
Lowering his hand, a flash of gold caught his eye. At almost that same moment he felt an unusual weight on his finger. It was an enormous gold ring with a large ruby stone setting.
Just beyond his window he could hear clipping in the bishop’s garden. He balanced himself on unsteady feet and went to the garden to get some answers.
“I’m disappointed in you, Andrew,” was the first thing the bishop said to him.
He had paused in his rosebush clipping and was kneeling on the lawn, feeding a blade of grass to his pet tortoise.
Drew blinked at him, trying to keep everything in focus.
“I’m sorry we had to injure you.”
“You did this?”
The bishop plucked another blade of grass and lowered it to the lipless mouth of the tortoise. His pet chomped the end of the blade appreciatively.
“One of my men did. He was seated behind you in case he was needed. We had to protect you from yourself.”
“Not a very subtle way of doing it. Weren’t people a little suspicious?”
“Not at all. You see, he was arrested for attacking you. As they dragged him from the courtroom, he screamed something to the effect that he was one of the curate’s followers, that there were hundreds more like him who would willingly give their lives to free their leader, et cetera, et cetera. In truth, he’s a common highwayman I use occasionally for little jobs. He was taken to Fleet Street Prison where he was promptly released. It looked good and served our purpose. People are more convinced than ever that Christopher Matthews is a serious threat to England. So you see, my dear boy, your misguided attack of conscience did the curate no good.”
“What’s to stop me from telling the truth now?”
The bishop was genuinely hurt.
Andrew,” he said quietly, “I am the authority in England next to the king. God has ordained that Charles be king of England and that I serve as his spiritual adviser. Together we are England. Whatever we do is right because we do it for England and in the name of God.” He resumed feeding his pet as he added, “If you spoke out now, you would only embarrass yourself. You see, while you were unconscious, you became England’s most recent hero.”
Drew looked puzzled.
Bishop Laud rose and brushed the grass from his knees.
“Have you noticed the ring yet?”
Drew raised his hand and looked at the ruby ring.
“It’s the first of King Charles’ rewards for your efforts. Handsome, isn’t it? You see, the king feels England needs a hero right now. Someone who will take the people’s minds off his refusal to call parliament to order, the ship tax, and countless other petty controversies. Don’t you see? You’re the perfect answer! You’re young, handsome, and have dedicated your life to serving crown and country. You just returned from a dangerous mission in which you were almost killed. You uncovered one of England’s most notorious enemies. Then, you were almost killed again while testifying against the man in the Star Chamber! The king is quite impressed with you.”
Now the bishop was standing directly in front of him. He held Drew’s hand by the ends of his fingers, raising the ring closer to Drew’s face.
“This is a token! King Charles has arranged a reception in your honor to be held one week hence. He wants to reward you publicly as a friend of the crown. Andrew, this is everything you have ever dreamed of! You are Lancelot, and King Arthur wants to honor his best knight!”
The week passed without incident. Drew rarely saw the bishop, who was preoccupied with affairs of state. With London House all to himself, Drew agonized over his situation. To his dismay, the memories of Edenford dimmed with each passing day. Now that he was back in luxurious surroundings with comfortable bedding and rich food, he realized how much he had given up while at Edenford.
He couldn’t get Christopher Matthews out of his mind, but what could he do? Besides, the curate was guilty of writing illegal pamphlets. Legally, Matthews was wrong. How could Drew fault himself for upholding the law of the land?
And speaking of the law of the land, the king of England was giving a reception in his honor! Just like Grandpa! The admiral had Queen Elizabeth; Drew had King Charles.
Drew’s hands were cold from nervous anticipation as he dressed for his reception. He forced himself not to think of Christopher Matthews and Edenford and Nell.
Whitehall’s banqueting house sparkled with lights and fashion and merriment. London’s finest were in attendance—the powerful, the rich, the noble—all by special invitation of the king, all for one reason, to celebrate Drew Morgan, England’s young hero.
They stood and applauded when he entered the room, wearing the clothing of nobility and, by special permission, the cutlass that belonged to his famous grandfather.
They stood reverently when King Charles awarded him a medallion for courageous service. They laughed when they heard how he was dyed blue saving a boy’s life. They stood in line to shake his hand. Young boys looked up to him as if he were a god.
His parents, Lord and Lady Morgan, journeyed to London to join London’s elite in honoring their son, and they brought a jealous Philip with them. Lord Morgan sported a new suit of clothes and Lady Morgan wore a breathtaking diamond necklace purchased for the occasion. His parents gushed over him, telling everyone how they always knew he was destined for greatness. Drew saw genuine fear in their eyes as they looked at him, a silent plea not to spoil the illusion of a happy home they were creating. His success was their success, and if Drew knew his parents, they were sure to make the most of it.
Throughout the evening, Bishop William Laud stood near Drew, acting like a proud father.
Drew had never before met most of those who stood in line to shake his hand. There was one man, however, whom he knew. He had traveled a great distance to be there. Lord Chesterfield offered Drew his hand, but there was no smile to accompany it.
“It’s with mixed feelings I congratulate you, young man,” he said. “England’s good fortune is my devastation; with a single blow you have uncovered my son’s killer and deprived me of my town manager. I cannot replace the one, and it will be difficult to replace the other. Interested in the position?”
The real killer of Lord Chesterfield’s son stepped forward quickly, lest Drew be tempted to say something foolish. He grasped the lord by the hand and led him away.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere,” the bishop said, with a wooden smile. “Andrew is too valuable to the king and me. We could never let him go.”
Lord Chesterfield returned the bishop’s smile kind for kind.
“My dear bishop, there’s no need to protect your protégé. My offer was in jest.”
The bishop need not have been concerned. The thought of telling Lord Chesterfield the truth hadn’t occurred to Drew. His mind was elsewhere, in a village four days’ journey west. It wasn’t what Lord Chesterfield said that sent him there, but what he was wearing. A lace ruff. Lace cuffs. And an abundance of lace trim. Expertly crafted bone lace from Edenford, made by the skillful hands of two beautiful young women who lived on High Street. Who at this moment of Drew’s glory were in their sparse sitting room, mourning the absence of their father, who was shut away in the Tower of London.
The thoughts of Edenford and Jenny and Nell overwhelmed him—their beauty; their laughter; morning breakfast with Christopher Matthews at the head of the table, reading the Bible, praying for his daughters, then asking the same question he asked every day, What are we going to do for God today? The horseplay on the bowling green between the curate and his old friend, David Cooper, their good-natured joking, the solemn passion in their eyes as they met in secret, the displays of love shown the curate by the villagers for his selfless acts on their behalf.
The instant he saw Lord Chesterfield’s lace, these thoughts welled up inside of Drew like a thermal spring. In comparison to the depth of life lived by the humble people of Edenford, the lights of Whitehall, the jewels, the wealth, the accolades, all the pretense of London’s royalty were empty vessels.
There was nothing for him here. Nothing the king could bestow upon him could compare to the wealth of emotion he felt in one Sunday afternoon alone with Nell Matthews.
He knew what he had to do. Drew Morgan would become a lone crusader. A man with a mission.
Shivering in the darkness, he sat at water’s edge, fingering the sheath of his cutlass, waiting for the prison barge. The curate’s murder trial had gone as expected. The body of Lord Chesterfield’s son was found exactly where Laud said it would be, the crossbow with it. Together with the crossbow arrow and Ambrose Dudley’s eyewitness testimony (he described the late Shubal Elkins’ point of view as told to him by the bishop), there was little for the judges to decide.
They ruled that after Christopher Matthews endured the punishment as set forth by the Star Chamber, he would then be taken to Tower Hill where his head would be cut off. This too was an unusual form of punishment for a man of such low estate. Beheading was usually reserved for England’s elite prisoners; the normal form of punishment was hanging. But Bishop Laud’s passionate court arguments gave the case such widespread notoriety that the judges felt the circumstances warranted the more gruesome punishment.
Following sentencing at Westminster, the prisoner was moved to the tower by barge on the River Thames. This was the safer route, since surface streets were narrow and had too many blind corners to ensure a prisoner’s safe passage. Christopher Matthews had been safely transported to the tower two nights previous. Drew had watched discreetly from Upper Thames Street, noting the procedure and formulating an escape plan.
From the shadows of the bridge footing, Drew caught sight of the prison barge. It carried two guards and their hooded prisoner, a woman, if the rumor he heard was true. Drew scurried up the embankment to the street and ran as fast as he could along Upper Thames Street toward the tower. The street was deserted except for two drunks leaning on each other as they walked. They shouted at him as he ran by, yelling something about reckless running. To his right Drew caught an occasional glimpse of the barge’s progress between buildings and trees.
His heart pounded in his chest and his lungs burned. Ignoring the pain, he ran faster. Just before the street emptied onto the wharf, Drew left the road, sliding down a rutted embankment covered with wet, slippery leaves. He slid to the water’s edge. His chest heaving, he crouched low, looking for the barge. It was darker near the river’s edge, and now that he was at water level, the slight mist on the surface obscured his view. He heard oars slapping the water before the barge appeared in the mist, with its three silhouetted figures.
Drew removed his shoes, flinging them aside, and slipped his sheathed cutlass down the back of his shirt. As soundlessly as he could, he waded into the river and launched himself into the river’s current. He was well ahead of the barge’s progress.
He swam to the stone wall at the edge of the wharf, staying close to the wall to avoid being seen by anyone on the wharf. With deliberate speed he silently worked his way beneath the battery of four cannons positioned to salute incoming ships. Just beyond the cannons he stopped. There was an inset where the Queen’s Stair descended from the wharf to the water’s edge. He submerged until he was past the stone steps. He paused to locate the position of the barge—it was right where it should be. He had plenty of time.
Several feet beyond him, the stone wall took a sharp turn toward the castle. Drew followed it into a corner where the wall resumed its parallel course with the river. It was here he would temporarily lose sight of the barge. If the yeoman guards followed the same course as they did when transporting Matthews, they would keep distant from the wharf as long as possible. Then they would approach the tower’s water gate at a perpendicular angle. That would give him the time he needed. While he waited, he took deep breaths.
The sound of his heavy breathing echoed against the stones of the wall. Wiping water away from his eyes, he strained to focus on the center of the river. Nothing. I should be able to see it by now, Drew thought. He waited, but still no barge. His mind flashed the possibilities: Someone or something alerted them to my presence; someone else intercepted them; they turned back or altered their course—but for what reason?
Suddenly, an oar slapped the water, and the bow of the barge appeared from around the corner just a few feet from him. It was so close he could see the white and gray whiskers of the yeoman jailer.
He fought back a sudden rush of panic. Leaning as far back into the shadow as he could, he looked for alternatives. The plan was to track the barge as it approached the water gate that led under the wharf, through Traitor’s Gate, at the tower walls. He would swim under it just as it reached the gate, letting it carry him in. The barge’s altered course brought them dangerously close to him while it was still several yards from the gate. Drew’s only chance was to swim under the barge now, but it was too far; he couldn’t hold his breath that long.
Drew’s determination overrode his good sense. He took a deep breath, submerged, and swam toward the barge. The water was dark and murky, and he couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of his face. He swam forward. When he thought he’d gone far enough and still hadn’t found the boat, he looked toward the surface.
Splash!
An oar sliced into the water inches from his head. Drew ducked down as it swept passed him. With a strong kick he was under the barge, holding on to the edge as it pulled him toward the water gate of the Tower of London.
The barge entered the gate. Drew knew they had gone through because everything was darker now, pitch black actually, as the barge sailed beneath the wharf. The barge stopped. Drew’s lungs were bursting, but he didn’t dare surface yet. In the tunnel the slightest sound would give him away. He heard the muffled command of the yeoman guard. Almost time. He worked his way to the back of the boat, his lungs screaming for air. He wondered what it would feel like to gasp and, instead of air, feel nothing but liquid pour into his lungs. He heard the sound he was waiting for.
Traitor’s Gate creaked on its hinges. He could feel a swirling current as the gate moved through the water. He surfaced, hoping the movement of the gate would be enough to conceal any noise he might make. His face broke the water just inches away from the bulging backside of the paddling yeoman. Drew gasped silently for air, then submerged under the barge again. He watched for signs that the yeoman heard him. To his relief the barge moved forward again.
The prison barge entered a chamber just inside the walls of St. Thomas’s Tower. Still underwater, Drew heard muffled commands. The yeoman guard’s oar hung in the water at a sharp angle, and the back of the barge slid sideways. There was a jolt as it hit the bottom step of a stone stairway. Drew waited for his chance to surface.
The craft rocked back and forth a couple of times. Not yet. Then it dipped toward the steps. The prisoner was disembarking.
Now!
Drew surfaced on the far side of the barge.
“Watch your step, m’ lady,” he heard a yeoman say.
Drew submerged again; this time he swam down deep until he could feel the base of the stone steps. He followed the steps to the edge, then around a corner until he came to a wall. He continued along the wall until he reached the corner of the chamber. Cautiously he surfaced and gulped for needed air while he looked toward the steps. The guards were all business.
One of the barge yeomen joined a tower yeoman as they escorted the hooded prisoner up the steps. The other barge yeoman pushed off the steps and paddled the barge back the way it came. Traitor’s Gate was closed behind him. Drew had made it into the Tower of London.
For several minutes he hid in the shadows of the watery corner, listening for sounds of movement. The only sound he heard was the gentle lapping of the water against the stone steps.
He swam to the steps and climbed out of the water onto the first one. He pulled the cutlass from the back of his shirt and unsheathed it. He stood barefoot and dripping on the steps. Until now he hadn’t thought about the fact that he would leave a wet trail wherever he went. He laid the cutlass down. Removing his shirt and pants, he wrung them out, wiping as much water as he could from his shivering skin. Clothed again, he shuffled as he ascended the stairs to dry the bottom of his feet. He still dripped, but only slightly.
Emerging into the open from St. Thomas’s Tower, he glanced both directions for guards. An open expanse called the Water Lane separated St. Thomas’s Tower on the outer wall and the other tower structures. If anyone was on top of the Hall Tower, Bloody Tower, or the wall walk as he crossed the lane, they would see him. Drew inched his way along the wall toward the rectangular tower on the east end of St. Thomas’s where it jutted out into the lane. Opposite the round Hall Tower, it was the shortest distance across the lane. He scanned the walls and towers opposite him.
A guard on the wall walk was going the opposite direction. Drew sprinted across the lane with one hand holding the cutlass and the other holding the sheath. He followed the circumference of the Hall Tower and ducked under the gate into the Bloody Tower.
Christopher Matthews was imprisoned in Bloody Tower.
“The same room as Sir Walter Raleigh,” the bishop had boasted, as if that were an honor.
Drew was determined that the room’s current resident would not meet the same fate as its former famous occupant. King James had Sir Walter Raleigh beheaded.
A narrow, circular staircase led upstairs. It looked like it was cut out of stone. There was room for only one person on the stairs. Drew stepped lightly on them, following their circular path, his cutlass leading the way.
The top emerged into a hallway with several heavy wooden doors. Is the curate behind one of them? How can I find out? It didn’t seem like a good idea to start knocking on doors. There had to be guards with keys around someplace. That’s why he brought the cutlass.
He started down the hallway when he heard footsteps behind him, not only footsteps but also the jangling sound of keys. Drew ran to the top of the stairway.
Just then a yeoman appeared; he was thickset with a black beard and moved slowly. His head was down as he sorted the keys, choosing the one he needed.
Drew smashed him in the face with the butt of the cutlass just as the guard looked up. The force of the blow sent the man’s head pounding against the stone wall. He fell in a heap to the floor, bleeding profusely from a huge gash on his forehead. There were no signs of life.
Drew grabbed the keys but had no idea which door to try.
He ran to the first door and tried several keys before one worked. He swung the door open gently.
A wide-eyed woman stood on the far side of the room, holding a bed sheet in front of her. The woman on the barge? Drew couldn’t tell.
“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” he said sheepishly.
He tried the next door.
The last key he tried opened it.
The room was dark.
He called the curate’s name several times.
No one answered.
There’s got to be a better way than this, Drew said to himself.
He looked down the hallway at the yeoman who hadn’t moved. Drew moved to the next door.
It swung open.
Christopher Matthews sat behind a wooden desk in a high-backed wooden chair. An open Bible lay before him.
Drew stepped into the room and closed the door.
“Drew!”
The curate rose. He stared at a wet Drew Morgan carrying a sword and jailer’s keys and said, “Oh no—”
“Hurry!” Drew motioned Matthews to follow him.
Matthews sat down.
“Drew, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Rescuing you! Follow me, we have to hurry!”
The curate didn’t move. He looked at the fire crackling in the fireplace to the right of the desk.
“No,” he said. “I’m not going with you.”
Drew was too dumbfounded to speak.
“Get out of here quickly, Drew. Save yourself.”
“They’re going to kill you!”
The curate said nothing.
“I can save you if you’ll just follow me!”
Drew didn’t realize it until later, but when he was old and reflected on this incident he came to realize that it was this single sentence that galvanized the curate’s decision. Matthews was far too wise to trust a headstrong young man for his salvation.
“Drew, were you the one who handed me over to Bishop Laud?”
The words struck Drew like a blow. He had known this question would ultimately arise between them. At the moment he was focused on the rescue effort, and the question caught him off guard.
“We don’t have time for that now,” he said. “Let’s go!”
Christopher Matthews got up and walked toward him, a slow leisurely pace, not the pace of a man about to escape from England’s famed prison tower.
Placing both hands on Drew’s shoulders, he said, “That’s all we have time for. You didn’t turn me over to Bishop Laud, did you?”
There was no avoiding the question now.
“That was my mission. I sneaked into your study and compared your handwriting to a Justin manuscript. Of course I knew after the meeting in the back of Master Cooper’s shop. But I couldn’t do it. I told the bishop you were not Justin.”
Tears filled the curate’s eyes.
“During the trial in the Star Chamber when you were singled out as my accuser, I was devastated. Then when the man attacked you, I knew better. But I had to ask.”
The curate turned away from Drew.
“You were right when you told Bishop Laud that I am not Justin.”
“Not Justin? You’re not Justin?”
Matthews faced Drew and shook his head.
“I’m not Justin.”
“Then what … why?”
At that instant it was as if a light shone on Christopher Matthews’ face. He raised his face heavenward.
“Of course! Thank You, Lord!”
Grabbing a dumbstruck Drew Morgan by the shoulder, he pulled him toward a chair and shoved him in it. Pulling a chair opposite his rescuer, he leaned toward Drew.
“Listen carefully, we may not have much time. It all makes sense now.”
Again he raised his head, his lips silently forming the words.
“Thank You, Lord.”
There was a steady flow of tears down his cheeks as he continued.
“Drew, I’m going to tell you something that only three people know. You will be the fourth…. Nell is Justin.”
“But your handwriting … I compared your handwriting,” Drew objected.
“A precaution in case something like this happened. I copied Nell’s manuscripts before they were sent out, to protect her. No one except Jenny, Nell, and I know the true identity of Justin, and now, of course, you.”
“Not even David Cooper?”
“David thinks I’m Justin.”
Drew was beginning to understand. Christopher Matthews would die to protect his daughter.
“But you can still escape!” Drew cried frantically. “You can assume another identity in a different city. Nell and Jenny could join you. Your secret would still be safe.”
The curate smiled at him. His smile was odd for the occasion. It was a relaxed smile, contented even, the kind of smile a proud father shares with his son when there is no one else around.
The smile infuriated Drew.
He was risking his life to save Matthews, and Matthews was acting as if they were having an after dinner conversation in his sitting room.
“I know why God sent you to Edenford,” Matthews said.
“Laud sent me, not God!” Drew shouted.
“God sent you,” the curate insisted with a quiet intensity. “I’m more sure of it now than ever before. But you’re right in your feelings. You’re in danger, and you must escape before you’re captured.”
“I’m taking you with me.”
“No. I’m confident this is God’s will for my life. Drew Morgan, the time has come to find God’s will for your life. Not your desires, not your hopes, not all the selfish things you’ve dreamed of all your life, but God’s will, God’s plan for you.”
Matthews pulled Drew from the chair and pushed him toward the door.
“They’re going to kill you!” Drew shouted.
“I’m sure they will. ‘And fear ye not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul; but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.’”
“Is that from the Bible?”
“You’ll have to look the reference for yourself. Drew, listen to me, you’re the key to all of this. God knew all this would happen. He sent you to Edenford for one reason. You will protect Nell and Jenny after I’m gone. Through all of this, my only concern was for them, who would look after them if I died. Now I know! It’s you. I place them in your hands.”
“How can I protect them? The people will kill me if I go back to Edenford!”
“Don’t you see, Drew? It all fits! Edenford must fly to the wilderness. England is no longer safe for them. They cannot survive the penalty my capture has placed on them. They cannot continue in a land that substitutes outward conformity for faith in God. Edenford must fly to the wilderness where they can build a new community, where they can worship God freely. My death is the best thing that could happen for Edenford; it will force them to flee. And you will go with them. Drew, I entrust my daughters into your hands. Keep my girls safe! Tell them their poppa loves them.”
There was a commotion on the other side the door.
“You must escape!” the curate whispered.
It was the first time Drew heard any note of panic in his voice.
Reluctantly, Drew reached for the door latch. He had to get out. How do you rescue someone who refuses to be rescued?
Christopher Matthews placed a hand on his shoulder.
“God be with you, my son.”
Drew cracked the door open just wide enough to look out. The hall that led to the narrow stairs was empty. The yeoman’s body was gone. But what about the other direction? He’d have to open the door all the way to see that part of the hallway.
All right, Drew reasoned, the guards know something’s up, but they don’t know where I am.… I could be anywhere in the tower compound. There’s only one way to find out if anyone is in the hallway.
Swinging the door wide, Drew jumped into the hallway with sword drawn.
It was empty!
His chest heaving, he made his way to the stairway. His bare feet felt something wet. He looked down.
Blood.
He was standing in the yeoman guard’s blood.
Approaching the stairs, he craned his neck to see down the corkscrew stairway. No sign of movement, no sound. He would have felt better if he could hear something, preferably distant sounds.
With his back to the stone wall, he inched his way down the stairs.
CLANG!
The blade of a pike struck the stone wall, inches from Drew’s nose.
“Halt and surrender!” cried the yeoman warder.
Drew retreated backward up the stairs, defending himself with his sword. The passage was too narrow for him to swing it. At the top of the stairs Drew slipped and fell. It was the yeoman warder’s blood again.
CLANG!
The pike struck. The only thing that kept him from being impaled was the circular stairs; the pike couldn’t bend far enough around to reach him.
Drew had an idea.
Instead of getting up, he crawled down the stairs feet first as fast as he could.
The yeoman warder saw him and raised his pike. But before he could bring it down, Drew planted a foot in his chest and sent the warder sprawling backward down the stairs.
Reversing course, Drew ran up the stairs, jumping over the bloody top step.
A couple of yeoman warders were waiting for him at the end of the hall, pikes leveled.
He turned back to the stairs.
His stairway opponent had recovered and was coming up, pike first.
Drew stepped to the side, away from the oncoming pike. With one blow of his sword he knocked it to the ground; with another, he swung at the yeoman warder.
Missed.
His sword—the cutlass his grandfather had given him, the one that had saved the seaman from countless Spaniards—clanged against the stone and broke. Drew was left standing helpless with the hilt of a broken cutlass in his hand as three yeoman warders’ pikes were leveled at him.
Bishop Laud was furious.
When the yeoman warders learned that Drew’s residence was London House, the bishop was notified. An hour later Drew was sitting in the bishop’s library while a scarlet faced, ranting bishop screamed at him.
“I’ve given you everything!” he shouted. “What did you have when you came to me?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing!” the bishop repeated. “I gave you a home. I fed you. I gave you clothes.” Then quietly but with no less intensity, “I gave you my love. What has bewitched you? What could possibly make you do this to me?”
Drew didn’t respond.
“Answer me!”
Still he said nothing.
The bishop seethed in fury.
“I made you and I can break you!” he yelled. “What were you thinking? What could make you care so much for a spiritual heretic that you’d break into the Tower of London and injure a yeoman warder?”
“He isn’t dead?”
“Who?”
“The warder.”
“No. You just split his forehead open.”
“Thank God.”
The words just hung there. They startled both Drew and the bishop. It was the first time either of them remembered Drew thanking God for anything.
“What has that curate done to you?”
Bishop Laud didn’t return Drew to the tower. Nor did he send him away immediately. Drew’s punishment was that he would be forced to watch the execution of Christopher Matthews; then he would be set free.
The bishop gave him a choice: return to London House in repentance within three days or become an enemy to crown and country. If Drew did not come home to him in three days, Bishop Laud would have him hunted down and arrested for attempting to free Christopher Matthews.
It was quite simple: Drew could choose to live as a fugitive or come home.
The bishop made it clear that if Drew was caught anywhere near the village of Edenford, he would suffer the same fate as Christopher Matthews.
The sky was menacing; its partner, a stiff north wind, planted a chill in everyone it touched. And on this execution day there were plenty of people for it to touch.
Tower Hill was so crowded with spectators it seemed to Drew that the entire countryside was there to watch the execution. People crammed onto elevated platforms constructed especially for events like this one. For the people of England, executions were free entertainment. They didn’t have quite the excitement of bear or bullbaiting, but then the people weren’t charged anything to attend.
Drew was escorted to the front of the scaffold by two mountains of flesh. He still hadn’t given up on the idea of rescuing the curate.
Several scenarios had played in his mind the night before the execution. One was that David Cooper was leading a rescue attempt and Drew could assist their efforts when they struck. Another idea was for him to break free from the guards, jump to the scaffold, overpower the executioner, grab his blade, fend off the sheriff and henchmen, free Matthews, and escape. It was the escaping part he hadn’t figured out. He had no horse, no way to make a getaway through the crowd. He’d just have to trust his wits to figure out something when the time came.
He scanned the crowd of spectators, looking for familiar faces. He recognized no one. All he saw were faces of strangers wearing the same expression of anticipation. They couldn’t wait for the headsman to hold high the prisoner’s head.
A cheering arose as the prisoner was escorted to the scaffold. In solemn procession came the headsman, the executioner carrying his ax, the bound prisoner escorted by the sheriff, and the chaplain.
Bishop William Laud had reserved the role of chaplain for himself.
The moment the procession came in sight, Drew was seized by big beefy paws on both sides of him. The two man mountains were apparently following the bishop’s orders to ensure that Drew watched the execution. He struggled to shake loose, halfheartedly at first to test their strength. Meaty grips clamped down on his arms.
Now, with full effort, he yanked and pulled. He couldn’t budge them, let alone break loose. He couldn’t even knock them slightly off balance.
The headsman and executioner reached the top of the scaffold.
Christopher Matthews came into view, the sheriff directly behind him.
Since the night of the failed rescue attempt, the curate had received his Star Chamber punishment. There was a bloody stump where his left ear had been; his nose was slit open; and his cheeks were burned red and black, branded with the letters S.L. for Seditious Libeler.
Drew closed his eyes and shuddered, fighting back tears and bile.
Bishop Laud was the last to reach the top of the scaffold. Everyone moved into place, and the crowd quieted.
Time for the festivities to begin.
The sheriff read the charges and the sentence. Then the prisoner was given an opportunity to speak the last words he would ever say in this life.
On other occasions, preachers who had preceded Matthews to the scaffold had taken the opportunity to deliver a sermon, sometimes a rather long one, and thereby extend their lives a couple of hours. The curate of Edenford chose not to follow their example.
As Matthews stepped forward on the scaffold, it was evident he was in pain. He started to speak, then stopped, wincing from the fire on his cheeks and the fresh cut on his nose.
Drew kicked the mountain of flesh on the right at the same time he shoved the one on his left.
His efforts were in vain. The grips on his arms tightened until he was lifted off the ground. His guards glared at him but said nothing, then dropped him to his feet again without relinquishing their vise-like grip.
Matthews straightened himself, raised his head and then his voice.
“As God is my witness—”
His voice had a breathy, nasal quality to it, the effects of a slit nose.
“I have lived my life in accordance to the dictates of God’s Holy Word. I stand here today because I have chosen to obey God rather than men.”
The acting chaplain reacted to this verbal slap.
Loud enough for all to hear, Laud shouted, “The voice of the holy Church of England is the voice of God!”
Matthews ignored him.
“The throne of England and its church condemn me. But in a matter of minutes I will stand before the throne of God. And of this I am confident: Before His throne I am without fault. Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ my Lord.”
A murmur went through the crowd.
Then, on the platform there was a commotion.
Shouts.
The rescue attempt! Drew thought.
He glanced at his two guards, then at the platform, then for the quickest way to the scaffold. The commotion died down as two men were hauled away.
There was no rescue attempt, only two drunkards fighting over a wager.
The sheriff whispered something to Matthews.
Matthews continued.
“With overwhelming sorrow in my heart, I can only conclude that those in control of England will no longer tolerate God-fearing men who speak their minds. To these merchants of hate who have the form of godliness, but not its power, I prophesy that you may win temporary victories, but you will ultimately fail. A great exodus is about to begin. For those who are faithful, God will provide a land of promise. And, just like Israel of old, a godly nation will rise out of a wilderness.”
At this point the curate spotted Drew.
Matthews’ expression was one of compassion; his face grew wet with tears. He spoke his final words directly to Drew.
“This new nation will not be founded on man’s wisdom or by man’s strength; the greatness of this nation will be that its foundation rests on the Word of God. ‘Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, saith the LORD of hosts!’”
Christopher Matthews was led to the block.
Drew fought to pull himself free.
Matthews declined a blindfold when one was offered. He lay his head down on the block.
Bishop Laud approached the condemned man.
He said, “Do you not think you ought to be lying with your head facing east, for our Lord’s rising?”
“When the heart is right,” Matthews replied, “it matters not which way the head lieth.”
With all his strength Drew Morgan struggled to free himself, kicking, yanking, screaming. He couldn’t do it.
The executioner raised his ax.
“No!” Drew shouted.
WHACK!
A roar of cheers rose from the crowd.
The first blow didn’t sever the curate’s neck. The executioner raised his ax again.
WHACK!
Another cheer.
The headsman indicated that there was still some skin attaching the head to the body.
WHACK!
The headsman jumped to his feet, holding the head of Christopher Matthews high for everyone to see.
The crowd went wild.
Drew hung limp in his guards’ arms.
Bishop Laud approached the body of the dead curate and said a prayer. Walking to the edge of the scaffold, he looked at Drew.
“Three days,” he said. Then to the guards, “Give him his things and let him go.”