There are no lights. Are they all drunk and snoring save one idiot lad not to be trusted with a candle lest he burn down London? And he lies in his bed, listening to the duet of snores. And, even as yesterday, only contrariwise, pleased and disappointed. Thinking upon a clear cold Lord Mayor’s Day.
He allows himself to question the purposes of the King. Wonders why the King should absent himself from Lord Mayor’s Day. Never mind all grand and glorious philosophy of kings, etc. It is no secret, every merchant in London, and no doubt every prentice and servant slut as well, knows the King has a mountain of debts. Well, Sir Sebastian, Ironmonger Knight, there shall be packed into the Guildhall for the banquet a mountain of rich men with a mountain of money among them. More gold there, if truth be known, than all crazed Ralegh’s chimerical golden mountains of Guiana. More gold than all the gain of the Spanish Match. Not that the King will get it or could find it if he rooted up all London like a pregnant sow. But it is there. Enough to buy a king free of debt and into felicity. And those members of the ancient guilds will take it to be an offense that he is too proud and too busy at hunting to attend.
Of course, the King has always feared crowds, even at Court, and lately has come to hate them more. He has never been pleased with London, crowds and clamor, its ever spreading warren of buildings and dwellings, law or no law. Some call it England’s jewel. The King has called it—a wen. Would put a surgeon to that swelling if he could. But cannot. And that must rub him raw. For he needs London, prosperity of guilds and merchants. No doubt he would like to melt them one and all of riches like a gob of fat. But that would be to kill the magic goose. Moreover, after the late Queen’s example of promptly repaying all she borrowed and with full interest, he must do the same. With a difference: that his credit is not so sure as hers, and he must pay more interest and consider himself fortunate. Easy enough to see why the King might not love this city.
There is, to be truthful, a mutual distrust. Not so much distrust of the King and his judgment, as that in constant absences for hunting and pleasure, generosity to favorites, and evident indifference to the knavish and rowdy behavior of so many of his Court, he is indifferent to the offense of the good citizens of London.
The King must have been angered considerably by the satiric blasts coming out of London against the scrounging Scotsmen he brought with him when he first came. Powerless, as also the authorities of London were, to prevent this unless the guilty were caught. The Queen and her Court had endured much of this, yet ignored all but the most outrageous and blasphemous attacks.
Moreover, though decent citizens of London took offense against the idle living, the devilishly extravagant apparel, and some of the pastimes of the courtiers, like dicing, card playing, dancing, all games of chance, and going to plays in suburb theaters, they had not then one half the cause to complain that they do today.
The Court of the Queen, though frequently present and to be seen in formal and ceremonious affairs, was at a certain distance from the life of the citizen. Now the very opposite is true. There are few occasions when the splendor of Court is to be shared. But this larger, more cumbersome, undisciplined Court has spilled over into the city, and takes its pleasure and finds amusement there. You will find courtiers, noblemen of high birth and station, in London’s taverns mingling with riffraff, and scarcely distinguished from them except by their fat purses, as they drink themselves sodden and stupid, engage in brawls and frays, make sport of decent folk, then flee back to the safety of the verge of Court. Safe from the law there. To be mildly chastised at most.
A most uncomfortable position for a Lord Mayor, the aldermen and all their men: to maintain a safe, orderly city when courtiers behave like common rogues and common rogues imagine themselves to be the very models of chivalry.
It is not mere whisper of rumor that feeds offense. The city has plenty of bastards of the Court. Pimps and procurers are packs of hounds seeking out young women (even wives!) to corrupt in the service of the Court. And ladies of Court drink like the men, appear in public with their breasts more revealed than protected by the thinnest, sheerest of lawn, and have their own pimps and places for assignation with lusty lads of the city. And if he will pay the price, a common citizen can have such a fine lady flat as a flounder beneath him. But will risk pox as much as if he took his pleasure from a sixpence whore.
Well, pox will take them all soon enough.
Paying the price is all. A man can have knighthood or baronet for a price, it’s true. But not thereby gain acceptance or respect at Court. To the courtier, though he may not have a clay pot to piss in, a bought title will gain a citizen nothing but contempt.
But worst of all is the violence of these men of Court. Their murderous duels with each other are bad enough. And most curious since the King hates such things and speaks out against them again and again. But a common citizen has no recourse, being considered unfit by law to defend himself or to duel for his honor with a courtier. The man from Court can strike and beat and ridicule the citizen with impunity on his own grounds. In the city he will hire a pack of ruffians to beat or murder a citizen.
Since there is no recourse to justice—even the old Star Chamber is now strangely turned against the commoner—the watch of the wards have been instructed to make no fine distinctions. Many a gentleman from Court has lately been well cudgeled. And if he will fight with weapons, he must take his chances like any other man.
The Court meanwhile has so taken up the habits of cutpurses and thieves that there is more safety in the darkest places of the city than in Court. Such stealing goes on that the King himself is not secure. He has lost so much plate, that except for the rarest occasions he has ordered the use of pewter service.
Of course they blame this upon the Londoners. Admitting, thereby, that rogues can move among them and go unnoticed.
It may be as well, after all, that King and Court will be absent from this Lord Mayor’s Day. Only last year, in early November, Sebastian Harvey’s predecessor, honest George Bolles, the draper, undertook to entertain the Knights of the Bath at Drapers’ Hall. He might as well have invited a pack of Turks or Blackamoors. There was to be a feast and a play for their pleasure. But they were insolent and unruly, drunk and devoted to the cause of seducing good wives. Sir Edward Sackville locked himself in a chamber with a woman and the sheriffs had to be called to break down the door. Whereupon these noble guests took offense and left the hall without waiting for the feast. They chose instead to gather at The Mitre on Fleet Street, where there were so many disorders the watch had to be called out.
No, Sebastian Harvey’s disappointment at the absence of the King on this day is balanced by some sense of relief.
But to order an execution upon this day!
That’s offense to the honor of London. A day before or a day after and no matter, but the King has chosen this day.
Meaning?
Far be it from Sir Sebastian Harvey to imagine he can comprehend the motives of a king, especially a Scotsman. But if Sebastian will ask Sebastian (and so he does), one will reply to the other: that though no man may presume to fathom the mind of a king, it appears to one humble subject, loyal and true to be sure, that the King is repaying the gentlemen of London for what the King deems an insolent slight. Matter of the riot at the Spanish Ambassador’s dwelling in springtime of this year. Rumor was that one of Gondomar’s men had ridden his horse over and killed a London child. And not so much as deigned to pause. True or false, it was a plausible rumor, and it was occasion for unruly Londoners to throw a shiver of fear into the Spaniards, to terrify the hated Gondomar.
On top of which—believe it or not, Sebastian, it is true—this Gondomar, once his safety was secure and he had changed his Spanish breeches, having no doubt pissed himself like a hanging man, rushed to the King and did not ask, but demanded all the culprits be sent to Spain for trial and punishment.
Which the King could not do and Gondomar knew it.
By laws and customs of Engla
nd, the culprits were tried in London and by men of London. And, as any reasonable man might expect, their judgment was lenient. Only a few poor snakes of no consequence, troublemakers already, were found guilty. And they were punished lightly, considering the offense.
Therefore, Sebastian, the King will now bite his thumb at London and make a jest, cruel as it is, out of your Lord Mayor’s Day.
Ah, says the other Sebastian, you cannot mean it. For surely the King has more wisdom than you or I. It would be presumptuous to imagine a king to be a man like ourselves.
Indeed? he answers. Perhaps you are right, good Sebastian. Perhaps … Can you keep a secret? Can you check and bridle your tongue and never repeat what I say? For our lives could depend on that.
Is it treason?
It is sometimes called that. Some might make it to our disadvantage if they overheard.
I had better not listen.…
Must you always be a coward? We must trust each other, Sebastian. We must come, after all these years and ere we die, to trust each other a little.
Well, then, say on, Sebastian. But, mind you, whisper.
Whispering then: I say, sir, there are many good men in London, neither kings nor noblemen, men of the Guilds I say, who have more wisdom in the fat of their arse than rests in the head of James I.
Shame!
Nay, I speak truth. Have they saddled themselves with unbearable debts? Would they give up their goods and their friends and followers upon the gamble of the good will of a mortal enemy? A common English tinker has more wisdom and more wit than that.…
Which meditation is interrupted by that same donkey-arse lad as before, a frightening apparition carrying a flaming pitch torch which could light up this room in one flaming moment, burn house to ashes and memory and probably half of London as well.
“I could not find a candle,” he shouts. “But this here should give the barber enough light to see by.”
The barber … Thank God …!
He is deeply grateful for this barber-surgeon who has risen up so early to attend to him.
He explains the nature of his indisposition to the barber.
The fellow prescribes a cup of sack and a few drops of a cordial. While Sir Sebastian drinks the medicinal cup, the barber rouses some servants, arranges for a fire and candles; for he must see to prepare the Lord Mayor. And he makes ready for the clipping, razoring, and singeing to be done.
Holding a looking glass, Sebastian Harvey feels somewhat better than the man reflected there.
Sebastian in the looking glass is a skeptical fellow. Then let him stay there, as in a painting, in his place while the barber makes the true Sebastian handsome.
He would tell the looking glass Sebastian that. But no confidences. Cannot trust the dour face with confidences. Least of all … a confidence of confidence. For he is the one who, wrinkling his brow, tells true Sir Sebastian for the first time the truth that there is bound to be confusion about the sheriffs of London and Middlesex this morning.
Knowing nothing of their plans, he doesn’t know what to do. Can only do nothing and pray for the best.
He reproaches himself for not thinking of this before. His head, in response, begins to ache again. He groans.
“Sir?” asks the barber.
“Good sir,” Sir Sebastian says. “If you carry a heading ax in your chest, you have my permission to use it.”
The barber laughs.
“Have another medicinal cup,” he says. “The pain will leave you anon.”
“But I shall be drunk as a Scotch lord before I’ve even broken fast.”
“Better drunk, sir,” the barber says, “than so hurt you look for an executioner to cure you.”
All in shades of green, the ancient color for faith and for huntsmen too since Adam first eased his sweating brow by killing for table, in fine materials and all green shades, save for the gloss of the boots, the suede and lace of gloves, leather of saddle, reins and bridle, shine of steel, brass, silver, and a few jewels winking at the orange of flaming torches; all tricked out in green as if decked in leaves of silk and satin and lawn, all green against leather and glinting bits of metal and polished stones, capped in green felt of broad brim, featherless, seated straight in the saddle, seeming indeed a more proud and commanding figure than ever in robes upon a throne; here green and leather and flecks of metal lit by fat torches of servants and touched by the cold light of morning stars, proud horseman, straight-backed and easy on saddle, here is the most high and mighty prince, James, by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland, Ireland, France, Defender of the Faith, etc.
“Behold him!” cries a thin high reedy voice, like a talking bird’s. “Make way for the sovereign of the centaurs!”
“Curb your insolent tongue, you leprous pigmy, or, by God, you shall ride horseback too.”
“Where shall I go riding?”
“You will ride to London backwards and talk to the tail of a swayback, gallfoot sleepy nag and be answered by continual loud farts.”
“That will be sweet music to my ears after your sackbut blasts.”
“You molting magpie, you shall not hear the music of your horse’s bowels, though you will sniff out the sense and drift of her argument well enough and your eyes will smart and weep.”
“How is it I shall know the perfume of the horse and weep to prove it, and yet hear not?”
“How can you hear without ears? We shall have your dirty ears in our purse.”
“Better my dirty ears, Your Majesty, than the stale air of an empty purse.”
“Go to, you poor fool, before we find another to take your place.”
“No matter there, Your Majesty. For you can replace me with any man alive.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning in the Kingdom of Fools all men are one and the same, cut from the same cloth, beggar and lord alike.”
“And the King?”
“ ’Tis said that in the country of the blind the one-eyed man shall be the King.”
“And who shall be King in the Kingdom of Fools?”
“Some say the greatest fool of all, but they be fools who say so.”
“What say you, Archy?”
“I give them the lie. If that were so, Your Majesty, Archy Armstrong would be King. There is no justice in this wicked world. In the Kingdom of Fools, he with half wit shall reign.”
The King laughs out loud and attendant courtiers follow his example.
“By St. George, you will ride to London at the horse’s tail for your impudence. Nothing else shall satisfy.”
“Nor satisfy poor Archy more in this amazing year. For he that rides at the horse’s tail is better than a bishop.”
“How say you so?”
“Why, Sire, it seems every bishopric in England hath learned the jadish trick to cast all riders.”
“Then be silent, or I might make you a bishop.”
“Mercy on me, dread Sovereign! Whip me and hang me in chains, but spare me that cruelty.”
“Bring me my cup,” the King calls out. “We shall drink the health of Archy Armstrong, Archbishop of Fools.”
James, mounted and waiting to begin the morning’s hunt, makes merry with his jester. He is wide awake. He seems to those close around him to be most cheerful, a man who has slept untroubled.
His sleepy-eyed companions, though they shiver in the cold and though their bowels grumble discontent, smile and laugh at the proper times. And they are grateful the King is merry. A good chase and a clean kill will divert him. Though they may be sore in their saddles and dressed in English mud by dinner, that’s a small price of discomfort measured against the King in a foul humor.
The King has his cup, already tasted by a guard, holds it to sniff the aroma while servants pass among the riders bearing cups of spirits. The King sniffs the scent of distilled warmth, then sips eagerly, slopping some drops on his green doublet.
“Drink up and drink deep!” he cries out. “For we have a far piece to ride befor
e we break fast.”
Voices call out health and long life of the King as they drink.
Cold and clear in the autumn country, barren and bare, under the infinite treasury of stars.
Horses shifting with weight of riders, snorting, breathing ghosts. Servants in livery holding pitch torches high while others move among the riders filling cups.
And now shuffling and growls, belling and yapping, here out of the dark come the King’s hounds and the King’s Huntsman, Henry Halfhide. He, too, a green man like the King, though clad in coarser stuff.
The King brightens to greet him.
“I think we are the only two here who are wide awake,” he exclaims. “And, for paradox, the Huntsman and the King are the only two present who can swear to a day’s hard labor yesterday and light sleeping too.”
The huntsman bows and waits for a further sign or word from the King.
The King would be happy if he were as cheerful as he seems to be. If he could have a brain as empty as his purse. Thinking nothing but the joy of riding and the hunt. And perhaps once they are riding and the dawn comes on he will be purged of troubles. Perhaps the strong spirits he drinks will silence all inner voices and disperse unruly doubts.
By midmorning Walter Ralegh will be accounted for. Though it is not Ralegh or his fate that troubles the King most. No, there are things, larger and more uncertain. And beyond them something nameless, close to dread.
Dread sovereign racked by dread as if by chills and fever. Though he smiles and makes merry with jester and huntsman, though the prospect of good sport pleases him well, the King is afraid of something he cannot name. Something from a dream he cannot remember.
Better to think on something palpable and near to fear.
His Queen, ill since springtime, lies at Oatlands, dying. She withers away like a cut flower. Pitiful and foolish, ever merciful and, in her pleas, making no distinctions between common thief and the fallen great, she has joined with others in petitioning for the life of Walter Ralegh.
This is not her first letter concerning the matter. She has been writing, pleading and cajoling, trying different courses. And no wonder. She has always liked Sir Walter and his wife. And the clever Fox, never hesitant to take advantage, has cultivated Queen Anne. Even to the writing of poems to her. Which must flatter, but are a waste of time. Good lady, she has neither the taste for poetry (except as a sort of music for a masque) or the power of attention to read closely. Of course, it is foolish that she would be flattered by a poem from Ralegh or anyone else. But he’s old enough to be amused at his own annoyance, to understand how she can be pleased by a poem, whatever its merit or faults, from such a man. For many reasons, mostly wrong reasons, but woman’s reasons, and she is too old to change her ways now.
Death of the Fox Page 55
