by Peter Tonkin
Then Baines was back. He had discharged his gun to knock Tom senseless earlier and had not seen the need to reload. Now he was pouring powder into the nozzle with trembling speed and tamping it home. He half hid behind the stumbling form of the wounded Rackmaster and both of them fell back into the larger area of the torture chamber. Tom followed them slowly and relentlessly, until he had a clear view of the rack and its well-stretched occupant.
And it was not a woman but a man whose body lay prone and whimpering before him. Not Kate but Kit. Not Shelton the spy but Callot the charm. The relief was so intense that it made his head swim. His sword-point wavered and fell. There came a decisive, final snap as Baines cocked his pistol.
'Earl's command or no,' said Baines quietly, 'put down your sword or I'll kill you where you stand.'
'Shoot him in the leg, fool,' suggested Topcliffe viciously, his hand failing to staunch the blood seeping from his shoulder. 'I can still rack him with a shattered leg.'
But before Baines could follow his own thoughts or the Rackmaster's advice, there was a thundering on the outer door. 'My name is Robert Poley,' bellowed a stentorian voice. 'I hold a warrant here for Thomas Musgrave, Master of the Science of Defence. It is a warrant from the Court of Star Chamber to deliver the body of the said Thomas Musgrave whole and unwounded, to me forthwith; and I warn you, Baines and Topcliffe both, that it bears the signatures of Lord Henry Carey and Sir Robert Cecil and of Lord Burghley himself.'
Tom, relieved alike of his foils and his fetters on the swift journey from Newgate to Westminster, looked around the Court of Star Chamber. The chamber after which the court was named earned its own name from the designs on the ceiling and floor. It earned its fearsome reputation under the two great Henrys when it had been a fear some engine of state repression. Enough of that reputation still remained for even the usually iron control of Tom Musgrave to soften a little. For this was in many ways the highest but most secret court in all the land. This was the most powerful court in all the kingdom - except for the court of the Queen's own will. This was the court, com posed of the ministers of the Privy Council, that dealt with matters too great or too secret for all the other courts. Those matters touching the Throne too nearly. It was the great exception to the fatal rule for any man such as Tom himself to face the Court of Star Chamber and ever to be heard of again. The last man to do it was Kit Marlowe, summoned to court in May last year and dead in Deptford within the month, murdered by Robert Poley and his men. Tom looked across the room at his only friend there - Robert Poley. But Poley was looking at the court.
It was not a fully convened Star Chamber Court - rather a committee. Still and all, thought Tom, there was the Archbishop, to whom he had delivered Henslowe's dead dogs as a pretext to hide Morton's corpse. There was Henry Carey, Lord Hunsdon and Lord Chamberlain, whose wrath was the last thing he had heard. There was Lord Howard, the Lord Admiral, familiar from the Armada celebrations, last of the old warhorses now that Leicester was gone. There was quiet, sinister, crook-backed Robert Cecil, Mister Secretary in the late Sir Francis Walsingham's shoes. And there, in the central chair was Cecil the elder, Robert's father, Lord Burghley, King in all but name.
So, thought Tom, his mind racing like a hound at the hart's flank, these were the old guard. Where were the likes of Essex, Southampton, Cotehel, who would be Outremer within the week? Never allowed on committees such as this one. Closed out. Lacking real power. Forbidden access to any of the levers of civil power, forbidden every thing except access to Her Majesty which could not be denied even by men like this. Like Southampton, like the late Lord Strange, forbidden even the distant dreams of a Catholic succession to keep their impatience in check. Dreams so close - in distance and time, for there were Catholics just across the Channel and Catholics who had held thrones both here and in neighbouring Scotland within the Queen's own lifetime. Dreams but one monarch and one plot damned pretender - both called Mary - away. Dreams running hard against the walls of inevitability now - of an old woman whom they would outlive but with whom their hopes of power would die. Of a Scottish succession when King James would come south out of Edinburgh to London and these men, and their sons, would be set to inherit all.
One such son leaned forward. Sir Robert Cecil whispered into the ear of Lord Burghley, his father.
'Master Musgrave,' said Lord Burghley. 'You have been busying yourself in the affairs of this court and of the Council.'
'I have, my lord.'
The son spoke, before the lordly father could. 'You do not deny it?' snapped Sir Robert Cecil.
'To do so would be stupid in so many ways, my lord.' Tom continued talking to Lord Burghley, for the white-haired old man was the senior justice of the Star Chamber, the Principal Secretary of State to Queen and Council. The time spent at his uncle's knee and in conversations with the Lord of Bewcastle when down from Glasgow University had none of them been wasted, thought Tom now.
'How so?' asked Burghley.
'Although the matter began for me with a petty deception and a poor attempt to unmask the murderer of an actor at the Rose some three days since...'
Sir Robert Cecil leaned forward and whispered in his father's ear again. His eyes rested on Tom reminding him suddenly of Will's eyes, for they were heavy with intelligence. This man, Kate had said and Poley had confirmed, ran the remains of Walsingham's intelligencer service and slept with her older sister Audrey who was set to marry Tom Walsingham, his predecessor's adopted son.
'This court has no record of such a murder.'
Tom continued to talk to Burghley but his eyes remained fixed on Sir Robert Cecil's eyes. 'I hid the body, my lord, for reasons I have explained to Master Poley, who is, sometimes at the least, an officer of the court; and to Lord Henry, here also. And, I believe, of Sir Robert, your son. It was only during my conversation with his Lordship and subsequently, working with Master Poley, that I came to realise that my little murder had anything to do with secret matters of state. But since I came to that realisation, reading Julius Morton's letter two days since in Alsatia, I have known. Yes, my lord.'
'And yet you saw fit to continue?'
'I stand to be corrected, my lord, but what I was doing seemed rather to be of help than otherwise. Always assuming that Master Poley's continued life, health and work were your lordships' principal method of investigation.'
'And why should they not be?' demanded Sir Robert Cecil, his eyes never leaving Tom's.
'I have Master Poley's word, my lord, and that of Lord Hunsdon. Both of course are sufficient in themselves. On the other hand, at no time has Master Poley made me privy to the full scale of the matter. In this case I am a veritable Pandora, my lord, and each time I open a box some greater evil leaps out of it. And opening boxes, my lord, is what I have been doing for the last three days; in the sure and certain knowledge that there are bigger boxes yet to be opened and Master Poley persists in keeping the keys concealed.'
'Were you a Pandora in truth,' observed Sir Robert dryly, 'then keeping the keys concealed would be a work of wisdom.'
'Then, my lord, if the truth is always to remain hidden from me then perhaps I should be hidden away from the truth.'
'Master Poley?' asked Sir Robert. 'How do we untangle this coil? 'Twould be easy enough to take him at his word. There are cells within the Tower that could accommodate him until the outer bounds of patience and convenience. Always assuming we wish to keep him above ground or in the city.'
Tom's heart clenched within him. But, just as Sir Robert had asked the question without looking away, so Tom awaited the answer with his eyes steadily on the secret Secretary's.
'I have tested this man in many ways,' said Robert Poley quietly. 'And have yet to find him wanting. I am slow to trust and with good reason as you know, but I have come to trust this man as my Lord of Hunsdon does. Except in the matter of the body, everything he has told me seems to have the stamp of truth. And even though, when I checked at the Plague Pit on the night of our first meetin
g and found it untenanted as I reported, there may have been a body as he says. Others I have subtly questioned agree. And it may have been spirited away. Both Phellippes's man Baines and my Lord of Essex's man Salgado have been busy behind our backs. But the nub of the matter is this. As Phellippes and Will Shakespeare are with codes and cyphers, so is this man with logic, Sir Robert. If I asked him to expound the entire matter now, like as not he would do so from the start, missing out little of import in spite of what I have kept locked away from him. He has saved my life. He has done much to slow the massacre of my people. Chance, Fortune - or Divine Providence - has fitted him for the task not only with the sharpness of his mind but also with the genius of his fencing arms and the position in which we find him, acquainted with Kate Shelton, friends with Will Shakespeare, allied with the Bishop's Bailiff. He has played Moses to Baines's subtle Pharaoh and has vanquished him at every turn. And - and this is most important, though I cannot yet explain it - he holds an invitation to go to Elfinstone for Baron Cotehel wishes to see him - and he alone, none other but he - fence with the Spanish assassin Salgado before the Earls of Essex and Southampton.'
'Not merely to fence, my lord,' added Tom quietly. 'To die. Whoever is Baines's master in this, the Earl of Essex or no, he has been ordered to ensure my arms are hurt. By rack or by bludgeon. I am to go there crippled if possible so that I may be seen to fight and die.'
'But if you are crippled,' asked Sir Robert quietly, 'how will they make sure that you go? That you fight against such fearful odds?'
'I have no idea,' said Tom quietly. 'But I know that it will be so.'
Henry Carey, Lord Hunsdon and Lord Chamberlain, shook his head, brows folding in that familiar frown. Both Tom and Robert Cecil were fooled into glancing towards him. 'It sits ill with me,' he growled, 'that Cotehel be allowed to enter into his uncle's castle and estates before due process of chancery law. Even by a day or two.'
'Your concern is noted, my lord,' said Lord Burghley. 'But what are your thoughts as to the matter before this court?'
'Oh, aye. Let the boy go. If he can survive, he's like to learn what lies at the bottom of this. And it'll be something foul, I'll wager, rather than something fair. And, now I think of it, I'm more than a little worried about the part played in this by those actors. Most of them are masterless men since the murder of Lord Strange and there seems little limit to the mischief they get up to if there's no eye kept upon them. I'll take Strange's men under my livery. It was Strange's Men that Morton and Shakespeare worked for was it not? Yes. I'll take them. Anyone like to stand surety for the rest?'
The Lord Admiral looked up. 'A good thought, Lord Hunsdon,' he said. 'I'll take the rest. Where are they playing now?'
Tom opened his mouth to answer, but it was Robert Cecil who said, 'They're playing
at the Rose, my lord.'
They probably would never had believed it if anyone else had told them - certainly none of them would have credited it from the lips of Poley, who stood at Tom's side in the middle of the Rose's stage. 'Those that were Lord Strange's men may call themselves Lord Hunsdon's,' he told them. 'And the rest of you the Lord Admiral's.'
'But when is this to start?' demanded Dick Burbage, his face aglow.
'Not before the week's end,' said Will with an unexpected frown. 'We play before my Lord of Southampton on Saturday. We cannot bow to another livery before then.'
'True,' chorused one or two others - the younger men eager to sample the delights promised by a weekend at a great house.
'And we cannot split up the company,' added Philip Henslowe, powerfully, 'before the end of our run with Romeo. We had planned to replace Romeo in the midst of next week. Let us wait until then and all part friends.'
And so it was agreed, and the company went off to prepare for the first house of the afternoon. Except for Will; he went off into the tiring room to work through some ill hewn pieces of The Play of Thomas More. Tom followed, deep in thought, with Poley like Marlowe's Mephistophilis at his shoulder. 'Will. ..'
'Aye?'
'This Saturday...'
'What of it?'
'You play before Southampton, do you not?'
Will turned. There was a glow of excitement - perhaps of something more - in his face and eyes. 'We do. What of it?'
'But where do you play? Not Southampton House? For...'
'Ah. I see. No. We play before the Earl away. We are part of the merry evening he has planned with his friend Lord Outremer. We play at Elfinstone.'
'Would that be enough to get you down to Elfinstone, broken arms and all?' asked Robert Poley as they sat at the ordinary table in the Elephant. They had discussed Poley's fears on discovering no body in the plague pit and the manner that this had slowed his trust. But things were becoming clearer between them now.
Tom spooned some brewis into his mouth, savouring the way the salt-beef broth had softened the bread and filled it with flavour. There was a sallet of herbs on the table beside it and he took a mouthful of breath freshening leaves, thinking of Constanza and her basil - both now gone. And of Kate, not yet reappeared. 'No,' he answered roundly enough. 'There would have to be more. What do we know of Baines and his present whereabouts?'
Poley chewed on his eel pie. 'Nothing. He'll have taken his warrant back to the Earl of Essex like as not. He's Star Chamber business now. The Fleet is the Star Chamber's prison and that's where he'll end when his foot slips. Or back with Topcliffe.'
'Aye. But in the meantime, he's still likely dogging our heels. He and Salgado both.'
'Then you had best watch your back as you go down to Elfinstone tomorrow.'
'Little need for that,' said Tom with a lightness he did not feel. 'I have a retinue to guard me.'
Whatever other confidences the two men might have been about to share were rudely interrupted by near pandemonium at the tavern's main door. Both men leaped to their feet and crossed decisively to the gaggle of people gathered loudly there. 'What's amiss?' demanded Poley.
An ill-looking man tugged an oily forelock, his broad, stubbled face folded in almost vacuous concern. 'There's terrible trouble at the Clink, your worship. There's mortal sickness abroad and even the Bishop's Bailiff stricken down and like to die.'
Chapter Twenty-Two - The Golden Hind
Talbot Law was dying. Neither he nor Tom doubted that for an instant. The Bishop's Bailiff lay on the table in the cramped little watch room of the Clink Prison, his head cradled in his friend's arms, his body gripped by racking convulsions. And yet he refused to die. Instead, between bouts of gasping and vomiting, he was choking out his confession - or that part of it that might pertain to Tom.
'Seven years back. At Nijmagen. The day the walls fell. Remember?'
'I remember, Old Law. What of it?'
'Weighed heavy on my conscience ever since. Time to unburden now, I guess. You call to mind the tent? Lord Robert's tent? The rape? Aye. I see you do. Think on that Tom, where was the Master of Logic then? Think on the girl. And the boy you cut down.' Talbot's eyes begged as his face twisted in a grimace and his racked body heaved again.
Tom remembered. The scene had visited both memory and dreams often enough since, but he had never really thought about the incident. Truth to tell, he had always tried to avoid thinking about it. But as Talbot requested, and from the heights of much more worldly experience, he thought about it now. And saw at once what his friend was driving at. 'The girl had been ravaged. Thoroughly and brutally so. But not by the boy I fought. He was at a point, sure enough, and ready to push his rapine home - but he had yet to do so or he could never have faced me as he did. God's death, there was another man there. Hidden from us, letting his companion face us down!'
'Two lads, aye. Young but vicious enough, in all good faith. Hell-born, the pair of them. I held them there in spite of all their threatening and caterwauling. And I sent word to Lord Robert too, while Bess tended the poor maid as best she could. Lord Robert came out of the battle at my call, for the whelps had been e
ager enough to tell me who they were while they threatened what they would do to me unless I let them go - and Lord Robert was responsible for one of them at least. As you'd suspect, given where they were.
'The long and the short of it was that the Earl of Leicester himself came back from the battle like the wrath of God. He took one look at the situation; listened to what we all had to say. Then he whipped the pair of them to within an inch of their lives - there and then, in the tent, in front of the girl. He swore they were lucky he did not do the same in front of the whole of the army. Then he swore us all to silence and secrecy and we went on about the war.'
Tom sat, awed by the patterns that the simple revelation set forming through his head. 'The boy I fought was Hugh Outram, before he became Baron Cotehel,' he whispered, remembering the picture in Highmeet House. The hare lip, the star shaped scar in the forehead. 'I marked him for life.'
'You marked his face,' whispered Talbot. 'But the Earl of Leicester marked his arse a good deal more.'
Tom gave a grating laugh. 'His arse wasn't in his portrait. But wait. The portrait that hung next to Cotehel's portrait. It showed the dead engineer. Captain Ive's messenger who died delivering the code.'
'That would be young Lord Henry. Cotehel's cousin. Son and heir to Lord Outremer of Wormwood in Jewry. Died like Sir Phillip Sidney in the service of his country. You'll have been in Siena for the great outpourings of public grief in London. Then the Armada came and we all forgot. Then the plague came and Lord Outremer's family all joined poor Lord Henry, leaving Hugh Outram, Baron Cotehel, Sir Rapine the Ravisher, to inherit it all.'
'And what of the girl?'
'Who knows? Bess tended her for a while, but she was a broken reed. A spirited, independent lass before, by all accounts, she simply became a kind of puppet. To lose her maidenhead and her brother in the one day addled her wits, poor thing. Especially as it was her cousin that she had grown up with since the cradle that was set to rape her too. And from what I could gather, her father, who was there supplying the army and had brought her because of her own flighty insistence, blamed her for the matter. Though he was broken in his own way by the death of Lord Henry his son and by the perfidy of his nephew Sir Hugh.'