by Neal Roberts
Noah puts his hands behind his head and lies back on the pillow. “Scintillating, I’m sure.”
“The Latin is imperfect, but you do know what it means?”
“I? I believe it was you who got the ‘first’ in Latin Studies in our class. How did you translate it for his lordship?”
“‘It is not the faithful, but the unfaithful subject who needs to beware.’” Henry shrugs. “But you already know what it means.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you wrote it.”
“Did I? I assure you I correspond with neither his lordship nor his attendants. My Latin is not good enough to use in correspondence. In any event, it would be pointless to use it with his lordship, as he obviously requires a translator. Besides, why would you think I wrote it? Did he tell you it was from me?”
“No. I knew it had to be you, because it’s a clever response to the warning ‘caveat causidicus’ you received some weeks ago, which was reinforced, as I recall, by a knock on the head. It was also obvious, to me at least, that you were desperate to avoid its being read aloud at the party.”
“But, when would I have had occasion to write to Essex? And by what means would I send him such a message?”
“I was hoping you might tell me that.”
Noah is concerned that Henry might take his obtuseness as a sign of ingratitude. He is, after all, Henry’s houseguest. “I never wrote it to his lordship. Indeed, I never wrote it to anyone.” He plants his tongue firmly in cheek. “I suppose I may have inscribed it on the back of some personal papers and left them in my saddlebag, secure in the knowledge that his lordship would never violate the sanctity of a barrister’s papers, or (heaven forfend!) have such papers purloined.”
“Which papers?”
“I struck out his warning and wrote those words on the same sheet of paper, next to the stricken line. His lackey then stole the same papers again.”
Henry frowns, and shakes his head. “Do you have any idea how he could have you punished for such insolence?”
Noah brings his hands down to his sides, and sits up indignantly. “Which insolence, Henry? I told you, I never wrote those words to him. As was demonstrated at the party, if he wishes to prosecute me, he’ll have to produce the original papers — my papers — and explain how he got them. How he instructed his attendant to club me over the head, invade my saddlebag twice, threaten me in the conduct of my duties, and steal my personal papers. At the very least, he’d be confessing to battery and multiple counts of larceny. It would be still more entertaining to watch him explain why he believes the words were meant for him. That might even send him to the gallows!”
Henry sighs. “So you think you’ve outwitted him? He’s a very powerful man, Noah.”
Noah leans back on his pillow again. “Indeed, he is. If he weren’t, I’d have him in prison already.”
“Why are you so protective of the Queen that you would expose yourself to such hazard, when you’re uncertain she’s even the object of his plot?”
“Beside the oath I have sworn to Her Majesty?”
“Beside that.”
“Because the Queen should remain our monarch for her whole life. The descent of the Crown by accepted rules of primogeniture assures the peaceful succession of power. Without it, there would be no end of civil wars, with Englishmen slaughtering Englishmen. Strict adherence to primogeniture is England’s finest tradition, and its oldest.”
“Its oldest?” Henry laughs darkly. “If that’s what you believe, then perhaps there’s something you can learn while you’re here at Billingbear. Why don’t you put on some clothes? I’ll show you some of my ancestors.”
“Ancestors?” asks Noah warily.
Henry chuckles. “Not their remains. Their portraits!”
“Ah! I’ll be down in a few minutes.” As Henry leaves, Noah eats the last of the tangerine slices, and rises to wash and dress.
A short while later, they amble together along the main hall, which is lined with portraits in gilded frames.
“This is the tuppence tour,” says Henry. “Let me know if you recognize anybody. Otherwise, I’ll just tell you about the more famous ones.”
Noah spots a portrait of a crowned male figure with brown hair and wide-set eyes. “Is this — ?”
Henry emits a low laugh. “That is King Richard the Third. Ironic that you should recognize him first. His reputation has hardly cast a good light on this family.”
“Was he a Neville?”
“I’m afraid so. Right next to his portrait is that of his mother, Cecily Neville, Duchess of York.”
“She was also the mother of King Edward the Fourth.”
“Indeed, she was!”
“And the grandmother of the Princes in the Tower, who were murdered by her son King Richard,” says Noah.
Henry nods sadly. “The elder of whom was the uncrowned King Edward the Fifth.”
Noah can see that this hoary tale of national tragedy is still a fresh wound to Henry’s soul. “I’m so sorry, Henry. I was caught up in the history of it all. I … should have realized that, for you, this was a family tragedy.”
“Indeed, sometimes I need to remind myself that it was a tragedy for the rest of England, as well.”
“So, you’re a Yorkist.”
“Do not rush to judgment! On the other side of this great door, we have a few more kings. See if you recognize them.”
They continue down the great hallway, past the main entrance door. At the base of each portrait is an engraved plaque naming the person depicted. Noah avoids reading them, so Henry will tell their story in his own way.
“Who is this lovely lady?” Noah asks, indicating a portrait that appears about as old as the others he’s seen.
“That is Lady Anne Neville, the first wife of Edward Plantagenet, who was heir to the throne by his father King Henry the Sixth. Prince Edward was killed in the Wars of the Roses, probably by the Duke of Gloucester, who eventually became Richard the Third by capturing and then murdering Henry the Sixth in the Tower. Lady Anne remarried not too long thereafter.”
“And I know whom she remarried. I begin to discern a pattern in your choice of narrative.” Noah has the feeling he’s one in a very long line of people with whom Henry and his forbears have had this same conversation. “She married Richard the Third, the man who’d murdered both her husband and his father the king!”
“That’s precisely what she did,” confirms Henry. “The point I’m demonstrating is that the English tradition of which you are so exceedingly fond, that of assuring the peaceful transfer of power by primogeniture, is only the bright side of the coin. Its tarnished and bloody reverse is that people have always done literally anything they can to seize the Crown, regardless of the niceties of primogeniture, or even the laws of nature.”
He points to Lady Anne’s portrait. “They will marry the murderers of their spouses.” He points to Richard the Third. “They will murder their brothers and their nephews … even children.” Indicating a joint portrait of the Princes in the Tower, he says darkly: “Even children who are already kings.”
“So, what you’re saying is: That sad tradition is as hoary as primogeniture.”
“It goes back all the way to the Garden of Eden.” Henry nods sadly. “And the right for which Cain killed Abel was not even so much as a crown.”
“I see your point,” concedes Noah. The portraits lure his curiosity back to the many Neville appearances in the royal line. “So, you’re not just a Yorkist. You’re a Lancastrian, as well. You wear both the white and the red rose, just as the Tudors do. Why, you’re quite as English as the Queen!”
“Shhhhh!” Henry draws Noah into a small room off the hall. “Don’t say that aloud!” he says quietly. “Didn’t I tell you the walls have ears?”
Noah’s face reddens, as he’s evidently been found guilty of some gross error he fails to understand. He replies in hushed tones. “But Henry! We have discussed nothing that is unknown to t
he general public. Hundreds of thousands of people know these things!”
“Ah, but we Nevilles are Plantagenets, and so must act as though we know no such thing about ourselves. Walk up and down these aisles with your eyes open, Noah, and you will find that Nevilles have also been Queens of Scotland, France, Bohemia … even Spain, for heaven’s sake! Our beloved Queen Elizabeth may trace her ancestry back to William the Conqueror, but, after all, he was French. And though Nevilles accompanied him from France, invaded England by his side, and were rewarded for their victory in the Battle of Hastings in 1066, we intermarried with the families of Anglo-Saxon royalty who had ruled England since King Canute. As English as the Queen?” He smirks. “We Nevilles are centuries more English than she.”
“Then — ” Noah stops himself, his eyes wide.
“Stop!” says Henry, placing his fingers against Noah’s mouth. “Never say it. And, for heaven’s sake, stop thinking it!”
Noah nods, although he’s never been able to stop himself from thinking about something once it’s entered his mind. What Henry forbids him to say is that the Nevilles’ claim to the throne might well be superior to the tenuous claim of Henry the Seventh, whose granddaughter Elizabeth now occupies it.
“Come to the library, Noah. I have something to show you there.”
They go down the hall to a huge library lined by darkly stained oak, containing hundreds of bound volumes and numerous parchment scrolls. Henry searches through a bookshelf just higher than his head, and selects a particularly battered book to take down and hand to Noah. Although it’s a handwritten transcription, the title page dutifully identifies it as Leycester’s Commonwealth, and says it was published in Antwerp in 1584.
“What’s this?” asks Noah.
“Most of it is a worthless piece of vicious libel scribbled by an unidentified papist expatriate, probably Paget. It’s been set in type since that transcription was made. The book’s basic thesis is that the Earl of Leicester, whose given name was ‘Robert Dudley’ and who happened to be the Queen’s favorite prior to Essex, was a murderer whose sole purpose in life was to gain the Crown for himself. It is, incidentally, a banned publication. Why, ’tis treason for you simply to hold it in your hands at this very moment!”
Noah gasps, and tosses the book back to Henry, who catches it and collapses into a soundless fit of laughter. Noah is mortified, and takes a step toward storming out of the library. Henry restrains him by the arm, and says, “Wait, Noah! Wait. Let me show you something. Two things, really. First, if you will leaf through the latter pages of the book, you will see that it contains a history of the Wars of the Roses. I’ve placed a mark next to the mention of everyone who was a Neville. Look!”
Noah first glances around the library to make sure no one is watching. Seeing no one, with some consternation he accepts the book back, and leafs through page after page. “Almost everyone here is a Neville.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. And, whatever the book’s deficiencies, it is accurate on that score.”
As Henry is about to take back the book, he snaps his fingers. “Wait! There’s one more thing I want you to see!” While Noah holds the book, Henry flips through it. He has obviously been through the volume many times, as he recognizes the pages upside down. “Here, look.” He points to a paragraph stating that Dudley still has agents in place to inform him of new intelligence and act on his behalf, principal among whom is “Lopez the Jew for poisoning and for the art of destroying children in women’s bellies.”
Before Noah can digest the passage, two sets of light footsteps approach the library. Henry grabs the book out of Noah’s hands, snaps it shut, and deftly restores it to its former place on the shelf. Together, Henry and Noah stroll to the center of the library, pretending to have been deeply involved in conversation there.
Henry says, a little too theatrically: “And, so you see, Master Ames, that many whom the general populace mistakenly regard as demigods are, to me, simply distant ancestors.”
Lord Burghley and his son Sir Robert appear at the door in their robes of office, Lord Burghley smiling broadly. “Oh, Master Ames, do not fall prey to Master Neville’s disparagement of the divine rights of kings. Most of them have proven worthy of such rights, even those bearing the tragic mark of being related to our Master Henry.”
“Gentlemen!” says Henry. “Have you completed your pillaging of my rose garden? Hmmm? Shall I dispatch Goodman Walker to extinguish the many fires you have set, and provide alms to those you’ve left destitute?”
“There shall be no need, Master Henry,” says Sir Robert. “We were quite vanquished and left in utter confusion by the clever device of a hedgerow maze, from which we barely escaped with our lives.”
Henry laughs. “How long did it take you to find your way out?”
The Cecils exchange a glance, as neither seems sure how to reply. Sir Robert speaks. “We would like to inform you that we found our way out in the process of saving a fair damsel in distress. But, alas, it was rather we — in distress — who were guided to freedom by a damsel, in the person of fair Lady Burlington.”
“You should indeed feel exalted that the Lady of the Forest deigned to heed your miserable cries,” sniffs Henry.
“And so we do, Master Neville, especially as she herself had been commanded by the Lady of the House to summon us to dinner. She has, however, charged us with a nearly impossible quest, that being to drag the two of you with us, overcoming all resistance.”
Noah steps into the fray. “I think it prudent, Master Neville, to recognize when one is overpowered.”
“Indeed,” agrees Henry. “The better part of valor is discretion.” He looks grimly at Noah. “I’m afraid we have no choice but to dine. Ames, follow me with your head hung suitably low.”
As they dine on mutton and potatoes, as well as some early greens from the garden, Henry offers the Cecils advice on numerous affairs of state, sometimes humbly, sometimes haughtily, always in the best of humor. Much of the discussion goes over Noah’s head, most topics having no apparent connection to him. After a while, he notices that everyone is pointedly avoiding the slightest mention of Essex or his party. Even when one would expect Essex to come up, he never does.
After a while, Noah gives up on the men’s discussion and begins attending to the ladies’ conversation, which centers around women they all seem to know well, but Noah has never so much as heard of.
When they leave the table to disperse to diverse activities, Noah still has no clue why the Cecils have been speaking of him so often in weeks past.
At bedtime, Noah retires to his room. As he prepares to light a candle so he can undress, somewhere in the night, a light in an upstairs room catches his eye. In a remote window, a sheer white curtain sways gently, and a candle flickers on the same warm breeze. He feels sure it’s the same room he spied on his arrival late last evening.
He places a candle in the candlestick, but does not light it. The night is quiet enough that, through his open window, he can make out a subdued conversation taking place just below his window, at the rear door. There are two voices — one belonging to a man, the other an older woman.
“Do you have the fresh water, as well?” asks the woman.
“Wait, let me see,” replies the man. Noah is almost sure it’s Henry, although, if it is him, something about his voice sounds uncharacteristically humble, or perhaps resigned to performing some uncomfortable duty. “Yes, here it is. You have packed quite the basket here, Julia. Thank you.”
“It’s my privilege. Please convey my humblest respects, sir.”
“I shall certainly do so, Julia. Thank you, again.”
Noah steps back from the window, lest he be seen. The rear door shuts, and, mere moments later, Henry’s stout form appears outside. Henry proceeds slowly away from the house in the general direction of the outbuilding where the candle burns in the window. Noah chides himself for failing to get a better look at the building while there was still da
ylight, but finds that if he blocks the moon from his view, he can make out at least some detail.
It looks to be a small brick cottage of two stories, in the same architecture as the main house. If the main house was once an abbey, then the cottage might have been its rectory. He wonders about the origins of Billingbear as he observes Henry bracing himself before the cottage’s side entrance.
As Noah’s view of that entrance is blocked by a thick willow, his gaze naturally returns to the upstairs room, where the bottom of the sheer curtain suddenly flaps out of the window, and the candle gutters in the draft wafted by Henry’s opening the exterior door. A few moments later, the interior door of the candlelit room opens and Henry enters, forcing a smile and talking, much too far away to be heard. He puts down his basket, and proceeds into the room, out of Noah’s view.
Evidently, it is a sickroom. Although it did not occur to Noah until this very moment, he suspects that the invalid is Henry’s father, whom Noah has not seen since spying him through a window one fateful night at the Tower of London.
The next morning, Noah awakes earlier and far more well-rested than usual. He washes and dresses, and heads downstairs to the kitchen area. No one is stirring but a few servants beginning preparations for breakfast.
“Hello, Master Ames,” says Walker in a hoarse morning voice, coming in through the rear entrance with a few fagots of wood under his arm. He closes the door behind him. “Up early, you are. Especially for a barrister.”
Noah smiles. “Yes, well, I did something barristers rarely do. I went to sleep without reading into the night. Not very good for lining the pockets, but excellent for one’s outlook.”
“I catch your meanin’, sir.”
“Tell me, have you seen Arden about? I didn’t see him all day yesterday.”
“Saw ’im just this mornin’, sir, going out to the stables, same as yesterday. He was ridin’ all day yesterday, and I expect he’ll do the same today … and every day till the novelty wears off. It’s not every fella gets to ride through the Windsor Forest.” He winks confidentially, and comes over to Noah, still carrying the wood. “Uncle ’enry’s approval may be enough to ride his best horses about, but no one goes into Windsor Forest without Her Majesty’s approval ‘in each instance,’” he says, as though quoting a deed of easement. He steps over to the fireplace and puts the fagots down one at a time.