by A D Swanston
‘Thank you, my lord. We can but hope that Her Majesty remembers the signal service Mr Wetherby once performed for her.’
Warwick nodded. ‘You are to remain here. We will send for you if necessary.’
Leicester emerged from his bed chamber in a black doublet edged in gold over a white ruffed shirt and black hose. Sick or not he would never appear before his queen other than immaculately attired. He ignored Christopher, opened the door and left. Warwick followed him.
Christopher had nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs and imagine what the queen might say at being disturbed. He had once bowed to her but never exchanged words. He wondered if he should wait in the antechamber but decided to stay where he was. The antechamber was dominated by a portrait of the queen that he had always found unsettling. This was no time for yet more unsettlement.
As the minutes passed, he asked himself whether that was a hopeful sign or not. They would have returned by now if the queen had refused to see them but on the other hand she could not have been immediately swayed by Wetherby’s past service and readily agreed to Simon’s request.
He had been waiting for an hour when he heard the outer door open and footsteps on the wooden floor. He jumped up. Leicester’s face was suffused by fever. He stumbled as he entered the room and had to steady himself with a hand on the chess table. ‘I shall retire,’ he said. ‘My lord Warwick will give you your instructions.’
When Leicester had left them, Warwick reached for the wine bottle and took a gulp from it. ‘Excuse my discourtesy, doctor. I too should be in my bed and my throat is dry.’ Christopher waited. Warwick took another swig before continuing. ‘Her Majesty was not best pleased to be disturbed in her private apartments and found your story hard to believe. She does not fear for herself but cannot understand, as we cannot, why this man wishes to put himself at risk by coming here.’
‘I too have no answer to that, my lord.’
‘However, she was eventually persuaded – largely by my brother, I should add – that if this man is responsible for coining and murder, we cannot allow him to remain at large and free to commit further crimes.’ Warwick paused but Christopher’s eyes did not leave his face. ‘This is what has been agreed with Her Majesty. You will return to Aldgate by eight o’clock, where you will meet the coach. You will insist on returning to the house in which you were imprisoned – hooded no doubt – where you will inform the man Simon that Her Majesty has graciously consented to hear him play in return for the release of Mr Wetherby. On our part, there will be no subterfuge.’
Christopher tried to keep his face impassive until he knew what else had been agreed.
‘You will tell the man Simon that he must return with you and that you will escort him here to the palace. Her Majesty has specified a time of three o’clock so that she can dine afterwards.’
Christopher nodded.
‘You will also inform him that he will be permitted to play in the Great Chamber, as requested, in front of the queen, her ladies-in-waiting, the Earl of Leicester, you and me.’
‘I am to be present?’
‘It is Her Majesty’s wish. There will be an armed guard in each corner of the room with orders to kill the man at the slightest hint of danger to her. It is up to you to persuade him to accept these terms. There will be no others.’
‘Her Majesty is most gracious.’
‘Indeed she is. I did not need to remind her of Mr Wetherby’s past service and she appeared most concerned when she learned that he was in danger. I believe that is why she has agreed to this strange request.’ He paused. ‘That and curiosity. She wants to know why this man has made it.’
‘And what will happen after the recital?’
‘You will escort him back to Aldgate where Mr Wetherby will be waiting for you. If he is not, Simon will be arrested and taken to the Tower to be questioned.’
‘By whom will he be arrested, my lord?’
‘The guards will have been changed and will have been given their orders.’
‘Simon is a traitor and a murderer. Are you willing to let him go?’
A tiny smile crossed Warwick’s face. ‘Fear not. We will keep our side of the bargain but afterwards he will be found and brought to trial.’
No wonder he had had to wait so long. The queen and the brothers Dudley had thought through the plan with great care. There were more than eight hours before the coach would be at the Aldgate and Christopher needed rest. ‘If I may, my lord, I will return to my house to sleep. I will be ready in the morning.’
‘Good. My coach will be outside your house at seven. That will allow plenty of time for delays.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Christopher rose to leave.
‘Tomorrow, doctor. Be ready and whatever lies before us, pray for a successful outcome.’
CHAPTER 30
He was back in his own house and his own bed but there remained the lingering suspicion that, despite Warwick’s assurance there would be no subterfuge, he had not been told everything. A known traitor and coiner would never be allowed to escape justice.
Sleep did not come easily. He dozed until St Martin’s clock struck six to mark the end of the curfew. There was an hour until the coach clattered up the hill and came to a halt outside his door. He would hear it coming and he would be ready.
He dressed, combed his unruly hair and looked around for his poniard. ‘You ape, Radcliff,’ he said out loud. ‘The thing has long gone.’
He found another knife in the kitchen and set about what remained of the pie. He found ale with which to wash it down and silently thanked the palace kitchens for providing his breakfast. A slice of squashed tart followed the pie. He was ready.
His hand ached. He rubbed the palm and stretched the fingers. The condition was getting worse. If it continued, the lute would lie unused. If he ever recovered it. Katherine came into his mind. If he didn’t recover her, he would lie unused. He had been unable to help Joan Willys who languished in Newgate, put there by the slattern Alice Scrope with the help of the lying Gilbert Knoyll and Clennet Pyke. At least the murdering Pryse was locked up and would hang.
The coach drew up as the clock struck seven. The coachman wished him a cheerful good morning and set the horses off at a walk. He did not hurry and only occasionally had to yell at an urchin or a vendor to make way. The Dudley crest on the coach’s doors were a deterrent to any man with mischief in mind.
At Aldgate, Christopher stepped down and sent the coachman on his way back to Whitehall. He preferred to wait alone for Gabriel, although if the shadow did not come he would face another long walk, followed by an unpleasant meeting with Leicester and Warwick. And Wetherby would be dead.
He did come. On the stroke of eight, Simon’s coach arrived outside the gate and Gabriel jumped out. ‘Well, doctor,’ he asked, ‘is Her Majesty looking forward to a performance on the lute?’
‘She is. There are, however, conditions.’
Gabriel frowned. ‘Conditions of what nature?’
‘That I will tell Simon when you have taken me to the house. I am willing to be hooded.’
‘Simon will not take kindly to conditions.’
‘Then he will not meet the queen.’
‘And Wetherby will die.’
‘So be it.’
Gabriel shrugged. ‘Very well. Board the coach, doctor, and I will secure the hood. Do not forget that I am armed.’
Christopher stepped into the coach. Gabriel produced the hood, slipped it over his head and tied it around his neck with a short length of rope. ‘Your hands, please, doctor,’ he said. Christopher held out his hands for Gabriel to bind his wrists. When it was done, Gabriel called to the coachman to be off.
It was not easy to measure time without being able to see but Christopher reckoned that the journey took about an hour. They did not speak.
When they came to a halt Christopher was led into the house, hands still bound. He sensed that they were in the Great Hall and that Simon was there. Gabriel untied t
he rope around his neck and removed the hood. He was standing in the middle of the room facing the fire, where Simon sat with the ivory lute on his lap and his back to him.
‘Dr Radcliff,’ he said, ‘I was not expecting you but I am delighted to see you. I did not think you would leave Mr Wetherby to his fate, but, well, a man can be wrong. Happily, I was not. What have you to tell me?’
‘We will travel in your coach to Aldgate. There we will be met by the Earl of Leicester’s coach and taken to Whitehall.’
‘Gabriel must accompany us.’
‘To the gate, no further. Her Majesty will receive you at three o’clock this afternoon. She will be guarded and the Earls of Warwick and Leicester will be present, as will I.’
‘No one else?’
‘Only her ladies-in-waiting.’
Simon laughed. ‘Of course, no queen could be seen without her ladies. It is part of being royal, is it not? Anything else?’
‘Nothing.’
Simon shrugged. ‘And after I have played?’
‘When it is done, I will return with you to Aldgate in the earl’s coach, where Gabriel will be waiting with Wetherby. If he is not there, you will not be allowed through the gate.’
For a minute or so, Simon did not speak and Christopher began to fear that he suspected a trap and would not accept the conditions. But Simon stood up and handed the lute and its case to Christopher. ‘I have decided to play for Her Majesty on my own lute. Here is yours. It is a magnificent instrument. Take good care of it.’ Under the hood his face was hidden by a linen mask.
‘We should leave at one,’ said Christopher. ‘I trust Mr Wetherby is in good health.’
‘As far as I know, he is. Gabriel will escort you to your room – you are sharing it now, I’m afraid – so that you can see for yourself. He will carry your lute for you. Until one, doctor.’
Wetherby sat on the mattress, back to the wall and knees drawn up to his chest. The cell was lit by three candles and the remains of a meal waited to be removed. ‘I confess that I do not like cells,’ he said as Christopher came in. ‘This one reminds me of the Gate House where I was forced to spend several foul nights.’
‘I remember. Free my wrists, Roland, and I will tell you the plan.’
Wetherby undid the rope. ‘I am ready.’
Christopher told him what had been agreed. ‘I am assured that there will be no subterfuge that might endanger you.’
‘Most reassuring. But while you are backwards and forwards in coaches I must remain here until taken to the Aldgate and hope that the plan does not prove a miserable failure. Is that it?’
‘I’m afraid it is. The alternative was to throw you to the hounds and be damned.’
‘Hmm. Was it difficult to persuade Leicester to this?’
‘It was not easy and I might not have succeeded without the help of his brother.’
‘I much admire Warwick. Lacking his brother’s looks but in every other way his equal. And the queen?’
‘I did not speak to her but Warwick spoke of her curiosity.’
‘Curiosity about his hidden face or the wish to play before her?’
‘Both, I fancy.’
There was a pause before Wetherby spoke again. ‘Christopher, while you were gone, I had the opportunity to observe our captors. I gained the impression that between them all is not quite as it seems.’
Christopher laughed shortly. ‘I would be hard pressed even to explain how it seems. Being held prisoner and ordered to arrange an audience with the queen for a faceless man she does not know is strange enough. What did you observe?’
‘That although Simon is the master, Gabriel is more than his servant. It is not so much what he says as how he says it. A certain lack of respect. Had you not noticed this?’
‘No, but Gabriel has hardly spoken in my presence. What do you think is going on?’
‘I do not know and I may be mistaken,’ replied Wetherby with a shrug. ‘Let us watch and listen and perhaps learn something to our advantage. And now, my friend, we can either pass the hours in discussion of important matters of politics and philosophy, or we can rest.’
‘We shall do neither. Now that I have my lute back, I shall play a tune for us. What shall it be?’
‘Hmm. I wonder what the sound will be like in this cell. Do you know “Qui Passa”?’
‘I do. A simple tune with repeated melodies. A good choice. Make room and I will sit to play.’ Christopher sat beside Wetherby with his back to the wall and his long legs stretched out. ‘I have never before played while sitting on a mattress on a cold floor. Beware false notes.’
‘Or in a cell, I expect. Or did you play in Norwich prison?’
‘Be silent, Roland, and let me concentrate.’
He tested the treble string with his thumb and then the five pairs of strings below it. Simon had kept the lute in tune. He began to play and at once the cell filled with music. The notes seemed to bounce off the walls as if they were sitting in the middle of a family of lutes all playing the tune.
When he finished the piece, Wetherby clapped his hands. ‘Are you sure Her Majesty would not prefer to hear our host play here?’ he asked. ‘It would be a new experience even for a queen.’
‘I am pleased to have my lute back. I thought I had seen the last of it.’
‘It sounds as if it is pleased to have you back and now we know how to occupy ourselves until the clock strikes one. I shall choose and you shall play.’
‘I can but try.’
For over an hour Christopher played, until he could play no more. Wetherby chose galliards, a rather ponderous pavan, several fancies and finally ‘My Lady Cary’s Dompe’, which Christopher knew well. His playing had been far from perfect but he had done his best. ‘No more, Roland,’ he pleaded. ‘My fingers are sore.’ He put aside the lute and rested his head against the wall. There would be no sleep but he could rest. Wetherby did not disturb him.
Gabriel came bearing meat and ale. He put the trencher down and told Christopher to prepare himself. Wetherby began to eat but Christopher could not. ‘You must eat, Christopher,’ Roland urged.
‘Butterflies are cavorting in my stomach. I would not keep it down.’ He tried a sip of ale but it tasted like river water. ‘I shall just have to go to my work on an empty stomach.’
Gabriel was soon back, this time with his pistol. ‘You will remain here, Mr Wetherby, while I escort Dr Radcliff and Simon to Whitehall. Pray that I return unharmed or you will languish here until you die.’
‘And do please take care of my lute,’ added Christopher, trying to sound cheerful.
Once again, the blindfold was secured over Christopher’s eyes and his hands were bound. He did not resist. Gabriel led him outside and into the waiting coach. ‘Good afternoon, Dr Radcliff,’ said Simon, who must have been waiting for him. ‘I hope you are looking forward to my recital. I see you have left your lovely instrument in the care of Mr Wetherby. I am sure he will guard it for you.’ His voice was muffled a little by a mask.
Christopher heard Gabriel get in and sit beside Simon. He would have the pistol on his lap. Another journey to Aldgate and he was beginning to see the highway in his mind’s eye. At first, a rough road which gradually became less rough and finally, as they neared the city wall, a paved highway on which the coachman would call for the horses to canter.
He imagined a flat landscape dotted with poplars and elms, a few hovels and the occasional farm. He sensed no villages or coaching inns, where there would be the sounds of men and animals. Even for a man who could see, it would be a journey of little interest. Twice Gabriel reached across to tug at Christopher’s hood and hiss at him to sit still and not to speak. Otherwise they rode in silence.
When the coachman brought the horses to a halt, Gabriel reached over to remove the blindfold. ‘We do not want the guards asking questions,’ he said, undoing the rope around Christopher’s wrists. ‘Simon will go first, and you will follow.’
Christopher blinked in the
afternoon light. Gabriel sat opposite him, Simon, his face invisible, was beside Gabriel with his lute case across his knees. He looked out of the window. Aldgate was a hundred yards ahead. Simon reached out to embrace Gabriel, who stared over his shoulder at Christopher. The menace in his eyes was clear – do as you are ordered or Wetherby will die. Christopher waited while they clung to each other. After some moments they pulled apart and clasped hands. Simon stepped out of the carriage. Gabriel waved his pistol at Christopher and ordered him to follow. ‘Do not forget what I have said,’ he growled. ‘One mistake and your friend dies.’
At that time there were more leaving the city than entering. Through the gate came market vendors wheeling flat carts, milk-maids with empty churns and children playing, pleased to be going home. To the two men, one in a hood like a monk’s cowl and carrying a lute case, the other fair and tall, they gave barely a glance.
But a guard stepped forward to bar their way and asked their business. Christopher’s heart sank. Had the guards not yet been replaced? He would have to say something. ‘My cousin and I are visiting my mother who lies sick in Leadenhall.’
The man scratched his groin and pointed at Simon. ‘What is he carrying?’
‘His lute. She loves the music of the lute.’
‘Why does he hide his face? Not a leper, is he?’
‘No, sir. He is disfigured by smallpox and is sensitive about his appearance.’
‘He need not worry. There’s whores aplenty who won’t care what he looks like as long as he’s got sixpence.’ He reached out to lift Simon’s hood. ‘Let’s have a look at him.’
His hand had not even reached the hood when he yelped in pain. Christopher had grabbed his arm and pulled it back. ‘Better not, sir. He does not take kindly to being seen and he will haunt your dreams.’
The threat did not work. When Christopher let go of his arm the guard put a hand on the hilt of his sword and made to draw it. Christopher stepped in front of Simon and held out his arms. ‘I meant you no harm, sir,’ he said, ‘but I urge you not to distress yourself further. My cousin’s face is not easily forgotten.’
