by Peter Tonkin
‘Hmmm,’ said Bacon, clearly unconvinced. ‘And that’s Weever, I believe, not Weevil.’
‘Well, master gravedigger,’ said Raleigh, paying no attention to Tom or Bacon. ‘You make slow progress. Will everything be ready for tomorrow?’
‘Aye your worship, that it will. ‘Tis hard ground right enough but holy. Your man will lie here most snug in a grave inside an abbey, and the ground harder and holier than a churchyard even.’
‘That’s good enough for me,’ said Raleigh. ‘I’m off to Durham House and then to the court. Sir Francis?’
‘I’m off to Essex House, Sir Walter, and report the progress to the earl.’
The two men turned away and their footsteps echoed down the soaring nave. Tom looked at Ugo. ‘Let’s look a little deeper, shall we? I was only half in jest about finding somewhere to sit.’
‘Sitting in a church,’ Ugo chided gently. ‘It’s not right, Tom. It shows too little respect to The Almighty, like as if a woman should come to worship with her head uncovered. But I take your point about the sick buckets.’
‘Very well, let us look for somewhere we can stand in some comfort with the buckets at our feet.’ The pair strolled deeper yet into the body of the church, their aimlessness attracting the attention of one of the Dean’s guards. As they passed the Sanctuary and the High Altar, the man came towards them, calling, ‘Masters, what is it you do here?’
‘We are looking for a place to stand tomorrow,’ explained Tom.
‘Well, you cannot stand here. This is the tomb of St Edward, also known as The Confessor.’
‘Really?’ said Tom, his interest piqued. ‘And this one behind it? I see some bruised and battered weapons and armour hanging from the beam above it but the effigy itself has been robbed of its head and hands.’
‘Ah,’ said the Dean’s man. ‘I can see you’re not a Londoner sir by more than your Northern speech. Why that is the tomb of good King Henry V. I’m, told that the effigy’s head and hands were all of solid silver and that he held a silver sceptre, but they have all been stolen, so he lies there without head or hands. And, truth to tell, without his wife either for Queen Katherine’s body was removed from her tomb during the reign of our good queen’s grandfather Henry VII, and the tomb has stood empty to this day. Not a kind manner to my way of thinking, sir, to treat one of our greatest hero kings. But then, what do I know of such matters beyond what I see in the playhouses? I am but a poor scholar.’
As Tom and Ugo made their way back down the echoing nave, Tom said, thoughtfully, ‘Will is writing his play of Henry Fifth even now. I wonder does he know how England’s greatest royal hero has been treated?’
‘He’s lost his head,’ answered Ugo sadly. ‘Who would have thought such a thing possible?’
‘Let’s hope we don’t share the same fate,’ said Tom. ‘And that the great and the good all around us keep theirs as well.’
iv
Freedom from students for the afternoon and the promise of more freedom tomorrow put Tom into something of a holiday mood augmented by the sparkling clarity of the frosty afternoon. The Thames had been a continuous sheet of ice less than three weeks ago but it had broken up and the waterway was fairly free now, consequently there was a good deal of waterborne bustle. Tom, relaxing in the stern of a wherry seriously considered telling the wherryman to row them over to the nearest steps to Will Shakespeare’s new residence, but in the end, the thought of fighting their way across to Bank End then back again to Blackfriars Steps seemed such a waste of time that he decided simply to retrace the course Ugo and he had taken earlier.
This decision turned out to be a fortunate thing, for as the Dutch gunsmith and he strolled out of Water Lane and into Blackfriars itself, a pair of worried looking youngsters came rushing towards them. It took Tom an instant to recognise John Gerard’s oldest offspring other than Elizabeth. A pair of twins seemingly identical save that one was a girl and the other a boy. And the fact that they were here suggested that Elizabeth was not at home before they even opened their mouths.
‘Mother sent us, Master Musgrave,’ they gabbled, one talking over the other in their hurry to deliver their message.
‘Elizabeth has gone off in a huff...
‘Mother doesn’t know where to...’
‘Father is out tending Lord Cecil’s gardens and not expected before sunset.’
‘If Elizabeth is not home by then Mum says there will be murder done...’
‘Father swore to beat her within an inch of her life if she goes off again...’
‘Do you know where she might be found, sir?’
‘Do you think you can bring her back home before Father arrives?’
Tom looked at Ugo and shrugged. ‘Ugo, can you take these two upstairs and give them some milk. I suspect I know where Mistress Elizabeth might be discovered, and if not in one place then likely in the other.’
Ugo obediently shepherded the young Gerard twins up to the rooms he shared with Tom while Tom himself turned on his heel and strode eastwards along Carter Lane.
St Paul’s churchyard was even busier than the River, folk of all sorts and standing brought out by the break in the wintery weather. Even so, Tom knew where he was headed - the best place to begin at any rate. He recognised Elizabeth’s description of a bookseller’s stall just beside a fruit and vegetable stand. The bookseller’s name was Jaggard. He printed and bound pamphlets and slim volumes, and he specialised in poetry old and new, much of which had recently involved various works by Will Shakespeare.
That was where John Donne had been when Elizabeth and he first met and of all the places in the churchyard it was the most convenient for an assignation for it stood at the heart of a constantly shifting sea of humanity and yet, rock-like, it was always there, standing against the tide. Jaggard and his son were friends of Will’s and, consequently, of Tom’s. If Donne and Elizabeth had already met up and walked on, one of the Jaggards, father or son, would have a fair idea of where they went.
But when Tom arrived at Jaggard’s stall, Donne was there alone, poring over a battered-looking pamphlet as Jaggard looked on impatiently, clearly wishing to make a sale and less than pleased that his customer was reading the entire booklet without purchasing it first. ‘Well met Master Donne,’ said Tom, who had been introduced to the recusant soldier poet at Thomas Walsingham’s Nonesuch House some time ago. ‘I’m looking for young Elizabeth Gerard as you have been courting. At least that’s what she says. Have you had an assignation with her this afternoon?’
Donne looked up, apparently perplexed. ‘I am courting no-one,’ he said. ‘I am not here on any assignation - merely to purchase this volume before Master Jaggard here sells it to any other. For it is, by my reckoning, unique.’
Sidetracked for a moment, Tom asked, ‘Why? What is it?’
‘Mayhap it is the last copy of Edmund Spenser’s Prosopopia or Mother Hubberd’s Tale still in circulation,’ answered Donne excitedly. ‘You know it has been banned and proscribed not once but twice. On its original publication it was banned by Lord Burghley; and more lately on its re-issue less than a year ago by Secretary Cecil his son. It is, they say, a scurrilous attack on one generation of great men after another - first the father and now the son, though that is by no means all. There are some who see almost treasonous references to courtiers right up to and including the Queen herself!’
‘If that is so, then I have no doubt it has been banned and burned! Are you certain you have not seen Elizabeth Gerard, a tall, slim blonde girl, pretty spoilt and wilful?’
‘I may have seen such a woman now you mention it. But not today.’
*
‘Are you at liberty for a stroll down to Billingsgate?’ asked Tom.
‘I am at liberty, by why Billingsgate?’ wondered Donne.
‘Because the girl you only just recall is likely down there in Simon Forman’s house completing her birth chart so he can predict whether you will wed her or not - and get him to supply a love philtre or som
e other magic toy in order to win you to her if you are not likely to fall in love any other way.’
‘Dear God in Heaven! This is madness or witchcraft? Is she insane? I hardly know the girl.’
‘It is her plan to ensure that you know her better - and ideally for the rest of both your lives.’
‘Then I believe I had better accompany you post haste.’
Donne paid for the pamphlet then he and Tom set off for Billingsgate at a brisk walk.
‘So,’ said Tom, ‘tell me more about this twice-banned publication. Is it like one of Ben Jonson’s satiric plays that get him locked in jail every now and then?’
‘No. It is more subtle than The Isle of Dogs that got Topcliffe chasing Jonson and Nashe that wrote it so that Jonson ended up in the Marshalsea under the eye of the Pursuivant Marshal, lucky not to have been racked in the mean time as I understand it.’ Donne said.
‘More subtle, you say. It could hardly be less so than The Isle of Dogs. But tell me how,’ asked Tom, fascinated.
‘Spencer’s poem tells of a sick man, one too ill to leave his bed.’
‘I know of one of those,’ said Tom. ‘Sir Antony Bacon. He works for the Earl of Essex.’
‘Really? Well in this poem, the ailing poet is entertained by various friends but none can hold his interest until an old lady, Mother Hubberd, arrives. And she tells him a tale that holds his interest and begins his cure. This tale is about a Fox and an Ape who decide they are going to rise in the world and make themselves rich and powerful. This they do through a series of schemes and tricks. They first get a position tending the sheep of an honest farmer but they kill and eat them all then run away on the day before they are to account for the flock. They pretend to be clergymen to rob the poor and steal benefices, having been schooled in how to proceed by a priest who has no learning in anything except self-interest. Then they go to the lion king’s court and behave in a manner that courtiers are forbidden to do - they accept bribes, terrorise any creature who doesn’t pay enough, do down their enemies and bring forward members of their families whether they are honest and able or not. Finally, they discover the lion, as King of Beasts, asleep and they steal his skin, his crown and his sceptre so that they can rule the kingdom in his place. In the end the great god Jupiter is forced to intervene. He sends Mercury to rouse the sleeping lion so that all is put to rights. The Fox is stripped and banished while the Ape has his ears cropped and loses his tail.’
‘A fox and an ape do this,’ said Tom. ‘You’re sure it is a fox and an ape?’
‘Indeed,’ said Donne. ‘There is no mistake. A fox and an ape.’
‘Do you go much to the Queen’s court?’ wondered Tom.
‘Hardly at all, as yet. But I hope for preferment...’ Donne frowned with surprise at this apparent change of tack.
‘So you would hardly be aware that the Queen herself, an elderly lady fond of stories, gives her closest courtiers nicknames, often animal names based on personal traits and so-forth. For instance, she called Sir Francis Walsingham her ‘Moor’ because he was so dark of aspect.’
Donne stopped short. He looked down at the pamphlet and up at Tom, an expression of horror slowly creeping over his face. ‘And are you telling me that there are men there of great importance, whom she calls her Fox and her Ape?’
Tom nodded.
‘But how can that be? The poem was written years ago, published ten years since to great initial success - until it was banned by order of Lord Burleigh...’
‘But if it’s been re-published again now,’ said Tom grimly, ‘it will be because Spencer was so desperate for money. By the look of things it has been re-published just at the time that its satire bites deepest and its targets are most obvious, like my bed-ridden Bacon, even if they are of a younger generation than the original ones!’
‘Mary, mother of God! It is fortunate, perhaps, that poor Spenser is dead after all. And something of a miracle, I’d say, that he wasn’t murdered by the Fox or the Ape, whoever they may be.’
v
Tom was still calculating how best to answer John Donne’s remark when the poet gave a start and stopped on the spot. There immediately ahead of them, shouldering her way through the bustle of Thames Street, her face pale with fury, came Elizabeth Gerard. No sooner had Donne and Tom seen her than she saw them. The ice white cheeks became brick red in a heartbeat and Elizabeth froze in turn.
Tom walked forward, calling ‘Well met, Elizabeth. Master Donne and I were seeking you. Your mother needs you at home.’
Elizabeth looked around like a cornered rabbit but the heedless bustle of those around her simply walled her in. As he approached, Tom noticed that she was carrying an oft-folded paper. Her birth chart, he guessed. And she was wearing something on a leather lace around her neck, something that looked like an amulet which rested on the upper slope of her breast, a piece of wood or stone that contrasted with the coarse blue cloth of her bodice.
‘Master Musgrave,’ she said, looking past him at his dark-haired, hot-eyed companion. ‘Mother sent you? And Master Donne?’
‘Your mother sent the twins asking if I could find you. I found Master Donne as I sought you. Are you well? You looked pale when I first saw you.’
‘I am... I am...’
‘You are returning from Simon Forman’s,’ he said. ‘With your birth chart and an amulet. How did you afford such things?’
Her eyes widened and her gaze returned to Tom. ‘When Mother sends me on errands I do not always spend everything she gives me. She never asks for change or accounting.’
‘Best not let your father know you steal from your mother or he will take the rod to you as sure as night follows day. Was the risk worth taking?’ he gestured to the folded chart. ‘Does Foreman predict great things?’ he gestured at the amulet. ‘That charm would lead me to think perhaps he did not assure you of your heart’s desire, so he has supplied a way of getting it beyond the control of the planets.’
Her eyes flicked up to Donne once more and her blush deepened.
‘Whatever you hoped to gain from this adventure,’ he continued smoothly, ‘you have lost it. Master Donne was passing pleasantries, not courting you. His heart is already spoken for and lies elsewhere. As he will confirm should you have the courage to ask him. Our only concern is whether master Forman took you to his bedroom, which is by no means fit for a virgin to behold - and if he did, whether you are virgin still!’
*
The colour drained from her face once more. ‘I ran away,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘Out of that terrible room before he could lay a finger on me. I nearly fell down the stairs and I called to the servants for help but there was no-one there when I reached the kitchen. I ran out into the garden and would have hidden in the privy there but it was locked and looking through the peep-hole in the door I saw someone else was in it who did not bestir himself in spite of my pleas. So I ran back through the house and out through the shop. He did not follow me thank the Lord.’
‘So you have escaped. Your virtue is intact. Whatever your birth chart predicts and whatever Master Forman promised that the amulet would do, it cannot involve Master Donne. We had best get you home before your father returns. It will go hard on you when you tell your mother what you have been doing. I will not answer for what your father will do if ever he should hear of it.’
Tom turned and paused, surprised for an instant. Sometime during his conversation with Elizabeth, John Donne had disappeared. He had planned to get the poet to confirm what he had just told the lovelorn maiden. But Donne’s absence spoke every bit as loudly and clearly.
Depressed and defeated, Elizabeth fell in beside him and he matched the pace of his walking to hers. In truth he felt sorry for the girl. He was used to determined women. His last two lovers had both been full of fire and character, each headstrong in her own way, each forceful and impatient of propriety. The first was the beautiful Italian adventuress Costanza D’Agostino who had come with him from Mae
stro Capo Fero’s school of fencing in Sienna but who had returned to her homeland while Romeo was still the rage at The Rose and the Newington Butts theatres. Who had been succeeded by flame-haired Kate Shelton, sister to Thomas Walsingham’s wife Audrey, both swimming as deep in the murky pool of political spycraft as anyone - even Poley.
‘I would counsel you to hide the chart and the amulet as best you can, though it will be difficult to do so in a house of inquisitive children such as the pair we must collect on our way to your home. Be honest and open with your mother and she will protect you from your father’s anger should the need arise. She will be relieved that you have come to no harm and that will plead your cause as eloquently as a lawyer at the bar. But I would suggest you leave aside any details that might shock or upset her more than necessary. Such as the appearance of Foreman’s bedchamber.’
‘Have you seen it? It will be forever printed on my memory!’ she shuddered.
‘So, keep it well clear of your mother’s.’
‘I will do so.’ She was quiet for a moment then she added, shyly, ‘You are a good friend, Master Musgrave.’
‘I’m not sure I agree with that, Elizabeth. You are wilful and out of control. Perhaps I should be more open to your father in the hope that a sound whipping would mend your ways. But I have chosen another path and will not deviate from it now.’ He paused, then he began to ask a question or two in the hope that she might have noticed something that he himself had missed on his equally hurried exit from Forman’s house. ‘But tell me, were you not frightened by the screaming birds by the inner kitchen door?’