A Second Daniel

by Neal Roberts

  She wipes her eyes. “There was no need to seek a physician’s assistance on that question. Lorenzo was not … carnally given.”

  Noah nods sympathetically. “I see.”

  She sighs wistfully. “But he has left me well provided for, bless his soul. So long as I do not turn gambler, and my luck does not turn Turk, I shall never want.”

  “I am very glad to hear it,” says Noah.

  Beth snorts.

  “Is there something on your mind, Beth?” he asks impatiently.

  “Just that I think you’d rather have Jessica dependent upon you, so you might more closely guide her choices.”

  Noah shakes his head. “Same old Beth. No, dear, I have come to appreciate Jessica’s position. She is finding her way in the same complex world we all face, and has seen fit to comply with the world on its own terms. We all do, to some extent.”

  Beth snorts again. “I suppose Marie has had a hand in persuading you of such?” Every Jew is taught that “Marie” and “Maria” are names given only to Christian girls, and that the Hebrew mother of Jesus, after whom such girls are named, was actually called “Miriam.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Beth,” he replies.

  Jessica pats his hand. “Daddy, women are born with the gift of knowing when another woman has staked her claim in a man. Marie has pasted her flag firmly on your doublet.”

  “Has she?” he asks, only too happy that Jessica has once again called him “daddy.”

  Jessica draws him aside, out of Beth’s hearing, and whispers. “It’s best you not talk about other women. Beth has been waiting for you her whole life. She even cared so faithfully for Mother throughout those last terrible months out of love for you. Did you know that?”

  Noah is mortified. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

  Jessica intimately adjusts his collar. “Whenever another woman has your attention, she feels unrequited and cheated of her birthright.”

  “Her birthright?” he asks skeptically. “As though she were next in line?”

  Jessica smiles, kisses his cheek, and brings him by the hand to rejoin Beth. “Come,” she says. “Let us all have a wonderful repast!”

  The remainder of the afternoon is spent in fond reminiscence, and by the end of it Noah can no longer remember how he could ever have been angry with Jessica. He has also resolved never to be so oblivious to Beth’s feelings, and so caught up in his own.

  Early that evening, Noah returns to the apartment at Gray’s Inn, where Henry has already taken up residence.

  “Oh, Ames! Just the man I’m looking for,” says Henry, arranging the contents of a small portfolio.

  Noah sniffs. “Imagine finding me here in my room!”

  “Have you spoken to Jonathan this evening? He seems sound as a fiddle now.”

  “No,” replies Noah. “I passed his room on the way up and saw the door open, but didn’t want to disturb him.”

  “Well, I advise you to go and see him now. It will help you sleep tonight, believe me. I have never seen anyone as overcome by grief as he was the other day. The improvement is quite heartening.”

  Noah returns to Jonathan’s room, knocks at the door, and sticks his head in.

  “Noah, please come in,” says Jonathan. “The jesters told me how far out of myself I was the other day. I deeply regret it. As you can see, however, I’m quite well now. I’ve been hard at work all day.” He indicates the papers neatly arranged on his desk.

  “Have you time to hear what Henry and I have thought through about this whole Rodriguez affair?”

  Jonathan gives him a peculiar smoldering look. “Yes, please. Sit down. Tell me everything you two discussed.”

  Twenty minutes later, it’s full dark and the room is lit by only a single candle which sits directly before Jonathan. Behind him, the room is pitch dark, so that his face appears to float eerily in space as he speaks. “And Master Neville remains of the opinion that Essex’s men may have been acting on their own, without their master’s consent?”

  “Well,” Noah equivocates, “we haven’t really discussed that question directly.”

  “I can imagine,” says Jonathan. “It would be very difficult for an honorable man such as Master Neville to ally himself with Essex’s faction while believing him to be a common murderer. Don’t you think?”

  Noah nods. Jonathan seems about to say something, but then reconsiders.

  “What is it you wish to tell me?” Noah asks.

  Jonathan sighs. “I’m not sure how you will take it.”

  “Please, Jonathan, there should be no secrets between us on the Essex affair.”

  Jonathan nods weighingly. “All right, but I must have your oath as a barrister that you shall never repeat what I tell you now.”

  This is a little alarming, and Noah begins to wonder whether Jonathan’s pacific demeanor does not mask some residual madness. “All right,” he says.

  Jonathan looks down at his desk, and then up again at Noah. “I have no need to deceive myself or, as Master Neville is doing, to pretend there is room for doubt, when in fact there is none. I have no doubt that Essex’s men have been authorized to do everything they’ve done, and will be authorized to do much more, and much worse.”

  Noah sighs with relief. “I’m inclined to agree with you — ”

  Jonathan interrupts. “There’s something more I wish to tell you about the earl, and I will hold you to your oath.”

  “What more is there?”

  Jonathan’s face floats forward conspiratorially and looks Noah dead in the eye. Where grief once prevailed, there now remains only a frighteningly calm resolution.

  “It may take me ten years … but I will see that man taken to the knacker’s.”

  Noah shivers to see such a change in this young man. “Lawfully?” he ventures.

  Jonathan smiles with warm assurance, which Noah finds unnerving in light of what he’s just said.

  “Lawfully is how we do things.”

  Chapter 15

  WITH MARIE’S HOUSE repopulated, Noah resumes spending his evenings at Gray’s Inn. As much as he misses her soft caress and the warmth of her body next to him on the sofa, he sleeps much more soundly now, and longer. Since his unnerving talk with Jonathan, however, something has haunted his dreams — something he’s intended, but avoided doing.

  By the time Noah awakens late this morning, Henry is already gone to Westminster. Before dressing, he searches his desk for the papers bearing his assailant’s vague warning. He soon finds them, and forces himself with dread to read the warning once more: Caveat causidicus. Lawyer, beware. His stomach turns in anger as he realizes that he has actually come to live by those foul words, albeit not as intended by their author. Something about the tiny handwriting, and the intimately violent way in which the message was delivered, makes the words even more insidious.

  He considers what he’d like to say back to Essex. While Essex can cosset himself in his grand residences, and insulate his person from harm by dispatching surrogates to do his dirty work, his mind is no less vulnerable than Noah’s. Intuitively, Noah realizes that the time has come to retaliate in kind for the unwelcome warning, to do something to ensure that Essex’s repose will be no less troubled than his own. He inks his pen and carefully draws a line through the tiny inscription. What should he say?

  As Essex is not a lawyer, Noah’s reply cannot be framed in purely reciprocal terms. But he and Essex do have something in common. They are both the Queen’s subjects. And to remind Essex of his faithlessness as Her Majesty’s subject would be sure to unsettle someone with such absurdly high self-regard. Then it comes to him. He gave me a warning. I’ll give him a warning. Not a toothless threat, nor simply a refutation of his own warning, but a new warning calculated to place him in fear for his very soul.

  Now he has it: “It is not the faithful subject, but the faithless subject, who needs warning.” While Noah’s Latin is imperfect, he translates the phrase as best he can, and inscribes it
in an equally intimate hand immediately adjacent to Essex’s now-stricken warning.

  Non servus fidelis sed perfidus debet cavere.

  There’s no question in his mind how his message will be delivered. He cleans himself up, puts on a fresh set of barrister’s robes, places the inscribed papers in his pocket, and heads out to the stables.

  “Morning, sir!” says Tom, as he passes. “No need for you to get your boots soiled back here. Would you like me to bring your mount around?”

  “Oh, no, Tom. Thanks. Just came to get some papers I left in the saddlebag.” He goes to his horse’s stall, opens the saddlebag that’s remained empty since it was pillaged, and deposits the newly inscribed papers. He expects they will not be there long.

  A few days later, Noah sits at his desk preparing argument of a motion in a criminal matter when a letter is slipped under his door engraved with the name “Jessica, Lady Burlington,” and scented with a musky perfume that makes his eyes tear. He sneezes and reads the note, holding it as far from his nose as possible.

  Dearest Father,

  I thought it prudent to mention to you that Goodman Stephen has come to see me socially on two separate occasions. I hope you do not mind. Auntie Elizabeth was kind enough to prepare fine dinners for us both times.

  Stephen really is a dear. (And, though I would never mention this to anyone but you, he really is very good-looking, and most respectful.) Anyway, he and his mother will be leaving for many weeks next Thursday morning. (Did you know that?) Stephen has asked me to join him and his lovely mamain for supper on the Wednesday evening immediately preceding their departure, and he has also asked me to extend an invitation to you. Isn’t that lovely? This will give you a chance to explore any feelings you may have for his precious mamain (who is now privately referred to by my irreverent Auntie Elizabeth as “the shikse.” I really must speak with her about that.)

  As you are so close to the Rodriguez home in Holborn, you may wish to express your acceptance or regrets directly. (Oh, do come, if you can!) Either way, I would greatly appreciate your letting me know as soon as you have decided.

  Your Loving Daughter,

  Jessica

  Unbeknownst to Jessica, Noah has already been invited by Marie, but Jessica’s note provides him with a perfect excuse to trot over there unannounced a bit later, hoping against hope that Marie will be alone, and at liberty. They’ve spent little time together the past week or two, as Marie always feels the need to maintain the outward appearance of utmost rectitude to set an example for her two younger children, especially her daughter. From Noah’s fleeting glimpses of the little girl, he expects her to become every bit as beautiful as her mother, which is quite something.

  By early afternoon, it has become a sultry day. Most doors and windows at Gray’s Inn have been left open, allowing a warm breeze to pass gently through the sleeping rooms. Any hope that the excess heat will be wafted out, however, has dwindled as the day has grown warmer. And, while warmth is always welcome after a cold winter, everyone knows that its arrival as early as Easter Term often presages a long and intense outbreak of plague.

  A nearby door closes firmly downstairs, and the voices of Jonathan and Arthur carry up into Noah’s room, their words unintelligible. The two have been seen together a great deal lately, exiting the inn at all hours of the day and night and shutting their doors as soon they return, saying nary a word to anybody. It is commonly known at the inn that Jonathan has begun to carry a dagger with him at all times, and that he has been spending considerable time with Arthur at Eton’s firing range, learning to use a musket and pistol. Considering that he is the only survivor of the Boar’s Head incident whose identity is known to Skeres, no one can fault him for it. The wordless voices recede.

  Noah lies on his bed with his hands behind his head and closes his eyes, listening to the soothing sounds of the afternoon. Far away, a dog barks. As the breeze picks up, a whirlwind whirs past his window and dissipates as it moves onto the open square. The hallway clock ticks rhythmically. He drifts off.

  He sits alone on a pew, a congregation of one, in a small, dimly lit synagogue illuminated by a few widely dispersed candles. Behind the altar stands the ark where the Torah scrolls reside, concealed by a blue satin curtain embroidered with ancient Hebrew inscriptions.

  The candles flicker in the breeze. Outside, the wind gathers strength, rapidly growing into a gale, setting off another whirlwind. Unlike the one that just dissipated over Gray’s Inn Square, this one maintains coherent form just outside, its inarticulate susurration swelling from a whisper to a murmur. The shutters clatter against the walls outside.

  In the near total darkness, a brief, flowing movement on the dais coalesces into a robed, hooded figure standing with its back to him. Before the figure is a small table upon which sits a silver pitcher of sacramental wine. The wind outside groans. Noah’s unease becomes a dread that churns in the pit of his stomach. Something is happening here. Something that needs to be remembered.

  Voices call from far away, from beyond the grave. His parents? He was so small when last he heard them that he cannot be sure. What are they saying? It sounds like a warning of some kind. The voices are fearful, and frustrated that they may not be heard beyond the veil.

  The groaning whirlwind, still growing in intensity, comes to rest just outside the synagogue, amplifying the thready voices of the dead. It is a warning.

  Get out! Get out! Menachem!

  Hearing his own name spoken by the dead sends chills up his spine. This is no general warning, either. It is personal to him, from those who know his birth name. And he has a sickening feeling that it’s not a dream at all.

  He desperately wants to run, but finds himself frozen in place. The wind seeps through the synagogue, which grows damper and chillier by the second. His eyes dart around, but there’s nothing to reinforce the fear that the voices are trying so desperately to instill in him.

  Then the cowled figure on the dais moves, frightening him out of his wits. It turns, face concealed by the cowl. Does it even have a face? Where its face should be there appears instead a deep, black emptiness. The figure slowly carries a silver cup of sacramental wine toward the altar, as though preparing to commence some strange service that Noah has never seen. It grows in size and power. In the dark vacancy under its cowl, Noah can see … lightning, small and distant. But there is no thunder. And this is no man. Whatever it is, it is both elemental and malign.

  Noah whimpers with dread. The figure opens a book on the altar, and the whirlwind objects violently. The whole building now shudders from floor to rafters, as shingles and shutters are ripped off by the wind and hurled silently into the night. If this continues much longer, the wooden synagogue will be torn into countless pieces, and Noah with it. It will be worth it, he thinks, if only the abomination at the altar is obliterated.

  Just as the figure is about to address its blasphemy to its congregation of one, there comes the sound of approaching horses. Many horses. Coming here now! “Run, Menachem!” say the voices one last time.

  There’s a boom.

  Noah opens his eyes with a start.

  All is quiet. He’s relieved to be awake, but unsure he’s actually been asleep. He wipes perspiration from his brow, and blinks several times to clear his vision. Looking around for the source of the sound that awakened him, he begins to wonder if it was merely part of the dream. Then he realizes that something in the room has indeed changed. A prayer book he keeps in the locked cupboard with his skullcap lies on the floor.

  If anyone were to see it, his secret would be out. Quickly, he goes to the open door leading to the hallway. There’s no one in sight. A deathly silence has fallen on the inn, in which he would easily hear anyone approaching or absconding. He closes the door quietly and steps back into the room.

  He picks up the fallen prayer book, intending to put it back and relock the cupboard door, when he realizes the little door is still closed and securely locked. He peers at the lock. It’s
a flimsy affair, but effective to frustrate the casual snoop. It offers no sign of prying, twisting, scratching, or other untoward force. The key ring in his pocket holds the only key. He draws out the ring, and there’s the key. He experiments with prying the cupboard open using his fingernails, but it will not budge. He strikes it several times with the meat of his hand to see if that will cause it to spring open. It does not.

  He inserts the key into the lock, which turns smoothly, and opens the door. His eye lights at once upon the candlestick, and he resolves to bring it to Marie’s home, as he promised. Everything inside the cabinet is exactly as he left it, except the prayer book which is now, inexplicably, in his hand. He puts it back in its accustomed place, closes the little door, and locks it.

  There comes the sound of many horses approaching from the south in close formation. His eyes go wide. Mindful of the warnings and hoofbeats in his dream, he steps near enough to the window to see out, but stays far enough back to be concealed in shadow from anyone peering in from outside.

  A grandiose carriage, opulently drawn by four large black horses and surrounded by several individual riders, pulls up in front of the building. Everyone, including the horses, wears the same shades of tangerine and cream, the distinctive livery of the Earl of Essex. Two riders approach the side of the carriage, stop momentarily, and quickly ride out across the square, having evidently been dispatched by its occupant.

  Noah is relieved that he’s closed his door, as he now hears numerous footsteps heavily descending a set of nearby stairs. Someone bursts out through the inn’s main door, striding confidently toward the carriage, followed by several others, all in barrister’s robes. It’s Anthony Bacon, doing his sickly best to appear robust. His brother comes up close behind, followed by several others whose faces are only vaguely familiar.