Low Treason

by Leonard Tourney

  “The truth is that I have something to sell,” she said.

  “What, may I ask? Some jewel or ring or chain like that you wear about your neck?”

  “A ring,” she said.

  Castell waited expectantly.

  “Oh, I don’t have it on my person. Only this description.” She pulled from her handkerchief a folded paper, which she proceeded to unfold and read.

  “May I read it for you?” suggested Castell. “The light is better by the candle.”

  The woman looked aghast at the thought and clutched the letter to her bosom. “Oh, no. I couldn’t do that. It’s a letter, you see, a letter from my daughter. It’s very private.”

  “I see,” said Castell, nodding gravely. “Well then, perhaps you can read the description to me.”

  She took some time to glance through the letter and then came upon the portion she sought. “Spanish gold, very heavy, mounted with an orient pearl.”

  “A pearl, you say?” replied Castell, interested.

  The woman screwed up her face to read the letter again. “It does say a pearl.”

  “I might advance myself as a buyer of the ring,” said Castell, nonchalantly. “I would have to see the ring before I could give you a price.”

  “Yes, I understand that. You would need to see it,” she murmured absently but with obvious disappointment. “It was a gift, you see, from a friend.”

  “This ring . . . your daughter has it now?”

  “Yes.” '

  “And it was a gift from her . . . friend?”

  “Yes, a gift.”

  “May I ask the gentleman’s name?”

  Castell’s question occasioned another expression of dismay. No, she couldn’t reveal the gentleman’s name. That was impossible. Castell explained that if he knew the name of the original owner he might better gauge the ring’s worth. “Well . . . no, I couldn’t say it.”

  “Of course, if your daughter’s friend is that sort of friend,” said Castell, baiting her.

  The woman looked this way and that. She protested. “I assure you their relationship is most honest.”

  “I’m sure it must be,” replied Castell, hiding his amusement.

  The woman continued, “He is a well-known gentleman of the City—a knight, if the truth were known, and he has done great honor to her to make her acquaintance. He has sought to advance my son-in-law ...”

  The woman rattled on about her daughter and this gentleman without revealing any particulars of the relationship. Castell began to pay close attention.

  “She is married then, but not to her . . . friend?”

  The woman’s dark eyes regarded him uncertainly, as though to determine whether Castell could be trusted. What a foolish creature, thought Castell, framing at the same instant an expression of concern. A fool might draw the whole story out of her now and Castell knew himself to be no fool.

  “Madam,” he began soothingly. “Please be assured that I have the greatest respect for you, your daughter, her husband, and this duke—”

  “Oh, he’s not a duke, only a knight,” she said, tittering.

  “A knight,” murmured Castell.

  “And yet no mere knight,” she added. “He’s a Privy Councillor, he’s—”

  She put her hands to her face. “Oh, but I have said much too much.”

  “Nay, lady,” Castell said, “it is impossible to say too much to a man who’s the soul of discretion.” He bowed again, this time more graciously, and reached for her hand, holding it for a moment above the glass case, noticing that the palm was cold and damp.

  “You may trust me,” he said. “Were I to know of this knight I might by such knowledge be able to give a better estimate of the value of the ring. But pray, tell me first why your daughter wishes to sell it.”

  She looked about her as though to ensure her words would not be overheard, and sighed.

  “Her husband has discovered her friendship with—”

  “With—”

  “This knight.”

  “And?”

  “Well, he has grown unreasonably jealous.”

  “I see.”

  “And she desires to rid herself of any evidence of—” “Wrongdoing.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And so she desires to sell the ring.”

  “Yes.”

  “But pray, why does she not merely return it to—” “Sir Robert? Well, because . . . because ...” “Because that would be impolitic—might offend the knight.”

  “Yes.”

  Sir Robert—so that was the name. The woman had let it slip and now prattled on, ignorant of what she had done. Well, Castell would not embarrass her by calling attention to the slip; in an instant he ran through the Sir Roberts he knew of in the city. Sir Robert Gordon, Sir Robert Fitzhue, Sir Robert Davies, Sir Robert Cecil. Sir Robert Cecil. No, that was too much to hope for—that he should somehow find a way to get that pious upstart Cecil in his pocket along with the other bloated lordlets he had blackmailed.

  “She’s such a fine girl. I was ovetjoyed at the match ... at first. But her husband treats her abominably and has gone half through his inheritance in six months. And of course when this knight showed her the slightest attention ... It was, not, to be sure, one of these common entanglements. The knight is the soul of honor.”

  “I do believe it,” Castell assured her. “But tell me now, does this knight reside in the City?”

  “In an apartment at Westminster,” die woman said expansively, warming to this theme. “Most magnificent, my daughter tells me, with a great four-poster bed laid with silken coverlets. And he has a new house abuilding in the Strand. But I have said too much!” she exclaimed. She turned to go.

  “Now, wait,” Castell said, trying to control his own excitement and thinking at the same time of that apartment in Westminster, the new house in the Strand. Who should it be but Cecil? That hunchbacked devil, spewing sweetness to the old Queen out of one side of his mouth whilst his privy member burrowed its way into a young wife’s smock. Oh, beautiful! Oh, wonderfiil!

  “Let me see now. A pearl, you say, about the size of fingernail?”

  Joan’s eyes widened. “Oh, larger, sir. My girl said he had it of an Indian prince.”

  “Well now, perhaps I can name a price.” Castell paused, calculating. He named a sum, a very generous one. “Would that serve your daughter’s needs?”

  “Oh, admirably, sir!” replied the woman.

  “When can you come again? When can I see the ring?” “Friday.”

  “Early?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it might be more, you know, than what I have said, considering its origin—from a knight’s collection.” “Do you really mean it?”

  “Most assuredly. And, if I were but to know the knight’s name ...”

  The woman shook her head vigorously. “Never,” she said. “My daughter has sworn me to keep secret his name—and indeed, everything in her letter.”

  Of course, if the silly girl were anything like her garrulous mother she would have revealed all in the letter. Castell looked at it greedily. The woman refolded it with elaborate care and replaced it in her handkerchief. This she then stuck within her bodice. She smiled shyly.

  “It’s a pleasure doing business with you,” she said. “Oh, indeed,” Castell replied. “Pray take care. I’ll look forward to our meeting Friday.”

  The woman had no more walked through the door than Castell seized one of his assistants and sent him to fetch Starkey. Within minutes the man came in from the back room, his eyes brightening with anticipation as they always did when his employer had work for him.

  “She has it about her now?”

  “Yes, yes,” replied Castell impatiently. “In her handkerchief, tucked in her bodice nigh unto her left breast.” “Shall I kill the drab?”

  “No, fool, kill only when you must. But get the letter and straightway.” Castell described the woman in great detail. “Snatching the letter will not be eas
y,” said Starkey.

  “She’ll doubtless pass nigh unto Waterlane.”

  “Very crowded this time of day.”

  “Well, I trust that will present no great obstacle to one of your talents,” Castell inquired with heavy irony and a little irritation, for he was very eager to peruse this letter which he hoped would be every bit as incriminating as the woman’s reluctance to display it implied.

  “Hardly, sir. I know my business, and if you do not have your letter within this hour I’ll go hang myself.”

  “A foolish boast, Starkey. A foolish boast. Pride goeth before a fell. After her, man!”

  “Well, I’ll not fall, nor fail. You’ll see.”

  It was seven o’clock and Castell ordered the shop closed. Then he went back into his office to wait. But waiting was very hard for him. Essentially he was a man of action, and to sit while there was the possibility, no, the likelihood of such glorious plunder in the offing, caused him an almost physical pain. Cecil. He prayed it was Cecil and not some other. Already he yearned to see Cecil crumple before him, struck dumb with astonishment when the evidence of his liaison was waved under his nose, as foul as a black toad’s crotch. Now what might Cecil give to have the letter returned, the scandal hushed up?

  That would be the theme of Castell’s reflections for the next hour.

  Joan walked at a leisurely pace, looking behind her from time to time to see who followed, half hoping that no one would and knowing at the same time that were she not followed and robbed, her performance in Castell’s shop would have been for nothing.

  Her imagination had run riot, amazing her with its fertility once her plot had been bom. She had distilled the counterfeit history in her letter, writing it out with great care, the vain and foolish mother of a vain and foolish daughter, the pearl to please Castell’s fancy, and the entanglement with Cecil, the irresistible lure. Castell had responded as she had expected. All her instincts told her he had swallowed the bait. Cecil would know firsthand what deviltry the jeweler practiced.

  She had been frightened to death in the shop, in the belly of the beast with its fabulous treasures gleaming in the dim light. But she had been caught up in her part at last and, like a good player, had kept a constant decorum of foolishness, wagging her tongue just enough to make the jeweler curious and then letting him know the setting of her course. All the while her heart had kept up such a thumping, as though the poor thing were beating to be let out.

  It was late but she was not alone in the street. Most of the shops had shut up for the day but the alehouses, tobacconists, and brothels were just beginning to come alive. As she walked, she thought of Matthew. By now she hoped he had been able to see Sir Robert Cecil, explain their plan, and ask the knight’s aid. If Sir Robert required evidence, he would have it all right. Yes, he would have it by direct involvement with the blackmailer, as a victim himself.

  She had traveled a dozen yards into a lane when she became aware of someone behind her. She stopped to turn and look and there was nothing, yet she was sure she had heard steps. She proceeded, pausing from time to time to listen. There was no sound of steps, yet she felt sure a threat was concealed in the shadows. She began to regret that she had not done what she had promised—let the letter slip from her handkerchief as she departed the shop. Castell would have found the letter. But she was afraid that would be too obvious. Well, she was in for it now; there was no going back. She prayed when he took it from her he would not hurt her.

  She prayed he would not kill her.

  She quickened her step. Behind her she could sense the man’s presence. She felt his hostility, his violence, as surely as though these had already demonstrated themselves in his assault upon her.

  And then it came. Suddenly. But in front of her, not from behind as she had expected. The man was there before her, grabbing her by the throat and pulling her into an alley. His hand muffled her scream; she heard the rending of cloth, felt the smooth chastity of her bodice violated. The handkerchief, the letter, she thought numbly, he’s taking them. Dear God, let him do it quickly.

  He threw her upon the ground. She heard the quick patter of his escape. Blinded by tears of pain and indignation, she struggled to her feet, leaning against a wall for support and fumbling with the tom bodice. At her feet she saw the handkerchief. She bent over to pick it up, finding it empty as she had hoped. Her assailant had got what he wanted, what she had wanted him to have. He had also carried off her gold chain.

  She thought of crying for help, but she knew it would be futile. This was London, not Chelmsford. A cry in the street at this hour was more likely to arouse suspicion than elicit aid.

  Dazed, she walked the last mile to die Bell. The porter at the door regarded her curiously. Was Matthew—no, Miles Merryweather—lodging there? The porter told her where to find the room, looking at her bruises and her gown. “Are you well, lady?” She nodded, dumbly; she climbed the stairs, came to the room, and then there was Matthew. She rushed into his arms.

  Nine

  IT was very late in the day when Matthew finally gained an audience with Cecil. All morning the anteroom of his office at Westminster had been crowded with visitors— lawyers, clerks, counsellors of state, burgesses, reverend churchmen, several ambassadors, and not a few humbler petitioners anxious to secure Cecil’s goodwill in some cause. The visitors waited on benches or stools, or stood around in little clusters whispering. There was a great deal of bowing and scraping, and an atmosphere of urgency and expectation, as though something momentous were about to transpire. Whenever the door to Cecil’s inner office opened, to let someone in or out, a solemn hush fell. Heads turned abruptly, ears cocked for the great man’s voice, and eyes followed anyone who came or went with mingled curiosity and envy.

  Because Matthew had arrived late and was of no great importance, his name had been placed at the end of the waiting list kept by the pale, indolent young man seated at the desk near the door. Matthew waited and waited; while the long afternoon waned, his concern for Joan’s safety intensified. Finally he approached the clerk.

  “My business with Sir Robert is most urgent.”

  “Everyone’s business is urgent,’’ the young appointments clerk replied coolly, surveying Matthew with contempt.

  The clerk had spoken loudly enough that Matthew was sure others in the room had overheard. A quick glance about him confirmed his fears. His special pleading was attracting stares of disapproval.

  Much abashed, Matthew sat back down.

  During the next half-hour only a bishop was admitted. Matthew thought his garb quite splendid and wondered what matter he would take up with Cecil. Shortly after entering, the bishop came out again, smiling with satisfaction. In the meantime many of those waiting with Matthew departed in frustration while others indicated to their friends or to the clerk their intention of returning the next day. It was nearly suppertime. Soon only Matthew and three others remained in the outer chamber—the appointments clerk and two elderly gentlemen Matthew took to be lawyers, for all their talk was of citations, appellations, allegations, certificates, attachments, and convictions. He couldn’t help listening.

  At six o’clock the appointments clerk rose from his desk to declare that his master would see no more petitioners that day. The lawyers departed chattering, without seeming to mind not having seen Cecil. Matthew remained seated.

  The clerk emitted a loud “ahem” to indicate his displeasure. Matthew looked up slowly, pretending not to understand, sure that within moments Cecil would emerge, recognize him, and invite him into his office.

  “I said Sir Robert’s conferences have concluded for the day. He will see no more petitioners. You must leave.” The clerk glanced anxiously at the closed door.

  And at that moment the door opened and Cecil came out. Matthew leaped to his feet. “Sir Robert—”

  “By my soul, Matthew Stock, is it?”

  “Sir Robert, this man would not leave—” sputtered the clerk in a great state of consternation a
t this irregularity.

  Cecil dismissed the protest with a wave of his hand.

  “And very well he did not. I should have been most sorry to miss him. Come in, Mr. Stock.”

  The clerk, much annoyed but wisely silent, resumed his chair and began to shuffle his papers nervously. Matthew followed Cecil into the office.

  The room in which Cecil conducted the business of state was a very grand one, with a high, ornately carved ceiling, a marble-faced hearth, and a magnificent writing desk that dominated the center of the room so that everything else seemed organized around it. The heavy oak paneling was almost hidden by rich tapestries depicting various scenes; some gentlefolk at hunt, a landscape of sorts featuring scrawny sheep and one Matthew took to be their shepherd, a slight, effeminate figure holding a staff in one hand and a pipe in the other. The tapestry directly behind the desk showed Our Lord surrounded by his apostles. Christ had a sorrowful face, the apostles mean countenances. Which was the betrayer? Which was the beloved? Matthew could not tell. He had but a fleeting glimpse as he crossed the room and took the chair Cecil had indicated by a graceful wave of the hand.

  Cecil was dressed in a handsome suit of purple velvet with a white lace collar and cuffs. He wore a chain of office. He was sitting with his legs crossed, his long fingers wrapp.ed around the arms of the chair, and he was leaning slightly forward and looking at Matthew with an expression of intelligent interest.

  “Well then, Constable Stock, pray what is this urgent business of yours? Were it any other at this late hour I would have dismissed him at once, but I have not yet exhausted my old debt to you. So, then—”

  Matthew took a deep breath and began his story. He told Cecil about Thomas Ingram, his disappearance, and his return. He told him all that Thomas had told Joan about the jeweler, and how Starkey had tried to drown Matthew in the river. Then he explained Joan’s device for securing proof—the counterfeit letter and its slanderous implications. He spoke very quickly and confusedly, despite the practice he had given his account during his long wait in the anteroom, but Cecil was content to hear him out. The