by Peter Tonkin
‘Possibly.’ Poley was by no means convinced, though the words chimed disturbingly with what he believed Sir Anthony was doing to him. “Keep your enemies close” certainly seemed to be better watchwords than “Modesty and rectitude”.
‘Think of the damage that might do,’ prompted Sir Francis. ‘If they went out into The Strand in one great riotous mob, creating a hurly-burly such as this, it would give added weight to the Council’s warnings that My Lord of Essex, his friends and acolytes cannot ever be controlled…’
‘While at the same time offending the upright citizen upon whose support and good offices the Earl is still reliant. These are no apprentice-boys crying clubs or playing at foot ball with an inflated pig’s bladder. These are well-armed ex-soldiers, proficient in the art of killing. The further damage they might do to businesses, premises and persons would be hard to calculate.’
*
Poley’s summation was enough to take them onto the broad section of flag stones between the shaggy lawns and the back wall of the house. As they entered the nearest door, the intelligencer unconsciously drew nearer to his companion. His shoulders were fully healed now, but he had no desire to repeat the torture that had originally damaged them, and by the sound of things Gelly Meyrick and his companions would not think twice about putting him through it again; through the strappado - or worse. The noise grew louder as they hurried along the passageways leading out of the servants’ quarters, past the rooms that had housed Sir Anthony before Essex House was cleared the better part of seven months earlier.
And so they came out into the entrance hall from which opened the Great Hall where the loudest noise was originating. The place was lined with tables and it looked as though there were more than fifty men seated at supper, the boards before them piled with platters of food and lined with bottles of drink. The majority there had clearly partaken of the drink rather than the meats, fishes and pastries steaming in front of them. The number of servants scurrying from kitchen and cellar to one table after another, young Tom Fitzherbert Essex’s page joining his father and mother amongst them. The hubbub and confusion certainly explained why the knights’ quarters had been so deserted and quiet, thought Poley, his mind filling with simple wonder at the almost Roman orgy of excess being enacted in front of him.
Poley looked in vain for a familiar face at the nearest tables and was by no means surprised to hear Sir Francis mutter, ‘Who are these men?’
‘I see some of the secretaries in the far corner by the fire,’ he said. ‘I see Sir Ferdiando Gorges, Lord Monteagle, Lord Cromwell and Sir John Davies. But these others are strangers…’
Then Cuffe appeared. He beamed as he recognised Poley and came pushing round the nearest table towards them. ‘Robert!’ he called, his voice slightly slurred. ‘Well met! Have you supped?’
‘What in Heaven’s name is going on here? Supper for more than fifty? It is madness!’ hissed Sir Francis as Cuffe came right up to them. ‘How can the Earl possibly afford this?’
‘Why this is nothing out of the ordinary…’ The beaming face folded into a frown. ‘We have dined and supped well ever since it became clear that the Earl would retain the tax on sweet wines. It is his primary source of income, the foundation of his credit. We seek to help him celebrate…’
‘I see precious little of the promised modesty and rectitude here!’ snapped Sir Francis. ‘What is the Earl thinking of to let such behaviour run without let or hindrance?’
‘The Earl and Lady Essex keep to their rooms with the children.’ Cuffe explained. ‘Sir Gelly is in charge of the House.’
‘I am here to see the Earl,’ said Sir Francis with a shake of his head which dismissed a situation he could not hope to mend for the moment. ‘Can you take me to him?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Cuffe was as deflated as a child unexpectedly confronted by an angry parent.
The Earl’s rooms were two flights up in the east wing of the sprawling building. The noise was by no means stilled up here but it was reduced to a distant rumble. Cuffe knocked on a door which was after a few moments opened. The three men were shown into the Earl’s private rooms, though not yet into the Earl’s presence. A small ante-room led through a door standing ajar into a private dining room where the family sat at supper. A door not only standing ajar but one guarded by Sir Gelly Meyrick. ‘Sir Francis,’ said the Welsh knight. ‘What business do you have with My Lord of Essex?’
‘I have a message. One of some urgency.’
‘And Master Poley?’
‘I am the man the message was passed to. I come with Sir Francis in case the Earl has any questions. And before you ask, Master Cuffe met us downstairs and is here as our guide.’
With no further word, Meyrick vanished into the larger room. After a few minutes, he returned with the Earl close behind. It was some time since Poley had seen Robert Devereux and he was struck at once by the changes that had overcome the man. He was leaner, almost starved in appearance. His clothing hung loose about him. He was very slightly stooped and his hands trembled a little. The right hand held a fine linen kerchief, lightly smeared with some sort of sauce. He looked a good deal older than his 35 years, particularly as his face was drawn, his eyes sunken and his forehead lined. But the spade of his beard and the tumble of his hair were both still full and brown. It was those sunken eyes, however, that claimed the intelligencer’s fullest attention. They darted restlessly here and there, failing to meet his own steady gaze or, as far as he could see, that of Sir Francis either.
*
‘Your message?’ asked Sir Gelly.
‘My Lord,’ said Sir Francis. The Earl’s gaze fastened on him as soon as he began to speak, but slid away again almost immediately. ‘Master Poley here has been informed via a friend at court that you should not take it for granted that Her Majesty has decided firmly that you should retain the monopoly on sweet wines…’
‘What?’ He had the Earl’s full attention now.
Until it slid over to Poley himself. ‘Friend at court? What friend at court?’
‘It was Lady Janet Percy My Lord,’ Poley answered. ‘As you must know, she is one of Her Majesty’s ladies in waiting and she let slip to me during a brief discussion of other matters that Her Majesty has been debating with her ladies whether or not to let the situation remain as it is at the moment with regard to the monopoly on sweet wines…’
‘And…’ demanded the Earl. ‘The conclusion? Her Majesty’s verdict?’
‘She has not as yet come to a firm conclusion. Lady Janet gave me to understand that Her Majesty intended to await events before coming to a final decision…’
‘Await events? What events?’ Essex looked helplessly from one to the other, finally fastening on Poley once again.
‘I gained the impression, My Lord, that Her Majesty was keen to delay her final ruling until she could see whether you would be able to stay faithful to her harsh strictures…’
Essex frowned, not quite understanding.
Almost inevitably, it was Cuffe who translated for his friend, speaking at his most professorial. ‘Her Majesty is waiting to see whether you and your followers will bow to her wishes before she makes up her mind, My Lord. Whether you and your knights can be relied upon to behave moderately and keep the peace.’
That was as far as he had got before Sir Fernando Gorges pushed open the door. ‘My Lord,’ he gasped, seeing the Earl standing there. ‘It is Sir John Heyden. He left Essex House just before we supped but he had taken a great deal of wine with his dinner. He has exchanged words with Sir Richard Mansell, whom he met immediately outside in The Strand. They are old adversaries. Sir Richard has spoken in support of Master Secretary Cecil and against yourself on many occasions. And did so again just now. Sir John has declared himself insulted by this and has demanded satisfaction which Sir Richard has agreed to give him at once; he has chosen swords. They will go to a duel and fight to the death. Out there in the Strand immediately outside your gates. Neither man will listen to
reason. You must stop them!’
The Earl looked utterly bewildered for an instant, then his gaze sharpened and his face folded into a frown as the true danger of the situation hit him with full force. ‘I will come at once,’ he said. He wiped the kerchief across his lips and then down his beard before throwing it aside. As he did this, he strode forward with such force and purpose that everyone else in the room was swept into his wake like skiffs behind a galleon. Poley followed them, his presence no longer a matter of concern, fading to nothing compared with the situation Gorges had reported. They thundered down the stairs together onto the ground floor and past the wide entrance to the Great Hall, which one swift glance revealed to be empty of Essex’s knights - only the servants remaining.
They rushed out through the main door and down the steps into the courtyard in front of the house. The courtyard was also empty and the gates onto the Strand stood wide open, revealing where all the missing men had gone to. They were crowded into the great thoroughfare, jostling with excitement and shouting encouragement. Like a crowd of apprentices at a wrestling match, thought Poley, or the audience at a bear-baiting. At first their backs presented an impenetrable wall, but a combination of Meyrick and Gorges soon made the excited soldiers realise that their general was trying to get through. Then it was only a matter of moments before Essex, Sir Francis, Cuffe and Poley, escorted by Sir Gelly and Sir Fernando, were standing at the edge of the makeshift battleground of the piste. A man stood at either end, each one stripping off his doublet and wrapping it round his forearm while a companion held his sword. A companion, Poley repeated in his mind – not a second. There was no formality here.
*
‘Stop this madness!’ thundered the Earl.
‘Before someone calls ware riot and summons the watch,’ added Sir Gelly, his voice as loud as his master’s.
They need not have bothered. Their words were lost in the roaring of the crowd and it seemed to Poley that neither of the combatants would be willing to obey them in any case; they were clearly far beyond reason or any sort of control. It was unlike any duel that Poley had ever witnessed. There were no proper formalities, just two mad men out to kill each other. They were not preparing to wield rapiers such as the one with the Solingen blade that Sir Christopher had purchased for him at the Steelyard. These were poor men staring destitution in the face, with nothing left to them but their threadbare titles and their petty honour. They wielded short swords that would have been familiar to their forbears on Bosworth field; or indeed their forbears at Agincourt or Crecy. Their piste was roughly measured out along the gutter in the middle of the road and only existed because none of the excited audience was stupid enough to step into it.
As the Earl and his little group of followers stood helplessly, the two men threw themselves at each-other. They clearly owed nothing to the German, Spanish or Italian masters. If they followed the style of anyone it was that of George Silver but even that great English master would have been hard-put to see any of his short-sword techniques properly employed. They fought square-on, almost toe-to-toe. Their stance made Poley wonder for an instant whether they had daggers as well as swords. But no – each man had his left forearm wrapped in his doublet as a makeshift shield and his left fist empty. But, Poley observed, what they lacked in polish and technique, they made up for in speed and brutality. The blades rang against each other discordantly, like cracked bells. Unlike the Earl’s orders, this sound had the ability to silence the shouting – for a time at least.
Poley was only able to tell one from the other because Sir John Heydon was vaguely familiar whereas Sir Richard Mansell was a complete stranger. But as the vicious contest proceeded, other differences became obvious to the intelligencer. It was not so much that Sir Richard Mansell was fair-haired while Sir John Heydon was dark; the Earl’s supporter was as down-at-heel as the rest, his linen shirt thin, patched, elderly and none too clean whereas his opponent was more richly attired, his shirt silken and recently laundered. Sir John Heydon was also, Poley admitted to himself with some regret, the better swordsman. No matter how long or short the contest turned out to be, there was only one inevitable end in prospect.
‘Shall I put an end to this my Lord?’ Poley asked. ‘It requires action rather than words. Someone must stand between them. If no one intervenes soon you will lose a passionate supporter at the very least.’
Essex looked at him, as Sir Anthony Bacon had, as though he was seeing him for the first time. ‘I…’ he said.
‘The quicker your decision, the more effective it will be,’ Poley insisted. ‘I would suggest you need to stop this before someone dies or the watch arrives.’
‘Yes!’ said the Earl. ‘Gelly, Fernando, help Sir Francis’s man finish this.’
The three men moved forward but they were a fraction too late. Sir Richard Mansell feinted towards Sir John Heydon’s head. A blow that started high and came sweeping downwards. Had it landed, would have split his skull. Sir John Heydon’s reflex was to raise his arm, offering his padded forearm as a shield. But Sir Richard Mansell’s blade turned at the last minute. The edge sliced past fingers and through palm almost to the wrist. It was done in a flash and a spray of blood. Almost all of Sir John Heydon’s hand fell onto the ground, leaving only a section of the palm attached to his padded arm. Sir John Heydon’s howl of agony and defeat was lost in the bloodlust roar of the audience. Which was in turn challenged by the shouts of the city watch as they arrived to clear the Strand and place the combatants under arrest.
The enemies spent a night in the Fleet, Sir John Heydon lucky to survive the basic doctoring he received on the way there. Then they retired in disgrace to their estates near Norwich - the crippled and the near-penniless Sir John Heydon to put his on the market in a hopeless attempt to repay his debts before he and his family fell into the hungry maw of destitution.
But the affair did not end there, for, a week later, as Poley was preparing to help move Sir Anthony back from Twickenham to the damp and chilly quarters in Essex House, Sir Francis came to see his brother, heavy with news. ‘It is done,’ he said grimly. ‘The Queen has decided to take back the monopoly on sweet wines after all. The Earl is ruined. Utterly ruined.’
8
Poley had suspected as acutely as anyone what the results of the Queen’s decision to take back the tax on sweet wines would be. He knew Essex House would be riven by incomprehension, anger, shock, a sense of outrage and unfairness. A sense of crisis – almost of impending doom - as the Earl’s last source of income was cut off. The situation was made worse because the Queen’s characteristic hesitation had allowed the Earl and his followers to deceive themselves that there was hope when in fact there was none. And now the full implications stared them all in the face, as horrifying as an approaching plague.
The bankrupt Earl ran out of control almost at once. Poley had hardly arrived with the Bacon brothers before he heard Essex ranting. ‘If the Council are hag-ridden as I know they are, then I also know which is the hag in question!’ ‘May the devil take her, she has lived too long.’ And, tellingly, the repetition of the old accusation with renewed vigour: ‘Her conditions are as twisted as her carcase!’ Casual visitors arrived, heard his ravings and hurriedly departed, never to return. But they took word of his behaviour to the Court and the Council.
Poley thought Essex’s desperation was understandable. He owed a fabulous sum – more than £5000. And, as Poley observed, Essex was simply the leader of a growing army of debtors, many arriving from Wales, from Ireland and from the North. They now populated Essex House in numbers that challenged even the reliable Fitzherberts to accommodate and feed them all.
‘The only thing keeping the Earl’s creditors from coming to demand instant settlement of all outstanding debts,’ Poley explained to Lady Janet at one of their meetings, ‘is the presence of such numbers of equally destitute knights surrounding him. And not just knights. The Earls of Bedford, Rutland, Worcester and Sussex have all become regular visitors beca
use they are in the same situation as Essex. And they’ve started attending the meetings with Southampton that are held at Drury House. William Parker, Lord Monteagle, has joined the new group as well, but he at least seems to be solvent.’
Lady Janet nodded. ‘With the exception of Monteagle, most of the new men will be unable to afford accommodation elsewhere in any case,’ she said. ‘And I sorrow to say that amongst the latest arrivals are two distant relatives of mine, Charles and Jocelyn Percy.’
‘They’re all utterly desperate, fiercely loyal. Dangerously so,’ Poley emphasised. ‘Like a pack of starving hounds who have decided to protect the bear at a baiting instead of rending it to pieces. The knights are as frantic as their master – all of them with nothing left to lose. All of them deadly, therefore.’ He paused. Shrugged; the ability to do so painlessly was in itself still a luxury. ‘The Fleet, the Clink, the Borough Counter and the Marshalsea are all equally uncomfortable if you’re being held chained in the cells. No matter whether it’s for debt - or for murder. And, whatever your crime, they won’t let you starve to death. Unlike the usual crop of unfortunates who have crawled up from the country to starve or freeze in the gutters hereabouts.’
‘I will pass your observations on. If you need to see me again, send for Agnes as usual. You seem to have foreseen everything very clearly so far.’
‘Except for the nature of the action it would be best for me to take.’
‘Be patient Master Poley. Some chance will present itself. Something you have not foreseen, perhaps.’
Amongst the things Poley had not foreseen was the way in which financial ruin seemed to gather all the impoverished knights together as a desperate kind of brotherhood. And in numbers that grew and grew to Fitzherbert’s mounting despair. Essex House. had been well filled before: soon it became over-stuffed, the lesser occupants sleeping two or three to a room – and that room in the servants’ quarters as like as not, while the servants were packed into the garrets beneath the roof. It should have been obvious that this would happen as things progressed along their apparently immutable path, he thought. Individually, out on the streets or in their cheap, dilapidated lodgings in the city, Essex’s men were at risk of being thrown in debtors’ prison one by one. Or held without charge, simply on suspicion, like poor Heywood in The Tower being occasionally re-examined about his book on Henry IV and the downfall of Richard II. Gathered together, however, they were safe. There was simply no individual shopkeeper, no trade guild indeed, who was willing to come hammering on the great door on The Strand requesting restitution from the Earl or from his house-guests.
