by Neal Roberts
“How is it that, in the space of a few weeks, this … this nobody … has become a double thorn in my side? Who the devil is he?”
“He’s nobody,” confirms Southampton, “just as you have said, Robert.” There’s a knock at the door.
“Come!” shouts Essex.
Coke enters, eyes downcast, awaiting the inevitable.
“Master Coke,” says Essex calmly, his rage barely suppressed. “It was my understanding that you are one of the most skillful barristers in all England.”
“It was not I who said so, m’lord,” replies Coke humbly.
“Well, and today you’ve shown good grounds for your humility.”
“M’lord, I profoundly regret — ”
Essex interrupts him, red-faced. “I have not heretofore urged your advancement on grounds of either your humility or your regret, Master Coke. I have rather urged your name upon the Queen on account of your reputation for winning.”
Coke bows. “No one wins all the time, m’lord.”
“So I see,” says Essex, and places his hand on Coke’s shoulder as though to comfort him, although to Southampton he seems the serpent insinuating itself with Eve. “Tell me, what is it about this Noah — ”
When he cannot recall the name, Coke suggests it. “Ames, m’lord.”
Essex is irritated, as though he would have recalled the name himself, given time. “Yes, why does this Noah Ames seem to perplex you?”
Coke sighs. “He may be the most intelligent barrister admitted to the roll, m’lord.”
“Oh!” exclaims Essex sardonically. “And I thought that was you. Perhaps it’s his advancement I should be promoting.” He sighs. “Well, you’re Solicitor General now. Perhaps that’s as much advancement as you seek.”
Coke pauses. “Solicitor General is a rarefied post, m’lord. For a barrister holding that office, there are few offices to advance to.”
Essex regards him sternly. “There’s the Attorney Generalship,” he says, patently disappointed that Coke has given up so easily on the prospect of further advancement.
“Yes, m’lord, but its present occupant, Lord Egerton, seems disinclined to vacate it at present.”
Essex shakes his head pityingly. “How little you know of the inner workings at court, Master Coke! Egerton is already being considered for Master of the Rolls, which would make him second only to — ”
“The Lord Chief Justice,” says Coke.
Essex smiles fondly. “Quite correct, Coke. Perhaps there’s hope for you after all. But,” he says pointedly, “we will need to see more and better from you in future, if the Attorney Generalship is to be yours. And you must better protect any witnesses I send you henceforth, Master Coke. Gelly Meyrick is positively sick with humility. He wears his not as well as you do yours, you see. You may go now. And gird yourself for the tasks ahead.”
Coke bows twice, once to Essex, once to Southampton, and shuts the door quietly behind him as he leaves.
Essex sighs and turns to Southampton. “I’m afraid I no longer put much stock in Coke.”
“Because he lost one case?”
Essex shrugs. “A little. But mainly because I sense he has too many scruples and, which is worse, too little worldly ambition, for me to rely upon him when the going gets rough. I need a loyal friend in whoever the new Attorney General will be.”
“Certainly,” suggests Southampton, “we shall need friends in high places, if we can manage to get them appointed.”
“Yes, but not all high positions are equally important. I need the Attorney General in my thrall so I can be sure to put away whomever I need to.”
“Anyone in mind?”
“Don’t play the simpleton with me, Wriothesley,” says Essex.
“I’ve no idea whom you mean, I assure you.”
“Why, the Cecils, of course.”
Southampton nearly laughs, but he realizes Essex is serious. “Pardon, Robert, but wouldn’t it be necessary for them to commit some crime first?”
“The laws of conspiracy allow the prosecutor to cast a wide net, Wriothesley. It may suffice if one of their co-conspirators commits one.”
Southampton shrugs.
“You’ll see,” says Essex confidently. “We’ll catch the Cecils sooner or later and, just as quickly, have them in the Tower.”
“Well, if you no longer favor Coke,” says Southampton, “whom will you propose to the Queen for Attorney General, assuming Egerton accepts higher office?”
“He’ll accept it. He’s already asked for it. My next choice for Attorney General would be Anthony or Francis Bacon.”
“Oh,” protests Southampton, “but they’re not your natural allies. They’re more natural allies of their close relatives, the Cecils. And they lack experience.”
Essex smiles cynically. “I assure you, the Bacons are eminently well qualified. They’re both highly ambitious, and they’ve each confirmed to me that they’re untroubled by the prospect of prosecuting their own kin.”
Southampton raises an eyebrow.
Essex laughs. “They’ve none of Coke’s inconvenient scruples, you see.”
Noah arrives at Serjeants’ Inn shortly before noon, and the sun is now warm enough to cause his upper lip to perspire. He wishes that protocol permitted him to remove a portion of his black barrister’s robes, but this is neither the time nor the place. As Serjeants’ Inn is hard by Inner Temple, he wonders fleetingly whether he’ll run into Coke. Instead, as he enters, he nearly bumps into Henry Neville.
“Watch your step, Master Ames. You’re early. No need to rush.”
“Henry! What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing, but that … ”
Noah waits expectantly. “But that … ?”
“But that I know why you’ve come. I spoke with Lord Bleffingham late this morning. He appears to think quite a lot of you.” He shrugs, and looks toward the dining room. “Can’t imagine why … ” His voice trails off.
“It’s good to know I can always count on your support, Master Neville,” says Noah sardonically.
“What? Oh, you can, old man. You know that. By the way, I’ve neglected to ask you this past week: Has your man Hawking made any progress in the Rodriguez investigation?”
“None at all, so far as I know. I ran into Marie in court this morning.”
It takes a moment for Henry to place the name. He cocks his head with a bemused expression. “‘Marie,’ is’t?”
Noah blushes. “Well, she calls me ‘Noah,’” he responds, as though the widow’s informality somehow justifies his own.
“Well, then I suppose anything goes!” Henry teases.
They hear a familiar voice behind them. “I might have known I would find you two conspiring against me,” says Lord Bleffingham. “So good of you both to come! Welcome to Serjeants’ Inn, Master Ames,” he says, shaking Noah’s hand warmly. Remembering himself, he nods to Henry. “You, too, of course, Master Neville.”
Henry snorts a laugh. “I eat here so often, I’m surprised I haven’t been elevated to Serjeant!”
Bleffingham smiles. “Well, you are certainly qualified to be a Serjeant, Master Neville, but you need no status greater than you already have to commend you to court. I understand you spoke with Her Majesty just yesterday.”
Henry appears mildly uncomfortable with this revelation. “While I may speak to Her Majesty, I am far from certain she hears a thing I say.”
“She is no doubt preoccupied,” says Bleffingham indulgently. “A great many things must go through one’s mind, when one need answer only to God.”
Henry smiles at Bleffingham’s remark in the most fondly patronizing manner, as though what he’s said is so naive as to be charming. “Ah! Ames, we are in the company of the last true believer in the divine rights of kings!”
Bleffingham seems surprised. “Not the very last, I should hope.”
“Shall we dine?” says Henry. “I’m famished.”
“I’ve reserve
d a table by the window,” says Bleffingham. He summons a waiter, who leads them to a rear table overlooking Inner Temple’s fields.
As they take their seats, Henry says in a tone of concern: “What’s wrong with your hand, Noah?”
Bleffingham squints at Noah’s bruised hand. “Oh, my word. Yes, that looks quite painful! What happened?”
“I am evidently fair game for all, m’lord,” Noah says abashedly. “As I’ve already told Master Neville, I was struck on the back of the neck some weeks ago, evidently as some sort of vague warning. Then, this morning, as I was leaving court with a young widow, someone snatched her purse, and, in compensation for the pains I took in recovering it, left me this little remembrance in black and blue.” He rubs his hand lightly.
Bleffingham seems to recall something, and turns to Henry. “Is Master Ames referring to the woman reared as a sister to the Earl of Southampton? You know, the equestrienne you and I discussed earlier? Oh, what name does she go by now? Gonzalez — ”
Henry shoots a glance at Noah. “Rodriguez-Miller. Yes, m’lord. That is she.”
What is this? Why would Henry have been discussing Marie with Bleffingham, of all people? And on the very day when Essex’s archrival Sir Robert Cecil happens to drop by the courtroom? Although Noah’s expression remains impassive, his mind is striving at full tilt.
Bleffingham turns to Noah. “Master Neville tells me that your services have been sought by the Widow Rodriguez. Of course, she was known by the name ‘Marie Miller’ when I met her some years ago.” As Noah makes no reply but listens attentively, Bleffingham continues. “In fact, she was born to the wife of John Miller, the stableman at Southampton’s residence. I believe you may find a suspicious resemblance between Marie and the current earl, he being only slightly more effeminate than she.” He chortles. “As the current earl’s sister was named ‘Mary,’ you can imagine the potential confusion when it was decided Marie would be reared inside the residence. You appear quite mystified, Master Ames. Did you not know any of this?”
“Not a whit, m’lord.”
“Her father, Old Miller, was suspected of stabling a horse at the earl’s residence for a papist traitor. He was roughly interrogated on the question, threatened with torture, and held at the Tower for months. He was released only upon the traitor’s execution at Tyburn. Meanwhile, Marie had become renowned for her beauty, much to the chagrin of the lady of the house. And all the time Old Miller was detained in the Tower, Marie was left to defend her own honor, which she did intrepidly, or so I have been led to believe.”
Noah is stunned to hear all this, especially from someone other than Marie. A shiver shoots up his spine. Since Marie was a member of the Southampton household, could she now be aligned with Essex? He thinks back upon her interview with Jonathan when she seemed to be holding something back, and realizes he needs to learn as much as possible from this fortuitous conversation. “I beg your pardon, m’lord. Did you also say she was an equestrienne?”
It’s Henry who replies. “She rides like the wind. Has quite the reputation for it. From years ago, of course.”
Bleffingham glances toward the entryway, where two Serjeants converse intently. “Excuse me a moment. I must have a word with those two.” He rises and walks away. Henry gazes thoughtfully out at the adjoining field, and takes a sip of red wine.
“I see you’ve known all this for some time,” says Noah. “Did it occur to you that it might be relevant to the murder case, so it might be a good idea to share it with me?”
Henry clears his throat. “Yes, it did, of course. After all, Southampton is one of Essex’s closest friends — ”
“Southampton was with Essex at the murder scene, for heaven’s sake!” exclaims Noah in a hoarse whisper. “Marie was reared in Southampton’s residence?”
“I had planned on informing you a week ago, when I first drew the connection,” says Henry sheepishly, “but our paths haven’t crossed until now. It has occurred to me that I know the name of someone for Hawking to speak to, who might have knowledge about the murder. But this must never come back to me in any way. It must remain between us that I gave you this guidance.”
“Of course,” replies Noah gravely.
Henry leans in close, and looks about before whispering a single name. “Nicholas Skeres. But do tell Hawking to bring some of his rougher friends along to the interview.”
Bleffingham returns to the table laughing. “Oh, those two!” he says, as he sits down.
“M’lord,” says Noah, “have you no idea why the Secretary of State came to court today?”
Bleffingham and Henry exchange a knowing glance. The old jurist looks down at his wine, and swishes it about in his glass. “Simply to observe matters, I should imagine. While Master Cecil does not solicit my advice on such things, I expect he may have had a few moments’ leisure. I doubt it had anything to do with the Granger case, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Noah immediately recognizes the patent absurdity of the suggestion that Sir Robert Cecil would drop by a murder trial as an idle pursuit. And it’s equally obvious that Bleffingham knows why Cecil came to court.
Noah probes. “Do you suppose he came to observe Coke?”
“I doubt it,” says Bleffingham. “Master Cecil came to my courtroom to observe Coke before it was decided to appoint him Solicitor General. Since Her Majesty has now decided, however, Sir Robert has no further reason to do so.”
Aha! Then, he came to observe me! concludes Noah. And for reasons related to the Rodriguez murder, which would be of no interest to him unless he suspects that Essex is involved. He sneaks a glance at Henry, and detects the expression reserved for those occasions when, in Henry’s estimation, he is “thinking too hard.” That confirms it. Robert Cecil is taking my measure. But to what purpose?
No more is said at dinner about the Rodriguez case or Sir Robert Cecil, but Skeres’ name never leaves the very center of Noah’s mind.
By the time he leaves on foot for Gray’s Inn, which is barely a quarter mile away, Noah is lightheaded, having been introduced to so many judges and joined in so many toasts that his head is spinning from a surfeit of new acquaintance and old wine. Exacerbating his disorientation is the sinking sun that shines directly into his eyes as he walks west on Fleet Street.
As he’s about to turn right onto Chancery Lane, he sees a man approaching the lane from the opposite side, also on foot. Although at first the man seems so familiar that Noah is tempted to wave to him, even in his current fuzzy frame of mind something holds him back from doing so. The man is traveling east, coming from the direction of Westminster. There is something else in that same direction, besides Westminster, but much closer, something … something on Drury Lane, right there on the Thames. Then it comes back to him. Only two blocks behind the man is Essex House, the earl’s principal residence in London.
Two thoughts force themselves together in his foggy brain. This is the man he’s seen standing on the square at Gray’s Inn, the one Henry said was Bacon’s man. And he might be coming from Essex, or at least from Essex’s residence.
The man turns left at the same moment that Noah turns right, and the two begin up opposite sides of Chancery Lane. The man apparently has not spotted Noah. Perhaps he would not recognize Noah even if he had, as Noah has probably never been the subject of his surveillance. Noah discreetly drops back, letting Bacon’s man pull several steps ahead.
The man walks past Lincoln’s Inn, another Inn of Court, as Noah does the same on the opposite side of the lane.
Next they pass Domus Conversorum, the chapel of which his uncle told him, where all Jews in England were supposed to convert to Christianity, at the same time allowing all their worldly goods to escheat to the Crown. It’s no surprise to Noah that, given such terms, the chapel appears to be unoccupied. He finds it curious that such an unappealing institution ever had any takers. Nearly all the Jews who availed themselves of the chapel have long ago either joined the Church of England and assimila
ted into English society, or died off while still in residence.
While Noah is offended by the religious atrocity perpetrated upon his people in this place, at the moment his mind is dominated by thoughts more personal and immediate. In his current haze, it occurs to him that this is the usual ordering of his thoughts, which makes him feel guilty for some reason he’d rather not examine. In vino veritas. He must remind himself not to drink this much.
Bacon’s man stops suddenly, apparently spotting something worrisome up ahead. Quickly, the man withdraws into a recessed doorway, and slowly and carefully peers around its edge. Noah continues walking as though he has not noticed. In a moment, he spots what has apparently disturbed his unwitting walking companion. The next building on Chancery Lane is Southampton House. Before it, the Earl of Southampton chats with Doctor Lopez, who carries his familiar black bag of instruments and medicines. Through a parlor window behind them, a man with a pronounced scar on his left cheek observes the earl and the doctor.
Noah continues, his pace unabated, looking straight ahead. Passing Southampton and the good doctor, he dreads the possibility that Lopez might recognize him and hail him from across the street. Fortunately, the conversation between Lopez and Southampton is too intense to allow for such camaraderie. Something about Lopez’s demeanor seems rushed, as though he wishes to terminate the conversation, perhaps to avoid being seen.
Noah gives the matter some muddled thought. Lopez obviously knows Southampton, yet apparently does not wish to be seen with him. Bacon’s man obviously does not wish to be seen by Southampton, or Lopez, or both. Even in Noah’s impaired state, he realizes it is probable that Bacon’s man is already well known to Southampton, who is, after all, Essex’s good friend. So, in all likelihood, Bacon’s man is concealing himself from Lopez, which makes Lopez something of an outsider. He packs the thought away in a corner of his mind, and continues on his way.
He arrives at Gray’s Inn in need of a rest. Although the exercise has helped him to feel a little steadier, he has perspired the whole way and feels uncomfortable in his damp clothing. He’s thirsty, too. As he climbs the outside stairs to the inn, something in a window by the dining hall catches his eye. Much as he longs to rest in the quiet of his room, he crosses the lawn to the window where he caught a hint of blue.
