Shakespeare's Rebel

by C. C. Humphreys

  Lollards’ Tower.

  If it was far smaller than that royal palace where monarchs and nobility had died, it had near as sinister a reputation. The men who had perished within it, and who gave it their name, were now honoured as martyrs, forerunners of the Protestant faith. They had died horrible deaths there, tortured and eventually burned. Half the structure they were rapidly approaching was the Archbishop of Canterbury’s London residence, a palace of beautifully carved stone and sublime coloured glass. But it was the blunt thrust of granite blocks that John focused on. In the dog days of this summer, with the Spanish enemy over the horizon and armed Papists on every corner stalking the sovereign majesty, he was sure many people had disappeared into the darkness ahead. He was equally sure that few, if any, came out – on their feet at least.

  His own must have dragged. ‘Come on, you,’ the leader of his captors said, seizing an arm. A gaoler emerged from a wooden shack beside the stone. ‘Any others up there?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Last one was taken out this morning.’ He jangled keys, selected one, went to the stone wall. ‘If you stand downwind, you’ll smell the Jesuit dog roasting in about an hour.’

  His guard turned to John. ‘Just think – a whole tower to yourself. Last one who had that was a duke of the realm. Funny thing – his noble blood was just as red as the next man’s.’ He laughed, then shoved his prisoner forward. ‘In you go.’

  The door into Lollards’ Tower was a tiny contrast to the edifice, a wooden wicket barely the size of the granite slabs it was placed between. John had to stoop, and then stopped when he found that the stair beyond was not much wider than his shoulders. ‘Up,’ came the command, accompanied by another firm push. John stumbled, for the first few steps were narrow and, he saw by such light as came from the occasional reed torch, much worn. The stair circled upwards, his elbows grazing the stone pressing in on either side. Eventually it splayed and ended at a wooden door, far wider than the one below, studded and braced with iron. It was ajar, and with nowhere else to go, John pushed it open and went in.

  The room reeked of fear, as such places usually did, a compound of piss and shit and the rancid sweat constant terror produces. It was a scent that John knew well; and he suddenly yearned for a touch of clove, even though he had found it sickly on waking. There was also always a feeling in such places as if the stones themselves had absorbed the prayers and pleas of all who’d been there. Stones . . . or in this case, wood, as John confirmed when his eyes became accustomed to the dim light entering from two arrow slits. The four walls were covered in oak wainscot. Not just at their base, as was the custom; everything was panelled here, even the ceiling. There was nothing else in the room, of wood or stone, not a chair, table, cot. All he could see were eight metal hoops, about two hands in diameter and bored into the oak in regular intervals around the walls.

  He shivered at the sight of them. ‘Cold, are you?’ the leader of the captors said. He’d followed John in, along with two of his fellows. ‘Well, there’s a fireplace there. Some prisoners get wood, depending on their rank, or how . . . cooperative they are.’ He eyed John’s much-patched and simple clothes. ‘I suspect you’ll get none.’

  He turned to go. ‘A moment, friend,’ John said, and, when the man stopped, continued, ‘Might I ask your name?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ When John did not reply, he shrugged and said, ‘Well, since I doubt you’ll have much time to dwell upon it, my name is Waller.’

  ‘Could you bring me some ale, Master Waller? Or water, if you must,’ he added, seeing instant refusal in the man’s eyes.

  ‘Why should I do that for you?’ Waller replied. ‘I have not been given orders to withhold it. Neither have I been told to make you comfortable. What’s in it for me?’ He thrust his chin forward. ‘Have you money?’

  John had not checked his hidden purse, but it felt light against his spine. He studied the man before him. He was about his own age, and had a certain bearing. ‘Would you do it as a kindness to a fellow soldier?’

  The eyes appraised. ‘You served? Where?’

  ‘With the Earl of Leicester in Holland. With Drake against the Armada.’ He thought it best not to mention Essex, given the circumstances.

  Waller looked at him for a moment. ‘I’ll see,’ he said, turning again, following his men down the stairs.

  The door slammed shut, bolts were shot and John did not even bother to go examine it. He did go to the chimney, bend to look up the flue. It was narrow, as ever, but more of an impediment were the iron spikes that would allow smoke egress but not flesh.

  He stood, too quickly. The blood in his head surged. And then he was charging across the room, his vomit preceding him by a foot. Most he managed to direct into the bucket. Not all.

  ‘By the beard,’ he said, wiping his mouth, then sinking with his back to the wainscot and within range of the receptacle. When the quivering in his guts abated enough, he rose to slowly make a tour of the walls. Little to see, except those iron rings whose function he did not wish to contemplate too closely; also some scratching. Someone had attempted a rough calendar. However, it was mainly words – the names ‘Edwin’ and ‘George’, and some others less legible; prayers. ‘God preserve us.’ ‘To thy mercy . . .’ All the phrases were in English. The little he knew of Lollards was that they were the first to read the Bible in their own tongue, disdaining the Latin that restricted the Lord’s words to an educated few. Now all did so, and rejoiced in it. Then, they had burned for doing so, waiting in this room for their conflagration, just as Jesuits waited now.

  The little he could explore, he had. All that was left was to sink down near the bucket, and put his head on to his knees.

  It had not rested there long before the sound of bolts raised it. He stood as the door swung open. A guard came in – not one of the ones he’d had before – while another, also new, stood at the door, a cudgel in his hands. The first one stepped two paces into the room, put down another bucket, then, as wordlessly, left.

  John waited for the bolts to be shot again before he rose and crossed. He lifted the pail’s lid . . . and smiled at its contents. Two leather bottles with cork stoppers. A hunk of maslin bread. And a rag.

  ‘Bless you, Master Waller,’ he murmured as he unstoppered. One bottle contained ale, and he drank some swiftly. It was weak stuff, which was just as well. The other contained water, which he put to its only proper use – first he washed his beard and doublet front clear of vomit, then watered and wiped the approach to the bucket. Finally he sat against the wall opposite the bucket and gnawed at the bread. He did not relish it, but, like the ale, he would need it for his mangled guts and wits.

  Long after he’d scraped the crumbs from his beard, and washed the bread down with the last of the ale, with the arrow slits causing sunbeams to lengthen across the floor, he heard feet upon the stair, and then the bolts repeating their refrain. The door opened and Waller came in. John began to rise, to thank him for his kindness. But the officer shook his head in a clear gesture of silencing, then stepped aside to admit another.

  Sir Robert Cecil did not need to unstoop. He scuttled in, and stared down at John, who’d fallen back. ‘What, sirrah? Do you not rise to kneel before your betters?’ the Secretary of State declared.

  In his considerable experience, John had found that defiance was a tactic that sometimes worked with interrogators while cringing only encouraged them. So he was about to respond defiantly when someone else entered the room. One of his betters, sure, and one who brought John instantly to his knees.

  ‘Well, John Lawley,’ said the Queen of England. ‘We have a situation here and no mistake.’

  XVIII

  Queen’s Messenger

  If she was not dressed as he had last seen her, in the finery required for the Shrove Tuesday revels, she was dressed well enough for all that, as if fresh from an especially fashionable hunt, with a brown velvet riding habit trimmed with ermine that flowed over a large russet-red skirt. This was
swelled by a farthingale, a miniature version of the whalebone edifice that supported a court gown, supporting her now as she leaned upon it, bending from the waist as far as she was able.

  ‘God’s breath!’ she puffed. ‘Those stairs! I warrant they are torment enough for any prisoner – without need for your other devices, Master Secretary.’

  Sir Robert looked past the Queen to the doorway. ‘Ho! A chair here for her majesty!’

  ‘I do not want a chair. Did I command one? You know my legs cannot abide much sitting, and those torments grow worse. I need to lean . . .’ She raised a hand. ‘You, girl, attend me.’

  If John was surprised by his royal visitor, he was as much by who came in now – his lady of cloves, though he could detect none of that scent now. And she was also much changed from when he’d last seen her. Those golden locks were held under a lady’s bonnet, not a hair astray to betray her wantonness. Her dress, cut in the fashion, would have exposed her bosom, but hers was discreetly veiled in lace. No doubt it would be hard to explain the marks his passion had wrought.

  ‘Come, Sarah,’ the Queen said. ‘Your arm.’

  That’s it. Sarah, John thought. Yet her name was all he got of her for now. The black eyes were demurely lowered, as they had been at that first interrogation at Whitehall. She placed herself and braced the Queen.

  ‘Better. Up, sir!’ Elizabeth muttered, though her nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘The air in here wants sweetness,’ she continued, then looked at him. ‘I know it is the pickling time, Master Lawley, but it is meant for cucumbers, not men. Phew!’

  If that is all she smells on me, I shall be much relieved, he thought, rising, glancing at the maid again.

  Sir Robert moved crabwise to the door. ‘In,’ he said, and the same bald clerk who’d attended him before entered. He was laden, a folding table under one arm, a satchel under the other. He set up the one and tipped the contents of the other out upon it, a sheaf of papers. Cecil waved him out, bending to spread and sort.

  Strange, thought John, eyeing the preparations. He had been examined in many ways before. This did not resemble any of them. The presence of the sovereign would seem to preclude torture – for the moment; she could always leave.

  He wished his brain did not hurt so much. He wished he had not drunk all the ale nor used the water for washing. Most of all he wished to know what the devil was going on.

  Then Elizabeth told him. In a way. ‘Master Lawley, are you the Queen’s loyal servant?’

  ‘I . . . am, your majesty.’

  ‘And are you also a friend to the Earl of Essex?’

  Careful, he thought. ‘I saved his life once,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps more than once. Certain Indian cultures I encountered when on the voyage with Sir Francis Drake have it that I am therefore obliged to him, not the other way around, as civilised men think.’ He took a breath, aware that his tongue could run loose after such a night. ‘So I do not know if I am his friend. But I am . . . obliged to him, your grace.’

  ‘An intriguing answer. You are an intriguing man.’ She studied him for a moment. ‘Well, perhaps that will be enough. And perhaps he will feel a . . . civilised man’s obligation too, and heed your advice. Advice taken direct from me, sir, and from the wise heads of my Privy Council, as represented here by my Secretary of State.’

  The scribe had withdrawn. No one was setting down words. But John had no doubt everything was being noted in the book of minds, to be recalled later in ink. And Sarah had more than one employer, she’d said. Who else would she be reporting this conversation to? Yet what most pierced the miasma in his brain was the word ‘taken’. Until he heard more on that, he could only stutter, ‘I . . . I am at your command, ma’am.’

  ‘Then hear this.’ The Queen took another deep breath, pinched the top of her nose for a moment with her eyes closed, then opened them straight into a glare. ‘My lord of Essex has displeased me mightily. He has displeased the realm. More, there are rumours that his actions may have so exceeded his mandate as my vice-regent in Ireland that they could be construed as treason. As treason, sir!’ She frowned at him as if he were Essex himself, standing before her, accused. ‘And if he has not yet gone so far in his pride, he has gone further in his stupidity.’ The glare doubled in intensity. ‘For he has concluded a truce with the rebel Tyrone.’

  John raised eyebrows. ‘He has, majesty?’

  ‘He has? He has! I tell you that he has. And do not tell me you do not know what half of London does.’

  John knew that to be exaggeration – though there would be several who received letters as his Tess had done. He also knew that Essex would not have sent his reports only to the Queen and her council, for such news would be immediately manipulated. Essex would know that his enemies would be doing so straightway. Thus he must do so too, and swiftly.

  ‘Come, sir, I have it on authority that you do know.’ It was the Secretary’s turn to frown at him. ‘Do not attempt to juggle with us here. It will go ill with you if you do.’

  John took a moment to look at Cecil’s ‘authority’. The maid kept her black eyes down. Yet even through his fug he detected something interesting here. The Secretary was threatening him, as was dictated by his role and its setting, this infamous prison of traitors. But it did not seem quite real. It was a role, and he was playing it. Having some experience of players, both good and ill ones, John also saw that behind Sir Robert’s blustering performance lurked a certain desperation.

  He looked again at the Queen – and also noted something beyond her glare. These people are frightened, he thought. And they think I can ease their fears.

  His mind cleared on the thought. Fear was power – over queens as well as swordsmen. His pain remained – indeed he knew that only time or more of what had caused it would reduce it entirely – but he was master of it now. ‘I admit I have heard a little of this. But, your grace, sir, if you require something of me, then perhaps you would be good enough to tell me what it is?’

  Both Cecil and Elizabeth exhaled loudly at the same time. They probably had not meant to do so, for it was a sound that confirmed his sobering thoughts: that they needed him far more than Cecil’s desire to harm him. For now, anyway. And if now would see him out of Lollards’ Tower – especially as the palace bell had just tolled eleven, reminding him that Tess would be watching for him in Southwark – he had first to listen to what they had to say.

  The silence lasted a moment before the Queen spoke. ‘Tell him, Master Secretary. Tell him everything.’

  Cecil looked appalled. ‘I will tell him, majesty, as much as he needs to hear.’

  If Elizabeth noticed the rebuke, she did not react to it. ‘Perhaps I will take a chair,’ she said, her voice weaker. She leaned more heavily on her maid, who braced herself to support her.

  ‘A chair for her majesty,’ Cecil called.

  ‘And a pomander for the stench. Also some cordial,’ she added.

  Orders were relayed, a line of servants curving round the tower’s stair no doubt, each bearing whatever might be required for the Queen’s comfort. A chair was brought, sweet herbs in their metal ball placed in one hand, a glass in the other. When the last servant left, Elizabeth sat, sipped then waved. ‘On, Sir Robert.’

  The Secretary donned spectacles, then raised a parchment. Dangling from it was a tangerine ribbon at the base of which was an oval of sealing wax. ‘ “Most beauteous . . . ” ’ he began.

  ‘Dispense with the tributes, Master Secretary,’ Elizabeth snapped. ‘One can only hear so many odes to one’s eyes before they nauseate near as much as the air in this room. Since I have been pulled prematurely from the chase for this’ – she gestured to her habit – ‘you will to it, sir. The hart has been bayed. To the kill!’ She settled back with a slight smile for her metaphor.

  Cecil gave a half-bow, then scanned down the tightly inked lines. It would be hard to discover the hart in those thickets, John knew. He had received letters from the earl himself and knew them to be full of rhetorical flou
rishes and devices obscuring the matter. Eventually, somewhere near the end of the second page, the Secretary flushed his prey. ‘ “Majesty,” ’ he announced, ‘ “as your viceroy in this land, we have used your power as deputed to us to force the Earl of Tyrone if not to his knees, then to his horse’s withers in water. For he paid to us, and through us, to you, due servility. With Lagan’s stream lapping at his mount’s belly, all hatless, did he most humbly accept terms. To wit: not to violate the peace of the realm for six weeks. Such terms to be renewed at six-week intervals, until either side gives a fortnight’s notice. To such peace the rebel swore binding oaths, while your vice-regent merely signed an assurance as befitted our status. Moreover . . . ” ’

  Elizabeth’s legs had been writhing during Cecil’s recitation. Now they propelled her up. ‘The dastard!’ she cried. ‘He tries to make this out to be our victory. Ours! When it is clearly his defeat. Terms with a traitor! Not his head on a pike. Terms, by Jesu!’

  John frowned. There were several things he did not understand. ‘Lagan’s waters, sir?’ he asked, addressing Cecil.

  ‘We have a letter here from a witness to this . . . treason.’ He glanced at the Queen as if seeking approval for the word, as she moved back and forth behind her chair. Unrebuked, he picked up another paper. ‘It appears that the earl, having failed to bring the rebels to battle, agreed to meet their leader between the armies . . . in a stream! It matters not that Tyrone was bonnetless in the waters and Devereux wore his helmet on the bank. For they were alone. Alone!’

  Alone. Very little surprised John when it came to Robert Devereux – but this did. He would have thought that the title of vice-regent would have put some sense into even that muddled head, but obviously it had not. To converse with an avowed rebel unwitnessed? Anything could have been said and agreed. Anything. And the earl was not only a general at the head of the Queen’s army, he was also a dog snapping around the only . . . the only bitch in the pack, John thought, glancing at the wandering Queen. Her Robin was the leader of a faction. To consort with traitors in this extraordinary way . . . it was as if a mastiff in a bear bait suddenly made compact with the bear. It could well be construed as treason – and he knew that the earl’s great rival, the Secretary, was construing it exactly that way.