A Verse to Murder

by Peter Tonkin

  As he listed the table’s occupants in careful order, he could feel her respond, for he still held her by her upper arm. Forman and Kate meant nothing to her. Poley had been her spymaster and she trusted him still. At the mention of his name she tensed to return and question him face to face. But the last name, Francis Bacon, brought her up short, for as she knew all too well, Bacon was Essex’ man. It was Essex’ men who had burned her father’s inn, beaten him down and killed him while kidnapping her, all so that Francis Bacon could interrogate her, to discover what she knew about Essex’ plans to raise an army to subdue Ireland and, in due time, to invade England as well. And even now she was surprised he had not used torture - and suspicious that he might yet do so. Therefore Francis Bacon’s name stopped her in her tracks. It stunned her enough to let him guide her out of the tavern with no further trouble and into the Little Rose next door.

  Here there was a side of mutton on the spit. Things were quieter and, Tom had to admit, that was because neither the food nor the drink were up to The Rose’s standard. There was gambling of all sorts going on and that too was logical - the girls were willing enough but lacked a certain something that the girls in the Rose possessed. Allure. They were, by and large, as lean and lank as the mutton on the spit, which was being turned through a series of cogs by a trained dog running in circles.

  Tom led Rosalind through the place, weaving between the tables, exchanging a word or two with those barraters and coney catchers keen for him to join their games or share his pretty little mort with them. He nodded to the landlord, with whom he was well acquainted, and with his wife who really ran the place, then he and Rosalind were out in the garden where, in summer, the lank mistresses of the game took their lean pickings one way or another, mostly standing against the trunks of the sturdier trees nearby.

  In early January the place was mercifully untenanted, though Tom wryly reckoned that his reputation for desperation and Rosalind’s for willingness would both be enhanced by their speedy exit. However he had brought her here not for sport but for spying. The gardens behind the Rose and the Little Rose were separated by a meager hedge as well as by the occasional trees. It was the work of a moment for them to push their way through and creep unobserved and unsuspected up to the window nearest to Poley’s table.

  iv

  ‘…but he is safe,’ Kate Shelton was saying.

  ‘Safe enough,’ Poley assured her. ‘Until we decide how best to proceed with him.’

  ‘How can it be,’ wondered Forman, ‘That such a simple matter should go awry not once but twice? That the boy, ready to testify, should come to such an end…’

  ‘Gratis of my lady impatience here,’ inserted the one voice Tom did not know - Bacon’s therefore.

  ‘Howsoever that might be,’ continued Forman, ‘that the boy’s body should vanish before the message could be delivered is almost inconceivable. Have you no notion, Master Poley?’

  ‘Oh I know well enough who removed it but as yet remain ignorant as to where they put it.’ He paused for a heartbeat and Tom found himself wondering why Kate did not tell him where the body lay - because she had helped put it there. But then Poley continued, ‘And in any case it is no longer of any use, for the poem you caused to be so carefully forged, Master Forman, has been removed and is currently with all the others. At least I know where that is and can reclaim it at any time for all the use it will be to us by then.’

  ‘But the stratagem,’ insisted Forman. ‘How can that be maintained?’

  ‘We have time to reconsider,’ said Poley. ‘What do you advise, Sir Francis?’

  ‘If we have time, then we should use it,’ answered Bacon, ‘to the advantage of ourselves and our masters.’

  ‘How can that be?’ demanded Kate. ‘Are we not all met here to speak for those who could never come to any accord in anything save in this? Master Forman speaks for Sir Walter, Sir Francis for the Earl, Master Poley for the Secretary and myself for Sir Thomas. Except for Philip of Spain and Henry of France, Rudolph of Germany the Holy Roman Emperor and of course Pope Clement, our masters are the four most powerful men in Europe.’

  ‘Don’t forget Albert, Archduke of Austria,’ said Poley. ‘At the moment he is merely Emperor Rudolph’s younger brother but he is betrothed to the Infanta Isabella of Spain, who is likely to become Queen of England if certain factions in the North centered round Hoghton Hall get their way. Especially as Lady Arbella Stuart remains unattached and currently out of the running for the succession. That would make Albert even more powerful than Isabella’s father, Philip II of Spain our late Queen Mary’s husband, who never gave up on his claim to the English throne as consort to our Queen even though she was dead and replaced by her sister Elizabeth.’

  ‘The four of our masters wish to remain amongst the most powerful of men,’ purred Bacon, ‘despite what vagaries are likely to overwhelm us all in the not-so-distant future.’

  ‘But to return to the matter in hand,’ said Poley. ‘We as their creatures may say what they may not, discuss what they cannot and propose what they would never countenance…’

  ‘In public, at least,’ said Kate.

  ‘As the mention of Archduke Albert and the Infanta have already suggested, such matters ultimately hinge upon the Queen and the succession,’ said Poley after a short silence. His tone, thought Tom, was that of a man wading into uncharted waters likely to be full of man-eating monsters. ‘The Queen herself - who has refused to name a successor - and how My Lord of Essex wishes to approach this problem in one way, despite Sir Walter being positioned against him, considering a contrary approach.’

  ‘Does the Earl really seek to usurp the throne and name himself King in her place?’ demanded Kate, dropping her voice at the enormity of the question so that Tom could hardly hear her.

  ‘Sir Walter would never countenance that,’ snapped Forman. ‘That or anything like it. He is Captain of the Guard. Even to discuss such things is a treason he must never be made aware of or we will all lose out heads over the matter. Having been broken on the rack first as like as not.’

  ‘We’d be fortunate were it just our heads,’ warned Poley drily. ‘We’d likely go the way of Babington and his plotters - hung, drawn and then quartered while yet living.

  *

  ‘My Lord of Essex means no such thing as usurpation,’ soothed Bacon. ‘He thinks only of placing Her Majesty in protective custody, perhaps, at Drayton Basset with his mother and step father while the Council seeks a way forward that does not involve poisoning her mind against him.’

  ‘A way that has to include him, however,’ said Poley. ‘He neither likes or trusts any of the men we represent, but still has his ambitions. You must admit as much, Sir Francis. He is as alert for perfidy as a naked soldier on the wrong side of a battlefield. And in any case, how would this protective custody work?’

  ‘As it worked with the Queen of Scots,’ said Bacon. ‘As, so you say, it is working with Shagsberd at the Marshalsea now.’

  ‘And look how the first turned out,’ said Poley, ‘though I cannot speak for the second as yet.’

  ‘But in any case, said Forman, ‘we all know that the Council and Sir Thomas Walsingham are both making love to the Queen of Scots’ son King James in Edinburgh. Through the offices of Lady Walsingham, your sister, Mistress Kate, deny it if you can!’

  ‘If it is so,’ said Kate archly, ‘they would simply be seeking a steady and appropriate succession. There are too many, especially in the North, who would see us all returned to the Old Religion the moment that she dies; those that still remember and revere the Lords of the North, the Nevills, the Dacres and the Percys, not to mention those at Hoghton Hall. Which brings us back to the Infanta of Spain as master Poley said. And, indeed, to the Lady Arbella Stuart - a lady all too likely by some reckoning to share the fate of Jane Grey, Queen for nine days and beheaded in the Tower.’

  v

  ‘But James of Scotland is by no means well suited to every taste,’ said Forman. ‘H
as he not written Daemonologie anathematizing magic of all sorts? Has he not personally overseen the trials of witches? I fear that were he to succeed things would go hard for me and, I have to say, for Sir Walter were the king to misunderstand the debates held in the spirit of pure philosophical enquiry by our group called by William Shagsberd The School of Night.’

  There was the briefest silence then Kate added, ‘Heaven forefend that he should ever see the upper stories of your Billingsgate house, Master Forman.’

  ‘Places of experiment,’ said Forman, ‘where we seek alternative truths and sources of power beyond the biblical. We speak no treason nor practice any forbidden arts up there…’

  ‘My sister Audrey is bosom companion with Anne of Denmark James’ queen,’ said Kate. ‘And Queen Anne is fully convinced that witchcraft is a powerful political weapon!’

  ‘Was not King James nearly drowned at sea with his new queen at his side as they returned from Denmark together ten years ago?’ asked Bacon. ‘Was that not proven to be the act of witches?’

  ‘It was, or so King James believes,’ answered Poley. ‘Witches given power and motivation by the Earl of Bothwell, against whom Sir Walter has written to our own Queen Elizabeth, for Bothwell escaped King James’ justice - though his coven of witches did not - and he still visits London on occasion. As we talk of dangerous matters here in any case, I should suggest Sir Francis, that there is a disturbing similarity between the Earls of Bothwell and of Essex. Let us hope that My Lord of Essex does not share Bothwell’s fate - banishment and penury.’

  ‘Or a worse fate still,’ said Simon Forman.’

  ‘So,’ said Kate, ‘The case so far is this. If King James succeeds Her Majesty then it is likely that Raleigh and Essex will come off badly, which is no doubt why Secretary Cecil and my brother-in-law Sir Thomas are keen to see him seated safely on the throne. Despite the danger which we have not yet discussed - to wit, that of the Scottish courtiers he will bring south with him to usurp the men well-placed in court circles at the moment.’

  ‘And that is also why,’ said Poley, ‘Essex and Raleigh have other plans in mind.’ His voice sank almost to a whisper. ‘Perhaps even in hand.’

  *

  Straining to hear, Tom crept closer to the window and stepped on a fallen branch. The wood was winter-brittle and snapped with a sharp sound almost as loud as one of Ugo’s pistols. Poley was in motion at once, swinging towards the window like a wolf scenting blood. Tom was in motion just as swiftly. There was no chance of concealment - there were shadows nearby but the evening sky was frost-clear and a moon was on the rise. He caught Rosalind round the waist and all-but threw her against the nearest tree-trunk, pushing himself against her as though the pair of them were taking pleasure despite the cold.

  ‘Can you see the window?’ he gasped into her ear.

  ‘Yes. They are all rising. No doubt to leave.’

  ‘Poley. Where is Poley?’

  ‘I cannot see him...’

  ‘Run!’ he swung her round again so that they were shoulder to shoulder with the Little Rose’s garden stretching away towards Maiden Lane, the south wind blowing into their faces. She did not need more prompting. Side by side they took off like a pair of hares at a coursing. They covered the length of the garden and slipped through the thin beech hedge at the end of it. In Maiden Lane, Tom froze for an instant looking left and right, then he was in motion once again. Blessedly, the performance at the Rose Theatre was just finishing. The audience was streaming out. Within five minutes Rosalind and he were lost amongst the merry throng, whose numbers were swollen not once but twice as they passed the Bull Baiting Pit and the Bear Baiting Pit beside it. After that they attained Dead Man’s Place and turned north towards Bank End. Then they turned left and retraced their steps a little before Tom led Rosalind into The Castel, the first stew house in the long row of such establishments. In spite of the fact that the place was bustling and increasingly busy as the audiences from the various entertainments came in for food, drink and frolics, Tom managed to find a table. They sat, face to face, fighting to catch their breath. One of the girls came up, ‘What’s your pleasure?’ she asked Tom, appraising Rosalind coolly.

  ‘A flagon of Rhenish,’ answered Tom, looking around. ‘And as to food...’ There was a promising-looking pig on the spit with a line of good fat capons beside it. ‘Rosalind?’ he asked.

  A tall figure loomed in silhouette against the firelight, drew up a stool and sat at the table between them. He leaned forward, his face dark with suspicion. ‘The beef chuet pies with raisins, plums and prunes are good,’ said Robert Poley. ‘Bring three of those and trenchers, girl. Then leave us alone. We three have much to discuss, have we not my fine pair of eavesdroppers?’

  Chapter 11: The Men with the Motives

  i

  ‘So,’ said Tom plainly, for it was no use trying to prevaricate with Poley, ‘the most powerful men in the land all have something to hide, perhaps from each-other and certainly from the Queen, which is a situation poor Spenser seems to have stumbled into when he re-issued his old satire of Mother Hubberd’s Tale; desperate for money if Ben Jonson’s right.’

  ‘And so he disturbed not just these powerful men,’ added Rosalind, ‘but also their acolytes.’

  ‘Acolytes,’ said Poley. ‘I like that. I don’t think I’ve ever been called an acolyte before…’

  ‘If that is so,’ said Tom, ‘it must be one of the few things you haven’t been called…’

  The conversation paused there as two of the Castel tavern’s serving women brought the chuet pies, coarse bread trenchers and the flagon of Rhenish they had ordered, horn spoons and cups with which to eat and drink. Tom and Poley pulled daggers from their belts and Rosalind produced one from somewhere about her person, something that raised Tom’s eyebrow but seemed to be accepted by Poley without a second thought. They all fell-to with a will and found that Poley was right. The combination of soft beef and sweet fruit was very tasty. The pastry was golden and crumbly, yet firm enough to hold the steaming contents safe until the pies were opened. The gravy soaked into the trenchers, softening and sweetening them for consumption later.

  ‘But the fair Rosalind is right,’ continued Poley after a while. ‘One only has to think of Henry II - one of the few King Henrys your industrious friend seems to have overlooked - to see how dangerous acolytes can be. A simple word spoken in thoughtless anger: who will rid me of this turbulent priest… And pouf! Archbishop Becket’s brains splattered all over Canterbury Cathedral. And I’m sure there must be more modern instances…’

  ‘Who was it wanted rid of Marlowe, for instance?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Almost everybody wanted rid of Marlowe!’ Poley finally rose to the bait. ‘He was trading in state secrets alongside his penchant for illegally trimming silver coins, which he had been doing in Amsterdam, against orders. He was indulging - very loudly - in the kinds of sodomitical pastimes that Cicero so memorably accused Mark Antony of pursuing in his youth. He was at the edge of Raleigh’s School of Night and keen to experiment further. He was not only dabbling in magic and witchcraft, he was also writing blasphemous texts and causing them to be performed. And finally, he was getting far too good at passing himself off as a Catholic - so much so that certain powerful observers believed he had changed sides altogether. I am frankly surprised that God Himself didn’t strike Marlowe down.’

  ‘Perhaps He did,’ suggested Tom quietly. ‘Only He used Frizer, Skeres and you as His instruments.’

  *

  ‘Twice in a matter of moments,’ said Poley, his tone full of ironic amazement. ‘First I’m an acolyte and now I’m an instrument of Divine Retribution! It’s a pity poor Spenser could not have been said to have offended the Lord God - or you could likely accuse me of his murder straight away.’

  ‘This is off the point,’ said Rosalind. ‘We talked of powerful men with potentially deadly acolytes.’

  ‘Such as Sir Walter Raleigh, perhaps,’ said Tom. ‘Who is dangero
usly lampooned - even if by chance - as the Fox in the re-print of Spenser’s poem; suspected of dabbling in unholy things himself. Possessor of large estates in Ireland which he would no doubt be happy to extend as far as the ruins of Kilcolman castle and almost certainly considering whether to join one of the plots to bring Lady Arbella Stuart or the Infanta of Spain to the fore - in place of James if not of the Queen herself. With his acolyte Simon Forman who fears the possibility of trial for witchcraft and the noose or the stake after the succession to the throne by a royal expert on witches and witchcraft. He is especially so if his master becomes sufficiently damaged by appearing as the Fox in Mother Hubberd’s Tale. All of which might well motivate him to kill the poet thus stopping any danger of further publication as the most recent print run has been confiscated I understand. And, as I keep learning to my wonder and my growing horror, Simon Forman seems to have a disturbingly wide clientele that reaches from apprentice-boys and their lights of love to the highest reaches of the Court. He has power, therefore, which might indeed seem magical. Not to mention, of course, the suspicion that he supplied the poison, no matter who eventually poured it in Spenser’s ear!

  ‘So,’ said Poley, ‘you are telling me that you suspect Forman above all the others so far.’

  ‘He had a motive to kill Spenser,’ confirmed Tom. ‘He also had the means, and is as likely as anyone else we have discussed so far to have had the opportunity.’

  A short, thoughtful silence fell, emphasized by the raucous chatter all around.

  ‘Well, you have read Spenser’s allegorical fairy tale well enough,’ allowed Poley as the women cleared the remnants of dinner away and brought another flagon of Rhenish. ‘Though if you still possess a copy you are likely to see the inside of Newgate, the Clink or the Borough Counter Jail earlier than you might wish to. But, now I think of it, perhaps your friend Shakespeare has thrust himself further into the matter by penning another tale like Mother Hubberd’s full of fairy-folk, replete with Athenian dukes and Amazonian queens, not to mention the Fairy Queen herself and yet more characters transformed into animals, though into donkeys rather than foxes or apes! Had you thought of that? Perhaps I will raise the matter when I talk to him at the Marshalsea tomorrow. It is a conversation we could easily continue in the Tower with Rackmaster Topcliffe as a participant.’