by J. D. Davies
‘I think I will never master this English, if the meaning of words depends on how they are said.’
‘Oh, you will, Master Horvath. A year or two with me, and your English will be as good as the Queen’s. But come, I would have you tell me of the great Battle of Keresztes…’
Yes, I will tell you of the battle, My Lord. And I will master this English. I will master it entirely.
Nicholas Iles:
My Lord was much taken with the Hungarian from the moment he first came aboard our ship, at Nantes in April. But I did not like him. I kept asking myself, what sort of man journeys from England to France to volunteer, when we will be sailing back to England in a matter of weeks? What sort of man journeys from Hungary to England, claiming that he seeks nothing more in life than to serve My Lord? What sort of man abandons the war his own people are fighting, against the common foe of Christendom, in favour of a distant conflict, far away from his own land? How can this foreigner, this alien, have obtained a recommendation from the Surveyor of the Navy? So many questions, none of them with an answer.
No, I did not like Laszlo Horvath. I did not like him at all.
But the Earl seemed mightily impressed with the Hungarian’s record as a warrior. At first I suspected that he was inventing it all: a storyteller, a creator of pretend worlds, can usually recognise a kindred spirit. But the Hungarian revelled in displaying his battle-scars, and even I had to admit that no man could have suffered so much slicing open of his flesh in mere tavern brawls, the common warfare of we actors and writers. Worse, though, was that My Lord evidently enjoyed the Hungarian’s tales of battles with the Ottomans in the far-off borders of Christendom. Indeed, he started to prefer Horvath’s stories to the ones I told him of Achilles, Hector and the great heroes of antiquity. Increasingly, too, he practised sword-play with the Hungarian, who seemed to be adept in both the German and Italian methods, and in various less conventional skills learned through long experience on the blood-soaked plains of the east.
I chided myself for the sins of pride and jealousy, but in my heart, I knew I had only to bide my time. After all, Horvath was not the man being paid to write the famous history of My Lord; and if one thing was certain in this world, it was that this Hungarian upstart would not appear in that book at all. Or play. Or epic poem. Whichever form I decided upon in the end. Thus contented, I returned to the task that had occupied me through the long winter months since we arrived in Nantes: getting drunk with the rest of the crew in French taverns making significant progress on my play about My Lord. I had written a prologue, and most of Act One. At My Lord’s request, I had included a clown. And a dog. And the words flowed, surely poetry to rank alongside that of Homer and Virgil –
The Sea pays Homage to thee, and roars out
Brave Ravensden’s name, who's greater far then Canute.
Neptune to Thee his Trident doth resign,
The Whales cry out with trembling, We are thine!
But then this Horvath came, and the muses deserted me. Still, at least the news from my friends in London was greatly encouraging. Shakespeare, it seemed, could think of nothing better than to churn out yet another version of the life of King Henry the Fifth, a story that had been done to death already.
My star was on the rise, that much was clear.
The Dowager Countess:
We were married in March, in the church adjoining my husband’s damp and ruinous hovel in Burgundy.
(No, grandson, upon reflection, strike through ‘damp and ruinous hovel’ and reinstate ‘chateau’, for that was what my husband called the pile of decaying stones he owned at Saint-Justin-Le-Boucher. He had great plans for rebuilding it, but then, he had great plans for rebuilding every house he ever owned.)
The speed of our betrothal, and then our nuptials, was considered the scandal of the hour at the French court, and none of my family attended the service. In truth, though, this was but a ruse to save my father’s face. Oh, he was furious at first, even though his previous attempts to arrange marriages for me to an ancient, wheezing comte and a pox-ridden young seigneur ended abruptly with the tragic deaths of both, well before the contracts could be signed. And the more my father thought upon it, the more he concluded that he was delighted to get his markedly precocious and wayward youngest child off his hands so easily, and to have acquired a son-in-law who seemed to be at once rich, famous, and greatly liked by the King of France himself. The Earl of Ravensden might be a heretic, Father said (if only in the fullness of time), but King Henri himself was a heretic until only five years before. And if, as His Majesty famously said, Paris was worth a mass, then surely the financial salvation of the seriously decayed noble house of Monconseil-Bragelonne was worth an Englishman. Especially an Englishman who was rich, who did not insist upon a dowry, and who was willing to allow his new wife to retain the faith of her ancestors, even to the extent of permitting her to attend Mass, albeit in secret, as was the way of things in England.
‘Besides, sister,’ said Anne-Catherine, as she bade farewell to me, ‘he is so much older than you, so he will probably either die of senility or else will soon be killed in a battle with the Spaniards. Then you will inherit his estate, and will be a great woman in England! Why, then you can marry rich husband after rich husband, just as their famous Bess de Hardvic has done! Just do not have a son too quickly, though, or else the child will then inherit instead of you.’
Her advice was already redundant: I was with child well before the Earl and I went aboard the repaired Merhonour in the road of Saint Nazaire in May. Indeed, I was with child well before the marriage ceremony, too, having ceased to be in the same state as Queen Elizabeth roughly an hour after My Lord returned from his conversation with the Earl of Gowrie at Chambord. My husband’s intention was that I would have the child in France, and then come over with him – it could be nothing but a ‘him’ – in the winter, after the Merhonour paid off following the summer’s campaign against the Spanish.
‘It will be for the best,’ he said, as we lay in the bed that his men had rigged in his cabin aboard Merhonour. ‘We should not risk the heir to Ravensden upon the sea until he is at least a few weeks old. And it will give time – but no, enough. You must rest, my dear, and I must attend to the preparations for sailing. To inspect the cordage, and suchlike.’
‘It will give time for what, Matthew?’ He was reluctant to answer. For such a bold and fearless man, he could sometimes look like a boy caught in the act of stealing an apple from an orchard. But I thought I had his meaning. ‘Time for your people, and for the English court, to accept that there is a new Countess of Ravensden, and she is French, and Catholic, and very young?’
‘My people will accept what I tell them to accept. For many of my servants and tenants, the fact that you are French will be seen as an improvement on my mother, who was Scottish. The fact that you are papist – your pardon, my dear, Catholic – will horrify our parish priest and make the Bishop of Lincoln shit himself. And the ignorant will damn you out of hand, as for these last twenty or thirty years, the very name of Catholic has been reviled in England, tarred with the brush of treason and murderous plots against our Queen. But so long as you are discreet, and we pay your recusancy fines promptly, I pray that there will be little difficulty. After all, my Countess, it would difficult for even the most fanatical opponent of Popery to paint you plausibly as a harbinger of the Jesuits and the Inquisition, although I have no doubt that some will attempt to do so.’ He smiled, and I nodded my head in gratitude for his tolerance of my perverse decision to remain true to the faith of my fathers. And for his equally perverse decision to marry me in the first place, if truth be told. ‘Those of the court will first consider you a great curiosity, and then they will love you as though there is nothing else on earth to love – and then, five minutes later, they will forget you and move on to the next great curiosity of the moment.’ He sighed, and shook his head. ‘But there is one to whom I will have to answer for marrying you. The same one to whom
I will have to answer for the Merhonour being in dock in Nantes for six months.’
‘The Queen.’
‘Indeed. The Queen.’
‘But why should she concern herself with your marriage, Matthew? Surely it is of no interest to her?’
‘You have not met her, dear heart. When it comes to the lives of those who serve her, the Queen concerns herself with everything. She, who has no children, considers herself a mother to the entire kingdom, with a mother’s right to interfere in the lives of every one of us. And she never forgets. Those of the court might lose interest in us after a few days, but not the Queen. My old friend de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, once bowed low before her after a bellyful of bad wine, and let loose the loudest and foulest-smelling fart imaginable. He was so ashamed that he left the court for seven years. When he returned, and had audience of the Queen, she greeted him with “My Lord, I had quite forgot the fart”. I was there, and witnessed it. So the Queen will not forget, but perhaps, if we wait before presenting you at court, she might have time to accept our marriage.’
‘Or else, perhaps, she will die beforehand.’
I had already seen my husband in many states – happy, amorous, valiant, dead drunk – but I had never seen him afraid. Yet now he looked about like a frightened child, as though he was seeing ghouls and monsters beneath every footstool.
‘For sweet Jesu’s sake, wife, you must never say such things! Never! You could be overheard—’
‘Matthew, we are aboard the ship that you command, filled with your men, at anchor in the midst of the sea, off the coast of France! Who can possibly overhear us? Even kings and queens must die – all people know that! Why, France has had five kings since your Elizabeth came to the throne! She is, what, sixty-six years old? A very old woman who cannot live for ever, My Lord. And when she does die – then what will happen?’
The Earl was still mightily uncomfortable, glancing out through the stern windows as though half expecting the vengeful Gloriana herself to start hammering upon them at any moment. Perhaps, too, he was taken aback – as he often was, in those early days – by the discovery that his new young wife had wits, and a keen interest in the ways of the world. At last, my husband settled back down onto the sea-bed. But when he spoke next, it was rather more quietly than before.
‘What will happen? There you have it, my Countess. Three words. Three words that form the most important question England has ever known.’
Nicholas Iles:
I was on deck, taking in the last of the French air before we set sail for England. I was full of new ideas for plays and poems. I had been nearly within touching distance of the famous King Henry of France: surely his story would make a fine drama? I could see Burbage playing him, or else perhaps Kemp, who might be better if he had to act alongside a dog. I could even play the part myself, with or without the dog. Or else there was the story of Joan of Arc, which I thought had all the makings of a most excellent tragedy. I could play her, too.
My Lord begged to differ, though.
‘A play about a Frog witch that we burned at the stake? With some be-stubbled lad in a skirt pretending to be a peasant girl wearing armour, who talks to God and reckons angels are her personal friends? Oh yes, that’ll pack the theatres, Master Iles, if you somehow manage to get the story past the Lord Chamberlain, that is. Roasting virgins on a pyre? How will that play in a land ruled by a Virgin Queen, d’you think?’
But I was not abashed, and was seated upon one of the forecastle guns, noting down ideas in my small commonplace book. It was difficult to concentrate, though. The sight of the sea-birds circling and plunging into the waters in pursuit of fish distracted me. The ships, large and small, that plied in and out of the Loire, were an endless source of fascination. And were those dolphins, over in the far distance? I believed they were –
My graphite writing-stick snapped. Cursing, I went astern, to fetch another from my sea chest.
And then I saw the Hungarian. He was standing in the shadows of the steerage, outside the door to My Lord’s cabin, seemingly listening.
I drew my dagger and hissed, ‘Spy!’
Of course, this was utter madness on my part. Horvath was a veteran soldier, an expert with every weapon in common use and several that were distinctly uncommon. I was a poet who wore a dagger simply for show, to scare off vagabonds, Abram-men and clapperdudgeons. Never in my life, until that moment, had I drawn my blade with serious intent; like every man connected with the London theatre, I recalled the fate of poor Kit Marlowe, who had drawn his once too often and paid for it with his life, depriving the world of countless unwritten masterpieces.
The Hungarian seemed to sense all of this. He advanced toward me, not even bothering to draw his own blade.
‘That is a dangerous word, Master Iles. Dangerous in any language.’
‘It is a true word, Master Horvath. I name you a spy, treacherously spying on the Earl and Countess!’
There were relatively few men on deck. Most were below, for My Lord had given both watches a brief period of leave before ordering them to the back-breaking tasks of hauling up the anchors and setting sail. Sounds of singing and laughter drifted up through the hatches. But the men who were about stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to us.
‘You are too much taken with plots and fantasies, Master Poet. I am no spy. I am loyal to the Earl of Ravensden.’
He continued to advance. Without really being aware of what I was doing, I started backing away.
‘No loyal man stands by a door, prying into the affairs of a husband and wife.’
‘That is true. A loyal man seeks to guard the husband and wife.’
‘Guard? You claim to have been guarding them? What need is there of a guard, here on a galleon of the Queen’s Navy Royal? My Lord’s own command?’
The Hungarian stopped, no more than a pace in front of me, and stared directly into my eyes.
‘There is an old saying in my country, Master Poet. It translates into your English as “Even Christ’s coffin was not guarded for nothing”. It can be read in many ways, as all great sayings can. For example, it can mean that one should always mount a guard, for one never knows what might happen. Or it could mean that enemies can be everywhere, and you never know who might attempt to approach Our Lord’s tomb, or with what intent.’
‘I know what I saw,’ I said, although I was no longer convinced that I did.
‘Ho there, gentlemen!’ cried Carver, the old ship-master, who had just come on deck. ‘What troubles you, Master Iles, for your blade to be drawn?’
I half-turned to reply. In that moment, Horvath stepped forward, grabbed my wrist tightly with his right hand, and snatched my dagger from my grip with his left.
‘There is no trouble here,’ said the Hungarian, smiling. ‘I was teaching Master Iles a lesson in the art of combat. Is that not so, Master Iles?’
There was nothing I could do. ‘That is so, Master Horvath.’
And so we parted. I prayed that My Lord and Lady were unaware of this altercation outside their cabin door; and so they were, as I soon learned. God be praised.
The Countess of Ravensden:
‘There are many candidates for the throne of England,’ said Earl Matthew, ‘in the same sense that every village has many candidates to be its idiot. For one thing, the two sisters of King Henry the Eighth, of blessed memory, managed nearly as many marriages between them as their famous sib, and produced many more children. So now there are Tudor sprigs galore, Douglases and Stanleys and Seymours, each with their own advocates – principally the reflections in their mirrors. But most men of influence, those great men who think they know all, would judge that there are only three candidates for the throne who truly matter. First, and by far the likeliest—’
‘James, King of Scots,’ I said. ‘Son to the Queen Mary who was married first to one of our late kings. Descended from your Henry the Eighth’s elder sister.’
Oh, this was familiar ground: how I
had devoured histories of the notorious King Henry and the tragic tales of Mary, Queen of Scots, during those long days when it rained in the Val de Loire and I had nothing else to do than read!
‘Indeed,’ said the Earl, who looked at me in a way that suggested he had never expected to have such a conversation with a woman in his life. ‘So, My Lady, the strengths of King James. First, manifestly, he is a man and a king already, so he knows the business of ruling. Second, he has a healthy son and a productive wife who seems set fair to give him more boys. Believe me, dearest, after all these years of being ruled by women, many Englishmen crave nothing more than to be ruled over by a long succession of men.’
‘More fool those Englishmen, then. But the weaknesses of King James?’
‘He is a Scot, and thus an alien. Englishman fighting Scot is still within living memory – indeed, that was how my English father met my Scottish mother, when he rode into Edinburgh with the Duke of Norfolk’s army forty years ago. And James is the son of an executed traitor, your same Queen Mary. And it is said that he prefers boys.’
‘So did His Late Majesty Henri Troisième,’ I said. ‘He even liked to dress as a woman. It is no bar to kingship, My Lord.’
‘Indeed not, my dear, but that argument holds no weight with many of our bishops. A King who is both a sodomite and a Presbyterian – they cannot decide which is his worse sin. And then… And then. Let us just say, my dear, that there are other matters relating to Jamie Stuart.’
He was staring out of the window of the cabin, and I knew his mind was no longer with me. Young and foolish as I was, I imagined that these ‘other matters’ were trifling things, mere traits of personality, such as those we would all observe during the years to come: for instance, the unfortunate tendency of much of the food and drink that entered King James’s mouth to exit it immediately thereafter, by way of his slobbering lips and thence down into his remarkably malodorous beard. So I changed the subject. As I say, grandson, I was young and foolish. You have no choice but to be the former, but I pray that even now, at your tender age, you will eschew the latter.
