A Second Daniel

by Neal Roberts

“His many supporters are driving her mad with their demands for his release. But he’s truly exhausted her patience this time, and she’ll have none of it. Instead, she’s considering disposing of the whole matter privately.”

  Noah finds that prospect alarming, for when the Queen’s father, Henry the Eighth, disposed of public grievances privately, the offender would never leave the Tower alive.

  Sir Francis evidently perceives Noah’s horror. “Oh, don’t worry,” he assures him. “Her Majesty merely intends that his lordship be tried in Star Chamber. Are you familiar with the procedure of that forum?”

  Noah is chagrined. “I’ve assisted there a few times, but I must confess that, if Star Chamber has some uniform code of procedure, I’ve never been able to detect its workings.”

  “Well, Her Majesty knows you to be a quick study.”

  Noah squirms in his chair. “Me?” He doesn’t like the turn taken by this conversation.

  “She hasn’t made her mind up quite yet, but I expect that is a mere formality. In preparation for Essex’s appearance at Star Chamber, the Queen intends to commission you to investigate his conduct during past military campaigns and to report your findings to her.”

  Noah’s stomach suddenly feels queasy. He regards Sir Francis skeptically. “Surely, Her Majesty has many alternative candidates having less … personal history with his lordship.”

  “You mean … who don’t detest him?” Bacon’s question meets with no response. “Well, whatever your feelings, Her Majesty is well aware of them, and she evidently finds them irrelevant, which is all that matters. She trusts your judgment, Noah, and your objectivity, regardless of your personal feelings.”

  There comes a light knock at the door, which opens a crack to reveal Sir Robert Cecil peeking in, eyebrows arched. “We’re a bit late. Are we interrupting a discussion of importance?”

  “Not in the least,” says Sir Francis, as he and Noah rise and bow.

  “Good!” says Sir Robert. He enters and takes the seat between Noah and Sir Francis.

  Lord Mountjoy enters immediately afterward and strides confidently to the opposite side of the table, followed by a page who struggles mightily to hold onto an ungainly armful of long scrolls. Mountjoy removes his gloves and begins taking the scrolls from his page, one by one, and placing them on the table. He makes a handsome appearance, with his high forehead and tightly curled black hair. Sir Francis plainly follows his movements with interest. But then, Sir Francis is well known to be especially fond of the more attractive specimens of his own sex.

  Just as Mountjoy is about to begin, in rushes Sir Walter Raleigh. “I do hope my tardiness has not made a great hash of things!”

  Instinctively, Noah and Sir Francis shoot to their feet and bow, Sir Robert rising more deliberately.

  Sir Walter beams at Mountjoy and shakes his hand warmly, as they exchange a few private words. Then, to Noah’s surprise, Sir Walter comes ’round the table, and takes the vacant seat next to his. He leans toward Noah and whispers, “I must ask you sometime about certain events in the early Bible.”

  Noah smiles and nods. “At your leisure, Sir Walter.” As public disclosure of Noah’s religion has transformed him, as if by magic, into the court’s resident expert in Hebrew history and law, over the past few years he’s spent a good deal of effort actually learning the subject.

  Mountjoy begins his presentation, holding up each map as he explains it. As the little direct sunlight penetrating into the room comes from behind him, the watermark of his distinctive family crest lights up at the center of each map as he holds it up, a long-horned bull behind a shield flanked by a woman and a man. As he finishes with each map, he slides it along the table toward his page, who rolls it up again, but only after unfurling and handing him the next map. In this way, the presentation proceeds seamlessly.

  As Mountjoy is primarily a man of action, it takes him only about twenty minutes to outline his plans for taking the fight to the Irish rebels. Despite Noah’s lack of military experience, he finds Mountjoy’s concise explanation highly satisfactory in both scope and clarity. Sir Walter and Sir Francis seem favorably impressed, as well.

  Sir Robert, although also apparently well pleased, leans his elbows on the table, and rests his head upon his hands in contemplation, his brow furrowed. After a long pause, he says: “Sir Charles … pardon me, Lord Mountjoy … you have very ably discussed with us your battle plan, for which we thank you most humbly. But now I am concerned with the enemy’s battle plan.”

  “Rest assured, Sir Robert, Tyrone’s battle plan is foremost in my mind, as well.” Mountjoy arches an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of it, would you?”

  Sir Walter and Sir Robert laugh aloud. Noah and Sir Francis share a smile, as they realize at the same moment that Sir Robert has unwittingly taken on his late father’s demeanor, assuming the same contemplative posture, laughing in the same way at precisely the same kind of jest. And Sir Robert is immediately lost in thought again, just as his father would have been.

  Noah breaks the silence. “If I know Sir Robert, m’lord, he was not thinking of Tyrone, but rather of our Sovereign’s great enemy, Spain. And the possibility of Spanish intervention on Tyrone’s side.”

  Sir Robert lets out a jovial laugh. “Serjeant Ames, I find it unnerving that you have learned to read my mind.”

  “At some level, Sir Robert, all good tacticians think alike,” says Noah.

  Mountjoy replies. “Yes, gentlemen, I had anticipated that question. Even with Spanish King Philip dead, his daughter, the Infanta, may yet march in his footsteps. And, if the genealogists are to be believed, she may eventually make a claim to the British throne in her own right. As you know, this has been a principal concern of Lord Essex.” He winces, as he realizes he should have omitted any mention of that troublesome man. Sir Walter looks away, as his own well-known disputes with Essex have caused everyone to look his way.

  Mountjoy urgently mutters something to his page, who searches through the remaining scrolls. Evidently, the top of each scroll has been marked with a unique identifying number. Finding the required scroll, the page unfurls it and hands it to his master, who holds it up to view.

  The left side of the map shows Ireland, its size somewhat diminished to allow Cornwall, at Britain’s southwestern tip, to be shown on the right. At two places in Ireland and one in Cornwall, the cartographer has drawn symbols apparently representing an array of English forces and battlements.

  Sir Francis is taken aback. “Surely, you do not anticipate a Spanish invasion of Cornwall!”

  Mountjoy sighs. “One must prepare for all contingencies, Sir Francis. Indeed, it was mainly because Spain’s most recent attempt went unanticipated that its landing in Britain, if it had been successful, might have proven calamitous to the realm.”

  “Once again,” says Sir Robert wistfully, “we were saved by sea and wind, which was none of our doing. Indeed, we would never even have learned of the attempt, had hundreds of drowned Spanish sailors not washed ashore.”

  Mountjoy resumes. “I brought this map to show you, not so much our Cornish defenses, as the preparations we’re currently making against possible interference by the Spanish in Ireland itself.” He points to Ireland’s southern coast, and various symbols indicating English forces. “As County Cork is a likely landing point for the Spanish, we shall set up these widespread battlements, not only to assure ourselves of early warning, but also to give us the greatest ability to contain the Spanish by slowing their movements, should they successfully disembark.

  “Strange as it seems, we also need be concerned about a possible landing up here in the far north, in Donegal. We have intelligence that the Irish rebels have nearly begged the Spanish to land there, and, as you can see from these diagrams, we intend to reinforce our existing strength there, as well.”

  Just then, Noah notices something unusual about this latest map. He glances at Sir Walter, whose eyes meet his, as he has evidently noticed the same t
hing. Although Mountjoy is about to slide the map to his page to be rolled up, he stops when Noah speaks. “M’lord, it is evident that you and your page take every precaution to guard these very sensitive maps from disclosure or theft. May I ask who prepared them?”

  Mountjoy seems surprised by the inquiry. “You mean, my cartographer?”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “His name is John Tyler. He’s been with me many years.”

  “Does he always use the same paper for your maps?”

  Now all eyes are on Noah, as questions about such details seem out of place anywhere but in the courtroom. Sir Walter seems mildly amused.

  “Yes,” says Mountjoy, “he uses my bespoke Italian stock.”

  “And it bears the distinctive watermark of your family crest that I was just admiring.”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because the paper on which this last map was prepared does not bear your watermark,” says Noah.

  “Of what importance is that?” asks Sir Francis.

  Mountjoy skeptically holds up the map of Ireland and Cornwall to the sun’s rays, and his eyes flash in realization. “It may mean nothing,” he says, then looks toward Noah with grudging admiration. “But it may mean … a great deal.” Mountjoy looks to his page, who shrugs in return. “No need to speculate now. We shall investigate this question, and I will personally let Sir Robert know of any explanation I find.”

  “Thank you, Lord Mountjoy,” says Sir Robert. “Her Majesty wishes me to extend to you her undying thanks for your efforts on her behalf.”

  Mountjoy bows low, and says: “That is all the thanks for which the true subject might ever hope.”

  “Amen,” mumble the others, every one thinking how Essex would never have entertained such a sentiment.

  As Noah leaves the courthouse, he’s hailed by the familiar voice of a young man. Scanning the lobby, he spots Jonathan Hawking waving an arm.

  “Serjeant Ames!” shouts Jonathan again, quickly closing the distance between them.

  “Jonathan! So good to see you! What have you been up to, of late?”

  “Oh, workaday matters.”

  “How fares your practice?” asks Noah, as he and Jonathan saunter toward King Street. “I have heard that, since the conclusion of our business with Lord Essex’s men, you have become the most sought-after barrister in all England.”

  “So I have heard, as well,” replies Jonathan doubtfully. “And I must confess that I have acquired a better class of clients and earn larger fees. Yet,” he sighs, “to my mind, things have not much changed. I feel as though I am … stagnating.”

  “Well,” says Noah, adopting his favored pose as the voice of experience, “there is more to life — even to a barrister’s life — than the law.”

  “I suppose,” replies Jonathan. “Tell me, how goes the fair Lady Jessica?”

  “My daughter is currently staying in the country, at the residence of the Earl of Somerset.”

  “Oh? Enjoying an autumnal holiday?”

  Noah frowns. “I should expect you to know my daughter better than that, by now. Lady Jessica may act the ingenue, but she is never entirely uncalculating. She was invited by Lady Somerset in contemplation of marriage to the earl’s son, Viscount … Something-or-Other.”

  “Oh,” says Jonathan, suddenly serious, “I had no idea that she’d rejoined the ranks of the marriageable. She seemed to withdraw from such matters permanently after your family’s … origins were publicly revealed by Lord Essex.”

  “She did withdraw for a time. In truth, I do not know what revived her interest, but I suppose it’s not every day one is courted by a viscount. She has informed me that his landholdings are quite extensive.”

  “Naturally,” observes Jonathan, his voice flagging.

  Noah stops short, and Jonathan nearly bumps into him.

  “What’s wrong?” asks Jonathan. “You suddenly look as though you’ve had one of your famous epiphanies.”

  Noah considers a moment. “A short time ago, I left Lord Mountjoy’s presentation concerning his upcoming deployment in Ireland. All his maps had been prepared on paper bearing a watermark of his family crest. Except one.”

  “Which one?”

  “I’m sure I shouldn’t discuss this in any detail, but, as a general matter, it showed certain coastal positions in Ireland and Cornwall.”

  “Was it a particularly sensitive map?”

  “For some purposes, I suppose,” replies Noah. “Perhaps I’m losing my grip, seeing Essex’s hand behind everything questionable. At first, I thought that the original map might have been stolen by a spy. But it just occurred to me that I’ve likely been worrying about nothing, for, if the map had been copied by an unauthorized person onto paper lacking the watermark, he would simply have restored the watermarked original to Mountjoy’s papers and taken the copy with him.”

  Jonathan nods. “In which case, Lord Mountjoy, none the wiser, would have shown you the original, and the spycraft would have gone undetected.”

  Noah waves the thought away. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! The cartographer likely ran out of his favored paper, and used whatever was at hand. Any spy who would needlessly remove an original would have to be a dunderhead indeed, to enhance the likelihood of detection.”

  As they reach King Street, to their left, on Thieving Lane, languish numerous beggars in all states of disrepair. Although, during times of plenty, a London beggar can usually scrounge enough to keep body and soul together, the recent famine has left many to perish of hunger or disease. Despair is evident in their eyes. On this occasion, Noah and Jonathan both look the other way.

  “Care to share a carriage as far as Holborn?” asks Jonathan.

  Noah taps Jonathan’s boots with his walking stick. “Something wrong with those?”

  “Not at all. I just thought perhaps you’d prefer to ride.”

  Noah shakes his head. “Not on a perfectly clement day, such as this. Come, walk with me.” They go up King Street, and turn right on the Strand. “I enjoy walking past my old haunts at Serjeants’ Inn. It reminds me that there was a time when I hoped for nothing more than an eventual position on the Bench.”

  “Things might have turned out simpler for you, I suppose.”

  Noah shrugs. “Indeed. They could not be much more complicated than they’re about to become.”

  “How so?”

  Noah lowers his voice to speak in confidence. “Although it may all come to naught, Sir Francis just informed me that Her Majesty intends to commission me to investigate Essex’s past conduct of military affairs.”

  Jonathan’s eyes go wide. “Setting the sheep to guard the ravenous wolf? That would be complicated for you, wouldn’t it? How could she expect you to be evenhanded?”

  “That’s just what I asked Sir Francis. Her Majesty is thoroughly versed in my history with Lord Essex. Evidently, she has greater faith in me than I have in myself.”

  “That says a great deal about her confidence in you, I must say.” Jonathan turns to Noah with a smile. “Will you be seeking the assistance of a more junior barrister in this investigation, by any chance?”

  Noah is dismayed that the question has been raised so soon. Although he expected every young barrister to vie for a chance to assist in an investigation of such importance, he expected to have more time to consider whom to choose. It’s especially unfortunate that it’s Jonathan who’s raised the question, for, as soon as the possibility of such a commission was mentioned, Noah immediately considered Jonathan and, just as quickly, dismissed the thought.

  “Jonathan, I could not possibly ask you to assist in this.”

  “Why not?” Jonathan asks, sounding hurt. “We’ve worked together for years!”

  “And shall continue for years to come! Just not in this matter.” He looks at Jonathan impatiently. “For one thing, I care too much for your immortal soul.”

  Jonathan scowls. “Oh, please. You must be England’s only Hebrew bishop! Why, you have an animus ag
ainst Essex yourself, as you just acknowledged.”

  “But you blame him for Goodman Graves’ death.”

  “Only because he had a hand in it.”

  “We don’t know that, Jonathan.”

  “Doctor Lopez thought so,” Jonathan observes hotly.

  “Nonsense,” replies Noah. “Lopez, may he rest in peace, admitted in your presence that he had no touchstone to determine whether it was poison or no.” As pedestrian traffic is passing nearby, Noah draws up close to Jonathan and mutters. “Do you think I’ve forgotten that you swore to see Essex beheaded?”

  Jonathan broods. “Oh, that was said in a fit of pique!”

  Noah turns on him. “Oh? You forswear it, then?”

  Jonathan stares at the ground. “No,” he mutters.

  “I thought not. Jonathan, I give you all credit for your honesty. But I cannot in good conscience place you in a position of such temptation. Besides, I promised Goodman Graves to look after you, and I feel morally obligated to do so.”

  “Who’s it to be, then?” asks Jonathan. “One of the jesters? Arthur? Andres?”

  “I haven’t had an opportunity to give it a moment’s thought, Jonathan. You caught me quite at unawares.”

  The rest of the walk takes place without conversation. They soon pass the Lord Keeper’s house, where Essex is lodged against his will, and an image comes to Noah’s mind of a caged predator, preening for escape. As Noah prepares to turn north toward his wife’s house on High Holborn, he invites Jonathan to join them for dinner.

  Jonathan seems sullen. “Not today. But thank you very much … and please extend my compliments to Mistress Ames, and, if you see her, to Lady Jessica.”

  “I certainly shall, Jonathan. And, as you continue on your way” — Jonathan waits attentively — “do not neglect to count your blessings. After all, you are … ”

  Jonathan can’t help but smile. “Yes, I know: ‘the most sought-after barrister in all England.’ I really should have that printed on my calling card.” They part ways with accustomed affection.

  Noah little suspects that he’ll be seeing Jonathan again before the sun sets.