A Second Daniel

by Neal Roberts

  Jonathan shakes his head. “I cannot contract plague.” He lowers his voice, as though recalling a difficult time. “I have come through it already. The doctors say I am immune.”

  The others look at each other, stunned, realizing that the debate is rapidly slipping away.

  “Will you come to Billingbear if you cannot find out anything in a week?” asks Noah.

  Henry scotches that idea. “I’m sorry, Noah. I cannot allow it. As we do not know how the plague is carried, I cannot have Jonathan come up to Billingbear if he may be transporting the disease, even though he cannot come down with it.”

  Jonathan agrees wholeheartedly. “Nor would I ask you to put everyone at risk on my account, Master Henry. No, I’m afraid I’m in London for the duration.”

  Henry points to Noah and Arthur. “I assume you two will be corresponding with Jonathan while you are away?” With little hesitation, both Noah and Arthur nod. “Then, there are some things you must know. First and foremost, the secrecy of your correspondence cannot be assured.”

  “Why not?” asks Arthur.

  “Arthur, it’s time you realized that no one’s correspondence is reliably secret. At least, not while the papists are dispatching a dozen murderers each year out of France to assassinate Her Majesty, all of whom correspond with their co-religionists in Britain.”

  “Are the papists doing so?” asks Arthur, aghast.

  “I’m sorry to say, they are. Moreover, as you know, there is a certain … interest at the Queen’s court in whatever the three of you may be corresponding about.”

  Jonathan, Arthur, and Noah look at each other. Not for the last time, they share a creeping sense of being watched.

  “So, how shall we communicate with one another?” asks Noah.

  “If you can manage to get a message directly to Cheerful, he is completely reliable. Otherwise, you should ideally communicate in code. Do you know how to create a cipher?”

  All three shake their heads.

  “Well, we haven’t time for instruction in that art,” says Henry. “You’ll just have to be very discreet, and name people and events as ambiguously as possible. While someone reading your letters may be able to guess at your true meaning, it’s much more difficult to convict someone based upon an ambiguous message.”

  “Convict?” exclaims Arthur. “We’re barristers, for heaven’s sake! Doing our jobs!”

  Jonathan snickers. “Now who’s being naive?”

  “And one more thing,” says Henry. “You must not assume that my servants are loyal to me. To the contrary, you must assume that any one of them could be reporting to someone else on affairs at Billingbear. And, rest assured, some of them are doing so.”

  “How can you know that?” asks Arthur skeptically.

  “Because, in several cases, I know who they are.”

  Arthur’s mouth falls open. “Well, if you know who they are, why don’t you dismiss them?”

  Henry smiles darkly. “Because I know who they are! If I were to dismiss them, then they would be replaced by others, and, for a time at least, I would not know who they are. That would place us in far greater peril.”

  “But, on whose behalf do they spy upon you?”

  “You know, Arden, for a man learned in history and the law, who is himself distantly related to kings, you have not given this very much thought,” Henry sniffs. “They spy for different people. Some for Burghley, some for the Queen … ”

  “Some for Essex?” asks Jonathan.

  Henry nods almost imperceptibly.

  “Oh, grand!” says Jonathan in disgust.

  “Welcome to the nobility in the time of the Tudors,” says Henry.

  Arthur asks, “And do you have spies in the service of other noblemen?”

  Henry hoists himself out of his chair. “Fortunately, you’ve no need to concern yourself with any such possibility. Now, I really must be going. Keep your wits about you, all of you. Arthur will accompany me to Essex’s party, smiling and saying nothing. Arthur, please carry these bags down to the front, would you? I shall see Noah and Lady Jessica at the party tonight, and Billingbear late tomorrow. Jonathan,” he says, extending a hand that Jonathan grasps firmly, “be doubly careful. Trust no one. If you’re in real trouble, write a note addressed to Noah, leave it at the front door tied to a stone, and knock loudly. Then, hide until he comes looking for you. We’ll put you up secretly in one of the outbuildings. But make sure no one suspects where you’re going, and, for heaven’s sake, make sure you’re not followed. God bless you and keep you.”

  “And you, Master Henry,” replies Jonathan.

  Jonathan helps Arthur carry down Henry’s bags. A few minutes later, Henry and Arthur are off with their own luggage, leaving Noah alone. It makes him uneasy to think that, for a time, the fellowship will be scattered.

  At Essex’s party that evening at Wanstead House, Noah and Lady Jessica mill about the lobby with sundry other guests waiting to be called into the great room in order of rank.

  “Don’t forget,” Noah reminds her, “we must leave early. We’ve a long ride to Henry’s home at Windsor tomorrow.”

  When Lady Jessica’s name is called early on, she scrupulously apologizes for leaving her father’s side, and evidently fails to notice the throng of male admirers that parts like the Red Sea to make way for her entrance.

  Peering around the door into the great room, Noah sees Jessica being inundated by an even larger throng … of higher rank. On the far end of the room, the Earls of Essex and Southampton converse with a grizzled, richly dressed Spanish gentleman and, unexpectedly, Doctor Lopez. To avoid seeming the voyeur, Noah withdraws from the doorway, but not before he inadvertently catches Southampton’s eye.

  He reports what he’s seen to Henry, who has just arrived with both his wife Anne and Arthur Arden.

  “The older gentleman,” says Henry, “would be Don Antonio, the claimant to the Portuguese throne of whom we’ve spoken.”

  Arthur steps forward. “Well, if we’re being admitted by rank,” he says, “what’s Lopez doing in there already? I’d no idea a physician is more highly regarded than a barrister.”

  Henry shakes his head. “Lopez is serving as Portuguese translator here, Arthur, not as physician. His participation is necessary for Lord Essex to communicate with his royal guest.”

  “Oh,” says Arthur, obviously unimpressed. “It wouldn’t surprise me if we lot were admitted dead last. A barrister’s rank probably falls somewhere below his lordship’s favorite horse.”

  “As one who’s seen him in battle,” says Southampton, springing with unnerving suddenness from behind Henry’s substantial girth, “I can say with confidence that, in his lordship’s regard, none of us holds a higher place than his horse.”

  Noah, Henry, and Arthur smile and bow low, and Anne curtsies. Southampton confers a courtly nod upon Anne, and turns to Henry. “Master Neville, what news from London?”

  Henry shakes his head glumly. “Nothing good, m’lord. There’s rumor of plague in Southwark … and I regret to inform you that Marlowe’s been murdered.” Southampton seems unperturbed. “But I suppose you’ve heard as much.”

  Southampton’s smile is unwavering. “Tragic,” he says blithely. “And who is this barrister friend of yours?” he adds, nodding toward Noah with exaggerated interest.

  Henry adopts a formal posture to make a proper introduction. “Lord Southampton,” he says, “may I present to you Master Noah Ames, barrister at the Queen’s Bench.”

  Noah bows, quite sure that Southampton already knows precisely who he is.

  Southampton strokes his beard. “Perhaps we shall have a lawyerly diversion after the masque.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve nothing prepared for the occasion, m’lord,” says Noah, his stomach suddenly all butterflies.

  Southampton waves away the objection, and then, as only the well connected can, he ushers them all inside together, quite out of turn.

  Supper consists of too many courses to count, e
ach more exotic than the last. During coffee, a brief play is presented on the opposite end of the room. Noah hears no more than an occasional rhyming couplet, followed by a roar of appreciation. As near as he can guess, the playlet has something to do with the virtues instilled by military leadership. The players take their final bows to warm applause.

  Suddenly, a sharp scent of musk fills the air. His nose tingles. He sneezes.

  “Bless you, Master Ames,” says a Spanish-accented voice over his right shoulder. Noah turns to see a swarthy, diminutive dandy with slick hair and a curled mustache too large for his face. Before Noah can think of what to say, the man says dubiously: “You are Master Ames, no?”

  Noah clears his throat. “I am,” he confirms, “and I have the pleasure of meeting — ?”

  “Antonio Perez, at your service,” the man says with a theatrical bow.

  So this is Perez. Noah turns in his chair to look on the bearded face of the man whose presence in England has caused so much trouble. This is the man Tinoco was accused of plotting to kill, whose assailant would be paid with a red jewel — the man accused of buggering Francis Bacon until he was nearly cut off by his family, and who daily drinks a toxic concoction of musk and amber. His skin is slightly jaundiced. Noah can’t help but feel that, for such a problematic individual, his face is disappointingly mundane.

  Perez smiles, apparently flattered by the perusal of his features. “His Lordship of Essex has sent me to escort you to his table to take part in his … legal exercise, I believe he called it. If you will accompany me.”

  Reluctantly, Noah rises. “A … a legal exercise?” This must be the “lawyerly diversion” foretold by Southampton. But legal exercises are dry affairs, with students bumbling about, imitating their seniors in like circumstances who were themselves more than likely bumbling about.

  What kind of legal exercise would amuse a partygoer? Noah expects that the partygoers are nothing more than a captive audience for Essex’s attempt to humiliate him, or disgrace him altogether. He recalls with dismay the accusatory note he left in his saddlebag for Essex’s man to find. So, this will be Essex’s revenge. His heart pounds as he’s led across the great room by the little Spaniard.

  Perez, evidently recognizing his dread, offers some comfort. “Please, my friend. You are a master of the law, not one of its victims, as I am, who have been falsely accused of plotting to murder. You have no reason to fear it as I do. I am sure His Lordship intends only a brief diversion for his guests.” Noah wishes he could share Perez’s benign expectation. And Perez has been accused of plotting a murder?

  The assembled, unaware of the nature of the coming “amusement,” rise from their places and gather near the center of the room. Men jostle for position nearest Jessica, in case Essex calls for a dance. Perez bows to Noah, and takes his leave to join the others.

  Essex’s dining table has been removed, and replaced with three benches in the configuration of a barebones courtroom, with a witness box and a judge’s bench with a small desk, but no prisoner’s dock. The more Noah considers the matter, the more his reckless note appears the likely cause of all this. Oh, what had I to gain by writing it?

  From the side of the room, two men enter, carrying a long table, which they position before Noah, leaving him at the end customarily occupied by defense counsel. At the opposite end, in the position of prosecutor, stands Essex himself, avoiding Noah’s gaze. Noah bows. Without turning to acknowledge, Essex smiles to himself.

  And who should step into the imaginary witness box, but Henry Neville. His eyes likewise avoid Noah’s, as he puts on a good show of enjoying his part in the proceedings, all the while betraying a hint of concern.

  The crowd whispers excitedly. Noah glances behind him, and sees an uneasy Jessica gently push aside a fawning gentleman to secure an unobstructed view.

  As Noah wonders who’s about to assume the makeshift bench, there’s a banging on the door, which swings open. In walks Southampton. “Oyez, oyez!” he shouts, obviously relishing the role of bailiff, as it is so far beneath his true station.

  Behind him enters the man who’ll serve as judge at this mock proceeding, an uncomfortable-looking Edward Coke. One look at his forced smile tells Noah that, if Coke is “in the know” about his patron’s joke, he’s not amused. Coke takes his seat at the “bench.” It occurs to Noah that, as Coke is commonly believed to have no sense of mirth, he’ll have no choice but to play his part squarely, which gives Noah some hope, however small, of emerging unscathed from this farce.

  The bailiff Southampton addresses the partygoers. “For your next amusement, his lordship thought you might wish to see a bit of courtroom antics. For that purpose, his lordship shall play prosecuting Crown counsel.” The crowd meets this with cheers for their generous host, who nods with false humility. “To lend some verisimilitude to our exercise,” says Southampton, “we also have with us two well-regarded barristers. The distinguished Master Coke will serve as our judge.” Coke rises briefly to a smattering of applause. “And our defense lawyer shall be played by Master Noah Ames of Gray’s Inn.”

  “Papa!” comes Jessica’s feminine voice from the floor, followed by a resounding cheer joined by her many male admirers. Noah bows humbly and glances at Essex, who exudes a barely disguised resentment.

  “M’lord,” says Essex. “This witness is being offered for the purpose of translating a document from the Latin.” He takes a paper from his doublet.

  Noah’s certain that the paper is either his accusatory note or a transcription of it. “The defense objects, m’lord!” he shouts instinctively, while mentally piecing together an argument as well as he can with his pulse pounding in his ears.

  Coke holds up a hand, stopping Essex in his tracks. “What is the nature of the objection, Master Ames?”

  Noah bows. “Although we do not wish to make a mockery of the oath, and have no objection to foregoing it for the sake of this exercise, the witness has not been so much as identified, nor has the Crown demonstrated his expertise as a translator from the Latin.”

  “Very well,” says Coke, as he turns to question the witness, obviating the need for Essex to embarrass himself by stumbling through an attempt to lay his own foundation. “Who are you, sir?” Coke asks the witness.

  Henry straightens his doublet. “I am Henry Neville, of Billingbear.”

  Coke continues. “And what is your position, sir?”

  “I am a Baron of the Cinque Ports, a manufacturer of cannon for Her Majesty’s forces.”

  “Hear, hear!” come shouts from the patriotic spectators.

  Coke turns to them indulgently. “While this is merely a moot exercise, perhaps the spectators might choose to behave with somewhat greater decorum.” The crowd laughs at its own folly, and eventually quiets down.

  Coke resumes. “And are you fluent in the Latin language?”

  “I am,” replies Henry, “having studied it at Oxford University, and having passed all my examinations.”

  “Very well,” says Coke, turning to Essex. “Counsel may proceed.”

  “Master Neville,” says Essex. “I show you this paper — ”

  “Objection, m’lord,” says Noah. “As we don’t know the facts — or even the object — of this case, it’s impossible to assess the paper’s relevance.”

  Coke looks with concern to the seething Essex, and evidently decides that a bit more sportsmanship is what’s needed. “That is true,” he says indulgently, “but, for purposes of this exercise, let us presume the paper to be of some relevance. Otherwise, distinguished Crown counsel would hardly be offering it as evidence.” Essex nods gratefully.

  But now Noah has had time to think of a way to frustrate Essex’s intention: compel him to choose between abandoning this misbegotten exercise or revealing his own criminal actions leading up to the paper’s discovery.

  “Very well, m’lord,” says Noah, “but the defense must object on even more fundamental grounds.” He thrusts his hand toward the paper for em
phasis. “We know not the provenance of this paper. From whence has it come? For aught we know, a common dustman found it blowing in the breeze outside Essex House.”

  Although the crowd cannot see it, Essex’s face is red, and he’s grinding his teeth. Coke turns to the witness. “Master Neville, did you provide this paper to his lordship of Essex?”

  Henry shakes his head. “No, m’lord.”

  Coke rubs his eyes and does Essex another good turn. “Perhaps we should change the order of the witnesses. Master Neville should rather serve as the Crown’s second witness. The Crown’s first witness must be the person who produced the document to the Crown. Is such person available to the Court?”

  Essex nods. “Yes, m’lord. The Crown calls the page known as ‘Peter’ to the witness box.”

  Essex’s chief page appears. As Henry steps out of the makeshift box and the page takes his place, Noah’s eyes fix on the page’s golden hilt that was so much in evidence at The Rose, and that glinted at him just before he was struck unconscious that day at Creechurch. He concludes that Essex hasn’t a clue that, by putting this young man in the witness box, he’s doomed either this exercise … or himself.

  “Peter,” says Coke, “are you the person who brought this paper to m’lord of Essex?”

  “I am,” says the witness.

  Noah pounces, shouting: “Voir dire, m’lord!”

  Coke sighs, and busies Noah with an assignment while he decides what to do next: “Perhaps learned counsel for the defense would explain to the spectators what voir dire means.”

  “Certainly,” Noah replies, turning to the spectators, who, to his amazement, seem riveted by this amateurish courtroom display. “Voir dire is Old French for ‘to tell the truth.’ It has two principal applications, one in jury selection, which is irrelevant here, and the other in an ongoing proceeding such as this, where it is invoked by opposing counsel to test the competence of evidence before it’s admitted. In this case, I have invoked it to ask the witness whether he’s ever seen this document before, whether he knows who wrote it, who it was intended for,” he turns subtly toward Essex, “how he came by it, whether it was written in response to another writing … and so on.”