Yet Cecil’s face remained clearly etched in his memory. Lady Bedford’s too.
CHAPTER 14
Elbows on the table, Anne propped her head in her hands, trying once more to make sense of the matter. Maybe the Queen had told Cecil of Anne’s illegal visit. Why else would the man have summoned her? Yet it had been months since the Queen’s message to her that Guido was in Warwickshire. If the Queen had lately warned Cecil that the royal household was in danger, why had she not done it sooner? Well, even if Cecil was bent on punishing Anne for her effrontery, she was ready to suffer the consequences. What worried her far more was the prospect—a likely one, much as she hated to think it—that the Queen had said nothing to Cecil, but the twisted little man had news about Jack. If so, the news were not like to be good. No word from her husband had come through the whole summer and into the fall, not since he sent the poem about the bracelet of her hair. In the letter with the poem Jack had assured her he had received her news about Guido. Her husband should long since have been back in England, in Warwickshire, not even three days’ ride away. Why had he sent her no word, no hint he was safe and well? Twice she had sent one of Wolley’s servants to inquire about Jack in various towns throughout Warwickshire, but each time the servant had come back without news. She prayed that the image of the circlet of her hair embracing bare bone did not prophesy Jack’s early end.
The paper’s folded edge protruded just above the pocket in her dress. She pulled out the page and read the poem yet again, searching for any meaning she had not yet discovered, maybe even the clue to some code. But she found none. The poem was exactly like Jack: witty, earthy, religious, wonderfully enamored of Anne herself. It was a poem to be treasured, but she would gladly cast it into the flames if it meant she could see the man himself, if for only an hour.
Her husband did not even know that five months ago she had been delivered of their third child.
It was the sound of men that woke Jack. Men talking! One spoke, the other answered, and they were coming down the stairs. He scrambled to his feet and stood waiting at the bars. At the foot of the stairs the two took shape by the light of a lantern. They were moving directly toward him. The one carrying the lantern was the familiar gaoler with his shuffling step. Well, then, he was not a mute; he had been talking with the stranger. The new man dwarfed the keeper. Broad-shouldered and well over two yards tall, he carried with him a bracing scent of the outdoors. Dressed in a leather jerkin and breeches—a country gentleman just home, perhaps, from a hunt—he gazed into the cell and said, “Aye, that’s the man. Let me in.”
The gaoler handed the gentleman the lantern, fumbled for his keys, and put a large one into the lock. He could not get the key to turn. The big man growled something, reached for the key, and gave it what looked like an easy twist. The lock fell open. The door squealed on its hinges as it swung into the cell. Jack backed away to let the stranger enter. “Chairs,” the big man said to the keeper. “You have chairs hereabout, do you not?”
“Aye, sir. I’ll bring you a brace of joint-stools.”
“Not stools,” the stranger snarled. “I said chairs. Two of them: real ones. This man needs to remember what it was like to sit in comfort.”
“Well, now, sir, that would be a matter for—”
“Are there chairs in Warwick Castle, or no?”
“Well, now, as I was saying, sir, there are. But—”
“Fetch them.” The stranger’s tone said he would brook no more hesitation. The gaoler reached to retrieve the lantern, but the big man said, “We’ll keep it here: this man needs light. And by God’s bloody bodikins, he needs food. Bring him a good supper instead of whatever you’ve been feeding him. Something with meat in it, and good, fresh bread. And bring some wine.”
“Well, sir, that all would take some time.”
The big man swung his leather satchel from his shoulder and tossed it into the middle of the cell. “And what have you in this Stygian hole apart from time? Take what time you need, but mind you make it a good meal. First bring the chairs.”
The old man stood looking bewildered. “But sir, you must needs understand—”
The stranger glared at the dusty-haired gaoler, who turned, shook his head, and muttered to himself as he stiffly climbed the stairs.
The tall man looked familiar to Jack, but he could not make out where he might have seen him. Then again, Jack had tried for months to remember what his own wife and children looked like, and he could not. The man standing before him could be his best friend, and Jack might not recognize him. “Pardon my failing wits,” he said. “I know you, but I misremember.”
The stranger held up the lantern, pulled back his hair, and turned his head. The top part of his left ear was missing.
“Robin Catesby,” Jack said.
“Aye. Tell me how you came here. Did a judge sentence you?”
“I don’t know how I got here, and I remember no judge; I’d taken a knock to the sconce with a mattock.”
“Ah, that were enough to tamper with the memory. Can you recollect who was there before the mattock?”
“There was a stout red-bearded man. I think I laid his face open with a shovel. And a constable.”
“A constable.”
“Yes. But how did you know I was here?”
“Word travels.”
“Well,” Jack said, “it took its time in traveling.”
The big man shrugged. “Some arse-licking pursuivants led you into the woods, and that’s all we knew. We thought you were dead.”
The old gaoler was descending the stairs backwards, dragging two chairs after him. They thudded on each step as he came.
“Sirrah!” Catesby said. The gaoler stopped. “Who sentenced this man?”
“I have my orders.”
“But who was the justice?”
“Orders, sir.”
“Whose orders, then?”
The old man would not reply, but began again to drag the chairs down the steps. When he had pulled them to the cell, he made his way back up the stairs.
Catesby looked as though he might follow the man and give him a clout, but then he mumbled something, turned back to Jack, and set the chairs a few feet apart. He gestured toward one.
Jack hesitated. It seemed unnatural, somehow extravagant, to sit in a chair: especially one like this, with a padded, upholstered seat and back. Bare-chested, his buckram shirt having given out entirely a week or two since, he felt ill at ease. The shirt’s noisome, tattered remains lay in the corner of the cell for a makeshift pillow. Come nesting season, he would perhaps parcel out buckram strips to Nellie for her new brood.
Jack looked again at the chair. Instinctively he brushed the remaining rags of his breeches with his hands, as if there were any hope of removing the grime. Catesby stood patiently, the light from the lantern reflecting a gruff compassion in his eyes.
Jack put his palms on the arms of the chair and eased himself into the seat. Why such a simple act moved him he could not say, but it did. There was quiet wonder in his voice as he said, “We used to sit in these. We thought nothing of it.”
Now Catesby sat. “If I have aught to do with it, you will have chairs again, and not ferried down the stairs to a dungeon by that old fool of a Charon. But in a real house. And a bed. Think of it: a bed. The service you have done Father Garnet, Nick Owen, and Eleanor Vaux will not be forgotten. And Eliza Vaux prays for you daily at Harrowden.”
Elbows propped on the arms of the chair, Jack covered his eyes with his hands. All this was moving too quickly. Something inside him pressed against his ribs. Breathing was an effort.
Catesby said, “This constable, now. What did he look like?”
“Face made of stone.”
Catesby nodded. “And the sculptor left off before his carving was half done?”
“The very man.”
“Swetnam. I know him. He is easily managed.”
Jack raised his eyebrows. “That were news to me.”
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p; “Ach, never fear him.” Catesby looked around. “So how do you pass the time?”
“I weary my muscles with climbing the walls.”
“Aye, the sinews in you stand out like stones, with no fat earth to cushion them. So you climb. What else do you do?”
“I pray. I write poems.”
“Poems?”
“Yes.”
“But how do you write them? Does that withered husk of a keeper bring you pen and ink?”
“No. I don’t write them. I . . . compose them. In my mind.”
“And then you con them?”
“Yes.”
“I were never overfond of conning poetry; it would never stay in my mind. Even in school when I could start with the words laid out before me.”
“One grows accustomed to it, I suppose.”
“Aye, like anything else. But I could never see why anyone would write, still less con, this prancing poetry. Men don’t speak in rhymes.”
“True. But the rhymes, the rhythms, the strange conceits, all of it sharpens the language, like good steel hammered and honed to an arrow-head.”
“Ha. Now, I’d never thought of it like that.” Catesby paused, then added, “Say one of them for me.”
“A poem?”
“Aye.”
“Of what sort?”
“I don’t know, a hunt maybe. Have you anything about a hunt?”
Jack turned over some possibilities, then said, “Have you ever been boar-hunting, and you heard the beast charging at you through the brush, snorting and squealing, and you stood firm, for you knew you were a man and he was but a beast, and though others might turn and run, you would not?”
“Aye, now you’re frisking sharp.” Catesby stood, moved to within a foot of Jack, unlaced his breeches, and let them drop to the floor. He picked up the lantern. Jack pulled his head back as he found himself at eye level with Catesby’s swaying ball-sac and what might have served for a bull’s pizzle. But Catesby was pointing to the inside of his left thigh, which bore a cruel, crescent-shaped scar. “I’ve been that close to a charging boar,” he said. “He had a tusk in me.” Catesby set down the lantern, pulled up his breeches, and sat again in his chair. “Say on.”
“Well. Yes. That kind of hunt. The boar thought he had you. But you were a true man and you were determined to have him for dinner despite all his bristle and his snarl and the ripping of his tusks.”
“Aye, that’s the touch of it! By God’s wounds, you’ve hunted these boar yourself.”
“I have. And the beast’s godless, bloodshot eyes say he’s torn you already and he’ll soon have you, but your eyes lock on his, and that makes him furious all the more.”
“E’en so, e’en so!”
“And then he’s spitted on your boar-staff, with a look of surprise on his hairy face, as if to say, I never knew.”
“Aye, there’s a poem for you. Tell me that one.”
“Well, this one is like the hunt, but the boar is named Death.”
“Say on.”
Jack recited the lines:
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so.
For, those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure: then from thee much more must flow.
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
Catesby paused, as if he were expecting more. Then he said, “So Death himself is going to die, no matter all his boasting.”
“That’s it. Like the boar.”
“But. . . .” Catesby paused to think, then said, “But Death is going to die later, on the Last Day, not like the boar in the hunt.”
Jack hesitated. “Yes, but—”
“And we’re going to live forever.”
“Just so.”
“And that’s your poem.”
“It is. The words are like the boar-staff. There is no real boar in this cell, but that poem kept the beast at bay through more than one long night.”
Catesby rubbed his beard. “So you’re the poet, but you’re like the hunter.”
“Yes. Both at once.”
“But if that’s what you mean, why not just say it plain?”
“The plain words have their use, but they can be like a blunt staff instead of a spear-head.”
Catesby considered the matter, scratched the back of his head, and said, “I like a good tale of a boar hunt, none of your mincing poetry.”
“Ah. Well.” Jack looked up the stairs where the gaoler had disappeared, then turned back to Catesby. “Robin, are you here to set me free?”
“Of course I am. What did you think?”
“Why don’t we do it, then?”
“Why don’t we. . . .”
“Leave. Why don’t we leave?”
“Ah. Because I’m hungry. Left without breakfast when I got the news, then rode all day.”
“But . . . we could get something to eat on the way. What if the keeper betrays us, and comes back with more of the guard?”
“If there’s more of them, then we’ll see some fun. I’ve a dirk for you, and two blades of my own.” Catesby paused, then looked mildly disappointed as he said, “But no fear of it, he’ll come with the food. I’ve paid him enough for his trouble, and besides I’ve put the true fear of the Catesby clan in him. We’ll eat and then be on our way.”
“Well. You know best, I suppose.” Catesby nodded as Jack continued: “You said you came as soon as you heard the news. You mean the news I was mewed up in this dungeon?”
“Aye, that, and the tidings from Father Garnet.”
“What tidings?”
Catesby reached for his satchel and pulled out a well-sealed letter. “Here. He sends you greetings.”
By the lantern’s light Jack looked at the letter’s cover-sheet in his hands, addressed with only the initials J D. The cover was folded from coarse vegetable parchment flecked with bits of still-green plants. He ran his stone-callused fingertips over the waxen seal. The touch of the letter brought back a vast world of reading and writing all but ebbed away: the faint crackle of a long-neglected book opened at last, the smell of ink, the sound of a goosefeather quill’s liquefied scratch, the stuttering heat of a candle, the purr of molten wax dripped for a seal, the signet’s cushioned imprint that bulged the edges of the cooling wax.
“Well,” Catesby said, “aren’t you going to open it?”
“Yes.” Jack called himself back from his distraction. “Yes. Of course.” He carefully lifted the paper’s edge, tearing slowly though the seal, as if it would be sacrilege to do more damage than needful. He let the cover-sheet fall away and unfolded the paper inside. The first words were Caveat: for your eyes alone.
“So what does Garnet say?” Catesby asked. “Let me see.”
Jack held up a finger to signal he was still reading. Garnet’s penmanship was not the best, and the lantern was not in the right place. Jack leaned forward to lift the lantern. At the same time, Catesby reached toward him and said, “Let me do it for you. I can read the Father’s scratchings well enough. Your eyes are dim from all these months in the dark.”
Jack took the lantern and pulled back. “Give me a minute. Ah: the light suits better here. So far Garnet only sends his greetings. Let’s see: then he thanks me for my good service at Baddesley Clinton, and he says what you already told me: he thought I was dead. But now that he knows I live, he is sorry it was my cross to bear to lie in
prison so long, and he hastened to send you as soon as he learned I was in Warwick Castle. He prays for us both. That is all.”
It was a lie. The letter said, Remember Coombe Abbey. It will happen ere long. Make your way there, and do my former bidding. Pause only to burn this paper. So the attempt to kidnap the Princess had not yet been made. And Father Garnet had hinted that Catesby had a part in the conspiracy to seize her.
The big man eyed Jack and said, “Let me have a look at it. Sometimes with Garnet there are words behind the words, so to speak, and I know the man’s ways.”
“No need,” Jack said. “It’s but an ordinary letter.”
“Then why did he charge me to ride here with such haste?”
“I suppose he wanted me free. As I told you, he is grateful for my service.”
Catesby looked unconvinced.
Jack had no shirt, no pocket, and tatters for breeches. He tucked the letter under him on the chair, watching Catesby’s eyes follow him as he did. It was best to distract the man. Jack said, “Robin, now I bethink me, I’ve come to see you’re in the right: the story about the boar is better than my poem.”
Catesby’s face lost its suspicious edge and once again turned open and frank. “Oh, but it was a good poem, as these things go, and I don’t say it wasn’t. You should keep writing such.”
“Maybe I will. But tell me the rest of the tale of that hunt, and what happened after he gored you, and you ran the boarspear through the beast. You must have lost enough blood to fill a wine-cask.”
“Oh, that I did. . . .”
Jack kept Catesby busy telling stories of hunts and whores and drunken brawls until the old gaoler limped down the stairs, straining under the burden of their supper. Catesby glanced the old man’s way once, then finished telling about how his nose was broken in a fight with four Scotsmen. The dinner arrived: roast mutton, beef stew, and a plugged goatskin bulging with wine. No sooner had the old man set down the food than he turned and muttered his way up the stairs.
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