by J. D. Davies
‘I’ll make you an offer, Logan,’ I said. ‘The remaining part of the Constant Esperance, in return for the letters. The ship will be yours. What d’you say?’
‘A ship, My Lord Ravensden? If the letters are half of what men say they are, they’re worth an entire Armada’s worth of ships.’
‘True. But I think you have need of only one ship, Logan of Restalrig.’
‘How so?’
‘Unless the border’s moved in the night, perhaps due to some of our dead friend’s incantations, then we’re still in Scotland. I’m a lord of England, an alien in this kingdom. I can’t be guilty of treason here, Logan. But you’re still a subject of the King of Scots. And I imagine that at this very moment, that self-same King is intent on tracking down all the known friends and likely accomplices of the Earl of Gowrie. Your dealings with the Earl are common knowledge, my friend, and thus some clerk is probably scratching your name at the very top of the list of wanted men the King’s ministers are compiling, or have already compiled. Just how long do you think it’ll be before Jamie Stuart’s men come for you, Robert Logan?’
I could see the indecision in the man’s eyes.
‘Ye’re saying I should leave Scotland? Leave Fast and Restalrig behind?’
‘Fast and Restalrig are already gone, Logan. You know that, deep in your heart. They’ll be the property of an attainted traitor, and thus forfeit to the crown. But if you have the ship, you can be on your way to a new life within hours.’ I waved my sword point toward the other contents of the cave. ‘A very comfortable new life. I can’t see many of John of Gowrie’s old friends coming after you to demand their property back, can you? They’ll be burning the incriminating letters as we speak, then keeping their heads down for years. So I’d reckon you could appropriate a fair portion of the contents of this cave and not face any consequences. Should you wish so to do, of course.’
Logan stared at me, long and hard, but I knew his decision was already made.
‘Pax, lads!’ he called out to his men.
‘Hold, men!’ I cried.
The fighting ceased at once. Wounded men on both sides sank to their knees, groaning and tearing their shirts to make bandages.
‘You’ll give me the ship now? This very hour?’ said Logan.
‘She’s yours as soon as I’ve cleared her of my own possessions,’ I said. ‘Horvath! Iles! Here, if you please. You need to witness a document, gentlemen. A bill of sale.’
Nicholas Iles:
At dawn, we rode out over the drawbridge of Fast Castle, on horses supplied by Logan of Restalrig. When we reached the summit of the cliff, My Lord reined in. Horvath and I, the only men accompanying him, did likewise, and followed his gaze out to sea, to the longboat putting out toward the anchored Constant Esperance. If the Earl felt any regret at parting with the ship in which he had fought the Spanish Armada, he did not show it. Instead, he seemed to be in a markedly cheerful temper.
‘Poor Logan,’ he said. ‘How do you think my crew will receive him?’
I thought back, to all the discontent and incipient mutiny aboard the ship during our voyages upon the coast of Scotland. I thought of the bitterness upon the lower deck when the longboat returned from the cave, and word spread among the men that the only treasure the Earl had brought aboard, out of all the riches piled up in Logan’s store, was a small bundle of old letters.
‘They will be discontented,’ I said. ‘They’ve been deprived of the prize money they were promised—’ he glared at me – ‘that they believed they were promised, and now they find that an unknown Scotsman owns the ship outright.’
I did not add that they were my thoughts, too. Matthew Quinton had betrayed his men, and he had betrayed me.
‘Yes, I rather think that’s how they’ll think,’ said the Earl, merrily, and seemingly oblivious to my discontent. ‘In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Master Logan, there, doesn’t face an out-and-out mutiny as soon as he tries to order the ship to sea. I wouldn’t be shocked to learn, say, that Avent and the men take control of the ship at the first opportunity, put Logan ashore, seize his treasure, and sail her to a safe port in England. I wouldn’t be surprised at all.’
With that, he turned and began to ride south, toward the English border. I exchanged a glance with Horvath, whose face was as inscrutable as ever; but his slight nod indicated that we had the same thought. The Earl’s message to Avent, despatched from Fast Castle and ordering both that his sea-chest be sent ashore and to expect the imminent arrival of a new commander, evidently contained an additional set of instructions, of which Robert Logan of Restalrig knew nothing at all.
The Earl of Ravensden:
I took them south, toward the English border, by way of the back roads further away from the sea; roads I knew well from my days in hot pursuit of Reivers who stole cattle from Alnburgh lands. My reasoning was that, by now, the Scots were bound to have soldiers on the main road and at the border – partly to prevent Gowrie’s younger brothers from fleeing to England, partly to demonstrate to the people that the shocking event at Perth had been an aberration, that King James still remained in full control of his kingdom.
We dismounted at a ruined hovel in a forest glade, a mile or so north of where I knew the border to be, with another two miles from there to Berwick, the first town in England. Once there, we would be safe.
After I had explained all this, Horvath said ‘I should scout ahead, My Lord, to see if any Scottish troops lie in our way.’
‘No need for that, Horvath. We can move forward together, and if there’s any sight of patrols, we can wait under cover until nightfall, then ride hard for Berwick. Besides, I doubt if Scottish border guards would even deign to stop us. They’re not looking for us, and they know damn well that arresting an English lord within sight of Berwick would bring down the wrath of Queen Elizabeth in the blink of an eye.’
‘Forgive me, My Lord, but what if Logan has escaped from the ship, and raised the alarm?’
‘Robert Logan, of all men, raising an alarm over this? Robert Logan escaping from a ship at sea? One manned by a hundred prime English rogues? Come, man!’
‘But surely the Scots will be hunting the captain of the man-of-war seen off the Tay at the time Lord Gowrie was killed? And surely you should not endanger that which you have taken from Fast Castle? I am adept at scouting, My Lord – it was my task for years on end during the war in the east. Let me ride ahead.’
I thought upon all of this. I thought upon it very hard.
‘Very well, Horvath,’ I said, ‘ride ahead, and scout out the border. Take no more than an hour, though. I want to sit down with a plate of good English stew and a tankard of ale in Berwick before nightfall.’
Nicholas Iles:
We waited. My Lord and I spoke of many things, and I undertook some tasks. Still we waited. Finally, the tolling of a distant church bell told us that five hours had elapsed since Horvath rode for the border.
‘Well, poet,’ said Matthew Quinton, ‘it seems we ride on alone.’
‘But what if there truly are Scottish patrols on the border, My Lord, and Horvath has been taken or killed?’
He looked at me seriously, and shrugged.
‘Then we shall avoid those patrols, my boy.’
In the event, we spotted only one group of armed horsemen under the saltire banner, well off to the west and riding away from us. Horvath’s whereabouts remained a mystery. But now, there ahead of us was Berwick upon Tweed, a colossal fortress town ringed by vast new ramparts, bristling with cannon, from which flew the banners of Saint George.
‘Christ alone knows how much the Queen has expended on those walls,’ said the Earl. ‘No doubt that’s where she spent all the money she should have paid to those of us who fought the Armada, and in all her other campaigns for these fifteen years last past.’
‘Then why lavish so much money on it, My Lord, if England and Scotland are now meant to be friends, and the King of Scots—’
I held my pe
ace in time; or not quite in time enough.
‘The King of Scots set fair to be the King of England, and in short order, too? Well, now, that’s a good question, young Iles, and here’s the answer. If you seek proof that Her Majesty and her ministers don’t trust King James one jot, and think he’s mad enough to bring a great army over the border at any moment, then there it is, directly ahead of you. And myself, I’d call the great ramparts of Berwick a fucking convincing proof.’
We rode boldly toward the gate that faced Scotland. At the northern end of the bridge over the dry moat, a party of musketeers and a sergeant were interrogating each traveller seeking admittance: Scots hawkers, carters and farmers galore, seeking markets among the better-heeled English.
When it came to our turn, My Lord rode forward boldly.
‘I am Ravensden,’ he said. ‘The Earl.’
The sergeant looked him up and down. My Lord’s face was well known, albeit from bad woodcuts, but he also wore silk jerkin and hose, clothing reserved by the sumptuary laws for men of his rank, and the sword-hilt at his side was evidently that of a warrior and a man of quality. The sergeant despatched a musketeer across the bridge, into the gatehouse, and then brought up his sword in salute. The remaining musketeers snapped to attention.
‘Pass, My Lord of Ravensden,’ he said.
I breathed a sigh of relief –
But ahead of us, in the gatehouse passage, a file of troops was forming to block the way. Stepping out ahead of it was an officer – a captain, by the looks of him – with his sword drawn. He raised his free hand to halt us.
‘Matthew Quinton, Earl of Ravensden,’ said the captain in a loud and confident voice, ‘in the name of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, I arrest you upon suspicion of conspiracy.’
‘Conspiracy?’ cried My Lord. ‘Conspiracy to do what? Conspiracy against whom? Conspiracy in itself has never been a charge in English law, sirrah.’
‘Suspicion of conspiracy,’ the captain repeated, albeit with rather less uncertainty, ‘upon charges that have been laid against you.’
‘Charges? Laid by whom?’
A man stepped out of the guardroom door.
‘By me, My Lord,’ said Laszlo Horvath.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Nicholas Iles:
‘Why?’ I demanded. ‘Why have you done this, Horvath?’
We stood in a tower chamber within the citadel of Berwick. My Lord had been taken to a room across the courtyard; comfortable, well furnished, but still all too obviously a cell. His sword had been taken from him, as were the papers he took from the sea-cave beneath Fast Castle.
The Hungarian looked at me with contempt.
‘I have reason enough,’ he said, and there was a coldness about him that made me fear for my very life. ‘Ample reason enough. And you, Iles. You have a choice to make. You can either stand by Matthew Quinton, and suffer the same fate, or you can throw in your lot with me. I have powerful friends, poet. Above all, I have a very powerful master.’
‘Why should I join with you against My Lord? And who is this mysterious ‘master’ of yours, Horvath? What could he do for me?’
He smiled. ‘You have witnessed things, Iles. You were in the cave at Fast Castle. You saw and heard what Quinton did and said there, and when the ship was off the Tay. You were his second in his duel with the Earl of Essex. And you know that I was outside his cabin door, when the Merhonour was in France. You can testify that I would have heard what was said within.’
‘Then you truly were spying on them,’ I said.
‘I really convinced you otherwise? You are meant to be the actor, not I.’
‘So you want me to lie, in order to condemn My Lord.’
‘Not at all. I want you to tell the truth – simply the truth of what you saw and heard. No more than that.’
‘To bring what charge against him? Not this “conspiracy” that he has been arrested for. That’s meaningless under the law. But…’ The truth rose up in front of me, like some dreadful beast of legend, and just as terrifying. ‘Treason. You need two witnesses to bring a charge of High Treason.’
‘An oddity of your English law,’ said Horvath, ‘and an inconvenience that has weighed on my mind.’
‘My Lord is no traitor, Horvath!’ I said angrily. ‘No man has been braver in the Queen’s service! No man more loyal!’
‘Really? Others think differently. My master, for example. He thinks very differently. And he is a man who could do much for you, Iles.’
‘You think you can bribe me into denouncing My Lord? Into condemning him to a traitor’s death? You think me so cheap, so base?’
‘Come, Iles, don’t pretend you still think Quinton is a perfect hero. I have seen your face, and heard your words. I have read your scribblings—’
‘My diurnal? You’ve read my diurnal?’
‘An easy matter, when you were on deck and your sea-chest was unattended. You really should get a lock for it that is less easy to pick, my friend.’
‘I’m not your friend, Horvath, damn you!’
‘No. But you’re no longer a friend of the Earl of Ravensden, either, as is very clear from your writing. A man of straw, you called him? And when did he last pay you, Iles? What has he ever done to obtain a pardon for you? My master could do all of that for you with a mere stroke of a pen. An unconditional pardon. You would be free to return to the playhouses, and to find rather more generous patrons than Matthew Quinton, too. And my master rewards good service to him. Amply rewards it. All you have to do is dictate and sign a deposition, when the time comes.’
My head swam at the enormity of it all.
‘You ask too much—’
‘Oh, I do not demand an immediate decision. I know you will find this difficult, Iles, but believe me, the Earl of Ravensden is finished. As soon as an escort can be assembled, we ride for London, to lodge him in the Tower.’
‘I – I would ride for London now—’
‘No, friend Iles, that will not be possible. You will ride with me, and with the prisoner. So much more companionable if we all ride together.’
And then I knew: I might not be locked into a cell, but I was just as much a prisoner as My Lord.
The Dowager Countess:
The news was relayed to me by Widow Jones, who seemed to take a perverse delight in it. At first, I refused to believe her. My husband a traitor, being brought south from Berwick to meet his fate? It was impossible. I raged. I wept. I raged again, and threw wine glasses. Then I set about the throwing of bottles. Finally, I determined upon action. I had to go to court, to solicit all the great ministers of the kingdom, to seek audience of the Queen itself –
But it proved impossible. The court was closed to me, the ministers ignored me, and my pleas for an audience fell on deaf ears. In the streets, too, I sensed the change. Formerly, I had been the wife of an Earl of England, a hero of the realm, and was treated with due deference, despite my faith and my nationality. Now, men turned their backs, women made lewd gestures, and market stalls mysteriously closed as I approached. I saw the murmuring, heard some of the whispers about Jesuits and popery and false un-English superstitions, but I carried on, determined to rise above the ignorance and hysteria all around me.
I was walking in the Strand near Ravensden House, accompanied by my maid Alice and perusing the wares of the street hawkers, when a common whore spat on the ground in front of me.
‘Papist French bitch,’ she hissed. ‘Traitor’s strumpet.’
The jostling mob separated me from Alice, who screamed. I rushed into the nearest church for sanctuary, jeers and catcalls ringing in my ears, tears flooding my eyes. Of course, the church was heret– Protestant, but as I wiped away my tears and murmured the proscribed Ave Maria under my breath, I looked about and realised that I was in a strange edifice, most unlike the common run of English churches. True, it possessed the tedious whitewashed walls that disfigured all of them, obliterating the colourful paintings of Dooms, of saintly majesty and the true
doctrines of purgatory and transubstantiation. But this particular church was round, and more like some of the basilicas in my native country. What was more, tomb effigies of ancient knights in armour were littered all around. Then I realised my husband had once spoken of this place, and promised to show it to me some day. This could only be the Temple Church, once home to the crusading Knights Templar.
So, then.
I settled myself upon a stone bench set against the wall, breathed deeply, and took stock. French and Papist: that I could not deny. Bitch: indeed, if the mood took me. Strumpet: possibly. But a traitor’s strumpet? That I most certainly was not.
I was the Countess of Ravensden, and I would crusade with all my strength for my knight in armour.
The Earl of Ravensden:
We skirted the City and approached London from the east. This, the captain of the guard explained, was to avoid the prospect of being pelted with rotten fruit, dung, and other such delicacies hurled by the mob, who commonly treated suspected traitors thus. I knew this; on several similar occasions in the past, I had been one of those throwing the dung. The captain was a young fellow, barely older than Iles, and an apologetic one. He had evidently grown up with the stories of Drake, Ravensden and the rest, and was mortified to find himself leading one of that doughty band into captivity. He longed for action, and was evidently delighted with the news he imparted to me of the failure of the peace talks at Boulogne. So the endless war with Spain would continue: a fair prospect for both a young captain and an old one, if only the one could be freed from the tedium of garrison duty and the other from the prospect of the scaffold. Encouraged by such exchanges, I dared to suggest to him that his sympathy towards me might extend to permitting us to escape: accidentally, of course, or so it would be reported to the authorities. But although he evidently detested Horvath, his sense of duty would not permit such a thing. I silently cursed my luck in finding myself under the charge of one of the few honourable soldiers left in England.
