The Rage of Fortune

by J. D. Davies

  And then there was Horvath, or whatever his name really was. A man whom I had taken into my entire confidence, only for him to betray me so utterly. I detested being any man’s dupe, but especially so when the man had no conceivable grievance against me. He said almost nothing to me during the entire journey, speaking only to Iles. The poet, in turn, was distant toward me throughout: but then, it was only fitting that the second prosecution witness in a case of High Treason should be distant towards the man he would be accusing. So I had ample time to think as we rode south, and by the time we reached London, I believed I knew the gist of matters.

  Horvath alone could not have been responsible for my arrest, that much was clear. The word of an alien as justification for arresting an English nobleman? The notion was inconceivable. No, there was one man, and one alone, who had both the power and the cause to act against me in this way. The man who was always bound to turn on me if the scheme that he, the Earl of Gowrie and I discussed in the palace of Theobalds, those months ago, should miscarry, as it had done in such a tragic fashion. Gowrie was dead, and could not tell what he knew; but Ravensden lived, and at all costs, Robert Cecil had to ensure that Ravensden’s mouth remained closed.

  It was dusk as we rode into the Tower by way of the Lion, Middle and Byward towers. The horses’ hooves echoed on the cobbles as we passed through those gloomy walls, into the precincts where so many English traitors had ended their days. I was determined that I would not be one of them; and I still had one advantage, one card to play, that none of the other prisoners of the Tower possessed.

  Or at least, I prayed that I did.

  Laszlo Horvath”

  I attend my master within the Palace of Whitehall.

  ‘You are sure that these are all of them?’ he says. ‘All the papers that the Earl of Ravensden took from Fast Castle?’

  ‘As certain as I can be, Master Secretary.’

  Robert Cecil stares at me intently. Then he says, ‘So be it. You have done well, Horvath.’

  ‘I would prefer to be called by my true name, Master Secretary—’

  ‘All in good time. For now, I think, it is best if you remain plain Laszlo Horvath, a Hungarian, a stranger in this realm.’

  ‘But sir, will I not need to appear under my own name at the treason trial?’

  ‘Indeed you will. But there is no prospect of such a trial in the immediate future.’

  ‘But – Master Secretary, I have a second witness, and surely our testimony to what happened in Scotland—’

  ‘No English court will convict a man, least of all such a very famous man as Lord Ravensden, on the basis of what happens in Scotland. It is a foreign land, Master Horvath, so his actions there cannot be construed as treason in England.’

  No, Master Secretary, I think, especially as you ordered him to go there.

  ‘Then when will he be charged? When will I receive the reward you promised me?’

  ‘Do not grow impatient, my friend – surely you have already waited long enough, so that another year or two will matter? Much may happen in England in a year or two.’ In other words, the Queen might die. The one great unspoken hope and fear of every Englishman. ‘In the meantime, Lord Ravensden has offended the Queen sufficiently for her to keep him in the Tower indefinitely, without charge – although Her Majesty being a woman, she still seems more animated by his marriage without permission to a slip of a French papist than by any real crimes he might have committed. And I need to be sure that these papers are the originals, and all of them at that, before we can proceed further. I need to know that they really do contain what they are said to contain. To be certain of this, I must have the papers studied by one who saw the original letters, and that person cannot be in England before the spring. So be content, good Horvath. Live well in London this winter, upon the generous bounty I have paid you. Yes, I know you seek a greater prize, and God willing, that will come your way soon enough. But for now, be content. Call on Master Trevor, if you wish – he seems most discontented that you have deserted him for my service. And, of course, ensure that the poet Iles is closely watched. We do not want our second witness to slip away from us, do we?’

  ‘No, Master Cecil,’ I say.

  Nicholas Iles will not slip away. He is entirely mine now, seemingly at one with me in a determination to bring down Matthew Quinton. And if he is not, then I will end his life as quickly and simply as I would snap a twig upon a woodland path.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  1601

  The Dowager Countess:

  That autumn and winter, after I recovered from the initial shock of my husband’s arrest and imprisonment in the Tower, I thought often upon the words that my sister spoke to me at Chambord, when we both looked upon the distant form of Matthew Quinton, eighth Earl of Ravensden.

  ‘…his uncle was a notorious sorcerer, who placed a curse on his brother’s line and the entire House of Ravensden before making a pact with the Devil and disappearing into thin air.’

  I thought of all of the misfortunes that had befallen my husband – the Invisible Armada, Spinola’s galleys, the Gowrie House affair, his arrest following betrayal by Laszlo Horvath, our failure to have a son who would be the heir to Ravensden. Surely such a litany of disasters could only be the consequence of a terrible curse? And surely that curse could only have come from Henry Quinton, sixth Earl of Ravensden? Thus I reassured myself, for it was better to blame a strange, long-dead necromancer than to contemplate the only reasonable alternative: namely, that all the disasters which had befallen my husband had occurred since he married me. In other words, that I was the cause.

  For I also recalled the awful words of the Abbé Mousnier, our family’s chaplain and my childhood tutor, when I told him that I was to marry this English Milord.

  ‘Marriage to a heretic damns you for all eternity, Lady. It damns you, and your seed – you, a scion of this noble house, which has been so stalwart for Holy Church, time out of mind! Yes, you will be doubly damned, for how will you celebrate the Mass in a land where it is proscribed? As for your so-called husband – he is already bound for Hell, as all Protestants are. But you are condemning him to spend all eternity in a very special part of Hell, where those who persuade good Catholics into apostasy suffer even more terribly than all the other benighted souls who burn in the fires below. I have failed, in that I did not teach you well enough to keep you from such temptation. Your carnal lust has damned you, Lady Louise-Marie. It has cursed you. Mark my words, girl. You are damned and cursed.’

  Many times I thought upon those words, and shivered. I had attended Mass so very few times since coming to England: always in secret, in the private chapels of the ambassadors of the likes of Savoy or Florence. I had confessed but once in two years, to an English Jesuit who was hanged, drawn and quartered barely a month later. Was the Abbé Mousnier right after all, and I was already damned? And had I damned my husband too, both in this world and the next, by acquiescing in his perverse decision to take me for his wife?

  Always, I put such thoughts to one side. The salvation of my immortal soul would have to await another day, for there were more pressing matters to attend to. Then I would return to the writing desk below one of the few windows fitted with glass in Ravensden House, looking out over the Strand, lift the quill from the ink, and apply it to paper.

  For it was a winter of writing letters.

  I wrote regularly to the Queen, and as often to Secretary Cecil. I wrote at least once to each of the great men of the kingdom –Dorset the Lord Treasurer, Egerton the Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, Whitgift the Archbishop of Canterbury, all of them. I wrote twice to the King of Scots, requesting his intercession; twice to the King of France, with the same intent. But to no avail. I did not receive even one reply.

  Most of all, I wrote daily, sometimes twice daily, to my husband. He received them, for he replied; once a week if I was fortunate, every two or three weeks if I was not. He was as comfortable as a man in his position could be, he said. He ha
d a warming fire and acceptable wine. But I knew these were lies, designed entirely to reassure me. For he was in the Tower of London, a fortress as dreadful and feared as the Bastille. I imagined him in rags, chained to a wall in a dank cell, wasting away on thin gruel and foul water.

  No, grandson, I know that now, but I did not know it then. I know now that My Lord was telling the truth, or even something less than the truth, and was actually living rather more comfortably than I was in the permanently damp and cold environs of Ravensden House, surrounded by mouldy tapestries and suspiciously cracked walls. So comfortably, in fact – what with the excellent victuals and the lack of exercise – that the noble Earl was actually growing fatter by the day.

  But, imagining the worst, I redoubled my efforts to bribe the Constable of the fortress, for I had heard that it was often possible for wives to gain access to their husbands in the Tower if they placed enough gold in the right hands. Nothing availed. It was as though the Queen herself had given specific orders that the Countess of Ravensden should be treated with particular harshness; as though Gloriana herself were somehow a part of the curse.

  And then the world changed.

  It changed one February day, when I heard a commotion in the Strand, beyond the front door of Ravensden House.

  ‘Treason, My Lady!’ cried Widow Jones, clearly terrified beyond measure. ‘Rebellion!’

  She made to run for the back of the house, but I gripped her by the shoulders.

  ‘Whose rebellion?’

  ‘Lord Essex! He and his men marched into the City, to raise it against the hunchback! But the Lord Mayor closed the gates against them, and they’ve returned to Essex House, to hold it against all comers!’

  I ran to the uppermost floor of the house and flung open the window of the garret that overlooked the Strand. From there, I could see Essex House, not too far away on the other side of the road, near the Temple Church: a veritable palace that I envied greatly. And I could see troops advancing toward it from both directions, from Ludgate and the Fleet River and thence through Temple Bar to the east, from Whitehall by way of Charing Cross to the west. There was a strange sound, a deep growl like thunder. Then I saw them: two cannon, presumably from the Tower, were being hauled across the cobbles, and were turned noisily into position directly opposite the gates of the Devereux palace.

  I looked back toward Essex House. I could see directly into its courtyard, and saw barely a few dozen men, running hither and thither. They were a pathetic force to set against the great army now assembling in the Strand. So the mighty Earl of Essex, erstwhile favourite of the Queen, was doomed: that much was clear. But if he was doomed, what fate would befall my husband?

  I prayed for a miracle. I prayed for a sign. I was on my knees, imploring the Virgin with every breath in my body.

  And then, when I opened my eyes, I had my miracle, and saw my sign.

  He was there in the Strand, riding purposefully through the Temple Bar, mounted on a huge black stallion. He wore full armour but no helmet, so his great white beard spilled down onto his breastplate. The soldiers cheered as he rode past them. The few onlookers brave enough to remain on the street waved. But unlike them, I knew this man. My husband and I had dined with him, just a few months before. He was My Lord’s friend.

  I ran downstairs and unbolted the door, despite Widow Jones’ efforts to stop me.

  ‘My Lady! Please! It’s madness to go out there – they’re going to bombard Essex House—’

  But I was through, and out, running past the soldiers advancing from Charing Cross, running toward the armoured man on the great black horse.

  ‘My Lord!’ I called. ‘My Lord!’

  He looked down on me from his great height.

  ‘My Lady Ravensden,’ he said. ‘Sweet mercy, My Lady, go indoors, in the name of Heaven! Essex and his rebels might open fire at any moment!’

  ‘My Lord, I come to offer you Ravensden House as a headquarters! It has a view into Essex House!’

  He stroked his beard.

  ‘A view, you say? That would be useful. Aye, very useful indeed. My thanks, then, My Lady. I accept your generous offer, in the name of the Queen!’

  It was a joy to behold the shock on the face of Widow Jones as she opened the door of Ravensden House to admit Charles, Lord Howard of Effingham, Earl of Nottingham, Lord High Admiral of England, the conqueror of the Spanish Armada.

  Nicholas Iles:

  ‘Essex or Cecil?’ demanded the drunk with the knife.

  Behind him, a table was overset, scattering pewter tankards onto the rush-strewn floor. An Essex men stabbed a Cecil man in the neck before two Cecil men fell on him with their daggers.

  ‘Essex or Cecil?’ repeated the drunk.

  I, who was very nearly as drunk as he was, squinted at him uncertainly.

  ‘Neither,’ I said. ‘I am for My Lord of Ravensden.’

  ‘Ravensden?’ It was obviously not the answer the drunk was expecting. ‘Ravensden? Fucking dead man walking. You’re either for Essex, or you’re for Cecil. And this here tavern, this tavern is for My Lord the Earl.’

  Of course it was. After all, the tavern was adjacent to the Globe Theatre. I was drinking there only the previous afternoon, when it was full of Essex’s men, both before and after they visited the theatre to view the special performance they had paid for.

  A performance of Shakespeare’s Richard the Second.

  A play about a vigorous young nobleman who rebels and overthrows a weak, erratic monarch before taking the throne himself. As I thought to myself at the time: no contemporary resonance at all, then.

  ‘Well then, I said, if it’s one or the other—’

  I retched, as though fear and drink had turned my stomach and made me want to vomit. As I doubled up, I reached down to my ankle, snatched out the small dagger I kept concealed there, and thrust it upward, directly into the man’s guts and then up again, toward the heart. He looked at me in astonishment as he died, having failed to learn the two lessons that every man who drinks in the stews of Southwark should know: first, never trust an actor; and second, never drop your guard if you think someone’s about to spew all over you.

  I withdrew my blade. As I did so, I looked over to the far corner of the room. A man sat there, his hands cradling a pot of ale. He was a small, greasy fellow with an eyepatch and no teeth; too quiet and too nondescript to attract the attention of those warring for Essex and Cecil.

  I nodded to him, and he nodded to me in return.

  That was the most dialogue I ever had with any of them: Horvath’s spies, the men appointed to watch me at all times. The men who ensured I did not try to run before I could appear as the second witness in My Lord’s trial for High Treason, whenever that might take place. The men who ensured I made no contact whatsoever with the Earl, incarcerated in the Tower, or with his lady at the house in the Strand.

  The Dowager Countess:

  It was a strange experience, standing in the garret room of Ravensden House alongside the victor over the Invincible Armada and his companion, the second Lord Burghley, brother to Secretary Cecil. They and a half dozen of their officers watched Essex House intently for hours, alert for any sign of resistance, prepared to give order to the two cannon lined up directly opposite the entrance of the great palace, at point blank rage to the gates. Night fell shortly after their arrival, but only a few candles lit the windows of the Earl’s residence.

  ‘They’ll be arguing the toss,’ said Nottingham, a little before nine. ‘Come out fighting and die with honour, or surrender and throw themselves on the Queen’s mercy. They have no other courses available to them.’

  ‘There is no way of escape?’ I asked.

  ‘Their only chance would be the river,’ said Burghley, ‘and we have boats full of armed men thronging it.’

  ‘Then might they not take their own lives?’

  ‘Good God!’ cried Burghley, ‘With respect, My Lady, this is England. Noblemen of England do not do such things.’
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br />   This Cecil was taller and straighter than his brother, as most men were, sporting elaborately combed red hair and a beard that was tinged with large amounts of grey, the latter sitting atop an unexpectedly greasy ruff. I once asked my husband why the hunchbacked younger son, rather than this, the eldest, had succeeded their father as chief minister of England.

  ‘Old Burghley had no illusions about his sons,’ said the Earl. ‘He knew only Rob had inherited his political skills. He said of the eldest, who’s now Lord Burghley, that he wasn’t fit to govern a tennis court. A tennis court!’

  My husband always laughed loudly at his own jokes, but he seemed to have a particular liking for that one.

  ‘Wait,’ said the man deemed incapable of gathering lost balls, ‘there is activity at the gate! Look, My Lord Admiral!’

  It was a dark, cold February night, but there was more than enough light from the flaming torches of the soldiers and the braziers on the street to see that the gate of Essex House was opening.

  ‘And behold, a white flag!’ said Nottingham. ‘Essex has seen sense. Thanks be to God. I did not fancy spilling the blood of Englishmen this day.’ He turned to me. ‘My Lady, if you will forgive us, we must go down to accept the surrender of the Earl. We owe you our deep gratitude for permitting us to use your house in this way.’

  I bowed my head in acknowledgement of the compliment.

  ‘A Quinton, even if one only by marriage, is always ready to assist the Queen’s cause in any way, My Lord Nottingham. But I trust you will not consider me presumptuous if I make a request of both you and the noble Lord Burghley, here. Perhaps we may call it a way of demonstrating your gratitude, My Lords?’

  The Earl of Ravensden:

  The good thing about prison is that it gives a man ample time to read. When they brought My Lord of Essex into the Tower, I was reading Digges’ Errors in the Art of Navigation. When they took him away to stand trial for High Treason, I was re-reading Foxe’s Book of Martyrs for the third time. When they cut off his head, just out of sight of my window, I was reading my old friend Philip Sidney’s Apology for Poetry. Indeed, the sound of the axe striking the block momentarily distracted me from my page. I put down my book for a moment, and offered up a prayer. Not for the soul of Robin Devereux, a man who deserved to burn in the flaming seas of Hell alongside Francis Drake, whose eternally irritating shade would probably spend entire millennia working out how to circumnavigate them; no, I prayed for the soul of Matthew Quinton, whose neck might well be the next to nestle into that groove upon the block.