A Second Daniel

by Neal Roberts

  “I see,” says Noah. He shrugs. “Well, at least we know he is well.”

  Walker wipes his hands together to brush off a few flecks of wood. He frowns with obvious concern. “And why wouldn’t he be well, Master Ames? Is there trouble about?”

  “No,” says Noah pensively. “I suppose not.”

  “Well, if yer missin’ the young folk, sir, I hear yer Master Cheerful will be up from London again this mornin’. Considerin’ how fast he rides, I’m surprised he’s not ’ere already.”

  There are heavy footfalls at the top of the staircase that Noah descended shortly before.

  “Good morning, Ames. Care to go riding until breakfast?”

  “Delighted, Henry!”

  Henry leads him back to the stables, where they pass the pathetic horses that brought him and Jessica to Billingbear. Although they seem to be improving in the care of the Nevilles’ stableman, they remain a sorry sight by comparison to the sleek beauties in the other stalls.

  The stableman opens a stall, and leads out one of the larger horses.

  “They have to be that big to bear my heft comfortably,” confides Henry. He mounts with the assistance of a stepladder.

  “Shall I saddle one of Master Ames’ horses, sir?” the stableman asks dubiously.

  “No. Give Master Ames the black one my daughter calls ‘Bucklebury.’”

  The stableman smiles. “Yes, sir!”

  A moment later, he leads in the most beautiful black steed, young and strong, of medium build, with a sleek, well-tended coat. Better still, he seems content to allow Noah to mount him.

  Henry observes rider and mount. “Master Ames, that horse was meant for you. You look positively dashing together.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not much with a horse,” Noah confesses.

  “We’ll see.”

  Henry leads the way to Windsor Forest, first at a lope, then a canter. Each acceleration serves to convince Noah that Henry is right about this horse. It will be painful to part with him.

  When they’ve gone deep into the forest, Henry leads the way up a steep slope. “My father is Forester of Windsor Park,” he says. “I used to come here all the time as a lad. I know every nook of it.”

  They come to rest at the top of a high grassy knoll where the view is breathtaking, looking down upon endless treetops in every direction. Windsor Castle stares down at them from a commanding hill.

  A fond faraway smile lights upon Henry’s face. “I do love it so. I recall one time my father instructing the young Princess Elizabeth in archery, trying to teach her how to shoot a deer. Bless her soul,” he laughs quietly, “she didn’t have the heart for it. She talked so long that, by the time he’d prepared her to actually do it, the deer had long fled.”

  He looks up at the castle, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Well, what do you know?” He points to the castle. “You see that pennant? The one by the main entrance?”

  Noah shields his eyes, and peers up. There are several pennants, one near the main entrance. “Yes, I think I do.”

  “That means the Queen is in residence. I wonder how long she’ll be there.”

  A long cloud of dust rises from the incline approaching the distant castle, signifying the arrival of some dignitary or other.

  “I wonder who that could be,” muses Henry.

  As the train pulls up to the closed gate, the tangerine-and-cream livery of the Earl of Essex becomes visible in the distance. While its bright design was no doubt fashioned to seem uplifting and heroic, to Noah the colors seem muted by the dark shadow of the lingering dust cloud hovering over them. He finds himself fervently hoping that the gate will refuse to yield, and protect the Queen as it was designed to do. Instead, it stupidly gapes wide, and the train passes through unimpeded, drawing the black cloud deep inside the castle keep. Noah looks at Henry, who appears to have been studying his face.

  And then Henry says something truly unexpected. “You amaze me. I think you’re in love with her.”

  “With whom?”

  “With the Queen! You’ve never so much as seen her, have you?”

  Noah shifts on his mount. “I did see her. Once. Long ago.”

  “I would have expected our little discussion of yesterday to clear your vision somewhat. They’re not gods, Noah. Some of them are not even good people.”

  “She is, though.”

  “She is that,” Henry admits. “One of the best, in fact. Not to change the subject, but the other day I found something unnerving about Hawking. I remember only too well how distraught he was about Graves’ murder. I understand why he is so fanatical about prosecuting Frizer. Even without more, that bastard should rot in hell for what he’s done to the English theater. But what disturbed me most was that I began to realize Hawking’s not out for Frizer alone, is he?”

  Noah looks down at the reins and says nothing.

  Henry nods. “As I thought. He’s not even out for Skeres. He wants larger game.”

  “I cannot discuss it, Master Neville.” Noah looks up at him. “It’s not my secret, or I would disclose it.”

  Henry arches an eyebrow. “Would you? Have you told me your secrets? You know plenty of mine.”

  “I suppose everyone has one or two.”

  “That’s true. But I’m not asking idly. The Cecils are considering placing you in a most sensitive position. In light of their long-running rivalry with Essex, any blot on your past could ruin them, and change the course of English history very much for the worse from your viewpoint, judging by your expression whenever Essex’s name or livery appear. I shall leave it to you to choose the precise moment to tell me, but, before you return to London or Westminster, I need to know what secrets you may have.”

  Noah hesitates. “And if I were to decline the proffered position?”

  Henry laughs darkly, and shakes his head. “Noah, are you a trueborn Englishman?”

  “Aye.” To Noah, his Polish birth is a mere accident.

  “One who loves his Queen?”

  “Aye!” says Noah sternly.

  “Then you have no choice. If you fit the Cecils’ bill, you’re in it up to your neck. And it won’t come by invitation. It will take the form of a command signed by your earthly deity herself.” He tilts his head to indicate the distant castle.

  Noah nods and stares absently at his horse’s mane.

  Henry grabs his reins, as though to trot off.

  “Wait, Henry, please,” says Noah. “I’m prepared to disclose to you my only serious secret.”

  “Now?”

  “Whenever I’m permitted to accompany you on your nocturnal pilgrimage to your father.”

  Henry’s eyes go wide. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”

  Noah is pleased that he’s guessed rightly about the occupant of the sickroom. “I wish that were true. I’m afraid I do miss things, from time to time. And the consequences can prove fatal. In any event, may I accompany you?”

  At first, Henry equivocates. “Oh, all right,” he says. “But have you ever seen my father?”

  Noah nods. “Once. A long, long time ago.”

  Henry shakes the reins, trots down to a wide path, and turns onto it, bringing his mount to a full gallop. Bucklebury easily keeps up, the ground flowing under him like a great river. Noah is exhilarated. For better or worse, a huge weight will soon be lifted from his chest. He hopes that it will all turn out for the best, but wonders how a leak of this secret might threaten the fortunes of Marie and his daughter, who so values her social standing.

  Chapter 20

  WHEN HENRY AND Noah arrive back at Billingbear, there’s a full complement of guests for breakfast, and servants to assist, and the place teems with good cheer. Henry beams as he and Noah enter the dining room.

  Mistress Anne sidles up to Noah. “Look at Henry,” she says intimately. “He’s in his glory. This is just the way he likes things: a world of good food and good company, all revolving around him.” She goes to greet the Lord Treasurer and his son.<
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  Jessica leaves the table to greet Henry and Noah. “Oh, papa!” she says for all to hear. “We were beginning to worry about you! Where did you spirit Master Henry off to?” She stands between them, facing the assembled, and takes them both by the hand. “You look just fine. I hope Master Henry is none the worse for wear.” She kisses them each on the cheek.

  “I assure you,” replies Noah, “I have returned Master Henry in good condition — or, at least, in no worse condition than I found him.”

  The rest of the company shouts its approval and applauds as Henry takes his seat at the head of the table.

  From the corner of his eye, Noah spots two people in different parts of the room waving to him. One is Lord Burghley, who signals an invitation for Noah to take a seat to his right, a place of great honor. The other is young Cheerful Killigrew, smiling as ever, pointing to his leather pouch. Evidently, he has at least one letter for Noah.

  If Noah were not thinking diplomatically, he would simply go directly to Cheerful, as there’s a good chance he has a letter from Jonathan, whose welfare weighs heavily on Noah’s mind. But he simply cannot snub Lord Burghley. As Mistress Anne is passing at this very moment, he seeks her as a go-between to her kinsman.

  “Mistress Anne, I must go and speak to Lord Burghley, but evidently a letter has been brought to me by … ” He indicates Cheerful.

  “By whom, Master Ames?” she asks blankly.

  “By the good-looking young Killigrew fellow over there.” He points with his chin.

  “Well, you’ll have to be more specific, Master Ames. All the Killigrew men are good-looking.”

  “The one with the … ” He stops cold, as he realizes she’s having him on.

  She scoffs. “Well, if you’re going to find out his given name, you’re going to have to do better than that!” She smiles and walks away.

  Noah goes to Lord Burghley. “M’lord, you do me great honor to seat me there. Just now, however, I really must see that young fellow, whom I believe to have an urgent letter for me.”

  Burghley peers down the table at Cheerful. “I quite understand, Master Ames. You take all the time you need to read and to collect your thoughts.”

  Noah bows. “Thank you, m’lord. Sir Robert.”

  Noah sidles up to Cheerful at the opposite end of the table. “Hello. What have you got for me?” he asks.

  “I have but one letter for you, sir,” says Cheerful in his spirited tenor voice, “but I thought you’d like to see it right away. A scruffy young fellow brought it to me. He seemed very tired, as though he’d not got much rest for days.” He hands Noah the letter.

  “Thank you very much.” Noah takes a coin from his pocket and drops it in the boy’s hand. “Here you go, Master … ?”

  “Thank you, Master Ames.” The boy smiles broadly, and takes the coin.

  Noah takes the letter into the hallway, looks around to ensure he’s not being observed, and slits it open roughly with his finger. It’s from Jonathan.

  Dear Master Ames:

  The coroner has completed his brief inquest into the death of Marlowe and, as I predicted, has issued a formal acquittal of Frizer. Evidently, killing someone by stabbing him through the eye with a stiletto is, in the coroner’s view, insufficient to give rise to an inference of possible wrongdoing. See if even your host can rationalize such a vacuous finding.

  As it turns out, Frizer is a servant of Sir Thos. Walsingham, brother of the late Mister Secretary, and good friend of the tangerine crowd. (Sorry, but I’m sending this by Master Cheerful and, if he’s turned Turk, we’re all in the stews anyhow. Burn this immediately after reading.) I’ve got some jesters researching whether a coroner’s acquittal prohibits a later criminal trial on grounds that it would impose double jeopardy in violation of the English constitution. Unless we find out that a criminal trial is forbidden, I will continue to investigate the scoundrel with the icepick.

  Hawk.

  P.S. After writing the above, I sided the coroner in the street, and he advised me that he strongly suspects Frizer murdered Stephen Rodriguez, too (although that murder was outside the scope of his inquest). He told me to use his report as evidence that Frizer stabs people through the eye. He says that, notwithstanding his finding that Frizer lacked the requisite state of mind to make him criminally responsible in the case of Marlowe’s death, his report should help in convicting Frizer of the Rodriguez murder. I think he’s right. Not a bad old chap, really, but he is scared to death. Someone has gotten to him. He’s not the type to accept a bribe, so I’m pretty sure he’s been threatened. So, the inquest was all theater, precisely as I foresaw.

  P.P.S. Have an extra pheasant for me! Somebody might as well enjoy this bloody summer. Plague rampant in Southwark, although nothing around Gray’s, as yet.

  Noah folds the letter neatly and places it firmly in his pocket, resolving to burn it at first opportunity. He takes a deep breath, dons a smile, and heads in to breakfast. The table is already thinning, as a tennis match is being organized outdoors, and no one wishes to be chosen last.

  “Here is your seat, Master Ames!” says Lord Burghley. “As you can see, we have faithfully retained it for you. Please join us.”

  “Thank you, m’lord,” says Noah, helping himself to two slices of toast and spooning a few chicken’s eggs onto his plate from a communal serving dish. “I’m famished!”

  No one remains at this end of the dining table, except Henry, the Lord Treasurer, and Sir Robert, all sipping coffee. When Noah looks up from his plate, he sees that all eyes await his.

  “Has your correspondent sent you any news of general interest, Master Ames?” asks Burghley.

  “Hmmm, well, let’s see.” Noah looks to Henry, who regards him with interest, albeit as inconspicuously as possible. “I have learned, unfortunately, that plague is rampant in Southwark.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible! Master Henry, do you think, as Doctor Lopez has suggested, that it’s because of all the open sewers down there?”

  Henry coughs. “While I can’t say I understand such things well, I think it undeniable that filth and contagion travel hand in hand.”

  “And I have also learned,” says Noah, swallowing some toast, “that Marlowe’s killer has been acquitted by the coroner after inquest.”

  Henry cannot mask his perturbation, but he says nothing.

  Noah tries to recall Jonathan’s phrase exactly, and comes fairly close. “Evidently, killing someone by stabbing him through the eye with a stiletto is insufficient to give rise to an inference of possible wrongdoing.”

  Burghley frowns. “Oh, that cannot be right!”

  Sir Robert is even more overset than Henry. He slams his small fist down on the table, rises, and walks away red-faced, embarrassing his father.

  “Master Neville, Master Ames, you will have to forgive Robert, as he has far less experience than you in the inevitable frustrations of legal affairs.”

  “Not at all,” says Noah. “It does Sir Robert credit to detest injustice, nor does it require a great deal of legal practice to see it in this case. He’s right to be upset.”

  Burghley sighs. “Still, I suppose that the death of one playwright, in the grand scheme of things, is not so great a loss.”

  Henry’s face reddens and he turns aside, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He clears his throat. “Marlowe was a first-rate poet, Lord Burghley,” he says calmly. “England is the less without him.”

  Burghley evidently realizes he has spoken cavalierly. “Oh, most certainly he was, Master Neville. I spoke out of turn.” Henry nods indulgently.

  Sir Robert returns to his chair and apologizes for his outburst. He bows to Henry, who nods in understanding and bids him be seated.

  Until now, Noah has waited in vain for some sign that Henry will tell the Cecils of Essex’s designs. He now looks pointedly to Henry, who understands immediately, glances around the empty table, and beckons his footman.

  “Walker, please close both sets of doors, and
instruct the wait staff that no one is to enter until we have dispersed.” Walker nods gravely, closes one set of doors, then closes the other set from outside.

  Henry and Noah are now alone with the Cecils, who seem a little surprised and regard Henry expectantly.

  “As you know,” Henry begins, “there was a murder outside The Rose some weeks ago.” The Cecils both nod. “Under Master Ames’ guidance, one of his diligent young colleagues at Gray’s Inn has been investigating on behalf of the victim’s widow. Master Ames has recently made some very disturbing observations. Master Ames?”

  All three sets of eyes are now fixed on Noah, who is surprised that it will be he, rather than Henry, who will inform the Cecils of the danger.

  “Gentlemen,” says Noah, “I strongly suspect that Lord Essex is in the process of converting Secretary Walsingham’s spy network to his own use, and murdering those former spies who refuse to come along.”

  The Cecils are speechless, but they exchange a glance that can only mean he’s touched upon a point of long concern. Burghley speaks softly and slowly. “Master Ames, you do understand the gravity of this accusation?”

  Noah gulps. “I do, your lordship. I am a barrister of more than twenty years’ experience. I do not take allegations of this kind lightly, and while the case is far from certain, the evidence to date all seems to point in the same direction. The man who was murdered at the theater and Christopher Marlowe were both assassinated by the forcible insertion of a stiletto through the eye into the brain.” Burghley winces, and Sir Robert’s face goes white. “Both victims had been agents of Secretary Walsingham while he lived, and they appear to have been murdered by the same man, who is one of Lord Essex’s attendants, and who has now, as you know, been acquitted in Marlowe’s murder, in questionable manner. Other former agents of Walsingham, who are in good favor with Lord Essex, remain untouched.”