Low Treason

by Leonard Tourney

  Yet he wanted to see Castell’s shop, and not only for Thomas Ingram’s sake. He yearned to look upon the treasures of which he had heard so much.

  The shop was smaller and less pretentious than he had expected. There it was, a narrow front, three stories above, wedged in between two larger buildings, a tobacconist and a silversmith, with a bow window and iron bars and its ornately carved and painted sign hanging above the door.

  Matthew took a good look at the sign: a huge serpent with a single glaring eye beneath which was the name of the shop’s proprietor in elegant script. Beneath the sign, a porter stood solemnly watching the crowd.

  When Matthew approached, the porter stared at him curiously from heavy, lusterless eyes. Matthew inquired about the proprietor. Yes, Mr. Castell was at his desk, and what might be the gentleman’s desire? A German clock studded with carbuncles? A gold ring made in Spain? Seed pearls from America?

  Matthew told the man he sought only information— about a former employee of the jeweler’s. He gave no particulars; he did not wish to get into a prolonged discussion with the porter, who looked like a fractious fellow eager to find reason for barring him from the shop.

  The porter, stout and sandy-haired, folded his arms and looked sidewise at Matthew. He shuffled his feet on the cobblestones as though he were trying to remove some filth from the soles of his boots.

  Patiently Matthew drew his purse, felt about inside among the odd silver, and withdrew a penny. So in the city everything had its price—German clocks and information too. He pressed the penny into the porter’s hand. The man quickly stuck the coin in his pocket, looked about him furtively, and then, taking Matthew’s arm, led him indoors.

  Inside, the shop was long and narrow and high-ceilinged, and against the walls were display cases on top of which were candles illuminating the plate, gems, chains, and rings below. Still, reverential faces peered into the glass. The jeweler’s custom. Matthew followed the porter to the rear of the shop where a man sat writing at a desk.

  The porter presented Matthew to Gervase Castell.

  The jeweler looked up and rose from his chair. His desk was very neat, with papers of various sizes stacked in piles and a small gold coffer at the center.

  “What town did you say?” asked Castell politely, surveying Matthew from head to toe at the same time.

  “Chelmsford,” Matthew replied.

  “Ah, yes. Chelmsford. There was a knight of that county, a magistrate. Not a year since ...”

  “That would have been Sir Henry Saltmarsh,” said Matthew.

  Castell nodded and smiled grimly. “He was a customer—and a good one—before his troubles.” He invited Matthew to sit down. “How may I serve you, Mr. Stock? A gift for your wife perhaps? Some bauble from Persia or India to set her eyes aglow or appease her wrath at your long sojourn in the city? Oh, I tell you, it is wondrous what miracles are wrought by gems. Why, a stone properly set would turn a slattern to a lady in the time it took for me to slip it around her neck.”

  Before Matthew could reply, Castell walked briskly around to Matthew’s side of the desk and, linking his arm in Matthew’s, conducted him down the row of display cases. Before one, Castell paused and drew a ring of keys from his belt. Smiling with satisfaction, the jeweler selected one of the keys and bent down to unlock the case. He withdrew a small gold casket. The workmanship was exquisite. The gold had a dark sheen and looked very old.

  Castell opened the casket and held it under the candle. There on a purple velvet cushion was the most brilliant gem Matthew had ever seen. Round and smooth as glass, the gem caught the light and exploded in color.

  “A sapphire,” Castell whispered reverently. “Taken from the headpiece of a heathen idol, transported across the Arabian desert by caravan to be the wedding gift of some caliph’s bride, then snatched by one whose greed was more intense than his piety and so to Rome. It is called the Eye of the Basilisk and is worth a king’s ransom.”

  Matthew drew closer to examine the jewel. It was dark blue, transparent, and very much like an eye, though unlike any human organ he had ever seen. As Castell moved the casket, the color changed, the eye gleamed and seemed alive. Then he took the gem from its resting place and held it delicately between his thumb and middle finger, turning it admiringly. Other customers in the shop had

  drawn about them to look on. There were oohs and aahs of admiration. Castell seemed greatly pleased.

  He smiled and replaced the gem in its casket. “A fabulous creature, the basilisk. Something like a lizard. One may read about it in Livy. But it is a most dangerous creature as well, Mr. Stock, said to have a fatal breath and glance. But see how we gaze on with impunity, eh? Well, it is as I’ve often said about such fables—they are but baubles to young children, but for grown men they are ignes fatui, fool’s fires.”

  “I could never afford such a stone,” Matthew admitted candidly.

  “No matter. You see, the gem is not for sale. The Eye was my first acquisition and I keep it for fortune’s sake. I got it for a pittance from a poor nobleman in Rome who knew nothing more of its value than it would buy him a new sword to replace the one he had used in some murder thereabouts, and a fast horse to the next city. He had, you see, a pressing need. So I pressed upon him what silver I had about me. He neatly wet himself in gratitude. Within the hour he was twenty miles for the next town and I had my purse full of the stone. I have named my shop after it.”

  Matthew remembered the sign of the serpent, the great glaring eye. The Basilisk. It was a strange word, a foreign-sounding word. He tried it on his tongue. No, it was not a word for English lips. There were too many syllables. He preferred the plain English snake or words that

  could be spit out in an instant. Words that plainly said what they meant.

  Castell approached another case and seemed prepared to show Matthew another of his treasures.

  “I’ve not come for gems or plate, but to inquire about one of your apprentices.”

  Castell looked up curiously, replacing the keys in his pocket at the same time. “My apprentice? What say you of my apprentice?”

  “Thomas Ingram.”

  “He’s a relation of yours?”

  “The younger brother of my daughter’s husband.”

  “Ah, yes, young Thomas Ingram. Of course.”

  Castell stood erect behind the case and shook his head sadly. “An unfortunate story, Mr. Stock, a most unfortunate story. Thomas served me not more than six months before running off. He had no cause. Why, look about you here, does the labor seem hard? Do I seem a stem master? Is there not wealth enough to gamer for an honest man willing to work and leam the jeweler’s trade?”

  Gervase Castell made a beckoning motion. Behind him, Matthew heard footfalls on the carpet and he turned to see a young man not much older than Thomas Ingram approach. The man—boy—was well favored and neatly dressed in the blue-and-gold livery of the establishment. He kept his eyes fixed on his employer.

  “Roger, tell Mr. Stock, who has just come from Chelmsford seeking—what it is, your nephew?”

  Matthew again explained his relationship to Thomas Ingram.

  “Yes, well then, pray tell Mr. Stock about Thomas Ingram.”

  Roger turned to Matthew. The young man had a frank, open face. He spoke very well. “Tom Ingram was my friend, sir. We slept together above the shop here, as a watch against roisterers and hurly-burly. Tom seemed very happy. He did his work, as do I.” Here Roger paused to look at his employer uncertainly. The jeweler urged him to proceed. “Until around Easter last. These months since he has talked of nothing but turning sailor. All of his conversation was of masts and rigging, great ships and southern seas, monstrous folk with their heads inverted and other fanciful wonders.”

  “The lure of Spanish gold, Spanish gold,” Castell murmured disapprovingly.

  “He was a great reader of voyagers’ tales,” Roger continued. “Knew Hakluyt almost by heart, and spent his holidays at Paul’s, Westminster, or the Excha
nge hoping for a sight of Ralegh or some other great captain with whom he might set sail. One morning about two weeks ago I woke to find his bed empty. His things were gone

  as well. He was off, and none among us has seen him since.”

  Matthew thanked the apprentice for his story and looked at Castell. “It seems, then, that I have come this long way for nothing. The boy’s brother will be disappointed, Thomas was a good lad, of well-allowed and honest parents, civil and upright to his elders. I am most amazed at this discovery.”

  ‘‘Young saints, old devils,” Castell remarked philosophically, coming around to the other side of the case and taking Matthew by the arm again. “Do not worry yourself, Mr. Stock. The boy may well be dead by now, food for fishes at the bottom of the sea or taken up with some trull and infected with the French marbles.”

  “The French marbles?”

  “The pox. It’s the fashionable term nowadays. All the gallants use it and to be truthful most of them are infected with it. It’s the times, Mr. Stock, the times. O temporal O mores! as Tully says.”

  “Well,” said Matthew. “I’m sorry to hear that Thomas has broken his articles.”

  The jeweler smiled generously. “I willingly share in the loss for fellowship’s sake. But before you go, can I not interest you in some trinket for your lady, a ring, perhaps, or a chain?”

  Matthew shook his head. He felt himself growing hot and flushed under the jeweler’s scrutiny, which now appeared to have as its aim the determination of the heft of his purse.

  “See here, a ruby. Most exquisite. Properly mounted it might grace the finest lady in the kingdom.”

  Matthew looked at the jewel. He didn’t bother to ask its price. Somehow he knew that Castell knew he could not afford it.

  Matthew said no. There was nothing he wanted, nothing he needed. He thanked the jeweler for his trouble and left the shop. In the street, he began to walk in the general direction of Paul’s. He took an irregular course; there was no need of hurrying now; he paid no attention to the scene.

  The lateness of the hour and the thought of the futility of his long journey had left him tired and discouraged.

  Presently he found himself by the great north door of the church where booksellers had set up booths, and he thought of the travelers’ tales of which Thomas Ingram had been so fond. Where might Thomas have come by such a book? Where else but here, in the very place he now stood.

  He strolled from stall to stall, looking over the booksellers’ wares. There was a crowd in the yard, more people than books. He paused from time to time to examine the titles. Most were religious works, sermons or treatises. The titles were often very long, as though the author had felt obliged to distill his discourse on the first page of the text. Many were in Latin. These he could not read, except for the occasional word that was like English. There were volumes of verse, and a great many penny pamphlets on a wide range of subjects. He selected one and turned the leaves. It was an expose of cozenage by someone named Robert Greene.

  “Will you buy it, sir?”

  “What?”

  “The pamphlet, sir, in your hand.”

  A stout little man of Matthew’s age looked at him hopefully from the other side of the table. The man had a round flushed face, tiny eyes, and a manner of forced cheerfulness.

  “All the gentlemen of the city regard it as the only help against your cutpurse, coneycatcher, or common losel.” “Indeed, this pamphlet?” Matthew looked at it. A Notable Discovery of Cozenage. It had a paper cover, very greasy, the leaves loose and one, he noted, was tom. Obviously here was a popular work caressed, it appeared, by dozens of hands. Matthew flipped though the pages.

  “It is by Robert Greene, master of arts—a great wit, sir, a university man, now dead unfortunately.”

  The bookseller contorted his face to suggest his regret and Matthew returned the pamphlet to him. “Have you any books about voyages?”

  Matthew’s question seemed much to encourage the bookseller. Full of smiles, he hastened to show Matthew a row of books, all treating the subject. Matthew examined them. He had not thought there to have been so many. What was the name of the book Thomas had read? Hakluyt, was it? He inquired of the bookseller whether any such book was to be had at this stall. Yes, there was a Hakluyt he was told, in three folio volumes, handsomely bound but very dear. Yes, very dear. The bookseller shook his head sadly, as though the price of books was quite beyond his control.

  “What is the price?” asked Matthew.

  Wincing, the bookseller named the sum and looked at Matthew dubiously.

  Matthew thought it was a very great sum for a book. Even for one in three folio volumes. “You have no cheaper edition?”

  The bookseller looked offended. “Nay, sir. It has been newly enlarged into folio size as you see and in these three volumes. I assure you, it has been most well written by Mr. Hakluyt. He is a careful author, a scholar of the subject, and I have heard it said that he once traveled two hundred miles or more to secure the true account of one of the expeditions he reports therein. Nay, sir, you shall not spend your money amiss if you buy these books. Why, the man knows every mapmaker, merchant-venturer, and great captain in the kingdom, nay in Europe.”

  Much impressed, Matthew picked up the first volume, and turned to the title page. He read: Principall Navigations, Voiages, and Discoveries of the English Nation. His curiosity aroused, he began to thumb through the book. The print was large and clear and he could read it with ease. Here his eye fell upon an account of strange savages, there upon a description of a great storm. He continued to turn the pages, pausing to read about some rich islands called by their Spanish discoverer California. California, he mused. Who would have believed in Chelmsford that such an island existed? It was all very fascinating to him and soon he became quite engrossed in his reading, as though he were not standing in Paul’s yard but were by his own hearth, in his own chair, with only himself and

  the book for company. Slowly he began to realize what a treasure he held in his hands. This work was no mere collection of tales, but a testament to the glory of England, to the courage of its sailors and the foresight of its rulers. And it required three large volumes to tell it all. His heart swelled with patriotic pride, and he had a great desire to read more.

  The bookseller cleared his throat and Matthew remembered where he was. He looked up at the man who was standing now regarding him tolerantly and smiling his strained smile. The man’s eyes were full of expectation.

  “How much for the three volumes, again, please?”

  The bookseller mentioned a somewhat lower price than before, without saying that it was lower.

  Matthew stood there thoughtfully. It was still a great sum. More than he had with him in his purse. More, certainly, than Thomas Ingram could have afforded.

  “I suppose, sir, for you, that is . . . given your interest in voyages, a more reasonable price ...” The bookseller’s voice trailed off. He looked as though he were calculating the new price in his head. Matthew waited. The bookseller lowered the price by sixpence. Now the books were a great bargain, declared the bookseller. Was Matthew out to ruin him? An honest man must eat.

  “Many an earl and knight has not Hakluyt so well bound in his library,” concluded the bookseller, lifting his eyebrow and looking at Matthew very judiciously.

  Matthew’s resolve began to weaken. He cared nothing about the libraries of knights and earls, but he wanted very much to own these books. Already he could see Joan and himself reading them together on a cold winter’s eve, the handsome pages illuminated by candlelight.

  “Perhaps another choice,” persisted the bookseller, smiling more desperately now. Before Matthew could say that he would buy the Hakluyt, the little man was off to the other end of the table and rummaging furiously through a pile of volumes. He returned holding a slender brown book which he opened and thrust before Matthew. His voice fell to a whisper. “Filthy pictures, sir. Deliciously vile and curiously drawn to corrupt a sai
nt. Aretino, the Italian. The same that is all the rage about the city.”

  Matthew looked at the opened page with astonishment and disgust. A naked man and woman, drawn with considerable skill, lay entwined like serpents upon a bed. The bookseller, grinning with delight, flipped the pages. There were more such pictures. What a strange book this was, thought Matthew. Why, a man who could not even read might spend his idle hours perusing it and condemn his soul to hell at the same time.

  Who could not even read.

  And then it came to him, that thing which had been nagging at him all afternoon like a fleabite in a boot—that snatch of casual conversation with his daughter, Elizabeth, about old Simon Ingram’s sons, who despite their father’s distaste for learning, had taught themselves to read. William had made himself a scholar, but Tom was not bookish. Elizabeth had said it. Tom was not bookish. Tom could not sit still long enough to read a page. And this was the apprentice who was alleged to have spent his meager earnings on an expensive set of books and his idle hours in perusing them?

  It was unthinkable.

  He returned the book to the bookseller, agreed to take the Hakluyt at the lower price quoted, and asked that the volumes be delivered to his lodgings. Then he dashed off in the direction of the jeweler’s to give that smooth-faced barbermonger of an apprentice the lie.

  But the shop was closed when he got there. For a while he paced up and down, mumbling to himself what he might have said had he had the opportunity; then noticing that the tobacconist’s next door was still open he decided to go inside. Perhaps someone there knew of Tom’s whereabouts.