by Peter Tonkin
*
‘Even were we not already acquainted,’ said Sir Christopher, ‘blood is thicker than water.’
‘So they say,’ agreed Poley as he followed the decisive commander out of the servants’ areas and into the great house’s public domains. ‘And I am most grateful that you believe in the saying.’
‘My belief will only take us so far,’ warned Sir Christopher.
‘How far is that?’ wondered Poley
‘To Lady Lettice’s chamber. As Thomas a Kempis observed, Man proposes, God disposes. In our household it is Lady Lettice who wields that authority. Indeed, there are times here in Essex House when even Lady Frances defers to her. And Lady Frances as you must know, was a Walsingham.’
‘The only daughter of the late Sir Francis and widow of Sir Philip Sidney the poet, courtier and hero of Zutphen,’ Poley nodded. It was common knowledge after all. ‘But Lady Lettice was not only a Knollys born and bred, she was a Devereux by marriage and the Earl’s mother, before the First Earl died in Ireland and she attracted the attention of the Earl of Leicester.’
‘Indeed. I am third in the line of her husbands and thoroughly content to be so. The Earl her son is a good friend to me rather than a step-son. I believe you wish to be of service to him. I wish to help you in that endeavour. Especially as, as you well know, I too have turned my coat and changed camps from the Council to the Earl.’
This conversation took the two men to a large, bright room on the first floor which shared the view with Anthony Bacon’s sickroom below but from a superior aspect. And there was no sign or smell of the dampness. Sir Christopher opened the door himself and the two men stepped through side by side. As they did so, they fell under the scrutiny of a lady seated comfortably, apparently enjoying the sight of the clouds snuffing out the last of the sun. Sufficient brightness lingered above the Paris Garden, the Thames and the gardens of Essex House to show her profile, which appeared to Poley to be that of a woman a good ten years younger than he knew Lady Lettice to be. Like the door, the lady was unattended. A situation that Poley supposed to be unusual. And the only reason he could think of to explain it was that the lady, like Sir Anthony Bacon, had been expecting him and wished to hold a private conversation with him.
The youthful profile was presented only for a moment before the Countess of Leicester swung right round. As she did so, she revealed a high, pale forehead that remained unlined despite her years. Green cat’s eyes. A long, straight nose, a firm mouth and a determined chin. Her hair was piled in fashionable ringlets and was the same flame red as the Queen’s, and indeed, that of the Queen’s mother Queen Anne Boleyn, who had been Lady Lettice’s great aunt. Royal blood was clearly thicker than water, thought Poley as he, like his companion, gave the formal bow her years and standing required.
‘So this is him?’ demanded the countess as the two men straightened to stand shoulder to shoulder before her.
‘It is,’ answered her husband.
‘You need not have confirmed it, Sir Christopher. The man could be your brother, almost your twin. You are alike in age, I hazard. Certainly similar in build. And – save for some circumstance of beard, hair and cleanliness - your faces are alike. Your eyes, in particular, are much alike.’ She paused, lowered her head in a slow motion of courteous welcome. ‘We shall be pleased to see you joining our household Master Poley. And more pleased still to see you after you have bathed and changed. Sir Christopher, tell Sir Anthony’s physician to see to the wound in your cousin’s head.’
‘I believe he has been instructed to do so already, My Lady. He awaits only the arrival of a bath, which in turn only awaits the arrival of Master Poley’s necessaries from his lodgings.’
‘Very well. And has your cousin been assigned quarters?’
‘Not as yet My Lady.’
‘As close to ours as can be managed, Sir Christopher. He is, after all, family.’
Fitzherbert found Poley a good-sized corner room at the end of the corridor occupied by Sir Christopher and the Countess. The windows on one wall looked out over the smithy and Fleet Street, and on the other looked over the stables and The Strand. Such rooms being notoriously draughty, the bed was a heavily curtained four-poster and a lusty fire blazed in the grate. Poley had done little more than glance around when a gentle scratching at the door announced Jacques Petit and the modest boxes of Poley’s possessions from the Yeomans’ house in Hog Lane. The young Frenchman showed a small team of servants into the room and, as his clothes and books were unpacked and stored, Petit led him down to a warm room between the kitchens and Sir Antony’s sick-room where he discovered a steaming bath, a pile of towels, a warm robe and a doctor.
4
Poley lay back in the steaming water and let his mind drift while Anthony Bacon’s doctor, Dr Wendy, attended to his head. The bath was a traditional design, fashioned from half of a large barrel. It stood upright beside the drain that would guide the water out into the garden when the bung at the bottom was removed, in a room close to the kitchens to make it easy to fill with tureens of water hot from the cooking fires. It had been just possible for Poley to step over the high side into it and sit down on the submerged stool provided for the purpose, though he suspected some shorter occupants would need a stepping stool to get in and some help to get out again. He was the first to use the facility today, though he had been warned there was a queue. There would be bodies to wash though mostly without soap, one after another, until the water grew cold and the bung was pulled at last. He tried for a moment to remember the last time he had been immersed in water this hot and this clean. Never, he thought. The edge of the barrel, lined with cloths, came up to his shoulder-blades at the back but its circumference was not large enough for his knees to be under the surface in front; they stuck up like white islands. The water was as hot as he could bear and there was castile soap available but Poley could do nothing until Dr Wendy was finished. So, as gentle fingers cleaned away the dried blood and began to probe the damage beneath it, he allowed his thoughts to wander.
What had at first glance seemed to be a dangerously ill-thought-out plan was beginning to show more promise. He had been sent into Essex House as himself, with no disguise or cover that he understood or had helped to plan. But this appeared to be a surprisingly effective strategy rather than a dangerous gamble. Too many of the Earl’s family and followers knew who he was in any case and would recognise him no matter what. Most of those who knew him had good reason to wish him ill and perhaps to do him harm. Those facts alone gave unexpected weight to the deception because unless Poley was telling the truth about turning from Cecil to Essex, he was plainly committing suicide in coming here. Furthermore, there was no alternative to revealing his true identity. There was no make-up or wig that would disguise his appearance as they did actors on the stage. Or as, it was said, these things served to disguise the Queen’s true age and appearance at court. The discovery of which, of course, was what had put the Earl of Essex where he was – both physically and politically. But it appeared that Poley’s true identity had elements that might help rather than hinder him in this still dangerous situation. Those he might look to for support now apparently included the Earl’s mother, her husband, Poley’s distant cousin who had briefly worked for Sir Francis Walsingham in the past and then, as he said himself, become a turncoat. To them, add Francis Bacon and Robert Cuffe. The main problem, as far as he could see, lay in the differing beliefs and expectations of these apparently willing supporters.
Cuffe, of course, was motivated by gratitude and by a naturally open heart – arising from a situation that had been as carefully constructed as any performance at the Globe. Sir Francis Bacon appeared to have been swayed by Cuffe’s belief in Poley’s story. Furthermore, Poley had no doubt that Lady Lettice wished to accept him into the Leicester household because he appeared to her to be a potential asset in her fight to restore her son to the power and position he had lost so disastrously in Ireland and at Nonsuch. Sir Christopher was willin
g to stretch the outer limits of his familial relationships at her behest because, like her, he believed Poley could be manipulated into helping Essex’s cause, even if he was lying when he said he wished to do so now. Sir Christopher Blount had worked for Walsingham in the past. He would be well aware of Poley’s continued employment by Cecil up to the present. Or, rather, almost up to the present – until the falling-out, the arrest and the sojourn in the Fleet. But Sir Christopher himself had changed sides from the Council to the Earl and he seemed have some understanding, therefore, when Poley protested that he had done the same. Understandably so. Either way, Poley had little doubt that Lady Lettice and her husband hoped he would prove an undercover equivalent to Francis Bacon, able to carry messages and maybe more between Essex House and Salisbury House; eventually perhaps between Essex and Cecil themselves. And that Cecil might even have placed him here with that very purpose in mind. There was, it seemed, sufficient self-delusion hereabouts to encompass that strange notion with ease.
*
Was it possible Sir Francis and his ailing brother saw him in the same light as the Leicesters? He doubted it very much. He doubted in fact that Francis and Anthony actually both saw him in the same way. He got the feeling that Francis might support him – perhaps even more effectively than Cuffe. Anthony on the other hand didn’t trust him at all, despite the case Poley had made in the stinking sickroom. But then, Essex’s spymaster might well see him as a potential pawn to be used will-nilly in the larger game of thrones and successions he was playing. Only time would tell.
But Cuffe’s suggestion, thrown away without a second thought, had merit. With luck, it would give Poley a reason for staying as part of the combined household; one strong enough to explain his continued presence. A positive purpose rather than the simple negative of hiding from the Council and their sinister acolytes out to destroy him. One that would also allow him to test what each of the Bacon brothers truly thought. How far even Anthony might trust a Robert Poley avowedly at war with Master Secretary; and what use he might wish to put such a creature to. A bitter turncoat keen to avenge the damage done to his person, possessions and profession by thwarting the Council’s plans for the future would certainly be a useful weapon in the elder Bacon’s armoury. Especially if Poley, with the Bacon brothers’ assistance, could exercise his revenge by raising Essex, the hated Council’s greatest foe, high above them in the end. Poley’s mind was made up. He would see about joining Cuffe and the others in the Secretariat, therefore, writing letters on behalf of the Earl at first; but later, perhaps, on behalf of Sir Anthony the spymaster.
Poley considered himself well qualified. He had a fair round hand. Courtesy of his frequent travels through Europe on behalf of the Council, his grasp of a series of North European languages almost matched the Latin and Greek which he had learned on his way to Clare College, Cambridge. He also understood French, Spanish and Italian. Like Raleigh, Essex had an enquiring mind, fascinated by the seemingly limitless possibilities of the world around him and the Heavens above it. He was, Poley knew, in correspondence with scholars and philosophers as well as with sailors, soldiers and courtiers all over Europe. His correspondents, via his Secretariat, apparently included, among others, Jacobus Arminus the Dutch philosopher, the Italians Tomaso Campanella the Jesuit, Cesare Cremonini and Galileo Galilei; the German Nicolaus Torellus, and the precocious young anatomist Caspar Bartholin of Copenhagen. Much of the correspondence would be in Classical Latin and Greek, of course, but there must be men in the Secretariat who spoke and wrote the recipients’ native languages as well.
Essex was not alone in this breadth of correspondence. Sir Anthony had begun to correspond with the philosopher Michel de Montaigne during his years in France. Before French correspondent had died and Anthony’s letters had turned, it was said, towards the Spanish court and the Scottish court amongst other places. Dealing less in in matters of natural philosophy and more in those of the Queen’s succession. At which point they had passed from good, clear English or Spanish into all-but impenetrable cyphers. So Poley’s first order of business must be to discover which of Cuffe’s colleagues fulfilled what part of the Earl’s wide-ranging correspondence. Then look for an opening he could fill.
Or create one.
‘I have cleaned the wound,’ the doctor interrupted Poley’s thoughts. ‘It has stopped bleeding and will not need stitching or bandaging. There is swelling but no softness. There is a contusion therefore but your skull seems whole. Send word to me however, if you experience any powerful headaches or dizziness.’
Poley nodded, thanked the man, reached for the soap and began to wash.
Poley and Cuffe had missed dinner at mid-day but there was a formal supper held in the great hall just after sunset. Poley, wrapped in towels beneath the voluminous robe and smelling of lemons courtesy of the castile soap, retired to his room as soon as his ablutions were complete. He was guided this time by young Tom Fitzherbert, Essex’s page. ‘Fear not, Master Poley,’ Tom assured him, ‘you will soon be as familiar with the house and the household. I must observe, though, that you are fortunate in your accommodation. Essex House is badly overcrowded and more men seem to arrive each day, all desperate and many half-starved. But Lady Frances, on the Earl’s behalf, will never turn any away. And they are not only to be accommodated but fed and watered into the bargain. My Father says much more like this and we will have to hire more cooks and set up as many tents in the gardens as were erected in Ireland to house the army there!’
*
A clean and freshly-dressed Poley joined the Leicester household as they descended in formal ranks and in anticipation of the meal. Apart from Lady Lettice and Sir Christopher, he knew none of his new associates. But, he reasoned, he would have plenty of time to learn who they were and whether they might have any importance in any plans he was able to formulate. They were easy enough to identify. All the members of the Lady’s household wore the Leicester coat of arms – even Sir Christopher. But more importantly still, he wished to examine the Essex household, equally clearly identified by the Earl’s coat of arms, except for his friends and associates of independent wealth and power who were visitors rather than members of the household. All of whom he recognised in any case. He needed to see who else was there who might know him – which recent experience suggested could be a help as much as a hindrance.
As Poley entered the great hall just behind Lady Lettice and Sir Christopher – family taking pride of place – he caught the eye of Cuffe. The innocent academic gave a friendly wave. Cuffe was amongst the Secretariat, all wearing Essex badges. They were led by Sir Henry Wotton, as scribe in chief, rather than by Sir Anthony Bacon who no doubt remained in bed. Sir Francis Bacon was also notable by his absence. Wotton and Poley were old acquaintances but by no means close ones – they exchanged no greeting when their eyes met. The familiar figure of Gelly Meyrick swaggered in with St Lawrence at one shoulder and Ferdinando Gorges, Governor of Plymouth wearing that city’s coat of arms, at the other. They too failed to greet the newcomer in the Leicester household. The men who had accompanied Essex to Nonsuch were familiar faces ranked behind them and, further back still Nick Skeres, who graced Poley with a curt nod.
But Poley’s attention was soon distracted. His gaze was focused on the leaders of the Essex contingent, not their followers. In front of them all were two ladies. A tall woman in her early thirties dressed in black led the Essex House dependents with a shorter lady of more advanced years at her side. The taller of the two was Frances, Lady Essex. Poley had known her from childhood when she had been plain Frances Walsingham and he had worked for Master Secretary Cecil’s predecessor as Her Majesty’s spymaster, Sir Francis Walsingham. Time out of mind over the years he had visited The Papey, Walsingham’s London home hard up against the City Wall opposite St Mary Axe, where Camomile Street became Bevis Marks. Or, later, at the Walsinghams’ house south of the River at Barn Elms. He vaguely remembered first seeing her as a four-year-old when he, recently down fr
om Cambridge and just starting out in the service, had been involved in the outer edges of what became The Ridolfi Plot. The Ridolfi Plot had been one of the earliest serious attempts to assassinate Queen Elizabeth and replace her with a Catholic monarch – preferably the Queen of Scots - unless the entire country could be pulled under the rule of the late Queen Mary Tudor’s Catholic husband, King Philip of Spain. Who, as Bloody Mary’s widower, was seen by some as having a powerful right to succeed her to the English throne.
As time went on and Poley gained experience and seniority through his work on other plots centred around conspirators like Sir Francis Throckmorton and his wife Bess, Anthony Babington and John Ballard, he saw her grow to womanhood and be wedded first to Philip Sidney and then, after Sidney’s heroic death at the Battle of Zutphen, to Robert Devereux. Their glances met and he knew at once she recognised him, which was no surprise. But, he wondered, did she count him as friend or foe; and which of those two opposites might he rely on her to be?
Lady Frances turned away and spoke to her companion who, judging from her formal dress, had accompanied Essex’s wife directly from the court. At no time during all this had anyone stopped moving. Chance brought Poley quite close to the two women heading the Essex household, therefore, as he was – at least for the time-being- amongst those heading the Leicester household. So, as the diners were guided to their seats by the Fitzherberts and the house servants, Poley came face to face with Lady Essex’s companion and he recognised her as clearly as he had recognised Lady Frances. He caught his breath as his heart thumped unaccustomedly loudly and quickly in his breast. It was Lady Janet Percy, Cecil’s most reliable informant amongst the Queen’s handmaidens. Whom he had last seen this close-to in the flesh when she fed back to him the details of what had happened when the Earl of Essex burst uninvited into the Queen’s most private chamber at Nonsuch. But who had occupied his mind and imagination spectrally much more recently still.
