by Peter Tonkin
Until they reached Lud Gate.
*
Poley had been struck by the gate’s military potential on the way in when he considered it as part of the city’s fortification for the first time. Those thoughts returned in force as the Earl led his modest army out of the north side of Paul’s Churchyard and into the wide space by Bowyer Row. Ave Maria Lane ran north between the house fronts on their right, hardly wide enough to accommodate two men walking side by side; and Creed Lane, even narrower, ran south between those on their left. Other than those, the approach to Lud Gate was literally walled in with tall buildings, all shuttered, barred and bolted. It was as though the Earl and his men were moving into a funnel with brick and plaster sides, Poley thought, a funnel whose only possible exit was Lud Gate itself.
It was a situation made immediately worse by two things, Poley realised, his mind racing. The first was that the army behind them, modest though it was, was pressing relentlessly forward, all heading for Essex House. The second was that Lud Gate was closed. They had not lowered the portcullis but they had stretched a chain across it at waist height. Behind the chain, using it as a rest for their weapons, knelt a line of musketeers, their firelocks primed, smoking and ready to fire. Behind them, their barrels steady on the forks of their musket rests, stood another line. Behind them, it was just possible to see rank upon rank of soldiers, waiting, like their friends in the artillery, for the order to engage the enemy.
The horsemen in the lead reined to a stop. The first ranks of foot soldiers, including Cuffe, Poley and Tom Fitzherbert, were thrust past them, and were soon positioned between their commanders and the gate. Not a very safe position to be in, Poley realised. He glanced down at Tom Fitzherbert and saw only a look of shining confidence on the young standard bearer’s face. He looked across at Cuffe; whose face shone, if anything, even more brightly. The same look as transfigured the countenances of Christian martyrs in the Roman Coliseum, he thought. Until the lions came.
There was a moment of silence then a tall, square-shouldered man of middle years stepped into the one space left at the right-hand end of the musket line. He paused, waiting for everyone’s attention to focus on him. He wore a steel breastplate and a crested helmet, both of which glittered coldly in the light of the westering sun. There was a broadsword at his side. One gauntleted fist rested on its pommel. ‘I am Sir John Leveson, my Lords,’ he said, his voice filling the space despite the restlessness of Essex’s men. ‘I command this unit of soldiery here at the behest of the Earl of Cumberland and the Lord Bishop of London, under orders of the Queen and Council. I request you, my Lords to surrender yourselves to me. No harm will come to you and you will be held pending trial for high treason against the Crown and State.’
Poley turned back just in time to see Essex lean towards Sir Ferdinando. ‘Go and tell him we are merely seeking to make a peaceful return to Essex house. That and no more. Tell him.’
Sit Fernando spurred forward and delivered the message just as though Leveson could not have heard the Earl’s words himself.
But the old soldier answered formally, playing the game. ‘Sadly I must refuse the Earl’s request. Please inform him that my orders are to hold this gate until the Earl and his accomplices surrender or retreat.’
It was strangely theatrical, almost biblical, thought Poley, watching as the ritual was repeated time after time. Three more times to be exact, as tension grew and patience diminished on either side. Then someone in the ranks of Essex’s army fired a gun. The bullet sang past Poley’s head and, by his calculation, must have buzzed past Leveson’s ear as well.
The front rank of musketeers opened fire in return, even as Leveson bellowed, ‘Hold your fire. Hold fire dam you!’ Poley had leaped back as the first shot whizzed by and he had pushed Cuffe out of the line of fire as well. Acrid gun smoke rolled into the circumscribed space. The sound was overwhelming. The horses reared and curvetted, terrified but unhurt. Several leading foot soldiers collapsed and several more started screaming with pain as the musket bullets took their toll. But Poley was paying no attention to any of this. He was looking at Tom Fitzherbert. The lad was standing, staring down in simple horror. There was a huge red stain spreading rapidly across the breast of his doublet. He looked up at Poley, his face ashen and his eyes huge. ‘What?’ he asked. The Earl’s banner fell out of his hand and clattered into the gutter, all that gaudy brightness dulled and soiled in an instant. He coughed. A fountain of blood gushed out of his mouth. He collapsed and crashed to the ground, stone dead at Poley’s feet.
*
‘Forward!’ bellowed Essex and led his force forward in a wild charge.
‘Fire,’ called Leveson.
The Earl led his troops straight into the barrage of musket balls. A man-high wall of smoke rolled forward. It was thick enough to choke the men nearest to the chain – those who hadn’t been cut down by the bullets. The horses reared and turned aside, screaming. Surely to God, thought Poley as he dashed a hand down his face to clear his streaming eyes, Southampton as an ex-General of Horse should have known the poor beasts were useless in this situation. What did he expect – that they would jump over Leveson’s troops like a hedge during a hunt? At least the mounted earls, lords and assorted knights had the sense to pull their horses back, preparing to dismount. The foot soldiers charged on through, swords drawn and thirsting for a fight. And this was the best moment for a direct assault. The musketeers, having discharged their guns were moving aside to reload. The ranks of infantry behind them were moving up towards the chain barrier, still drawing their swords and disposing their pikes, getting ready to engage Essex’s men. As Sir Christopher led the charge, Poley pulled Tom’s corpse out from under foot. But when he straightened from doing this, he realised that Cuffe had gone. A glance at the narrow battle-front showed him that Cuffe had joined the others, hacking and stabbing wildly, hard up against the chain. The noise, intensified by the walls confining the battle, was incredible.
The whole thing was pointless, thought Poley bitterly. There was no way for the Earl’s army to overcome Leveson’s disciplined soldiers. No way for them to win through, take down the chain and open the way to Essex House. Someone had to point this out to their general before the killing got really serious. And Poley once again was just the man to do so. The Earl and Fernando Gorges were the last men still mounted, and as Poley approached them, he heard Essex order. ‘… by water back to Essex House. Set Popham free. Let him take the message to the Queen and Council. But only Popham. We will need the others as bargaining counters should things grow any worse. Tell Sir John Davis and Owen Salisbury. Remember: only Popham. Hurry!’
Gorges wrenched the head of his mount round and disappeared into Paul’s Churchyard. Poley moved forward once again but the Earl also wrenched his horse’s head round. To face the opposite way to Gorges. ‘Once more, lads,’ he yelled, and charged the gate once more. Moved by memories of Rouen and Cadiz, no doubt. Or seeing himself perhaps as Henry V at Harfleur charging for the breach in the French walls. And, miraculously, his men surged forward with him. Poley ran forward at the Earl’s side, looking for Cuffe, trying to work out whether – how – he could extricate him from the battle and the fatal charge of treason.
‘Well; done my gallant soldier! Onwards. Onwards.’ called Essex. Poley glanced up and gasped. The Earl was talking to him, mistaking his wild attempt to get Cuffe clear of this murderous debacle as the bravery of a trooper, loyal unto death.
And the need to reach Cuffe suddenly became even more urgent. The infantry fighting hand to hand suddenly stepped aside and the first rank of musketeers reappeared. Just as they did so, Poley at last caught sight of Cuffe, right in the heart of it all, fighting at Sir Christopher’s side. Poley did not hesitate. He dived forward and managed to catch Cuffe round the waist, his shoulder driving into the small of Cuffe’s back. The pair of them toppled sideways and crashed to the ground. The momentum of Poley’s charge rolled them beneath the chain, against the feet of the musk
eteers just at the very moment that they fired. With his back to the enemy’s shins, half on top of Cuffe, Poley got an odd but vivid view of what happened next. Essex’s hat flew off. His head snapped back and he rolled backwards off his horse as it reared in panic. For a moment, Poley thought Essex was dead. But no. He picked himself up, looking around in confusion. And he saw what Poley only felt. The first rank of musketeers was being replaced by the second.
‘Back!’ cried Essex. ‘Retreat! Withdraw my brave lads! Withdraw!’
By the time the Earl had babbled the final word of this order, Poley had managed to pull himself to his feet, still with his back to Leveson’s men.
‘Hold your fire!’ ordered the old commander, unwilling to have retreating soldiers shot in the back; especially as some of them had, in all probability, served with him in the past, thought Poley. Not to mention the fact that, treasonous or not, the flower of English aristocracy was among them. But then he realised, with a stab of pure horror, that there was a group of men, led by Sir Christopher supported by Lady Janet’s relatives the Percys, whose blood was up; who had no intention of disengaging or retreating.
‘Charge!’ roared Sir Christopher and hurled himself forward.
‘Fire,’ ordered Leveson.
The noise was so great that Poley was disoriented by it. He stepped forward into yet another wall of smoke, dreamily aware that there were burning motes of powder and packing all around him, floating on the choking air, landing on the bare flesh of his neck, face and hands like wasp-stings. He thought perhaps his hair and beard would catch fire. Only the fact that he had been so close to the musketeers and posing no threat to them had saved him. But what had that final fusillade done to Sir Christopher and his men?
*
The answer came staggering out of the smoke immediately in front of him, given motion only by the power of his original charge. It was Sir Christopher. But half his face was missing. His left cheek, from cheekbone to jawline, from nostril to ear had been blown away. Poley could see the tight-clenched teeth, the gums in which they were bedded, the bones that held the gums in place. Muscles and tendons like an anatomist’s drawing all awash with blood. The horrific gargoyle crashed into Poley with surprising force, knocking him back one step after another. The terrible wound seemed to have given the fainting Sir Christopher great weight, added to the power of his last full charge. Poley was driven yet further back. He tripped over Cuffe and felt himself falling. The chain hit him across his hips, below his sword belt, just above his buttocks. He toppled helplessly backwards over it and crashed to the ground at the feet of the musketeers, with Sir Christopher sill on top of him. The back of his skull smacked into the cobbles of the road beneath the gate, Sir Christopher’s forehead crashed into Poley’s forehead like a cannon ball made of bone, smashing consciousness into unconsciousness with a single blow.
Poley woke up instantly. Or at least so it seemed at first. His head hurt fiercely, both at the back and at the front. He opened his eyes and realised he could not have woken immediately after he was knocked unconscious, though the sight of Sir Christopher’s face was still vivid in his memory. He looked around. He was in a stone-walled cell, lying on a makeshift bed. A couple of candles on a low table gave sufficient illumination for him to see. He supposed at once that he was back where this mission had begun – in the Fleet prison. But no. The stench of gunpowder lingered on the air. Unless the smell was coming from his own clothes, he must still be quite near the battlefield, though he could no longer hear the sounds of battle. Still close to Lud Gate, therefore. A room in the gate house maybe. He tried to sit up. His head swam. He felt sick. Perhaps it was as well that his belly was empty. He persisted grimly, determined to find out what was going on. He had just managed to swing his legs out of bed and sit on the edge when the door opened and Nick Skeres swaggered in. ‘Awake at last,’ he said. ‘Good.’
Poley said nothing.
‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ continued Skeres. ‘Word is you’ve been playing both sides against the middle.’
‘What? How?’ Poley demanded.
‘Was it you not who fired at poor old Leveson?’ queried Skeres. ‘Nearly frightened him to death!’
‘What? No.’ Poley went to shake his head. He stopped at once; the room seemed to rock as though Lud Gate were afloat..
‘And Master Secretary’s big brother Lord Burghley,’ Skeres continued. ‘Someone took a shot at him too, I’m told…’
‘Who has been saying…’ Poley stopped half way through the question.
‘Well, it was certainly you who shot at Sir Walter Raleigh this morning,’ Skeres continued, regardless of Poley’s interruption. ‘We have Fernando Gorges’ word on that. No. Don’t deny it. He came and reported to Master Secretary as soon as he had released the Earl’s hostages. Wise man. Might just have saved his neck. You’ll need to be careful yourself if you want to save yours.’
‘What? Why?’ Poley suspected all too well what the answer to that would be.
‘Master Secretary Cecil wants to see you.’ Confirmed Skeres. ‘He wants to see you at once.’
11
Robert Cecil, Chief Secretary to the Council, looked up at the scaffold, then around the green at the heart of the Tower. The chilly rain of a late-February morning caused him to shiver, even though he was wrapped in a thick cloak and had his hat pulled low. Was it only the cold, wondered Poley, or was it the tension that seemed to be mounting with every heartbeat? ‘It is as though the Earl and I have been duelling for so long,’ said Cecil quietly, ‘that our wounds have all begun to fester. I rely on you to draw out the poison from mine so that I can deal with his legacy equably and with no residual malice.’
Poley knew what Cecil meant, and what he had to do. Convention demanded that Cecil take his place with the other witnesses to Robert Devereux’s execution. There must be a hundred of them arranged around Tower Green. They were placed far enough back from the scaffold to see justice being done. But too far away to experience the procedure in any depth. The Queen’s desire for the same level of detail explained why Francis Bacon was standing nearby. But, thought Poley, Her Majesty could also have demanded the same thing from her Captain of the Guard. For Sir Walter Raleigh was standing as close on Poley’s left as Bacon stood on his right.
‘Remember,’ said Cecil. ‘Every element, no matter how trivial.’ He paused, oddly hesitant. This was his moment of victory, thought Poley. And yet he simply wasn’t enjoying it. Cecil went to take his place amongst the other more distant dignitaries, shaking his head sadly, as though he was the loser in this long dark game after all. Poley himself had nodded agreement to Cecil’s orders only to catch his breath at the sudden stab of agony. He had forgotten how much it could still hurt when he moved his head suddenly, though the bruise at the front and the lump at the back were both well healed now. Without thinking, he probed beneath his hair and winced. Well healed but still tender, he thought.
Poley and Bacon stood silently as the tension continued to mount. But Raleigh’s way of handling the growing suspense was the opposite of theirs. He talked non-stop to his lieutenant in a low voice that nevertheless carried to Poley quite clearly. And Poley was happy enough to listen, for he too felt the quickening of heart and fluttering in his throat that betrayed in him the tension of someone who had come within an inch of sharing the same fate. Not a formal, almost private execution, such as the Earl had been granted, but hanging before the baying mob at Tyburn. Hanging - and perhaps drawing and quartering. The fate that Gelly Meyrick and Henry Cuffe were doomed to. He had seen that done and just the thought of it happening to him made his scrotum clench.
Master Secretary was still of the opinion that it could well have been Poley who shot at his brother Lord Burghley and Sir John Leveson as they deployed town criers and armed troops over the City announcing that Essex was a traitor and arranging to defeat him by force of arms. And, three times, at Sir Walter – as the turncoat Fernando Gorges testified. Not to mention the fact that
the Earl himself had singled out Cuffe and Poley as the men who had prompted him most forcefully to rise in revolt and lead an army into the City in the end. Coupling them with his sister Penelope Rich as the individuals most responsible for what he had done. Cecil was still deciding whether Poley’s name should be expunged from the records or whether he should simply share Cuffe’s fate and close the matter for ever. In the meantime Poley had his freedom – on condition that he obeyed Cecil’s orders in every detail, no matter how distasteful they were.
But the intelligencer’s thoughts were tempted out of this dark tunnel by Sir Walter’s broad west-country tones. ‘Leveson closed off London and went about trapping the Earl and his army within it while troops from the Tower began to scour the streets. Leveson’s men did well. They covered everything from Lud Gate, moving eastwards: closed all the gates to the north and also the stairs and wharves to the south along the River. Blackfriars Stairs, Paul’s Wharf and Broken Wharf were all in loyal hands by the time Essex called retreat. So he had to run as far as Queenshythe before he could actually get to the water and hail a wherry. Then, when he got back to Essex House the first thing he discovered was that Fernando had released all the prisoners and come over to our side. Sir John Davis and Owen Salisbury had simply cut and run.’
‘But Essex still set up some kind of resistance? Even then?’ The lieutenant, like Captain Raleigh, had been guarding the Queen’s person – especially as she showed every intention of taking herself into the City and challenging her errant favourite face to face, secure in her belief that her people loved her and would stand by her no matter what. But the young lieutenant lacked Sir Walter’s wide circle of contacts and so what the older man had discovered was news to him.
‘He did,’ continued Raleigh. ‘But it was as well organised as his attack on the City. Which is to say, not at all.’
