He ran.
As fast and as far as he could, he ran. Shoving his way through the crowd, blinded by rage, not caring where he was going as long as he got far away from the scaffold.
He ran through the city of the homeless living on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral. He ran down Fleet Street past the ditch leading to the prison that bore its name. He ran down The Strand despising the people who transacted business as if it was just another day.
A good man … a godly man … died today! Didn’t anybody care?
He ran past Charing Cross, away from Whitehall and the king and the bishop. He ran across Knight’s Bridge. He ran until his lungs were bursting and he could no longer see through his tears. And when he could run no longer, he collapsed into a ditch, buried his face in the dirt, and wept.
For hours he lay there.
Horses with their riders passed by, as did carriages and travelers on foot who complained about long work hours, beastly managers, and skinflint employers. They all passed him by. No one asked if he were hurt.
It was night before he stirred from the ditch.
The dark day had ushered in a black night. The wind blew with gale force, casting drops of rain like stones.
He climbed to his feet. Drew’s head pounded with pain so intense it nearly knocked him back down. He stumbled onto the road, his limbs devoid of feeling, his face expressionless. His arms fell limp to his sides. He was barely aware that he was walking as one foot shuffled in front of the other, carrying him back across Knight’s Bridge and into London.
Aimlessly, he wandered the city’s streets. Coachmen yelled at him to get out of their way. He tripped and fell into the open sewers that ran down the middle of the street. Prostitutes called to him from their windows. He ignored them all.
Didn’t they know? Couldn’t they tell he was dead?
He found himself standing opposite London House.
There was a light coming from the bishop’s library; two more lights beamed upstairs. A huge silhouette moved past one of the upstairs windows. It was so large it could belong only to the round cook. In his mind, Drew could see the interior of the house—his room; the bishop’s bedroom where they used to lie awake and talk about knights and crusades; the library where he spent countless hours reading and relaxing far from the strife of home. The bishop was probably sitting at his desk in the library right now, finishing up some business or writing a letter, but not in code. Only the two of them knew the code.
Turning his back on the house, Drew walked away.
He was ambling down Mile End Road when the rain suddenly fell in sheets. It was a strong rain, driven so hard by the wind it traveled across the road. Shielding his face from the stinging drops, Drew fled to a familiar looking tavern.
“Close the door!” someone shouted as Drew entered.
He leaned against the door from the inside until he heard the latch fall. Then he stumbled to an empty table, leaving a trail of water behind.
“Ale?” the taverner grunted. The man had bright red hair and a bulbous nose.
Drew stared at him with unfocused eyes.
“You deaf?” the taverner shouted.
Still no response.
Not one to pass up an opportunity to amuse his regulars, the taverner’s next question was even louder, with a definite pause between each word.
“Do … you … want … an … ale?”
He basked in the anticipated laughter.
Drew felt the outside of his pockets.
“I don’t know if I have any money,” he mumbled.
The taverner cursed.
“Get him outta here!” he yelled at a burly man propped in a chair in the far corner.
The barrel-chested man grunted a response and came at Drew.
“Wait!”
A heavily whiskered man with a tankard stood between Drew and the bouncer.
Squinting as he leaned closer to Drew, he said, “Ain’t you Drew Morgan?”
Drew stared back at him and came up blank. He couldn’t remember ever seeing those whiskers before.
“Sure it is!” The whiskered man beamed as he called to the other patrons. “This here’s Drew Morgan!”
“You sure?” the taverner asked him.
“Sure I’m sure!” whiskers said. “I was delivering meat to the palace during that royal reception when I sees him. I was in the kitchen when suddenly everyone in the banquet hall starts clappin’ and yellin’ and cheerin’. I pokes my head out the door to see what’s the fuss. And it’s him!” The whiskered man poked Drew in the chest, making his head bob back and forth. “It’s him! Drew Morgan the spy!”
“Looks like a drunk to me.”
“He’s the spy, I tells ya! Ain’t ya, son?” The whiskered man was inches from Drew’s face.
Drew nodded into the whiskers.
Nearly a dozen chairs scraped the floor as everyone got up from their tables to look at Drew.
“Get the man an ale!” the taverner cried. To Drew, “No charge, Master Morgan. Ain’t every day we get a hero in here. Drink all the ale you want.”
“I sure do admire you, son,” Whiskers said. “What’s it like bein’ a spy? Excitin’ ain’t it? Was there a time when ya thought ya’d get caught?”
An ale was slammed down in front of Drew. He took a sip, then nodded in reply to Whiskers’ question.
Everyone cheered.
“What kinda trainin’ ya have to do for undercover work?”
“Undercover work?”
A woman with a half-open blouse pushed her way into the circle.
“If we’re talkin’ about workin’ under covers,” she said, “I’m an expert.”
Hoots and hollers testified to her boast.
The woman wormed her way onto Drew’s lap.
“Rosemary’s the best there is this side of London,” the taverner said with a grin and a wink.
Drew looked into the face of the woman on his lap.
“Wait a minute!” she cried. “Wait just a minute! I know you! You came in here some time ago with that Venner guy, didn’t you?” She looked at the men around the table and said, “That Venner kid is a real strange one, real strange!”
Drew wasn’t sure what she meant, but her commentary on Eliot brought a roar of laughter.
“And you!” Rosemary turned her attention back to Drew. “I was your birthday present, wasn’t I?”
Drew turned red.
“Something like that,” he mumbled.
“That’s right! And if I recall, you ran out on me!” With eyes and mouth opened wide with a surprised smile, she said, “How ’bout that, boys? I get a second chance with the hero!”
“Leave ’im alone, Rosemary!” It was the redheaded tavern keeper. “You’re embarrassin’ him. Can’t ya see he’s had an awful day?”
“Don’t see why,” Whiskers said. “Should be a good day for ’im. The guy he spied on got whacked today!”
“That’s right!” said the taverner.
“Didn’t you go to Tower Hill, son?” Whiskers asked. “Musta been the whole city out there.”
“Best execution I ever saw,” one man said.
“You’re blowin’ beans,” another man responded. “It took the executioner three strokes to do it. It was messy work.”
“Dull blade,” Whiskers said.
“That’s what I liked about it!” replied the first man. “Three strokes—whack! whack! whack!” The man hit the table with the edge of his hand for effect. “Single strokes are no fun, they’re over too soon.”
“I like to watch royal heads fall, myself,” said Rosemary.
“Me? I like precision. Sharp blade. One stroke. Whack!”
“You’re outta your mind! The more strokes, the better— whack! whack! whack!”
Drew shoved himself away from the table. Rosemary fell on her backside with a thud. Throwing the door open, he charged into the elements, wind and rain assaulting his face. He sloshed down the middle of the muddy road back toward the heart of London.
He had gone about half a mile when he thought he saw someone duck behind a tree trunk several feet in front of him and to the left. Slowing his pace, he altered his course toward the other side of the street. There was a sloshing behind him. He turned just in time to see a fist come flying at him. He fell to his knees in the mud. More sloshing sounds from behind him. Someone from behind grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. Through bleary eyes Drew recognized the man in front of him. He’d been in the tavern. Another fist came his way. Thud! Another. Thud! The man holding his hair let go and Drew fell face forward into the mud.
Barely conscious, he could feel himself being rolled over. Someone was searching his pockets and inside his shirt.
“He said he didn’t have any money!” a voice whined.
“How did I know?” another voice, a raspy one, replied. “He’s a hero. Heroes are rich.”
Finding nothing, the robber with the raspy voice kicked Drew in the ribs.
“Leave ’im alone,” said his partner.
“He deserved it,” the raspy voice said. “Heroes are supposed to be rich.”
Drew lay in the mud, moaning as the rain beat down on him. Within minutes a little mud crater next to his cheek filled, the overflow pouring into Drew’s nose and mouth. Choking and coughing, he rolled onto his back, rubbed his neck, and struggled to his feet, slipping several times in the slick roadway.
Drew sloshed his way down Aldgate and then south toward the Thames. He made his way to Tower Hill and stood before the scaffold in the same place where he had watched the curate of Edenford die.
Just under the scaffold he saw his bundle. Laud’s men must have left it there when he ran off. The first thing he noticed about it was the item that was conspicuously absent. The broken cutlass. Whenever he paused in his travels, he always leaned the cutlass against his bundle, but it wasn’t there now. It had served his grandfather well, but it failed him. Just like he had failed Christopher Matthews.
He dropped to his knees to inventory what was inside the bundle. Clothes mostly. He found a pouch containing money. The bishop must have put it there. He counted it. A substantial amount.
“Heroes are supposed to be rich,” he laughed bitterly.
At the bottom of the pack was his Bible … the one Laud had given him … the one the Puritans hated … the one he read to Nell and Jenny as they made bone lace beside the open window on High Street.
He wept.
A weary Drew Morgan climbed the stairs of the scaffold and stood where the block was laid. The hard rain rolled off his face and hands; the wind made him shiver as the chill penetrated his skin and worked its way toward his heart. He welcomed it. He wanted the wind to freeze his heart and numb his mind so he wouldn’t have to think anymore. So he wouldn’t have to feel anymore.
He looked at the empty stands all around him. No one was cheering for him, no one applauding his courage. No one saluting his bravery for causing the death of a man who wanted nothing more than to love his family and serve his God.
As Drew dropped to his hands and knees, he saw bloodstains on the wood. Christopher Matthews’ blood … innocent blood … spilled blood. It had soaked deep enough in the wood that the rain didn’t wash it away.
Drew rubbed the beams with his hands, but the stains remained. He removed his shirt and scrubbed the boards furiously. The blood of Christopher Matthews was still there, an enduring testimony to Drew’s guilt. There was no getting rid of it. He was forced to live with the stain.
What was wrong with him? Everything he had ever wanted in life was a few miles away. All he had to do was walk to London House and claim his heritage, embrace the bishop, acknowledge the applause, accept the rewards, be the hero of England that the bishop and the king wanted him to be.
But the thought of those things no longer held a fascination for him, as if a spell had been broken and the gold he sought had turned into ashes.
Christopher Matthews had broken the spell. A man who had none of those things, yet was the richest man Drew had ever met.
All Drew Morgan had now were taunting memories of what he could never have, cruel memories of mistakes he could never remedy, laughing memories of the boy who would be great—
Memories of Nell smiling coyly among the castle ruins …
Of little blue-faced Thomas smiling at him …
Of Matthews defending him against Dudley’s charges …
Of Jenny’s sweet kisses under her canopy of hair …
Of old Cyrus Furman holding his dead wife in his arms …
Of Eliot dancing half-naked beside the river …
Of Laud relentlessly pursuing his victim in Star Chamber …
Of the broken body of Lord Chesterfield’s son …
Of Christopher Matthews in the tower lifting his beaming face heavenward and saying, “Thank You, Lord!”
“I don’t understand!” Drew shouted at the sky. “How could he do that? How could he be thankful when his enemy had triumphed? How could he rejoice when he was about to die?”
Drew pounded the scaffold with his fists.
Then the words came to him, the curate’s words.
Edenford must fly to the wilderness. Keep my girls safe! Tell them their poppa loves them.
Drew shook his head. “I can’t do it!” he shouted.
Fly to the wilderness. Keep my girls safe.
“They won’t listen to me!”
Fly to the wilderness.
“They’ll kill me if I go back there!”
Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, saith the LORD of hosts!
“No! It’s not possible!”
Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, saith the LORD of hosts!
“No,” he whimpered.
Fear 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.
“Oh God, help me!” Drew cried. “Forgive me for what I’ve done.”
Drew Morgan fell prostrate on the scaffold. The heavy rain pounded the wooden boards.
Not by might.
“Lord, teach me to love.”
Nor by power.
“Lord, give me strength.”
But by my spirit.
“Lord, take away my selfishness.”
Drew Morgan talked to God until the sun rose.
Two deaths occurred on the scaffold that day; when Christopher Matthews died and went to glory, and when Drew Morgan died to himself.