Death of Kings

by Philip Gooden

  DEATH OF KINGS

  Other titles in this series published by Robinson:

  Sleep of Death

  Forthcoming:

  The Pale Companion

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  3 The Lanchesters

  162 Fulham Palace Road

  London W6 9ER

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in the UK by Robinson, an imprint of

  Constable & Robinson Ltd 2001

  Copyright © Philip Gooden 2001

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing

  in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN 1-84119-212-0

  eISBN: 978-1-47210-383-3

  Printed and bound in the EU

  ‘For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground

  And tell sad stories of the death of kings’

  RICHARD II, 3, ii

  Contents

  Historical Note

  Beginning

  Middle

  End

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  In the early months of 1601 England faced its worst crisis since the defeat of the Spanish Armada thirteen years earlier. Queen Elizabeth was in her 68th year. Most of her subjects had never known another ruler. An ageing virgin, with no direct heir, she flew into a fury if anyone even hinted at the question of succession. The last of her many flirtatious and teasing relationships with the men in her aristocratic coterie, that with Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, had come to a bitter end.

  Essex was by far the most dangerous of Elizabeth’s ‘courtly lovers’. Volatile and paranoid, he suspected a court faction (led by Robert Cecil, the Secretary to the Privy Council, and by his old enemy, Sir Walter Raleigh) of conspiring not only against him but against England itself. Their supposed object? To install the Spanish Infanta on the throne. Essex plotted rebellion, though whether it was to protect the Queen or to supplant her was never quite clear, perhaps even to him. Essex enjoyed immense popularity among his fellow Londoners, many of whom considered him to have been persecuted by the faction surrounding the Queen.

  Essex’s followers sought to capitalise on that support in various ways. One of these was to enlist the Chamberlain’s Men, the acting company of Shakespeare and the Burbage brothers, to put on a performance of Shakespeare’s own Richard II at the Globe playhouse in Southwark on the afternoon of Saturday, 7 February, the day before the planned uprising. This historical play was no ordinary drama. Richard II climaxes with the deposition and death of a lawful monarch and his replacement by a younger and fitter (in any sense) usurper. In the circumstances of the time – with Elizabeth nearing the end of her reign, Essex perhaps ready to seize control, the people of London full of apprehension – to perform this play was to invite trouble.

  Beginning

  Sunday 1 February – Tuesday 3 February 1601

  Though I saw nothing when I glanced over my shoulder, there could be no mistake about it this time. The man behind me might be able to rely on the night and on the shadows of the narrow street for cover, but he couldn’t conceal the noise of his boots. So far he had managed to keep his steps in unison with mine. It was this whispering agreement with my own progress that first aroused my suspicions. Now, when I stopped abruptly, so did he – only he stopped a fraction too late. The sound of his heel on the icy cobbles rang in my ear. Then silence.

  I looked up as if the night sky would tell me what to do next. Stars pulsed in the gap between the overhanging houses. The nipping, eager air sank its teeth into my exposed face. My breath plumed upwards. The night sky told me nothing that I didn’t already know.

  It was late, not long before a winter midnight. It was bitingly cold. And it was unlikely that anyone walking the streets of our capital was going about any lawful business (myself excepted, of course). What made my innards do a little dance, though, was the certainty that my friend in the shadows wanted to keep his presence a secret. Otherwise, why match his steps to mine, why stop at almost the same instant that I did? I had it in mind to call out that I was nobody, merely a poor player. He could have all of the shilling in my pocket for the asking. But a desire to avoid looking foolish prevented me.

  I was unarmed, or as good as unarmed. A decorative little knife, suitable for nail-paring, lay somewhere fast asleep under my clothing. As for any representative of the law – a catchpole or a headborough – well, where are they when you need them? I might have cried out in alarm, but Mill Street, where I was standing this winter’s night, though not in the first rank of turpitude, was the kind of area where doors slam shut against trouble. The only remedy lay in my feet.

  Hoping that my pursuer would think that I’d stopped merely to gaze at the heavens, I started walking again. Sure enough, within two paces, the echo fell in behind me. As my boots struck the cobbles, so did his. With each step I lengthened my stride and walked a little faster. My aim, with my heart banging in my chest and clouds of breath exhaling in my wake, was to reach the corner of Hart Lane, a hundred yards or so to my right. Once there I could, perhaps, lose my pursuer in the dark warren of lanes and alleys that stretched between Mill Street and the riverbank. None of the houses and shops betrayed any sign of human life by as much as a glimmer. We might have been threading a path through a dead city. Overhead, the stars danced with cold life. Whoever was behind me seemed content to match my pace, quickening his march as I quickened mine but, as far as I could tell from the echoed steps, not attempting to gain on me.

  Now I was nearing the corner of Hart Lane. And, at once, I grew frightened – I mean more frightened than before. Maybe it was the regular, remorseless tread of the being over my shoulder, a sense that I wouldn’t be able to shake him off, twist and dodge as I might in any maze of alleys. Instead of walking at a steadily increasing rate towards the mouth of the Lane, I panicked. I broke into a run. But there was more than one of them. From the entrance to Hart Lane a shadow started from the darkness of the corner, as if it knew precisely the route that I intended to take.

  I slowed. By instinct, I veered in the opposite direction, attempting to put space between myself and this new threat. But as I moved towards the other side of the street a third shape moved out from my left, and I knew that I was caught.

  I stopped.

  I tried to control my panting breath.

  I resolved to make a good end. Why, one can do a little even with a knife that is fit only for nail-paring. Cursing the thick clothing that kept it buried, I started to fumble for the weapon.

  The three figures closed around me. I couldn’t see the one approaching my back but I could hear his rapidly advancing footsteps. I turned to face him, a mere shadow. He spoke. He had a soft, even voice.

  “Master Revill?”

  Now a different kind of fear overcame me. It was not any late passenger that these men were after, not anyone who chanced by. They were looking for someone specific, they were looking for me. I attempted to master my own tones.

  “You have the advantage of me, sir.”

  The courtesy wasn’t returned. He repeated himself, a statement now rather than a question.

  “Master Nicholas Revill, the player.”

  His face was a darker patch in the night, a no-face.

  “What do you want from me?”

  I felt the presence of his two companions closing in behind me.

  “Speaking for myself, nothing.”

  “
That’s good, because you’ve hit exactly on all that I possess. Nothing.”

  I was pleased at the steadiness in my tone.

  “ ‘Nothing’ is the usual condition of players, I believe, sir,” said the other. He had a very soft voice. I had to strain to hear it and thought at the time that it was doubly insulting to have to struggle to hear an insult.

  “Since you’ve stopped me merely to sneer at my poverty,” I said, “I’ll be on my way. If you want to flatter me any further you can pay your pennies at the playhouse, like everybody else, and do it there.”

  I made to slip aside and was not surprised to find my path blocked by one of the shapes to my rear. Let me pass.

  “You are required,” said the soft-toned man. I turned back towards him since he was evidently in command.

  “Required? How so? Who are you?”

  Even as I said these words, I was grasped by the upper arm on either side. The grip was firm to the point of discomfort.

  “We have been instructed to take you to a place,” said the shadow. The mildness of his tone contrasted with the coercion implicit in his message. “It is better for our safety – and for yours – that you don’t know exactly where you are going. Accordingly, you will be blindfolded. Please don’t struggle or attempt to remove it.”

  I almost laughed – from fear or from genuine amusement, or a mixture of both.

  “For God’s sake, man, it’s dark.”

  “It is for the best, sir.”

  He spoke respectfully but there was a sneering quality to his words.

  One of my arms was released, and the next instant the individual on that side had slipped a band of some smooth material over my head. Fumblingly, he checked to ensure that it covered my eyes before tightening the knot at the back. Then he resumed his hold on me. So I stood, pinioned, in double darkness.

  “Who are you . . . thieves?”

  By now I would have been relieved to discover that that was all they were. (Relieved, but also perhaps obscurely disappointed.)

  “We are in authority.”

  “Whose authority?”

  My voice broke into a kind of ignominious yelp. In any case, the question was overlooked. At once, the two men on either side began – slowly at first and then faster and faster – to spin me round in circles like a top. Instinctively, I tried to reach up with my hands to tear the cloth from my face, but my companions kept me so close that, although I could smell their breath and feel their warmth, I was unable to lift my arms. Within a few moments I was giddy enough to have fallen if they hadn’t been buttressing me on each side. My wits whirled round with my body.

  Then, like children at hoodman-blind, they suddenly brought me to a stop. The dark world continued to spin most unpleasantly round my head, and my ears sang. Now I was being ushered forward by my escort. Forward where? Obviously this ridiculous child’s business of turning me top-wise was an attempt to make me lose my bearings. They’d succeeded too. I had no idea what direction we were going in.

  As I was pushed through the streets, helpless as a babe-in-arms, I had freedom to think. Oddly, I was slightly less scared now than when I’d first sensed that I was being followed. My initial assumption had been that I was the target of ruffians or rakehells – but the behaviour of this threesome (or rather of the only man to have spoken) suggested that they wanted nothing so vulgar as my life or my non-existent property. ‘You are required.’ This had a portentous ring, as of the devil in some morality drama summoning down an overdue soul to flame and perdition. I’d have laughed at the absurdity of it if my throat hadn’t been dry and my heart thudding. But it was no joke. While my feet clattered across the icy cobbles my mind wandered in a maze.

  After what I supposed was about ten minutes – during which time we changed direction on several occasions and once, I am sure, merely turned round in order to go back the way we’d come – we halted. I felt dizzy and queasy. I wanted to sit down. But there was a rap on a door, there was the creak of it opening, and a wash of warmer air on the exposed part of my face.

  “We have arrived. There are two steps in front of you, shallow steps. Negotiate them with care.”

  His advice wasn’t needed for I found myself being hoist up the steps anyway. Then suddenly the arms which were pinioning me fell away. I tottered but kept my balance. Unthinkingly I made to remove the blindfold but was anticipated.

  “Do keep your hands down, Master Revill.”

  Reluctantly, I did as I was told. I was tired of being kept in the dark.

  “Before you is a doorway, only wide enough for one man at a time. Step through if you please.”

  “No.”

  I had decided, you see, that it was foolish – to say nothing of unmanly – to step into what might be a trap. It was time to take a stand. Being led along was one thing, but to cross a hostile threshhold of my own accord, this stuck in my gullet. Out on the cold, dark streets there was still a tiny measure of safety but once inside private quarters, God alone knew what might happen. Unfortunately, my ‘No’, intended as a curt vowel of refusal, emerged new-born and quavering into the night air. I must have been more frightened than I knew.

  “No?” said the man behind me, gently but wearily as it seemed. “Well, never mind . . . I am only thinking of your dignity, sir.”

  Hands gripped my shoulders and half steered, half pushed me forward, as though I were a recalcitrant child. I felt wooden boards beneath my feet, and my face tingled in the comparative warmth after the night air.

  “Now we are here.”

  The same smooth low voice at my back.

  “In a moment you may remove your blindfold. When you do, you will see a flight of stairs ahead. Which you will please to climb, sir. In the room facing the head of the stairs there is a man who wishes to talk to you.”

  “I suppose I should count up to ten before I start looking for him,” I said, trying to introduce a sneer of my own into the conversation. Perhaps the other individual was stung by the remark because he said nothing.

  “Who are you?” I ventured now. “I demand to know before I go any further.”

  No answer. I sensed space around me, although if my companions had exited they must have done so as swiftly and silently as ghosts. I waited a moment longer then reached up and lifted the scarf from a corner of my eye, expecting each moment to be rebuked. But there was nobody there. I was in a bare, dimly illuminated lobby, off which several doors opened. My escort had presumably vanished behind these. I had a sense of exposure, not the agreeable feeling of being the cynosure of all eyes which one gets as a player on stage but the less pleasant impression of being spied-on through knot-holes and secret cracks in the dark woodwork. I was still holding the blindfold. In a tiny act of resistance, I dropped it on the floor.

  Ahead of me was a flight of stairs, as described, leading up into darkness. I turned round and tried the main door, the one which led into the street, but it was fastened and there was no key in sight. I might have tested the two or three other exits from the room but suspected that they too would be barred against me. I thought of the quarry in a hunt, channelled to its doom by the hunters and the hounds, forced down its final path. I climbed the stairs as if in a dream. I remember that they creaked underfoot.

  At the top of the stairs was a small open area and a room directly facing. The door was ajar and a faint light slipped out through the gap. I tapped timidly with my fingers’ ends and a voice said ‘Come in’, and I did so and on the far side of a large room there sat a man at a big table. He was writing. He looked up briefly.

  “There is a chair against that wall. Please be seated, Master Revill, and be easy. I shall not be a moment more on this thing.” And he resumed his writing.

  I did as instructed – this was a night for doing what I was told. Several candles burned on the desk or table but otherwise the room was unilluminated. I was therefore in the dark and the gentleman opposite me was in the light, available for my inspection. Perhaps he had intended this, but I d
o not think so. There are some men who will deliberately keep themselves writing or fiddling with their documents in order to keep you waiting, as if to say ‘See how busy and important I am, see how little you matter’, but it was not so with this nameless individual.

  Hunched over his table, he wrote with a wide, scrawling hand, breaking off from time to time to to refresh his pen or to consult other sheets of paper spread about him. Apart from his hand nothing else of him seemed to stir, except for his feet under the table which did a little circumscribed dance of their own in time with his mobile hand. Otherwise, he did not scratch at his broad white forehead, or stroke his tapering beard; he did not stop to scrutinise his fingernails or the single golden bands which he wore on each ring-finger. He did not indulge in any of those scribbler’s little delays and diversions which signify ‘I am thinking’ or ‘I wonder what I look like when I am thinking like this’. Instead he kept on writing as if his life depended on it.

  His large, pallid forehead seemed to suck in the light in the room rather than to reflect it. The candles cast shifting, contradictory patterns on the wall behind the man at the table, and there was something about his quivering shadow that did not accord properly with the solid shape in front of me – although I did not realise until later exactly what it was.

  For several minutes this individual did not stop his moving, scrawling hand. Then, without any flourish, without the grin or the sigh which usually signals finis to our efforts on paper, he laid down his pen, clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them. His candid eyes looked at me and, in shadow though I was, I felt myself being thoroughly and rapidly assessed.

  “Please, Master Revill, bring your chair forward – into the light – yes, so.”

  With someone else I might, I suppose, have protested at the way I’d been snatched off the street and brought to this upper room – now that I was pretty sure that I had not fallen into the hands of desperadoes, an objection or two seemed called for. But something informed me that protest was futile and that I’d be told what I needed to know when the time was ripe.