Shadow of the Axe (The Queen's Intelligencer Book 1)

by Peter Tonkin

  Grey opened his mouth to ask for a further explanation when the door opened and Robert Poley stepped into the private room. Grey looked at the man. He had heard whispers about Poley and the uses he had been put to in the relentless defence of the Realm. Even nowadays he could be found in the Clink Prison as readily as Constantinople or King James’ Scottish court. Depending on whether he was acting as agent provocateur or courier, informer or intelligencer. But this was the first time he had knowingly seen him, and it seemed to the young baron an ideal time to take the measure of the man about whom he knew at once so much and so little.

  *

  Poley was 44 years old. He had been working in the English intelligence service since his days as a lowly sizar at Clare College, Cambridge, the better part of thirty years ago. He was that strange but priceless chameleon, a Catholic and a patriot willing to put his sovereign above his soul. An unrivalled asset to the first Lord Burghley and to Sir Francis Walsingham; and, one generation later, to the men who replaced them: Cecil and Sir Thomas Walsingham. He was of middle height, though also of erect carriage. His build was slight but looked strong enough, perhaps athletic. His eyes and his hands were large. His hair and beard were russet. He might have been accounted handsome. Other than that there was little striking or memorable about him. Which qualities seemed to Grey to be perfect in an intelligencer.

  Poley paused. The door whispered shut behind him. He glanced from one man to the other. His gaze was piercing. Intelligent, thought Grey. ‘He’s on his way?’ he asked, his voice as soft as Cecil’s.

  ‘He will be here within the half-hour,’ confirmed Cecil.

  ‘So soon?’ asked Poley.

  ‘Indeed.’ Cecil nodded.

  ‘Is he alone?’ wondered Poley, cutting straight to the heart of the matter, thought Grey – just as Cecil had.

  ‘He has some half a dozen riding with him,’ shrugged Cecil. ‘On hired horses, apparently.’

  ‘Anyone of account?’ Poley’s steady gaze rested on Grey.

  ‘Swordsmen and swashbucklers for the most part,’ Grey answered. ‘They all rode well armed. His secretary Cuffe is there.’

  ‘And his steward Gelly Meyrick I would guess.’ Poley nodded. ‘A swashbuckler born and bred.’

  ‘Apart from them, Thomas Gerard and the new man Christopher St Lawrence,’ said Grey. ‘That’s all I recognised.’

  ‘Not Southampton, then,’ said Poley. ‘If he’s not on the way here with Essex, he’ll be in London with whoever else Essex brought across from Ireland. Cavalry I would hazard as Southampton is General of Horse. Such horses as they have winded and rendered useless after their ride to the city from the west coast. Hence the hired horses. It’s certain that he would never have come with only half a dozen to watch his back and I would suppose we may expect the others to follow soon enough, as soon as their horses are rested.’ He paused. His gaze grew distant as he became lost thought. ‘But not his Irish army. Not yet, at least. An army is a slow and unwieldy thing. And the Earl is in a hurry, you say?’ He paused as Grey nodded his confirmation. Then he said, quietly, as though the words were treasonous, ‘My Lord of Essex could be Bolingbroke reborn as it said in the book A Conference about the Succession that was dedicated to him. And in Haywood’s Life of King Henry IV, also dedicated to him. But do we really believe he wishes to play Bolingbroke’s part in truth and take the throne for himself as Bolingbroke took Richard II’s? All because a book examining the matter of the succession was dedicated to him – likely without his knowledge – and another purporting to tell a true history of the same events?’

  ‘The Conference was dedicated to him and banned at once,’ said Grey. ‘As is all conversation about the succession.’

  ‘It was not banned swiftly enough even so,’ said Cecil. ‘And the succession is a matter that simply cannot be ignored, especially if My Lord of Essex has decided to take an active part in the debate.’

  Poley nodded once and continued, ‘And we can ask Master Heywood yet again what he meant by his Henry IV, for he is still in the Tower. But more than Bolingbroke, the Earl is seen in some quarters even as Her Majesty’s grandfather the Earl of Richmond coming out of Wales to snatch her throne as though she were Richard III as well as Richard II.’ He paused and Grey marvelled at the man’s adroitness. All the world called Richard III ‘Crouchback’. But not Poley; especially not when talking to Robert Cecil, who had a crouchback of his own. But the intelligencer continued smoothly, ‘He may have half a dozen with him now and half a hundred waiting in London, but he has an army across the water and he has paid for it out of his own purse and knighted everyone he plans to count upon. He must mean to push the matter forward, albeit slowly if he plans to bring the whole force home behind him. But still, we must prepare as though he designs to use it.’

  ‘But what does he mean in the meantime? That’s the question,’ whispered Cecil. ‘What does he mean this morning?’

  ‘To talk with Her Majesty,’ said Grey.

  ‘He will have to come upon her unannounced, then,’ said Poley. ‘Given any warning of his arrival or intentions, Her Majesty will prevent him. She will wall herself around with her soldiers led by Sir Walter Raleigh as Captain of the Guard, then deploy the entire Council against him – as many as are in attendance here. He is returning from abject failure after all, and without royal permission. Indeed, in direct contravention of Her Majesty’s most specific orders.’

  ‘And yet…’ said Cecil. ‘And yet…’

  Poley glanced at Grey, then back at Cecil. ‘And yet, each time he has thrown himself upon her mercy, Her Majesty has forgiven him everything,’ he observed. ‘He will be let through Raleigh’s guards. The wisdom of the Council will stand as nothing against him. When all is said and done, he is like the lost son from Our Lord’s parable returning to his rejoicing father and Her Majesty will kill the fatted calf for him. Again.’

  ‘Unless we can assist Her Majesty in understanding how dangerous Essex might actually be. Unless he is reined in and confined,’ said Cecil.

  ‘But how will you do such a thing?’ demanded Grey. ‘Surely Her Majesty has been warned against him by every voice on the Council time and time again.’

  Cecil did not answer directly. Instead he looked at Poley.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Poley, speaking slowly as his thoughts formed into a plan; an image, perhaps, of what Cecil already had in mind. ‘Perhaps we should let the Earl take her that warning. Himself. In person. Unannounced.’ He paused for a heartbeat and then continued. ‘So we had better clear the way for him. From the Court Gate Post to the private bed-chamber door.’ He paused again. Lowered his voice. ‘Allow him such swift and untrammelled access as could only be explained if he had in fact brought his army home. As if his soldiers already surrounded Nonsuch and held the palace itself. As if, no matter what he says, he has really solved the matter of the succession by preparing to take the throne for himself; and all he truly wishes to discuss with the Queen is whether she abdicates or dies.’

  *

  Robert Devereux, 2nd Earl of Essex, swung himself a little stiffly out of the saddle and stepped down into the courtyard beside the Court Gate Post. It was almost 10 o’clock. The rain was easing. Which was a reflection of his most recent experiences, he thought. When he was out there riding through it, the weather was foul. The instant he arrived at his destination with the promise of warmth and shelter, it improved, as though it mocked him. He glanced up and caught the eye of his secretary Henry Cuffe who seemed to see into his very thoughts.

  ‘It’s as though even the gods of the weather are sporting with us,’ said Cuff. ‘Notus the storm-bringer of Greek legend at least. Unless there is some Irish weather-god who has taken a strong dislike to us and managed to follow us out of the bogs.’

  Cuffe began to dismount, as did the others. Essex paused for a moment, thinking: There’s more than weather gods that stand against us. And in more places than here in Surrey. ‘Find warmth,’ he ordered. ‘Get clean and dry. Dem
and food and drink. I will come to you after I have talked with the Queen.’ He turned, settling the hilt of his rapier comfortably against his hip, strode past the stable lads and ran into the palace. His heart was beating unusually fast, but he hardly noticed. As soon as he moved, he became more preoccupied, for a moment at least, with the stiffness in his shoulders and a cramp in his thighs. God’s blood, he thought, I am yet a month and some days away from my thirty-fifth birthday and yet I seem to have the body of an old man! It is this cursed dampness that has crept into me! Unless, as Henry Cuffe suggests, the foul Irish weather has followed me here.

  Absolutely unaware of his surroundings other than the familiarity of the passages he was following, too preoccupied to register that they were unusually quiet and empty, he worked his arms and shoulders as though wrestling an invisible opponent. As he did so, his thoughts returned to the matter that had occupied them to the exclusion of almost everything else for the last week and more. The cramp in his thighs eased and his impatient pace accelerated. He began to mentally rehearse the conversation he was just about to have with the Queen.

  She would be standing – she liked to stand; it made her seem taller than she really was. She would be wearing the shoes with the thick soles and high heels that made her stand taller still and the bright curls of her hair would be piled high. She would be resplendent in her court dress, threaded with gold and studded with pearls. The high lace ruff would frame those vivid red-gold tresses. Her face would be set in that beautiful white mask; lips red, cheeks perhaps a little rouged, eyes wide and dark. Fathomless. Only rarely betraying what she was really thinking. He would throw himself down on his knees in front of her, pressing kisses to the backs of her heavily beringed hands. He would tell her what he had come to tell her. And she would forgive him as always. And all would be well.

  As he mentally rehearsed the words he planned to use, so his lips began to move and he started to speak aloud. ‘Yes, you sent me to Ireland with the greatest army you have ever assembled,’ he mumbled. ‘But even its size was a weakness, trapping me to the south behind the Pale in Dublin. All in a massive camp raised on fields knee-deep in mud where the rain never eased. No sooner did we arrive than my men started falling sick. It was as if the Plague itself was visiting us. The soldiers started rotting before my very eyes, consumed with foul rheums, agues, the bloody flux. I had no alternative but to leave the camp myself and take up residence in Dublin Castle in the very rooms where my father the first Earl died, also fighting to quieten the place, poisoned at dinner by his enemies. Enemies perhaps in Ireland. But also, perhaps, nearer home. He had jealous enemies here at Court, as do I, who would not hesitate with hemlock.

  ‘Furthermore, the men who built your army, the recruiting captains like Sir Thomas North, whose Plutarch you so admire, charged your purse for strong, well-trained, well-fitted soldiers and yet they supplied the sweepings of taverns and brothels, the halt and the lame, dressed in rags and armed with little more than antique toys so they could slip the difference onto their purses and grow fat on it. Then when I turned to Muster Master General Lane seeking more men and supplies, I found him to be one of Raleigh’s followers who had no intention of helping me. Even so, I took my army, such as it was, into the field as you ordered. But the Irish would never stand and fight. It was all ambush and retreat, skirmish and run. I needed more supplies, more men, more arms. Appeals to the Council and to yourself were useless. I soon suspected that my messengers have been stopped or suborned so that my letters either failed to arrive or else have been read and even rewritten by my enemies. Majesty, you are ill informed, and ill-advised how best to answer such requests as have been allowed to reach you. I have begun to pay the troops out of my own purse to stop them selling their arms to the Irish and deserting in droves. I have been forced to grant knighthoods to the commanders who were becoming unwilling to continue the war without recompense or honour. Both actions that I know have been turned against me by venomous tongues here at court. Tongues which tell you I have passed out money and honours so that the army will be mine instead of yours to command. Which is a lie – and even were it true it is no matter, for I am yours to command. And will be until I die.

  *

  Still muttering to himself, quite carried away by the power of his own eloquence, Essex arrived at the door of the Presence Chamber. It was guarded, as always, and the Earl hesitated for an instant distracted by several things. He noticed for the first time how quiet everything was; how deserted the corridors and stairwells had been. He seemed to catch a glimpse of someone watching him from the shadows between two tall casements, a figure there becoming nothing more than a black silhouette, turning silently away. And out of nowhere it suddenly struck him just how wet and filthy he was. But the instant he hesitated, the door was thrown open for him and he entered the Presence Chamber. Everything other than this enormous gamble driven from his mind.

  Robert Poley paused, relying on the light behind him to lend him anonymity, and watched the Earl of Essex passing in through the door. The thing that struck him most forcefully was how dirty the Earl was. His hair, face, beard and clothes were covered in mud. The fact that the Earl did not appear to have realised this – nor the inappropriateness of presenting himself to Her Majesty in such a state – seemed to symbolise the man’s greatest weaknesses. His pride. His arrogance. His inability to see himself as others, and especially his Queen, might see him. And yet, thought the intelligencer, turning away as Essex vanished, there was about him a magnetism, a magnificence. Were I not sworn to the service of Secretary Cecil, he thought, I could follow a man such as that.

  The great Presence Camber was unusually empty, thought Essex as the door closed behind him. Not absolutely empty of course, for there were always men whose calling brought them here for one reason or another. Men with messages, suits, pleas that only access to Her Majesty – torturously and expensively achieved – could answer. But the throne on its raised dais remained empty for the moment, though the regal magnificence of the room itself made waiting almost seem a privilege. He had never really paid attention to these lesser mortals. Nor did he now. His gaze raked over the cringing crowd of them. He saw no-one he recognised. No-one worthy of his attention. Certainly no-one of equivalent rank or power. He strode on, therefore, like a great galleon surging through a fleet of skiffs, cogs and ferryboats, until he faced the guards at the door to the Privy Chamber. He thought for an uplifting moment how these commoners left bobbing and bowing in his wake must regard him with awe and jealousy as he made a gesture and the doors were opened before him at once. Access to Her Majesty like this was a privilege beyond price.

  The Privy Chamber was smaller than the Presence Chamber with its dais, throne, priceless carpets, silken hangings and crowd of cringing supplicants. It was, as its name suggested, private. Here everything was on a smaller, more intimate scale. There were chairs, not thrones; tables for writing on, not for displaying gifts from other sovereigns and wealthy courtiers culled from near and far. It was a place for men and women to meet, rather than kings and queens. There was a fire spreading homely warmth and a flickering golden glow. And, straight ahead yet another pair of doors. These were smaller and unguarded, as the Privy Chamber was, as yet, untenanted. Neither the Queen nor her closest councillors had arrived for their morning conference. Propelled by the momentum of his eager rush to get here as much as by anything else, and certainly before he allowed himself an instant of reflection, he reached forward, took hold of the handles, twisted them and opened the door to Her Majesty’s bedroom.

  The impetus of Essex’s journey up from the Court Gate Post pushed him on for a few more steps before he stopped. He looked around, frowning with confusion. The Queen was nowhere to be seen. There was no one in front of him but a crowd of women he did not immediately recognise. All of various ages, all with their faces frozen in a range of expressions, mostly of disbelief and shock. And in the midst of them, the only one seated, was an ancient, twisted crone in a linen nightgo
wn; and not a very clean one at that. His glance passed over the ancient hag without pausing. Then it returned, registering almost in spite of itself, her balding head; a kind of tonsure ringed with straggling stands of hair as thin and white as spiders’ webs. A flat chest, withered dugs ill-concealed by the gaping linen. Wattled neck, red and hanging like a fighting cock’s. Slack mouth half open to reveal uneven stubs of occasional black teeth. Raddled, pocked and wrinkled cheeks. Dark eyes, round with disbelief and horror. No eyebrows at all.

  Then his Queen’s all-too familiar voice demanded, ‘My Lord of Essex. What make you here?’

  He looked around, shocked to hear that accustomed voice, still unable to see Her Majesty anywhere nearby.

  *

  When the door to her bedroom opened, Elizabeth looked up expecting to see one of her familiar women. Lady Audrey Walsingham had been away for several days, perhaps this was her returning. Instead, a strange man strode into the holy of holies. For an instant she simply could not believe what she was seeing. The interloper was tall, broad-shouldered. Armed, though his rapier hung untouched at his side. Or so it did at the moment. Julius Caesar leaped into her mind unbidden, for she had just been perfecting Thomas North’s translation from Plutarch of his life. And his death. The skin on her shoulders and back rose in goosebumps. The stranger bore himself with an air of command. But he was impossible to identify because from head to foot he was spattered in mud. Mud so thick in his lank hair and full beard that he seemed like one of the savages Raleigh described as inhabiting the New Found Land of America. Not only that, but he stank like some unwashed aboriginal. Stank of mud, leather and horses. Then breath-taking shock struck her a body-blow with the realisation that a strange man could only reach her bed chamber if he came sufficiently supported with soldiers to have cleared his way through Raleigh, the Captain of the Guard and his men. Would only dare to enter here if he had an army surrounding Nonsuch and probably another occupying London.