A Fine Madness

by Alan Judd

  ‘My apologies, your Honour. It is so good to be free that cheerfulness will keep breaking through.’

  Mary laughed at that, which provoked me. I warned him against further street fights, saying, ‘Your temper leads you by the nose and you are like to get it broken.’

  ‘What you call my temper I call a passion for justice which is as like to lead me to the noose in these times as to a broken nose. Not a danger that threatens you, eh, Thomas?’ With that he smiled and nudged me with his foot under the table. Mary smiled too. She was always willing to indulge him.

  Indeed yes, sir, indeed he did coin. After a fashion but in a manner close enough to the crime itself as to make no difference, you might say. Of course, it is not my place to ask, sir, but is His Majesty especially interested in coining? Are there perhaps threats to the coin of the realm now and does he wish to hear of this as an example of how—?

  Very well, sir, the episode was a couple of years after Mr Secretary died and not long before Christopher’s own end. Mr Secretary’s death was a terrible thing in our world. In the confusion that followed most of his records were destroyed by Francis Mylles and his household staff. I rushed to Seething Lane to preserve them, since intelligencers who do not know what they have in their records are destined endlessly to repeat themselves in ignorance and failure. But I was too late. He died in the night and news did not reach me until late the following morning, by which time many papers had been destroyed and some removed by Sir Robert Cecil, Lord Burghley’s son, whom Mr Secretary was bringing on in his own image. Some were also removed by Thomas Walsingham. Among those destroyed were many pertaining to my own work. Fortunately, however, I had enough in Whitehall to help me continue deciphering for whomsoever would employ me after.

  I stayed for the funeral the following night. It was in darkness in St Paul’s churchyard, conducted almost in secrecy as Sir Francis directed, with few mourners, just his immediate family and personal staff. His daughter wept but his wife, who had witnessed more of his suffering, was dry-eyed. I was honoured to be asked to be a pall-bearer along with Francis Mylles and a couple of others. Normally pall-bearers would have been men of Sir Francis’s rank but he was buried hurriedly without their knowledge. He was heavy, it was raining and after the briefest of services we slipped and stumbled several times on the wet grass and mounds as we were led to a corner of the graveyard by the minister bearing a torch. When we eventually found the grave it was too narrow for the coffin to slide in easily and Francis and I had to force it down with our feet, which seemed disrespectful. At one moment Francis got his end down farther than mine so that Mr Secretary was being tipped feet-first into his grave. In pushing my end harder I slipped on the mud at the side and almost tumbled in after him. The grave-diggers were in such haste to finish and get away they might well have buried me with him.

  He wished, he had said, for his wife and daughter not to be put to the expense of an elaborate funeral – such as when he had paid for seven hundred mourners at the funeral of his son-in-law, Sir Phillip Sidney – and I suspect the humility and obscurity of a plain funeral seemed to him a more fitting approach to his Maker than pomp and grandeur. That he was confident of meeting his Maker I do not doubt. I wish I had the confidence now to believe as he did. It is thanks to Christopher that I do not.

  His last days were consumed by great suffering which he bore with patience and stoicism, seeing it as a cleansing fire he had to pass through before reconciliation with our Lord. It was his old enemy, the stone, that caused such pain. Poley put it about afterwards that his urine came out of his mouth and that there was such stench in his room that none could bear it. It is true that in carrying the coffin, our noses pressed against the sides, we all found a foul smell. But Poley also said that he died of a pox of his yard caught from a whore in Paris, which I cannot believe. Anyway, Poley was not there and, as always with that man, you had to sieve his assertions through a fine net of evidence. He too must be long dead now – I have not heard of him for twenty or more years – but I don’t doubt he will be spinning such a yarn in Hell that the Devil himself cannot tell truth from lie.

  The passing of Mr Secretary wrought a change in my own life, not for the better. He had been my guide, my mentor, my example, in some ways more a father to me than my own. We were never personal with each other, never intimate, he being naturally a distant man, but there was an understanding between us, a sympathy of mind and purpose, unspoken but known and felt. He was a man of inflexible integrity, there was nothing about him I did not admire, nothing I did not seek to emulate, though I knew I could never match him. As the clods of earth thumped onto his coffin in the dark, and we all stood in silence save for his daughter’s weeping, I feared for the future. I suspect we all did.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Christopher’s coining, sir, of course. I shall tell you, I shall. Please bear with me, I beg you. All these things have a context and it is their contexts that lend significance, give meaning. There is no straight path and I must go roundabout about to bring you home.

  There was none who could take Mr Secretary’s place, none with his omniscient command of secret matters or his capacity in other areas, such as the building of Dover harbour and promoting of the arts. He was never not at work. The Lord Burghley was more concerned with home matters and the control of money, the Earl of Essex was for overseas adventures and Robert Cecil was not then grown into full estate. In time, as you and the King know well, he would succeed his father most admirably while continuing Mr Secretary’s good work.

  We servants to Mr Secretary thus found ourselves adrift, searching for new masters among the great men competing with each other for power and influence. Some were taken by Lord Burghley to help him understand where money was spent on secret work and then reduce it severely, some by Robert Cecil who had already grasped the necessity of the security of the state, others by the Earl of Essex who promised much and was loved by the Queen but who in the end sought his own glory more than hers or England’s, and paid for it with his head.

  I was an Essex man at first, to my regret and cost. All I wanted was to continue to do the state some service and be rewarded but it was hard to know in those confused times what or who – apart from Her Majesty – constituted the state. My hunch and hope was that it was Burghley and the young Cecil, but the Lord Burghley was distant with me. He would not receive me and seemed not to want to know anything I could tell him of Mr Secretary’s business. I believe he associated me with spendthrift ways and indeed my subsequent history – Burghley’s pursuit of me and my incarceration for debts to the Crown – bears this out. I cannot deny that I mishandled the customs dues my father and then I collected on Her Majesty’s behalf, not paying when I should and then finding that the money I had invested – and had intended to pay – was no longer there, or could not be realised. But I assure you, sir, I was never free with matters touching the security of the state, nor with any money associated with it. I could not get access to the Lord Burghley to explain and at that stage was not well known to Robert Cecil.

  Thus when I was summoned by the Earl of Essex a few days after the funeral I hurried with high hopes to his house by the Strand. I do not know whether there are such grand men at Court now but Essex was a great figure with a fine red beard, a strong voice, commanding presence and winning ways. It was easy to see why he was a favourite with the Queen. In battle he had shown no fear, it was said. In time he would be shown to have as little judgement but the day he summoned me he was in his pomp.

  His Strand house was a great high building and he received me in a large upper room facing the river. It was like a royal court; he reclined in a very large chair on a raised dais, surrounded by friends and admirers. But it was an informal court with a long table laden with sweetmeats and wines to which people helped themselves while walking about and talking. There were ladies there, too, fine ladies dallying with fine gentlemen. It was quite unlike the Queen’s Court where all had to stand as she did and there was n
o dalliance before her, only business. Of which there was much. On seeing me the Earl called out, ‘Ah, our spy. Our spy is come, we are for serious matters now.’ That made everyone look round and several gathered close to hear what was said.

  I was very uncomfortable. He talked about agents in France he wanted me to use to recruit further agents, including one he named in the French Court who was thought to be susceptible. Mr Secretary would never, ever have discussed such matters in public hearing. I expressed willingness to do it because Mary was with child and I had to put bread on our table but I volunteered no opinions or knowledge of my own. Then he said, ‘And tell me, what ciphers are you working on now? Which have we broken?’

  I couldn’t answer. I was stupefied, dumbfounded that such secret matters should be mentioned so casually. Fortunately, he mistook the reason for my silence. ‘Forgetful, eh? A spy with no memory?’ He laughed, provoking others to laugh with him. ‘Perhaps that’s as well. The less you remember, the less you can tell the poisonous dwarf, little Robert Cecil, if he tries to lure you away. You wouldn’t tell him anything, would you, eh? Is it true you do not know the man and are out of favour with his father?’

  ‘We have barely ever spoken, sir, and his father no longer speaks to me.’ It was well known that Essex and Robert Cecil had become rivals at Court, despite having been some years together as children. Or perhaps because of that. Essex was a tall vigorous man whereas Cecil was not only small but hunchbacked. Perhaps childhood rivalries had matured and hardened.

  ‘Good. We do not want any Cecilian plotting here, eh?’ They all laughed again at that.

  I left, unhappy in many ways but satisfied in one. Hungry, too, but I was not yet in such great favour that I could help myself to sweetmeats from the table.

  Christopher, meanwhile, was already employed by Robert Cecil in the manner he had been by Mr Secretary, as an occasional courier of secret papers. This came about through Thomas Walsingham, whose friend he had become. It meant that he saw more of Robert Poley than was healthy for any man, on at least one occasion accompanying him to Scotland with messages from Cecil. As you probably know, sir – the King certainly does – Robert Cecil was even then quietly cultivating relations with the Scottish Court, preparing for the day when the Queen died.

  The coining business was in 1592 when Christopher couriered papers to the Netherlands. Such trips suited him, especially when the theatres were closed because of plague. On this journey he lodged in the port of Flushing – an English port, of course – with Gifford Gilbert, a goldsmith, and Richard Baines, his subsequent traducer. We never had anything to do with the man Gifford Gilbert but he gave us a deal of trouble because in our records he was often confused with Gilbert Gifford, which whom we had much to do, as I have described. The three men must have been getting on reasonably well in order to lodge together but obviously not that well because Baines wrote to the governor of Flushing accusing his two room-mates of counterfeiting. Christopher and Gilbert were arrested and admitted under interrogation to having uttered a counterfeit Dutch shilling, a foreign coin and therefore not an offence. They protested they had intended only to experiment, using Gilbert’s skills to see how it was done. In his report, however, the governor said that Christopher and Baines had each accused the other of inducing Gilbert to do it and that they intended to make a business of it. There were many impoverished English Catholics on the Continent then, all desperate for coinage of any sort. Christopher accused Baines of planning to return to his old faith and defect to Rome if the counterfeiting proved successful. The governor reported all this to Lord Burghley and sent the prisoners back to England under close arrest for examination and trial. Baines was not arrested but was compelled to accompany them as a witness.

  I give you this detail, sir, to bear in mind when considering the note penned by Baines at the time of Christopher’s death. He claimed that Christopher persuaded men to atheism, urged them not to fear bugbears and hobgoblins, and said that the purpose of religion was only to keep men in awe. According to Baines he also said that holy communion would be better administered in a tobacco pipe and that St John the Evangelist was bedfellow to Christ who was a sodomite. I think I have mentioned this already, sir?

  Indeed, yes, there may be truth in it. Although Christopher never spoke in this manner in my hearing I could believe it of him when he was in his cups with players and writers. He relished wine, always did, ever more as he grew older. But I don’t believe he seriously persuaded men to atheism or heresy. I think it was play for him, play of the mind. He enjoyed argument and provocation. The more dangerous it was, the more he enjoyed it.

  It is true, though, that he undermined my faith, as I have said before. Not by such a catalogue of calumnies and heresies as Baines wrote but more subtly and effectively. He forced me to think.

  However, his coining misfortune – if that’s what it was – brought good fortune to me. I was at home with Mary trying to match the rents from our properties with the debts incurred in buying them when a liveried messenger from Robert Cecil summoned me to Whitehall. He received me in the old map room where I had previously worked. Although he was smaller than me and a hump-back – so much that the Queen would call him her imp or dwarf or monkey – whenever I was with him he somehow made me feel it was I who was the smaller. He was courteous enough but his intensity and incisiveness were daunting. When I was introduced on that occasion he stared at me in silence as if trying to make up his mind about me from my appearance. Then he dismissed his secretary and we were alone.

  ‘My father knows you and has told me of your work for Sir Francis.’

  ‘I had that honour, sir.’

  ‘You are familiar with Christopher Marlowe, the poet?’

  ‘I am, sir, but have not seen him these many months.’

  ‘And you have worked for the Earl of Essex.’

  That was a statement rather than a question. ‘I went to France on his behalf, sir, but it did not turn out well.’ Indeed it did not; the Earl’s instructions were confused and his demands impossible and I fell from favour. But I will not go into that now.

  There was another silence. He stared at me with the detachment born of absolute confidence in one’s own position in the world. ‘Do you still consider yourself servant to the Earl of Essex?’

  ‘No, sir. Nor did I ever. He employed me very occasionally. Though I also did some small cipher work for him.’

  He nodded. ‘I have a task for you if you wish it. But it may earn you the Earl’s active disfavour since it will associate you with me and my father.’

  ‘I should be grateful, sir.’ Association with Robert Cecil, and through him with his father, was my only hope of regaining state service.

  He sat at the desk his father and Mr Secretary used when I worked in that room. My own small desk and chair were still in the corner. He indicated to me to draw up the chair. Then he told me what had happened in Flushing, adding that Christopher and Gifford Gilbert were to be examined in public by his father, the Lord Treasurer, and that if he found there was a case against them they would be sent for trial. In which case it was likely they would be found guilty and hang. ‘I have no opinion of the man Gilbert,’ he concluded, ‘but I do not want Marlowe hanged.’

  He wanted me to attend the hearing with Christopher and to confer with him beforehand, ensuring that he spoke soberly and respectfully, voicing no outrageous opinions. ‘You dealt with him for Sir Francis with evident success. But he is known for outbursts of intemperate speech and behaviour. You must urge moderation and ensure that he pleads only the account he has already given to the governor of Flushing – that they never intended serious coining, that it was done only as playful experiment while awaiting ship for home and was anyway not with English currency. My father is aware of the work he did for Sir Francis and of his occasional use to me in conveying messages to the Scottish Court, but these must on no account be mentioned in public. You must also ensure that Marlowe makes no mention of his play-making. My fathe
r knows of it, of course, but has not the fondness for playhouses that Sir Francis had. He would not react well to a plea of extenuating circumstances arising from poetry. If called upon to give evidence on Marlowe’s behalf, as you may be, you must confine yourself to swearing him a God-fearing subject of the Queen, loyal to her church and to God. Nothing else. Do you think you can do that?’

  I gave him the assurance he wanted.

  ‘Thomas Walsingham will also be available to give evidence. Between you, you must make it easy for my father to find both men loyal and sober subjects who regret their ill-considered youthful prank and intend no more of it. You are sure you can do that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ His tone and manner suggested I might have found some difficulty with it but I was steeped in professional deceit far enough to have no problem with minor perjury. Anyway, I truly believed – and believe – that Christopher was loyal to the Queen and England, if not to his God.

  ‘If this goes well there may be other work following,’ Robert Cecil concluded. ‘Unless of course you choose to continue your involvement with the Earl of Essex.’

  Thus I came over the next several years to perform various tasks for Sir Robert, as he became. It was mostly deciphering and was never continuous employment as under Mr Secretary, but it kept the wolf from the door when I was imprisoned for my debts and Mary had to manage our properties and our customs dues. He always treated me well and was considerate of Mary in our distress. But my work for him earned me the enmity of the Earl of Essex and his followers, with consequences that long outlived Sir Robert. They pursue me still. Hence you see me here, sir. There were consequences for Christopher, too, but of more mortal nature.