by Neal Roberts
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A Second Daniel
by Neal Roberts
How can a man be expected to know
where his natural loyalties lie,
if he never knows who he is?
© 2015 Neal R. Platt
This work is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.
Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor
(but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).
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No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.
Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to [email protected]
Cover Design by Greg Simanson
Edited by Laurel Busch and Martin Jones
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
Formatted by Quillfire Author Services
Dedication
To Dad (the first Daniel) and Mom
To Myra, the love of my life and my tireless literary critic and advisor
To Adam & Gigi, the best kids anyone has ever had
PERSONS OF THE STORY
Elizabeth, by the Grace of God, Queen of England,
France and Ireland
Noah Ames, born Menachem, barrister
Rachel Ames, born Añes, his distant cousin and first wife
Jessica, Lady Burlington, their daughter
Avram Añes & Sarah Añes, his uncle and aunt
Beth Fernandez, his distant cousin
Henry Neville, the younger, Member of Parliament
Anne Neville, born Killigrew, his wife
Henry Neville, the elder, knight, his father
Cheerful Killigrew, his nephew
William Shakespeare, reputed playwright, his cousin
Walker, their footman
Jonathan Hawking, barrister
Graves, his investigator
Arthur Arden, barrister, his friend
Andres Salazar, barrister, his friend
The Bennett twins, barristers, his friends
Roderigo Lopez, physician, coroner’s assistant, Portuguese ambassador, intelligencer
Emanuel Tinoco, his fellow intelligencer
Don Antonio, contender for the Portuguese Throne
Antonio Perez, former Spanish courtier, object of poisoning plot
Stephen Rodriguez, the elder
Marie Rodriguez-Miller, his widow
Stephen Rodriguez, the younger, their son
Edward Coke, Solicitor General for England and Wales
Gardner, Senior Yeoman of the Guard
Francis, Yeoman of the Guard
Barnstable, Constable
Christopher Marlowe, playwright
Master Treasurer, Gray’s Inn
The Cecil Faction
William Cecil, Lord Burghley, Lord High Treasurer
Robert Cecil, knight, Secretary of State, his son
Lord Bleffingham, Serjeant-at-Law, Judge at Queen’s Bench
Jack Granger, a grain merchant accused of murder
The Essex Faction
Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex
Gelly Meyrick, his principal attendant
Nicholas Skeres, his servant
Robert Poley, his servant
Peter, his page
Henry Wriotheseley, Earl of Southampton, friend to the Earl of Essex
Anthony Bacon, barrister
Francis Bacon, barrister, his brother
Prologue
Southwark, England
Late November 1558
UNCLE AVRAM HAS hinted that his special customer’s house across the Thames can be seen from this hillock in the market square, but the only thing young Menachem can make out on the opposite bank is a scary-looking castle looming in the distance. Wherever the customer’s house may be, Uncle Avram has promised to take him there to deliver groceries as soon as the sun goes down. Menachem is eager for even this small adventure outside the Southwark food market.
It’s nearly dusk, and red clouds streak the sky. Church bells clang in Southwark Priory on the near side of London Bridge, and north across the river in the walled City of London. The rain of the previous evening still dampens the packed dirt under the market, and a few small pools of muddy water dot the ground.
By this time in the evening, business has dwindled. Around the market, each family closes its booth at its own pace, the day’s receipts by now fixed in amount, whether good or bad, with nothing to be done about it at this late hour. A cloth is dropped over the entrance to each booth, telling the casual shopper that food can no longer be purchased here.
Uncle Avram, known locally as “Avram the Jew,” selects the perfect produce for his special customer. The best specimens have been withheld from general sale all day, stored in special wooden crates covered by a tarpaulin. As he still needs to supplement their quantity, he traipses about the booth scowling, intently studying each potato, each parsnip, each carrot, to ensure it’s clean of rot and dirt, and can pass for the most desirable of its kind. He dusts his wares thoroughly, crates the items he’s just selected, and loads everything onto his oxcart. The evening air grows chill as he sets about hitching his cart to the ox.
Menachem spies his pretty cousin Rachel peeking and smiling at him around the edge of one of the carts. Though he’s lived with Avram and his family for little more than a week, already he seems to have captured her heart. She has a visitor this evening, her stout cousin Beth. As the children have been taught to keep silent whenever Avram fusses about his special customer’s order, what ensues is a little dumb show, such as those seen nearby at The Theater and The Rose before the real play begins.
Having apparently noticed how taken Rachel is with Menachem, Beth prances into Menachem’s full view with an exaggerated feminine strut, one shoulder jerking forward with each step, and a preening air about her upturned nose. Rachel makes no attempt to conceal her jealousy, and shoves Beth arse first into a puddle, which makes a little splush that Menachem finds even funnier for its quietness. Silently, Rachel points derisively at Beth, who lurches to her feet and drags Rachel out of view. A brief scuffle ensues, the only sign of which is an occasional soft slap or rustling sound. The girls reappear, slightly muddier than when the show began.
Uncle Avram finishes hitching together ox and cart. “Ready,” he says, winking at Menachem and grabbing the reins. Menachem clambers up and settles in beside his uncle. Aunt Sarah waves goodbye, and the girls follow suit, still eyeing each other warily.
The ox jerks the cart out of a small rut, and Avram and Menachem begin their trip in comfortable silence. As the market diminishes in the distance, London Bridge looms ever larger.
Uncle Avram hands him a long wooden switch. “You keep those people away from the cart,” he says, pointing at a painted woman, “and away from the food. Half of them have more money than we do. They are not so poor as they look.”
Menachem accepts the switch and assumes a forbidding countenance for their trip across London Bridge, which he soon realizes is not used merely to cross the river. For much of its length, it’s occupied by activities beyond the range of his experience. The
furtive glances of those involved remove any doubt that such activities are improper, perhaps even unlawful.
A brazen woman, the tops of her breasts exposed, begins to approach the cart but, seeing Menachem’s innocent face and Avram’s threatening glare, she stops and recedes into the gloaming. Another woman raises her skirts to flash her legs, but then reverses course, realizing there is no business to be had from this cart. Halfway across the bridge’s span, a few beggars huddle around a small fire to ward off the coming chill. From the corner of his eye, Menachem spies what appears to be two men grunting and humping beneath an outsized coat so large it must have been made especially for concealment.
He is not as shocked as another child his age might be. Having heard Bible tales of illicit practices, he is strangely reassured to see that they weren’t conjured up merely to frighten little children into behaving themselves. He glances at his uncle’s face and takes comfort from his sober eye and his steady hand on the reins.
At the far end of London Bridge, it’s rumored, one can often see severed heads on pikes. Now, with a new queen about to be crowned, all the heads have been cleared away. Rumor has circulated that the new queen regards such displays as detestable signs of barbarity and that she’ll replace them with new heads only under the most pressing of circumstances.
As they leave the bridge, Uncle Avram points to his left and breaks the silence. “Over there is Chancery Lane, where there’s a whole building for the conversion of Jews to Christianity.” He smiles, shakes his head, and laughs. “Goyim.” He jerks the reins, and the cart turns right.
On their left soon appears the walled castle Menachem spotted from the hillock in the market square. Over its long stone wall peer several stone buildings and one tall white tower.
“What place is this?” he asks, his eyes wide.
Avram snickers. “This is the customer’s house. We’re bringing them groceries.”
Menachem whistles softly. “They must be very rich, and happy!”
Uncle Avram shrugs. “Rich, yes.” He pauses. “Happy?” He shrugs again, but says nothing.
“There must be a lot of people living here,” says Menachem. “Surely, we can’t be bringing food enough for them all.”
The cart approaches a gate guarded by four burly men wearing colorful uniforms and holding long pointed pikes. As the cart draws close enough for Menachem to read their expressions in the fading light, they seem in no mood for a chat.
Avram slows the cart to a crawl, his posture stiffening. A few cautious words pass between him and the foremost guard. Avram draws a paper from his pocket and hands it to the guard, who examines it though there is barely enough daylight left for reading.
“That’s the royal warrant, all right!” says the guard, returning the paper.
Avram pockets the paper and discreetly palms a coin into the guard’s hand. The guard takes a step back, at first raising his hand to wave them through. But as his eyes light on Menachem, he shouts “halt!” and smiles sheepishly, evidently embarrassed by his hesitation.
“If you don’t mind my asking, Goodman Jew, who’s the English boy?” He nods toward Menachem. “I mean … who is he to you?”
Avram’s head jerks around toward the boy, as though he’s completely forgotten that his nephew’s been seated beside him the whole time.
“Oh, he’s not English,” Avram says cautiously. “He’s a distant cousin, an orphan, who just came to us from Poland.” He leans toward the guard, and whispers something inaudible.
The guard nods gravely, and regards Menachem with pity. Drawing his great head so close that Menachem can smell the whiskey on his breath, he smiles discreetly, winks, and says hoarsely:
“Welcome to the Tower o’ London, boy.”
Menachem isn’t sure what it is about the way the guard has spoken those words, but there is something threatening inside them, as though the Tower of London is not at all a place to feel welcome. The guard takes a step back, and waves them on.
A few manly shouts are heard calling and answering, some from above the wall, some from inside what now appears to be a giant compound of stately stone buildings.
The cart creeps up the cobblestone path to a giant gate of latticed iron. There the ox stops unprompted and waits, as though it has done this before. Chains clank, and wood creaks against metal. Slowly, the gate begins its rise, revealing sharp spikes along its base. Menachem shudders to imagine what such spikes would do to someone unfortunate enough to be caught under them when they drop.
They pass into a tunnel-like enclosure with a latticework iron gate exactly like the first at the opposite end. The gate behind them clanks shut, trapping them in the tunnel.
No longer able to contain himself, Menachem asks quietly, “What are these gates called?”
With a hushed awe that matches Menachem’s own, Avram replies, “They’re called a ‘portcullis.’”
Menachem mouths the word, and whispers, “Are they to keep the Jews out?”
Avram suppresses a laugh, his face reddening. He composes himself, and replies, “No. They’re to keep out the goyim who don’t bring groceries.” He tousles the boy’s hair. The gate ahead of them creaks up, and the cart advances into an open cobblestone courtyard.
It is now full dark. No light shines from any building except for a modest stone cottage, also dark but for the glow of coals still smoldering in a tall fireplace beneath a carved wooden hearth, such as one might see in a great kitchen. The cart turns toward the cottage, and a cold breeze runs through Menachem’s cloak and up his spine like icy fingers, as though he has passed into some ancient fairy tale where anything might happen.
The second gate thunders closed behind them.
A low fence surrounding the dark cottage blocks the cart’s way to the rear door, which means that the crates will have to be carried in one by one. Avram and Menachem climb down from the cart, careful not to stumble in the dark. Avram pulls a torch from the rear of the cart, lights it, and lodges it in a sconce on the fence. He takes a sack of potatoes from the cart, hands it to Menachem, and points to the rear door of the cottage. “I’m giving you one small sack, so you’ll have a hand free to open the door.”
Just then, a muffled shout escapes a building across the courtyard. A man’s voice. Though it sounds distressed, there seems to be no fear in it. Avram turns first in the direction of the shout, then back to his nephew and nods toward the cottage’s rear door. “Go ahead. I’ll be in soon.” He takes a few hesitant steps toward the source of the shout, which has died away in the night.
Menachem turns toward the cottage door, carrying the sack in the crook of his left arm. Apparently the door has been left unlocked by design, as the key has been left jutting out of the lock. He turns the iron knob and goes inside.
He finds himself in a kitchen that must have been left dark and vacant no more than a few hours ago. There is still a stuffy heat inside, along with unfamiliar scents of finely prepared foods. A few droplets of water cling to the base of a pan hanging from a hook above the fresh-water basin. The stone walls have kept the chill wind out, except for the breeze now entering through the open door behind him.
Across a work area the size of his uncle’s booth, an archway leads out of the kitchen into an unlit hallway. He closes the door behind him, half expecting his uncle to barge in before it can fully close. The breeze dissipates, but his uncle does not appear. He comforts himself in this strange new place by softly singing a tune he heard Rachel sing just yesterday. Although the lyrics are unknown to him, his wordless and soft young singing voice overcomes the gloom of the small cottage. He places the bag of potatoes on the marble base jutting out of the fireplace.
Sensing a presence behind him, he is too frightened to turn. He gasps, and his eyes go wide.
A cultured young woman’s voice emanates from the archway across the kitchen, with a lilt of humor. “If you leave the potatoes so near to the flame, they shall be roasted long before anyone will care to eat them.”
Menachem turns, and there, directly beneath the arch, stands a graceful young woman in a rich gossamer dressing gown. The deep red glow of the firelight illuminates her as something in a dream. He wonders fleetingly whether she might not be some beautiful wraith rather than a real woman, but he quickly dismisses the thought, as the bemused stare that holds him motionless is humanly warm and benevolent. Her most striking feature is her long red hair. Not the brassy red that he has sometimes seen affected by fine older ladies, but a rich auburn that reminds him of warm sunshine, newly tilled earth, and roan horses.
She appears to have been interrupted in preparing for bed, as she wears no makeup. Her face is a healthy pink. Though her eyelashes are nearly invisible but for the flimsy shadows they cast on her lids, her dark red eyebrows betray a sharp intelligence and afford her an air of confidence and authority. Perceiving his adulation, she casts him a broad smile with the slightest suggestion of impishness. “Put the potatoes on the wooden board, and bring one to me.”
Menachem lifts the bag off the pediment. It is already hot to the touch and, left where it was, would soon have been scorched from the heat of the dying fire. He places it on the board, where he realizes he should have laid it in the first instance, and opens it to remove a potato for the lady.
“What tune were you humming when I came in?” she asks.