Shakespeare's Rebel

by C. C. Humphreys

  Before he took the first step, he glanced downriver one last time, his gaze resting again on the thatched roof of the Globe. What had Will chastised him with there, the last time he’d seen him? How he could never help his actions, could never take action for himself? ‘You sound like the man I conjure now, Prince Hamlet!’ he’d declared. Well, old friend, John thought, if I never see you again, perhaps you will hear of this, at least. And know that in the end, I did act.

  Shaking his head, he turned from what lay behind to what was ahead.

  A crowd prevented him going in the river gate. Men stood there, cloaked and booted, with wide-brimmed hats pulled low over brows, scabbards clattering together as each sought a way through the press, and snarled like dogs at each other when they were prevented. Thwarted, John took the alley beside the easterly wall, discovered the postern there equally besieged. One of its guards, however, was as tall as the gatepost, and John knew him.

  ‘Captain St Lawrence!’ he cried, his player’s voice piercing the hubbub.

  The huge Irishman peered through drifting snowflakes. ‘Who calls me?’ he bellowed.

  ‘’Tis I, Captain. John Lawley.’

  ‘Master Lawley!’ The dark face split in a smile. ‘Come forward, man. Make way there, all of you.’ He was grudgingly obeyed, and John pushed through to the gate. ‘I’fecks, but it is good to see you, man. The leader will be delighted. I am delighted.’ Surprising John with a rib-squeezing clasp, he released him, and added, ‘Sure, I’ll bring you to him myself.’

  He led John through the gate. To its right, a long table was set up. It was awash with weapons, and men stood before it carefully searching those who had just entered. ‘I am sorry, Master Lawley, but all must give up their blades, without exception,’ St Lawrence said. ‘There’s whispers that men are being sent to assassinate the leader. All weapons are to be left here.’ He pointed to racks behind the table. ‘You may want to wrap your scarf around yours so you know it again.’

  As he removed his scarf, sword and buckler, John looked at other men being thoroughly searched. Hands were being passed over breeches, shoved into boot cuffs, thrust down doublets. He stiffened as a man approached him . . . but the captain stepped forward with hand raised. ‘There’ll be no need for that, man. Do you not see who this is? Master Lawley, his lordship’s most loyal follower. May as well search the Earl of Southampton.’ He laughed, and clapped a hand upon John’s back, low enough down not to feel the hardness there. The man nodded, took the sword and shield, placed them in a rack.

  St Lawrence led John forward along an arched pergola, its vine winter-bare. A tunnel of sorts, down which noise swelled and which gave out on to the garden. Tess had vouched for it as one of the finest in the land – for the way to gain the Queen’s favour was ever to captivate her passions, and in gardens, as in everything, Essex had sought to outdo his rivals. From previous visits, John recalled paths of coloured gravel that swirled around a fountain before sweeping up to a mount crowned with a banqueting house. A pump at one end had sprayed water upon the parterres to dapple the plants with a simulation of dew. A bowling green had occupied the other end, its grass clipped as precisely as his lordship’s Cadiz-cut beard.

  That garden had gone. It had been submerged beneath another place, one with which John was far more familiar – an armed camp. Rainbow gravel had melded into multicoloured mud; the bowling lawn was torn by poles that hoisted canvas; and there were men everywhere, lying on camp beds, astride chairs, circling fires fed by beams from the destroyed banqueting house.

  The noise, the crowds, both were a shock after the solitary quiet of a cell. He halted, and with him St Lawrence, who mistook his expression for something else. ‘Grand, is it not?’ He grinned. ‘You’ll recognise plenty of the lads from Dublin – and many others too. Welshmen, Scots, Irishmen – why, there may even be a few Englishmen about!’ He laughed, but as he gazed around, his expression changed. ‘Sure, but it is a combustible crew, and so pressed together. And then there’s the drinking, which goes on day and night. Though some of us prefer the consolation of God to that sought in a bottle.’ The frown was again displaced by a grin. ‘Still, the time for action fast approaches. So you have arrived in the nick again, Master Lawley. In the nick! Where have you been all this time? About some secret work for the earl, no doubt?’

  He clapped him hard on the shoulder, so hard it shoved him into a mob grouped around a fire pit, jostling a man there in the act of lighting his pipe. He snarled, looked up at the two tall men, turned back with a muttered curse. Indeed, John heard that one low snarl under all the hubbub, one he’d heard so many times before – in the baiting rings, before the dogs were sent in to tackle the bear; in siege lines, just before a big assault. ‘They are at a pitch, these men,’ he murmured, shouldering through them. ‘It would not take much to set them off.’

  ‘Indeed. Combustible, as I said.’ St Lawrence stooped, to whisper in John’s ear. ‘But do not fear – action is close that will set them afire. Sending them like the bullets they are into the hearts of all our enemies.’

  They pushed on to the rear doors of the house. Two guards with halberds barred their way. ‘Has he been searched, Captain?’ queried one.

  ‘He has,’ replied St Lawrence, even though it was, for John, thankfully untrue. With this the blades parted and the captain shepherded him through, halting just on the other side of the entrance. ‘I’ll leave you here, man. You know the house, I warrant. You’ll find him in the library – or the chapel perhaps, for few men understand so well their duty to their Lord on high. I must again to my post – though I’ve a powerful desire to see the prodigal greeted,’ he said. ‘Go with God.’

  John gave him the ‘amen’ the big Irishman obviously craved. Then he crossed the room that faced the garden, moved down the unlit corridor beyond. He did know the house, but would have been drawn anyway by a laugh he knew even better.

  The man he sought was in the library. John paused by the door to study him, and the path between them.

  In Dublin Castle he had found a drunkard in the grip of the bloody flux and about an impossible task for which he had no solutions. Then, as often before, the earl had resorted to oblivion for an answer. Here, he looked different. There was colour in his face that fever had not put there, and a light in his eyes, which seemed less than usually clouded with debauchery. It was only on stepping closer that John’s own eyes, whose cunning had lessened with his ageing, saw what they could not from afar – the pallor on a face drawn with new lines; the light in the stare that matched the note he’d heard in the laugh – a touch of mania to it.

  There were a dozen or so men between John and his destiny. Several he knew – the younger earls Rutland and Bedford. The older lords Cromwell and Sandys. Gelli Meyrick, the man who organised the little Essex had and sought more, was muttering to two other equally red-haired fellows in Welsh.

  He needed ease of movement for what he must do . . . and needs must do it fast. So leaving the door ajar, he slipped out of his cloak, laying it softly on the floor, then walked up to the table, unnoticed by men bent over a sketched map of London and Westminster. Several red crosses had been made upon it: Essex House, St Paul’s Cross, the Tower. Whitehall Palace was circled and struck through. When he was ready, he took a breath, cleared his throat and called, loudly, ‘My lord of Essex.’

  The men, deep in their whispers, started. Essex reared back and stared at John for several long seconds. When recognition came, it brought a smile. ‘John Lawley! God’s wounds, lad, but it’s good to see you. Where have you been?’

  It was ever thus with Robert Devereux. Before him you were his sole concern. When you left his sight you left his perception – unless he needed you. Inwardly John sighed. Outwardly he spoke. ‘I have been in the Tower these fifteen months, my lord.’

  ‘By my troth, have you? On what cause?’

  This time John could not help the audible sigh. ‘On yours, my lord.’

  Gelli Meyrick leaned in, whisp
ering urgently in his master’s ear. The earl nodded and his eyes cleared a little. ‘Of course I knew that, John. Mind’s too full of . . .’ He gestured vaguely about. ‘We did add it to a list of grievances sent to her majesty and it was as ignored as the rest, alas!’ He leaned forward, smiling. ‘But did you get the pheasants?’

  ‘The pheasants, my lord?’

  ‘Aye. Gelli tells me I sent you a brace of them for your Christmas cheer.’

  ‘Well, no doubt they heartily cheered the warder who intercepted them.’

  Perhaps he spoke a little more sharply than he intended. There was a stir, and Lord Sandys, a man John had always marked out as the worst kind of bitter acolyte, suddenly spoke. ‘Has this man been searched? Shows up on the eve of our great enterprise, released suddenly from the Tower. Damn’d suspicious. Has he been searched?’ he repeated.

  There was a movement both away from John by some, and towards him by others – Gelli’s Welshmen reaching beneath their cloaks. But a single voice stopped them.

  ‘Search John Lawley? Search the man who has saved my life a half-dozen times, suspect him of wanting to . . . assassinate it?’ That laugh came again, the hint of mania in it, as the earl continued. ‘Master Lawley will have no weapon about him that means us harm but only one to use unswervingly in our cause. He is here as ever to serve only me. And he has come most happily upon the hour to do so.’ He beamed. ‘Is that not right, Johnnie?’

  There was a promise he’d made. Not to Robert Cecil. To himself. Now was the time he acted upon it. This was the moment his life changed. The interim that had held him was over. No phantasm sat before him. The spectre was real. ‘No, my lord,’ he said, reaching back between his shoulder blades. ‘For I do have a weapon here intended to do you harm.’ And on the word, he drew the dagger from its sheath, kept it by his head, arm bent back for the throw, spoke again, quietly, clearly. ‘No one move. The earl would be dead before you reached me. Tell them, my lord, the truth of that. For you will remember the Jesuit who tried to kill you in Flanders and his fate to die in your lap.’

  All was stillness. Everyone stared at the man with the knife, who stared only at the nobleman three paces before him, who stared back and, after a moment, replied, ‘It is true. And what is also true is that if John Lawley wanted me dead, then e’en now I would be greeting St Peter at the gates. So do as he says.’

  They had been like this, the two of them, on several occasions over the years, one or both of them facing death. And for all his faults, there was one Robert Devereux did not possess, and that was cowardice. ‘You know this, my lord. Your friends do not. So convince them to leave. You and I must have a private conversation.’

  ‘I do not need to convince. I only need to command.’ Essex did not take his eyes from John’s. But his voice rose. ‘Go. All of you.’

  A murmur of protest, headed by the rising Welsh notes of Gelli Meyrick. ‘My lord, we cannot leave you at a rascal’s mercy . . .’

  ‘No rascal. And no Brutus either. Leave us. Leave us now!’

  He ended on a roar that sent the men scurrying. None came near John, arm raised and unwavering. And only when he heard the door shut behind him, and the shouted summons begin beyond it, did he guide the dagger back into his shoulder sheath. He went to the door, turned the key in the lock, returned to lean upon the table, so Essex did not see him shake.

  ‘Well, John?’ The quaver in his voice was the only sign that Essex was disturbed.

  ‘Well, my lord. This first.’ He shook his head. ‘Trust no one. Not even those you think are closest.’

  ‘Like yourself?’

  ‘Even like me. For I have a new employer. He gave me this dagger. He gave me a bottle of an apothecary. And he gave me a bag of silver. Not quite thirty pieces, but not far short.’

  The quaver had left the voice. ‘So for whose service have you forsaken mine?’

  ‘I think you can guess. Your most bitter foe. Master Secretary Cecil.’

  The only change in Essex’s face was a narrowing of the eyes. ‘And yet I think, Johnnie, if that were true, you would not so readily declare it. You would use the knife, or the contents of your bottle, and then you would disappear. I can think of perhaps three men in the realm who could succeed in both. You are one.’

  ‘Believe me, I considered it. My service to you over the years has cost me much. Liberty. Choice. A family. However.’ He raised a hand against the earl’s interruption. ‘However, the chances of my life ending with yours would be great. The chances of me returning to the life I desire after such an act would be’ – he shook his head – ‘precisely none. So I have decided upon another course. It is a vow I made myself. One not taken lightly. I have had . . . much time to think upon it.’

  Essex slowly leaned forward, till he too could rest his hands on the table. ‘And what course is that?’

  ‘I have vowed to see you triumph’ – John tipped his head to the map before him – ‘in whatever hazards you have planned.’

  ‘And in return?’

  ‘In return, good my lord, only this: that even were God himself to descend from heaven and beseech you to the contrary, you make this vow: to leave me completely, entirely and forever alone.’

  The earl stared back, the mania in his eyes displaced by a watery sadness. ‘I am sorry you find me such poor company, John,’ he said at last, his voice mournful as a boy’s. ‘But I understand. I understand! It is hard for ordinary men to stand too long next to the fire of greatness!’ Eyes that had briefly gazed above him on to posterity now returned. ‘And to reward you for the offer of your sword in my great enterprise, this I vow – it will be the last time I call upon you. If I succeed, haply I will not need to. If I fail’ – a shadow darkened the bright eyes – ‘why then, I will not have the power – for my head will be spiked upon London Bridge.’ The shadow passed and he beamed, continued, ‘However, let us not consider that, John Lawley. Let us only think on triumph, all the more likely since you have returned to camp. Here,’ he said, spinning the map around, ‘let me show you what we have planned.’

  ‘My lord, do not so!’ John’s shout was louder than he intended and he heard it echoed in rumblings beyond the door. He continued more quietly, ‘I said before you should put your trust in very few – and tell even those few as little as possible. I have been a spy in my time and this is the rule: what your agents do not know cannot hurt you, no matter how tall they are stretched nor how compacted by the scavenger’s daughter.’ He shuddered as he thought of the many times his cell door in Martin Tower had opened and he thought he was being taken off to torment. ‘So tell me only this: how soon do I muster, and where?’

  ‘The where is here,’ the earl replied. ‘How soon?’ He scratched his beard, then continued. ‘I do not hesitate because I am taking your good counsel, John, but because I do not know the hour. Our plans are not firm set, our forces still mustering. For when we rise, we must rise swiftly and with firm intent.’ He nodded. ‘I can tell you this. It will be within days.’ He lifted a different piece of parchment. John saw Greek letters, triangles, pentagrams inked upon it. ‘Master Forman has drawn up a horoscope that clearly shows all the stars aligning in my favour.’ He tapped a conjunction. ‘Indeed, the next two days are filled with a power scarce seen since . . .’ He smiled. ‘Well, Johnnie, since the day we took Cadiz.’ He laid the paper down. ‘And my dear Henry is about some business now that may make a final difference.’ He chuckled. ‘Now I consider it, it is something that will appeal to you most particularly.’

  ‘I wondered where the Earl of Southampton was, since he is ever at your side.’

  ‘He is not far, man, not far.’ Essex circled his wrist. ‘He and several of our men have gone to the Globe.’

  ‘Indeed.’ It seemed an odd time to be seeing a play. John frowned. ‘What business takes him there?’

  ‘The rousing business. Three thousand lusty Englishmen and women gathered in one place to hear a tale to inspire them. Why, it’s better than having one of my fa
vourite divines preach a sermon for me at St Paul’s Cross.’ Essex’s smile widened. ‘For they will witness a very special play. And they will go forth and think of that, and talk on it, and perhaps, when the game’s afoot, cry the name “Bolingbroke” upon the city streets.’

  John flushed cold. ‘Boling . . .’

  ‘Aye.’ Essex gave a huge laugh. ‘On the morrow, if Henry has persuaded them, which I doubt not, the Chamberlain’s Men will give a special performance of an old play.’ He spread his arms wide and declaimed, ‘ “The most lamentable tragedy of King Richard the Second and the rise of that great monarch, Henry the Fourth.” ’ He clapped his hands together. ‘God’s wounds, man, it will be like the day we marched for Ireland and Will Shakespeare unveiled Henry the Fifth !’

  God’s teeth, man, thought John, I hope not. Yet he did not speak this, nor anything else, for he was already headed to the door.

  ‘Where do you go, John?’

  ‘To catch this play, my lord.’

  ‘No hurry,’ Essex called. ‘Stay and dine with us. It plays on the morrow, not today.’

  Not if I can help it, John thought. His dream of being left alone involved being left alone with the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. And if they were linked to this treason? He shook his head. He could risk his paltry all in Essex’s cause. He could not let Will do so.

  The door opened to his tug. Two Welshmen fell through it. One was Gelli Meyrick. ‘My lord,’ he cried, ‘are you safe?’

  John did not hear the earl’s reply, for he was halfway down the corridor. And it was only when he was standing again upon the water stairs of Essex House, buckling on his weapons and scanning the river for a wherry, that he realised something: his heart was beating at a normal pace. He was no longer cold. He had acted, as he had planned. His life was in motion again. But one action now led to another and that one required speedy transit across the Thames.