‘The Secretary?’ She thrust out a lower lip. ‘He has no friends, only slaves.’
As she said it, she did a curious thing – reached up and touched her cheekbone, where paint did not quite disguise a bruise. Ah, thought John, as she continued. ‘And he has sent me to enquire after his latest.’
‘He assumed you would find me here?’
‘Of course. At the centre of treason, where a good spy should be.’
It was said with just a touch of bitterness, as half hidden as the bruise. Something was amiss with the lady. Something to be probed. ‘And what does Sir Robert require of us, his minions? What has he sent you to discover from me?’
‘The answer to the question that most concerns him, of course,’ she snapped. ‘Does Essex rise?’ She glanced out of the window as another cry of ‘Bolingbroke!’ pierced the air, then went on in a lower voice, ‘His followers gather in every tavern from Ludgate Hill to Westminster. They cluster around Essex House, which resembles a war camp now. They meet at the playhouse to witness regicide enacted.’ She leaned forward. ‘So answer me, and I will answer him. And then, perhaps, he will be quiet.’
She raised a hand towards her bruise again; realised it, dropped it – but John took it before it reached her lap. ‘But will you be, Sarah?’ he asked softly.
‘I?’ She tried to pull her hand back, but when he held it she let it go limp. Her eyes left his to look out the window. ‘What matters my quiet?’
‘It matters to you. And to me,’ he added, squeezing slightly.
Her eyes came back to him, searching. ‘Truly?’
‘Lady, I suspect you and I are similar in this: we are tired of being used so. And we would find a way clear, would we not?’
‘Perhaps.’ A slight smile came. ‘Do you know of one?’
‘Yes. To let these two stags go at it one last time over the doe – and step from their course.’
‘Is that what you do, John Lawley?’
He was not answering only her now, he knew. He was reporting to Cecil. ‘I serve who I must serve – to serve myself,’ he replied.
She stared at him for a moment, then looked away again, spoke. ‘As do I. And I will best serve myself if I give the Secretary what he wants. Only then can I . . . keep from this stag’s course.’ He still held her hand, and now she returned the pressure. ‘I once aided you, sir. Gave you a simple shake of my head to give you time to step off the path yourself. That you did not succeed is not my fault. I tried. Will you for me? Will you give me a nod or a shake and answer me. Does Essex rise this weekend or no?’
He thought back to all he’d seen at Essex House – the mounting fervour of the earl’s followers, from nobles to rakehells, echoing in the cheers now erupting within the playhouse behind them. He thought of the maps upon the table, London marked for the seizing. Finally, he thought of Forman’s horoscope, the favourable aspects of these two days. One had passed. Robert Devereux’s faith had been clear as he spoke of it, invoking also his triumph at Cadiz. And on the sudden he knew – if the earl did not rise on the morrow, he never would. And if he did – as John would try to ensure he did – then the best chance for his lordship’s success came with the Master Secretary believing the opposite.
John held her gaze, kept his own steady . . . and slowly shook his head.
Their hands slid apart. As he reached for the door, a trumpet sounded from the playhouse. The revels were ended. He pushed it open, stepped out. Her words slowed but did not stop him. ‘Until the next time, Master Lawley.’
‘Until then, my lady of cloves.’ He bowed, then moved away fast and it did not take many steps to excuse his lie. It was up to her if she believed him and what she told the employer who’d struck her. Besides, of one thing he was certain – Sarah could look after herself.
Rounding the curve of the playhouse, he saw Ned awaiting him before its rear entrance. ‘Ready for this, boy?’
Ned’s eyes gleamed. ‘Aye, Father.’
‘Then let us to it.’
The next moment they were running for Paris Garden Stairs. They caught near the first wherry from the dock, sharing it with boisterous swordsmen; Celts in the main, red hair bared to the encroaching night, who had, like themselves, hotfooted it from the playhouse, afire to return and urge their hero on. Glancing back from mid stream, John saw that theirs was only the first of an armada, vessels of all sizes crammed with men, hallooing as if upon some hunt. He looked to the bridge, and though dusk light meant sight was dimming, the sounds came clear – of drums, bugles, huzzahs, along with cries of ‘Bolingbroke!’ and still more of ‘Essex!’
Seeing the house approaching in the wherryman’s strong strokes, a shiver passed through John that had little to do with river chill or February’s deceiving sun. Well, he thought, I will be at his side soon enough. And I will do what I have always done with Robbie Devereux. Force him to the breach. Swing him over the ship’s balustrade, a sword between his teeth. Lower his hand to the fuse. See him triumph or see him damned. And me with him.
He looked down at his son. Ned had stood upon the platform, as the crowd roared and surged. He had already experienced a touch of mob insanity. Now they were heading for the very heart of it . . . and John, for the fortieth time, questioned the wisdom of bringing the boy. Tess would be furious if she knew, and with reason. No, he thought, all will be well. The boil is not yet lanced. Only then will danger come. I will keep him at Essex House just long enough to witness what he needs and then dispatch him straight. An hour, two at most. A primer in madness to secure the role he needed to stay with the Chamberlain’s Men.
There was the usual crowd at the gates. But Captain St Lawrence was at the postern again and speeded them in. ‘Your son, i’st? Come to see history made, have you, lad?’ He beamed, clapping each Lawley upon the shoulder. ‘No, keep your weapons now, John. We only admit our trusted friends. Let us to it.’
He shoved them forward into the mob and straight into a crowd grouped around a fire pit. They were engaged in a canting song, the verse passed from man to man along with a bottle from which he swigged. John, catching the scent of whisky along with the words, felt a familiar clutch inside.
Bing awast to Romeville, then,
O my doxy, O my dell.
We’ll heave a booth, and dock again,
And trining ’scape, and all is well.
The bottle passed close – but another shove sent him forward, beyond desire. ‘Do not think that all is sinful drunkenness here, young lad.’ St Lawrence appeared a little embarrassed. ‘We are about holy work, remember.’ He pulled them to another gathering. ‘Hearken to this.’
This ring of men were also grouped around a fire. But no bottle passed here, and men did not rhyme on theft and copulation. John also knew he would have seen none of these men at the performance either – for Puritans decried the theatre as Satan’s playground.
One young man was speaking, his lank blonde hair reaching to a plain white collar spread over a black suit. His hands were out and open-palmed at his sides, his eyes lifted to the sky, where all men stared. ‘Remember ye!’ he cried. ‘’Tis not enough to fight against God’s enemies. Ye, his warriors, must first be cleansed of sin. Remember the words of Moses as we set out upon our holy work: “When thou goest out with the host against thine enemies, keep thee then from all wickedness.” ‘
‘Amen,’ cried St Lawrence, along with every man in the circle.
John looked up at him. ‘I did not take you for a Puritan, Captain. In sooth, I seem to recall two maids at Nonsuch . . .’
‘Shh!’ The man glanced at Ned, swallowed. ‘I was a sinner, ’tis true, and a grand one too. But men like these’ – he nodded towards the black-dressed circle before him, who had all joined hands and were now murmuring prayers, eyes shut, faces lifted into the snow that had begun to gently fall again – ‘they have convinced me of my errors. God bless them and hallelujah!’ Ned called ‘amen’, though John did not. The Irishman smiled and patted his arm. ‘Ah, I understan
d, John. You have not seen the light yet. It will come to you as it does to all men. And yet.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Being a Cornishman, you are probably of the Catholic persuasion, are you not?’ Before John could attempt to correct Essex’s misapprehension as to his origins, St Lawrence went on, ‘Yet do not concern yourself on that score. Though our glorious leader is himself the exemplar of the Reformed Church and its most strident defender, he is also tolerant of others’ errors. He trusts that they, like him, will find the true faith.’ He beamed. ‘We have many like you here, John. You will be protected until you see the light of God.’
Whip me, thought John, but did not speak. He would not dim the fervent glow in the big Irishman’s eyes. And he knew it all shone from ‘the leader’, as St Lawrence kept calling him. It was not surprising that Essex’s twin idols – drunkenness and religiosity – had a near equal rule in his garden.
‘Stay and listen to the word of God, John,’ St Lawrence continued. ‘Or claim a patch of ground before the playgoers return. ’Twill get crowded soon. I must return to my post.’
With a bow, he was gone. Father and son stayed in the garden for a short time longer, as it rapidly filled and swiftly assumed its former aspect – revel, riot, prayer meeting. When their wanderings had left the boy wide-eyed enough, John said, ‘All forms of madness that can take men are here, are they not? Yet to further aid you in your study, let us to the beating heart of Bedlam.’ He took Ned’s arm. ‘’Tis time you met the Earl of Essex.’
He led his son to the rear of the house, where, recognised by the same guards, they were allowed through. The garden’s din was part sealed off by the closed door, a different sound taking over – a hum that grew as they proceeded down the corridor, between a row of waiting servants, to the main hall. ‘Here we go,’ said John, hand on doorknob. He turned it, pushed in.
There was a circle of some dozen men in the centre of the hall. They were kneeling, their hands joined, their eyes shut. John saw immediately that the noblemen had made near as good time from the Globe as any low-born conspirator. Southampton was there, along with Blount, Mounteagle, Sandys; while a brace of earls – Rutland and Sussex – braced a third: Essex himself. Like them all he had his eyes shut. Like everyone he clutched the hands of the man to either side. And everyone was humming, save for one, the only man standing and that upon a chair. Gelli Meyrick, the earl’s factotum, held a huge Bible in his hand. His clear, accented voice rang out, each utterance producing a corresponding surge of hums and repeated words in answer.
‘Who made thee a prince and judge over us?’
‘Who?’ came the hum. Followed by someone calling, ‘Not thee, Cecil!’
‘And the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of cloud, to lead them the way.’
‘Lead us, Lord!’ came the response, with a different voice adding, ‘Lord Robert!’
Then all the hands were lifted, a circle rising to the ceiling, and thence, John supposed, to heaven. It must have been something Essex’s party had done before, as all men now followed Meyrick and chanted together:
Life for life.
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,
Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.
John looked at his son. Ned’s eyes had been wide in the garden. They were wider now. He felt his father’s gaze, looked up. ‘Yes, my boy. Random quotes from Genesis.’
For once, Ned was too stunned to look scornful. ‘Exodus, Father. And one of the few they have left out is . . .’
Ned stopped as the missing quote came, the men shouting it as one, ‘The Lord is a man of war.’ And this time it was not a single voice that said it, but all. ‘Our lord,’ came the universal cry, all adding, ‘Our lord of Essex!’
It was a signal. Men unclasped, only to clasp again in hugs, helping each other to rise. ‘Is this it, sir?’ said Ned, awe in his voice. ‘Will they march now on the palace?’
‘No.’ John looked at the flushed faces before him – not quite flushed enough for that. There were other ways to bolster courage to be taken first.
‘And the people sat down to eat and to drink . . . but they rose up to play,’ Robert Devereux shouted. ‘Is that not so, Gelli?’
‘Aye, my lord.’
‘Then we shall do the same as the other children of Israel,’ Essex cried. ‘Eat, drink . . . and then play a set shall . . . shall strike a crown into a hazard, mayhap?’ His roving eyes fell on the two figures at the door. They brightened. ‘Was that it, John Lawley? Was that not one of your friend’s phrases in the play he wrote for me, Henry the Fifth?’ He turned away. ‘God’s truth, maybe we should have had the Chamberlain’s Men play that one tonight instead of unhappy Richard.’ He looked now at Ned. ‘Then all the youth of England will be aflame, do I not have it?’
John felt his son stir beside him. He had been in the play, knew the misquote. The boy was set to reply, and to correct, as was youth’s way. John jerked him by the sleeve, shook his head.
Essex’s butterfly attention had alighted elsewhere anyway, for Southampton cried, ‘You would not say so, Robin, if you had been there. Three thousand fellows and their dames shouting: “Essex! Bolingbroke! Essex!” Christ’s tears, if we’d had the pikes to hand we could have issued them to the audience and marched straight on Whitehall.’
Gelli Meyrick rang a bell. Poised servants poured in and John used the furore, as nobles fought for pieces of fowl and jugs of sack, to draw his son into the shadows of the hall. He was not so foolish as to think he would be invited to partake of the feast. The earl had obviously forgotten about his drunken knighting in Dublin Castle. Just as well, John thought. ‘Be silent and make your final studies, for you will leave soon,’ he whispered to Ned. When a servant passed close, John reached out, snagged a tankard of ale then settled, back to wall.
The play was not long in commencing. The preliminary was the feasting and drinking, with many pledges to the earl’s health and cause, and damnation to his enemies at the court. The Queen was toasted, but with less enthusiasm than usually shown. John watched courage being gained by the bumper full – and wondered what might push it beyond liquored boast into action.
Then it came, as so often in a play, with an entrance. And John thought that if the nobleman entering had been upon the scaffold at the Globe, the groundlings would have hissed him. For he was from the group already being damned and liberally cursed.
Secretary Herbert was a member of the Privy Council and sat at Cecil’s left hand. He was one of those men who appeared as wide as he was tall, a trick that his flounced mauve doublet, billowing pantaloons and serving platter of a ruff only emphasised. His air of self-importance puffed him still further, reminding John of a fish he’d seen in the Pacific Ocean that could inflate itself to thrice its size when confronting danger.
Herbert seemed unaware of the peril he was in. Essex House was a cockpit that night and Herbert a prime if outsized cock, with the odds seriously against him. ‘My lord of Essex,’ he declared, waddling to the centre of the room and planting himself, ‘I bring you the Privy Council’s warmest greetings . . .’ He was surprised by a loud hiss, blinked, carried on. ‘I also bring again the request made earlier when a mere messenger was sent. That is why they have sent me.’ He contrived to puff up still further. ‘So you should take most seriously their request to attend them forthwith.’
Silence followed the summons, long enough to feel uncomfortable. If Herbert had had neck feathers instead of a ruff, they would have now been rising. As it was, he looked uneasily down the line of blank faces raised to him, until one of them spoke.
‘Shall I prick this bladder with my dagger and see if it pops?’ ventured Rutland.
The hilarity that followed this remark was beyond the span of the joke, yet continued for some time and only subsided when Robert Devereux spoke. ‘You may bear back to the Council,’ he declared, ‘the same answer the previous lackey must have failed to convey.’ He drew himself up. ‘I am not well,’
he bellowed lustily. ‘I will not stir forth. If I do, I fear mischief upon my person, and the harming of my followers, such as befell my dear Lord Henry only last month. And where is that accursed traitor Grey, who cut off our page’s hand in that skirmish?’ He glared. ‘Free, and no doubt advising that same Council who commands me to appear before them now. No!’ He stood, leaned down, still shouting. ‘There are plots laid against me, sir. The Queen is bewitched by false advisers – and assassins lurk on every corner. And unlike someone here whose flesh would scarce notice the intrusion of a blade, I am not so well armoured.’ Patting his own flux-shrunk shank, he laughed loudly, his cohorts joining in.
Herbert drew himself up to his full height – and girth. ‘I will convey your . . . sentiments, sir. Yet let me warn you – ’Twill be ill taken, I warrant you. Look for a different sort of summons, and soon.’ Then, with a dignity impressive for a capon, the secretary turned heel and walked from the room.
Laughter died on the door’s closing. ‘God’s body,’ spluttered Southampton. ‘Did you hear? The whoreson dog threatened us!’
‘’Twas not the dog that barked, Henry,’ corrected Mounteagle, ‘but his master.’
‘The Toad!’
‘Aye, that accursed Cecil.’
‘Aye, Cecil! Cecil!’
Fury broke out at the name, vengeance summoned to fall upon that misshapen back. Daggers were drawn, fists slammed down upon the table that made the pewter jump. Eventually one voice pierced the tumult. ‘But will the summons be to the Council . . . or to the Tower? Next time will they seek my presence – or my head?’
All fell silent, looked to the speaker, Essex. Whispers came.
‘Truly, they seek your life.’
‘The Toad will spit his venom.’
‘Then what shall I do?’ said Essex. ‘Advise me, friends.’
‘Flee!’ shouted Christopher Blount. ‘Downriver to Gravesend and a fast packet to the Continent.’
‘For shame!’ cried Southampton.
Shakespeare's Rebel Page 36
