knight sat erect, and his expression of interest did not alter. When Matthew finished, Cecil nodded and folded his hands thoughtfully.
“Now let me understand this. This fellow you speak of, this jeweler—”
“Gervase Castell.”
“Indeed, Castell.”
“His shop is in the City,” Matthew said although he had already conveyed that information and Cecil seemed to know the man, at least by reputation.
“Will think to blackmail me?”
Cecil seemed more amused than offended, but Matthew continued with caution.
“Most likely.”
Cecil laughed self-confidently, a rich resonant laugh that did not seem entirely to belong in this chamber with its dim religious light and august decor. “For which of my crimes and misdemeanors?”
Matthew took another deep breath. ‘A liaison, sir,” he said softly, “with a married woman.”
“Oh, my,” answered Cecil, his eyes round with dismay. “Your wife has laid that upon me in her forged letter?”
Matthew admitted it, wondering at the same time that he should have allowed his wife to persuade him of this scheme. It seemed madness now, a gross slander and imposition, more likely to offend Cecil than to secure evidence from Castell. Matthew searched Cecil’s face, looking for signs of scorn, contempt, outrage. But Cecil’s expression remained calm, even amused.
“Well, I suppose there are worse crimes,” the knight said after a prolonged silence during which he seemed to weigh the cost of his reputation with the possibility of discovering a traitor. “But pray, do you think this trout will take to tickling?”
“Most assuredly,” Matthew responded, with more confidence now. “The man feeds on scandal.”
Cecil thought some more. It was very quiet in the room. Matthew watched the knight’s face. The man had a broad, high forehead; his hazel eyes were wide-set and penetrating under the perfectly arched brows.
Then Cecil said, “Your good wife is a marvelously clever woman—a greater jewel than this Castell has in his shop. I would hold on to her, Matthew Stock, hold on to her, I say. She will make you rich yet—and wise.” Matthew was very pleased with this compliment to his wife. But of course Joan was marvelously clever. He had known that. He looked about the chamber. It really was a splendid room. He had never before seen the like. He had come a long way since his days as an apprentice to his cousin, when all his industry was sweeping and carding and his ambition only to some day be his own master.
“So then,” Cecil continued after another moment’s reflection, “the plan is that I wait to see what proceeds from Castell and attempt to ferret out his motive from the price he puts upon his silence?”
“Exactly,” Matthew replied.
Cecil pondered this, staring into a middle distance. His handsome features looked thoughtful, yet alert. Matthew could well understand how the Queen could put such great confidence in this man. Although small and crookbacked, he had a commanding presence.
“As you surmise, Mr. Stock, there may be a good bit more to Castell’s treachery than a lust for money. Her Majesty the Queen is in good health—for her age. But even so glorious a sun must set. It is very likely she will name her cousin James of Scotland her successor, but between her death and James’s succession may appear a moment of opportunity to them who wish our country great harm. Do you understand me?”
“You mean Spain?” Matthew said.
“Not only Spain. English politics is very complicated, Mr. Stock. There are many factions, many ambitious persons. There’s the Essex crowd, for instance, mourning their lost leader and conniving still. There’s Ralegh and the wizard Earl Northumberland. God knows what they’re up to. Most of our domestic Papists are loyal, but not all. I could name you a dozen Catholic lords who would fain see a Papist succeed Elizabeth and a good many of the landed gentry of the same persuasion. We must do all that we can to ensure that the next occupant of the throne is a Protestant.”
‘‘Then you suspect this is Catholic plot?” asked Matthew.
‘‘Very likely.”
‘‘And who is this Basilisk?”
‘‘Ah, yes,” replied Cecil, ‘‘this Basilisk. I cannot say, but I don’t like the name. Basilisk—a creature of legend with a fatal breath and glance.” Cecil rolled the word around on his tongue, giving it various pronunciations. “Basilisk, basiliscus, basiliskos, basileus. Greek, Mr. Stock,” said Cecil, seeming to notice Matthew’s bewilderment, “a diminutive form—a word meaning ‘royal king.’ ”
Matthew didn’t understand. England had no king,
“Not our king, Master Stock. But one who would be king, perhaps.”
The idea hung suspended in the air, and Matthew contemplated it, as best he could, being unfamiliar with matters of state, succession, treason, and the like. But Cecil had obviously been moved by his own speculations. Now he sat perfectly erect, his slender legs uncrossed so that his lean knees and shanks, encased in dark silk, were pressed tightly together. He was staring in the distance again, lost in a kind of trance. Matthew waited expectantly, sensing that the moment was significant but quite unsure of how to interpret it.
Then, abruptly, Cecil shifted his posture, smiled somewhat mechanically at Matthew and rose from his chair. Matthew hastened to do likewise. “Would you and your good wife were in my service, Constable. Should we not then clear England of malefactors within twelve months! But, pray, tell me where do you lie in London? We must keep in close touch.”
Matthew gave him the name of the inn. He also explained that he was using the name Miles Merryweather, for safety’s sake. Cecil nodded approval, made note of the name. “We thought it the most politic course,” said Matthew.
“Yes. You are at risk, aren’t you? You are safe as long as Castell thinks you dead,” said Cecil, absently.
The knight’s mind was elsewhere; Matthew waited, fearing to disturb Cecil’s meditation. Then abruptly, Cecil was attentive again. He rose and extended his hand.
“You have done your Queen a service, Constable Stock, and if this jeweler plots as I suspect, you may live to understand as well that you have saved your country.” Later, Matthew remembered the knight’s words exactly. The praise they implied did not so much flatter him as overwhelm him. Could it be true? Could he have done anything to merit such praise? Must he do something yet?
He walked from the office, past the sullen clerk, without word or glance, feeling somehow taller and larger, but also more threatened. Had Cecil’s farewell been generous praise, or ominous prophecy?
“Cecil! Madre de Dios!”
Castell tipped his head to acknowledge the implied compliment to his skill before realizing that the Spaniard’s outburst was more an expression of alarm than of admiration.
“You really intend to blackmail himl”
Castell regarded Ortega coldly. “Why, what else should I do with the wench’s letter? The style is not worth imitating.” He said this very archly. His supply of courtesy had suddenly been exhausted in the face of the Spaniard’s timidity. It was no wonder Spain had never succeeded in vaulting England’s walls. The Spaniards were a race of pygmies, of precious manikins. Now he was ashamed of his very association with them.
The look of dismay remained on Ortega’s face. His dark eyes burned intensely against the pallor of his skin. “It would be risky, very risky.”
“Of course it would be risky. That’s what your master pays me for. Yet the risk is mine, not yours.”
“Not entirely,” said Ortega, worriedly.
“You and your master will not be compromised in any way, I promise you. Look you now, do you think me a fool? A novice in this business? I know Cecil’s power. It is for this very reason the foolish letter is a godsend, more than any of your priests could have fasted for.”
Ortega shook his head. Castell watched, waiting.
Then the Spaniard’s eyes fell, almost shyly. Castell smiled to himself. He had won.
Ortega looked up and asked, in a different
tone now, ‘‘How do you propose to go about it? You won’t bring him to your shop—or here to your house?”
“No,” replied Castell.
“Nor would you deal with him directly? Surely you have someone—”
“Yes, someone among my employees.”
Employees was the word, impersonal, very businesslike, very discreet. Why should Ortega know more than he needed to know, deserved to know, after his craven display of faintheartedness?
“You really must let me manage things, Count. I know what I’m doing. Believe me.”
“Very well,” Ortega answered wearily, rising from his chair. “I’ll await your report. When may I hear from you?”
Castell thought. “Thursday at the latest.”
“Thursday. Good. Yes, we shall see. A most dangerous man, Cecil,” he murmured as an afterthought.
The two men exchanged farewells, without warmth, and Castell prepared himself for bed, thinking all the while of his coming encounter with Cecil. Send one of his servicers in his place? He almost laughed aloud at the ridiculousness of it. Ortega would think of that. A timid man at heart, all caution and concern. Of course Castell would do the job himself. Whom should he trust in so delicate a matter? Besides, why should he deprive himself of the pleasure of seeing the great man helpless before the threat of revelation of his private affairs?
Castell had concealed the young wife’s letter carefully, but not before making an exact copy. He would not need to show the document itself. The names and circumstances would be enough to turn Cecil green. The question in his mind as he snuffed out the candle was where the meeting should be held. The shop would be too dangerous
since it would require the transport of Cecil at too great a distance. Neither would his house be safe and of course Castell would certainly not even consider using his house on Barbican Street. Some neutral ground would have to do then, but a place that Castell knew well, a place private and secure from the threat of intrusion. Well, he knew of such a place. By this time tomorrow he would call the hawk to the lure.
Now it was Matthew’s turn to comfort her. She was very pale and disheveled. The bodice of her gown had been ruined, her chain stolen, her arms and face bruised. A moment before he had been startled by the urgency of her knocking, telling him there was trouble even before he opened the door and saw her standing there so pitifully in the passage looking up at him, blubbering. He took her into the room and into his arms and between sobs she confessed that she had not dropped the letter as she had promised, but had allowed it to be snatched from her to add credibility to their stratagem. Matthew was about to scold her, but he did not. The villain had roughed her up badly. She hardly needed to be told now how dangerous this alteration in their plan had proved.
He led her over to die bed and helped her remove her tattered clothing.
“The gown—it’s in shreds,” she wailed, looking to where it lay now on the bed.
“I care nothing for the gown. I’ll buy you another. You’re safe, that’s all that matters.”
Was she hungry, he wanted to know. No, she had not thought of food. How could she think of eating at a time like this? Some wine, then, or ale? Yes.
He went downstairs to fetch a bottle of wine and two bowls. When he returned, he looked at her with concern. She was still pale and trembling. It was clear that only now was it coming to her how close to death she had come.
“What manner of man did this?” he asked, pouring for her.
“I didn’t see his face. He was very strong.”
“I’ll wager it was Starkey,” Matthew said, pouring for himself.
“You spoke to Sir Robert?”
“Late this afternoon. I told him everything.”
“What did he think?” Joan looked at him hopefully. “Pray God we gave no offense.” -“Why should he be offended?” asked Matthew casually. But he had uttered the same prayer a thousand times since she had proposed her plan.
“Why, at the slanders I put upon him,” she said.
“He thought your letter was very clever. He admired your courage.”
She sighed with relief. “He believed what you told him about Castell, then?”
“Every whit.”
“Well?” she said.
“Well, what?”
“Thomas Ingram shall be avenged for his hurt.”
“And you for yours,” said Matthew.
“And you for yours, husband.”
She looked at the bruises on her forearms with a cold dispassionate gaze, as though they were someone else’s injuries now. She drank some of the wine, complained of its strength and bitterness, but then admitted that it was restoring. They drank to each other, to the success of their stratagem.
“Sir Robert promises to inform us when Castell approaches him.”
“Good,” she said. “That’s very good.”
Matthew refilled her cup, then his own. “To Sir Robert Cecil.”
She joined him in this toast.
They were very merry for an hour, finishing the bottle. Matthew bolted the door and blew out the candle. He removed his clothing and crawled under the covers beside her. She snuggled under the crook of his arm, whispering softly as though she were afraid someone else might hear, “I wish we were home again, Matthew. Home and all well.”
“So do I,” said Matthew, sadly, “so do I.”
Ten
CECIL rose early of mornings, ate sparingly, and then, as was his custom, was at his desk by daybreak poring over letters, minutes of the Council, or documents of state. He worked long and obsessively, with a furious dedication to an ideal of statesmanship he had inherited from his father, the great Lord Burghley, and with the conviction that what he lacked in appearance he could redeem through intelligence and industry. His chief amusements were gambling and hunting, but he also enjoyed music, read widely, and was no mean Latinist. He had the gift of wit which his age adored and which, for a courtier, was virtually everything. But for all of this he was not a popular man. The common rout distrusted him and most of the court envied him, for he was essentially a private person, holding himself aloof, given to inexplicable fits of melancholy and sensitive about his physical appearance although he took pains not to show it. He was short and crookbacked, and he walked in a curious, awkward manner as though he were trying out his feet for the first time and was not as yet certain they fit at the end of his legs.
Though still young, he was old in experience and his countenance was somewhat weathered by public care.
Growing up in Cecil House, he had a firsthand view of great men and matters and his father had thrust him early into the thicket of English politics. At eighteen he had been a member of Parliament, at twenty-eight a Privy Councillor, Now, just shy of forty, he was the Queen’s Principal Secretary and the most powerful man in England.
He had struggled to win his place in his monarch’s esteem, for though Burghley’s influence had facilitated his rise, it had not guaranteed it, as the fortunes of his elder half-brother Thomas demonstrated. Thomas was a spending sot, meet to keep only a tennis court, Burghley had complained to a friend. Robert, on the other hand, was the true son. The dashing Essex and the warlike Ralegh, his chief rivals, could not at last compete with Robert Cecil’s unflinching loyalty, his solid competence. Yet when Cecil thought of his rivals his emotions always became turbulent. Ralegh lived still, a burr beneath Cecil’s saddle. Essex was dead, almost the worse, a living ghost. Cecil had attended the handsome earl’s trial, concealed behind a curtain, emerging at the climactic moment to refute Essex’s charge that he, not the earl, was the traitor. Cecil had given him the lie in his face, and stayed to watch while the earl crumpled before the truth and the court found him guilty of treason as charged.
In consideration for Essex’s high birth, the executioner had taken but his head, leaving his bowels and privates intact.
Anthony Bacon and the other partisans of Essex’s cause grieved still for their lost leader. They heaped abuse upon Cecil, schemed b
ehind his back, calling him Robertus Diabolus—Robert the Devil. They could call him what they chose; the names would not hurt him. Elizabeth herself called him elf and pygmy but with such evident appreciation for his talents that the epithets on her royal lips turned to golden compliments.
On this particular morning he had just finished a very long letter which had it been to any other person and about some less consequential matter he would have dictated to his secretary. But this was no routine missive. He wrote in his own hand, larding the text with classical and biblical allusions and flattery of a sort that under ordinary circumstances he would have disdained. The letter would be touched by only certain hands, travel in secret, open at last to a single pair of eyes. Unbeknownst to the Queen, for whom all talk of a successor was as a death knell, Cecil had been regularly corresponding with the Scottish King for the past year. The epistle at hand was a comprehensive report of the affairs of the kingdom, with special attention to Her Majesty’s health. James, it seemed, had heard rumors. They were the usual calumnies. Elizabeth was dying of cancer or some other fatal disease. She was already dead and the fact was being concealed by her ministers. James wanted to know if any of this was true. He had also heard that she had chosen another as heir and that had put him quite beside himself with grief.
Cecil wrote to reassure him. The Queen was alive and she had regained some of her wonted vigor. Of course, she was an old woman. How much longer could she live? Although she played the virginals, ate largely, rode horseback, yet she could go in an instant. Such was life. As for the possibility of another heir, well, that was a lie, propagated by her enemies. Cecil assured James that he would look out for his interests. Had not Burghley admonished his second son in their last interview to have regard for the tottering commonwealth after the Queen’s death? To invest the true and lawful successor?
An obedient son, Cecil often recalled his father’s exact words. He would indeed steady the tottering commonwealth. At the same time he would, like any wise man, advance his own fortunes. James, who Cecil was sure would succeed his royal aunt, would be a monster of ingratitude were he not to reward him appropriately when the impoverished Scot came into his affluent southern kingdom.
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