by Neal Roberts
“Francis, of course.”
“You’re shocked, I see,” says Henry drearily.
“And Her Majesty is seeking your advice, as well?”
“Mainly indirectly, through Burghley. The Cecils are quite at a loss as to how to win her over to Coke.”
“How about the other matter?”
“Lopez? The more the rivalry heats up for Attorney General, the more you’ll see Essex putting the screws to Lopez.”
“I’ve no doubt.”
“It’s unfortunate that the Cecils are Lopez’s only champions, as they need to appear impartial in the matter.”
At Christmas, Jessica graces a party attended by the most eligible noblemen in London, while Noah goes to Marie’s house for a traditional supper of Christmas goose and pudding. All the Rodriguez children are there. Stephen pokes at his food and, after a respectful interval, asks to be excused. Marie allows him to go upstairs to his room.
“He’s been despondent for weeks,” she tells Noah privately. “I’m afraid Jessica has turned away.”
After dessert, the young children are put to bed, although with all the excitement and anticipation about the gifts they’ll find the next morning, they take longer than usual to drop off.
After an hour or so, Noah accompanies Marie to a small windowless room on the second story that he’s never seen used. It’s lined with oak, and appears to be furnished as a private study. He sees that Marie has given his candlestick pride of place in this most intimate room. With his encouragement, she lights a candle mourning her deceased husband on the occasion of Christmas. After a few minutes’ silence watching the candle flicker gently, they leave the room together.
Marie is about to lock the door behind them when they hear a knock downstairs. “Who could be calling at this hour?” she wonders aloud.
Noah descends the stairs to find out. When he opens the front door, standing in the early snow is a very worried, very old-looking Doctor Lopez, who appears to have left home without his coat. Although his rooms at Mountjoy’s are only a stone’s throw from Marie’s house, the snow has already accumulated on his shoulders, and frosts his hair and mustache.
“Oh, Master Ames, I am so relieved to find you here! I’m afraid I interrupted the revels at Gray’s Inn so that I might prevail upon the residents to tell me where you could be found. I hope you will forgive me … and them.” He looks positively ashen. Noah nods reassuringly.
Marie peers down from the top of the stairs. “Won’t you come in, Doctor Lopez?”
“Thank you, madam,” he replies, bowing. He steps into the vestibule, but will go no further into the house. “I will detain Master Ames for only a moment,” he says. Marie, who’d been about to come down, takes this as a request to be left alone with Noah, and returns to the upstairs parlor.
“What’s the matter, Roderigo?” asks Noah. “What’s happened?”
Lopez seems to equivocate about whether to reply, and apparently decides against it. “I have only one question, sir.”
“All right, but I have no books here to help me find the answer. You know that.”
“Yes, sir, and I would not disturb you with work on the evening of this great feast, in any event. But I must ask you: Can an ambassador of a foreign power be tried in an English criminal court?”
Noah doesn’t know why, but he’s shocked by the question. Certainly, he should long have expected it. But Lopez’s downfall has always been something that might happen. Only eventually. Never something that will definitely happen. Never right now.
“Well, Doctor Lopez, I will give you the best answer I can recall from my legal training, but I beg you not to rely on it. As best I remember, an ambassador of a foreign power present in England at the request of his Sovereign cannot be tried in an English criminal court.”
As the old man looks so relieved, Noah regrets having to finish the thought. “However,” he resumes, “the privilege against prosecution belongs not to the ambassador, but to his Sovereign. If the Sovereign consents to the prosecution in a writing to the Queen, or if he informs the Queen in writing that the ambassadorship has come to a definite end, then the ambassador can be criminally tried here. Do you wish to come see me at Gray’s tomorrow morning? You can tell me what’s happened, and we can discuss this thoroughly.”
Lopez appears to be searching his memory, the worry having returned to his gray face. “That will not be necessary, Master Ames. I’m sure I am unduly concerned about nothing. That would be just like me. Good evening. Please pay my respects to Goodwife Rodriguez.” He smiles weakly, stumbles out into the snow, and turns down High Holborn back toward his residence at Mountjoy’s Inn.
Noah leans through the doorway, peering after him into the night, and his heart sinks. Where once strutted a proud physician, a coatless old man now drifts along a path of treacherous sleet, a lone and soundless figure buffeted by a menacing blizzard.
Just as the snow seems about to block Noah’s view, the muffled clop of horses’ hooves striking snowy pavement approaches from the same direction. A covered coach flanked by two horsemen comes to a halt athwart Lopez’s path. Noah races out of the door toward him, but, before he can reach him, one of the horsemen dismounts, and the coach door is flung open from inside. Noah freezes in place.
“Suspicion of high treason,” says the horseman, in response to a mumbled question from Lopez. The horseman roughly escorts the old man into the coach, slams the door behind him, receives softly spoken instructions from inside the coach, and remounts.
The carriage and horsemen clop slowly toward Noah, and, to his amazement, stop right beside him. Though he can make out the silhouettes of several occupants, he cannot identify them through the blowing snow.
“Happy Christmas, Counselor,” a voice says sardonically from inside.
Though Noah shudders to hear that voice, he has no choice but to bow. “M’lord of Essex,” he says. “And to you, also.”
The horseman turns his head toward the coach. “This one too, m’lord?” he asks impassively, evidently referring to Noah.
“No,” replies Essex wearily. “Just the Jew.”
With a shake of the reins, the carriage resumes apace, and disappears from view. A moment later, the clopping dies away.
Just the Jew. Essex was unaware that he’d distinguished between Lopez and Noah on specious grounds. If he’d arrested all the Jews on the street just now, Noah would have been taken, too. And Essex’s tone made it seem that Lopez was being arrested because he was a Jew. Not for the first time, Noah’s stomach churns with guilt derived of the knowledge that he alone has escaped the treatment suffered by all his tribe.
Gradually, it dawns on him that he’s being coated with wet snow, just as Lopez was. Glancing back toward the shelter of Marie’s house, he sees her standing in the doorway watching after him, sadly chafing her hands in the icy breeze, evidently aware of what just happened. She is the very embodiment of home and hearth, everything he’s been missing all these long years. He’s sickened to think what harm might befall her on his account, should his faith ever be discovered by someone wishing him harm, someone like Essex.
And what if she’s not as she appears? What if she really is in cahoots with Southampton, who, for all he knows, was sitting in the carriage with Essex just now? Better she herself never learns of Noah’s faith. Better for them both that he lives out the rest of his life in the same self-loathing and self-pity he’s been living in up to now. He even wonders for the first time whether Uncle Avram made the wrong choice in delivering him up to an “important” life. He trudges up the steps, feeling very unimportant. All that welcoming warmth inside, all that bounty, even this good woman’s great beauty … is not meant for him, but for someone he’s merely pretending to be.
Though Marie takes Noah warmly by the hand and shuts the door on the freezing wind, he shivers to think that he is, and always will be … alone.
Happy Christmas, indeed.
Chapter 24
NOAH WALKS
OUT of a courtroom at Westminster on the first day of Hilary Term. Across great Westminster Hall, he spots Henry, evidently on a break from proceedings in Parliament, and waves him over.
“You’ve heard about Lopez?” asks Henry.
“I saw it! A frightening thing, to have a man just scooped up like that, without notice. No reason given his family. Poor man. Can anyone save him?”
Henry smirks. “Not just anyone. Will you accept service of legal papers from me?”
“Legal papers?”
“Yes, from your good friend Lord Burghley.”
“I don’t suppose he’s suing me,” says Noah.
“You may eventually wish that’s all these papers were about. No, it’s a commission.” Henry looks furtively around the hall. “It’s in my pocket.”
“Isn’t legal process from the Privy Council supposed to be served by an imposing figure in Queen’s livery?”
“That can be arranged!” threatens Henry. “It’s a bit conspicuous, however. When you see the nature of the commission, I think you’ll be relieved no one saw you served.”
“I see,” says Noah with growing unease. “Yes, of course I will accept service of papers.”
Henry discreetly slips a letter out of his pocket and into Noah’s. Although Noah manages only a fleeting glimpse, he spots a red ribbon and large red seal on its exterior.
“Open it at Gray’s Inn,” says Henry. “Privately. Don’t discuss it with anybody, except Hawking, if you like. But he’s not to discuss it with anyone yet, not even Arthur.”
“You’re frightening me.”
“Sorry for all the hugger-mugger.” Henry smirks. “Think of it as an early valentine from God’s elect on earth.” He walks away as quickly as his girth allows.
Noah sits at his desk, thoughtfully gazing out of the window. Before him lie a letter opener and a parchment, its red seal broken.
There’s a knock on the door. It’s Jonathan, in barrister’s robes. He enters without awaiting a response. “Just got back from court. You wanted to see me?”
Noah nods grimly.
“What’s the matter?” asks Jonathan. “You look like a man condemned.”
“Close the door.” Noah waits until he hears the click. “I’ve been sitting here contemplating how much torment I’ve brought to your life … and how selfish it would be to impose upon you any further.”
“Master … Noah, you have brought nothing ill into my life. Besides, who ever said that ease was life’s purpose?”
“Oh, it’s not the work for which I apologize. Work is the lifeblood of any barrister’s practice. But this kind of … ” His voice trails off, and he shakes his head.
“Does this involve Essex?” asks Jonathan.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. You know my feelings on the topic.”
Noah sits up in his chair and faces Jonathan. “I know your feelings, but I will never again deprive you of choice. I think that’s been my principal failing as regards you in this whole affair. Unfortunately, in this profession, it’s simply impossible to provide someone with choice, without also burdening him with dangerous knowledge.” He points to the parchment. “Go ahead and read it.”
“Aloud?”
“If you wish, but quietly, and you may discuss it with no one, not even … the boys.”
Jonathan begins to read softly: “‘By the Privy Council,’ etcetera, ‘Year of Our Lord,’ and so on.” Jonathan searches downward, using his finger as guide.
“Here it is! ‘Whereas, one Roderigo Lopez, an alien to the realm, has been arrested on suspicion of high treason against the Crown; and further whereas, to promote the interests of justice and in the exercise of clemency, Her Majesty sees fit to ensure that said prisoner shall be afforded in his defense every right and privilege to which an English subject may be entitled, though he be none, now therefore, it is hereby highly resolved that the barrister at Queen’s Bench known as Noah Ames, resident at Gray’s Inn without the City of London, shall be and hereby is appointed to meet and confer with said prisoner in strictest privacy at the Tower of London for the purpose of providing said prisoner with his good counsel in defending himself against said charges, and it is further ordered that said barrister Noah Ames be granted the assistance of one additional barrister of his choosing, the reasonable costs and disbursements of both such barristers’ services to be defrayed by the Crown upon application to the Exchequer,’ and so on, ‘signed this day, William Cecil, Lord Burghley.’”
“What do you think?” asks Noah.
Jonathan is evidently too enthralled to have heard the question. “Did you see the initials at the foot of this?” He points to the bottom of the document.
“E.R.,” says Noah. “Elizabeth Regina.”
Jonathan whistles softly. “Elizabeth the Queen. My, but you have come up in the world!”
“You’re named in there, too, if you want it.”
“Me? Oh. Yes, very flattering. I’m the barrister to be designated later.” Jonathan refolds the commission and tosses it on the desk. “I’m in,” he chirps.
Tom the stable boy brings the horses around. Noah pats Bucklebury on the flank, mounts, and starts off with Jonathan to the Tower.
“They just issued your commission yesterday,” says Jonathan. “I hope they’re expecting us.”
“I hope they’re not,” replies Noah. “If I’m guessing right, Essex will want this matter tied up in a bow without delay, and he’s already weeks — probably months — ahead of us in gathering information. He might not know of my commission at all yet. When he finally learns of it, I want him to envision us already athwart his path.”
“I wonder what resistance the Cecils will offer to this prosecution.”
Noah makes no reply, as he’s still sorting out how much information that he’s learned from the Cecils can be shared with Jonathan without breaching confidence.
They pass London Bridge and bear left, now picking up the path taken by Uncle Avram’s oxcart all those years ago. In the intervening years, the trees have overgrown Tower Street from the north, further obstructing the view of the Tower approach. Although they will have to pass hard by Tower Hill, the site of numerous infamous hangings, Noah is relieved to know they won’t have to enter from Thameside through the ominously named Traitor’s Gate. He marvels that his Uncle Avram was not too frightened to enter the Tower, filled as it is with nightmarish names and places.
As they round the last turn, he can see that the entrance is still guarded by men with pikes. Although the pike heads look a bit more elaborate than they did when Noah was a boy (now perhaps what are called “partisans”), they’re clearly intended for the same purpose. Noah and Jonathan ride up to the gate, and a grizzled old guard approaches them, his voice commanding and hoarse.
“Now, what would two barristers be doin’ here on this chilly mornin’? I suppose you two are not o’ Gray’s Inn.”
The voice is familiar. Incredibly, it’s the same guard who admitted Noah and his uncle so many years earlier.
“Oh?” says Noah. “Why would you choose that particular inn to remark upon?”
“Oh, I dunno, sir. Just that they had their Twelfth Night revels a few nights ago, and it’s common knowledge they take a few weeks to recover.”
Noah smiles at Jonathan, who looks abashed, having taken part in the revels and imbibed more than his share.
“Sorry to disappoint,” says Noah. “We are indeed of Gray’s Inn. Between us, however, its residents are seldom seen at this time merely because the courts are out of session until Hilary Term commences mid-January.”
“Thought sure you’d still be huddled ’round yer fireplaces in the nice warm inn. Makes a nice picture, anyhow.”
“Tell me, sir, how long have you been a Yeoman of the Tower Guard?”
The guard searches his memory. “Well, let’s see. I reckon I’ve been at this post, man and boy, around forty year.”
Noah hands him his
commission. While the guard studies it, Noah recalls all the changes he’s seen over those same years that seem to have flown by: Eton, Merton, Gray’s Inn, Queen’s Bench. And yet, every day of those years, this man has stood guard at the same gate, rain or shine, heat or chill, daylight or darkness. He cannot but admire such dedication.
“I see this commission’s in order, suh, but we weren’t expectin’ nobody to interview this particular prisoner for a few days, except … ”
“Except Lord Essex?”
The guard nods. “Or Sir Robert Cecil, sir.”
“But you do intend to allow us in?”
The guard laughs. “With those initials on yer commission, sir, you could have the run of the guard tower and my bunk, to boot!” He returns the commission to Noah, and raises his hand. The portcullis groans open.
Noah folds the commission and replaces it in his pocket. He puts a half crown in the guard’s hand.
The guard nods. “That’s Administrative Expenses, sir.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The guard leans into Noah, and jingles the pocket in which he deposited the coin. “On the application to the Exchequer, sir. You bury that in Administrative Expenses. He’ll know what it means, but won’t give you no trouble about it.”
“Tell me, Goodman Guard, if you would. What is your name?”
“Gardner, sir.” He smiles. “I would ask for yours in return, sir, but it’s on the commission.” He puts a bit of extra huskiness in his voice, and says:
“Welcome to the Tower o’ London, Master Ames.”
Evidently, this is the theatrical voice he reserves to remind visitors of the Tower’s bloody history. As though they need reminding.
Noah enters the Tower with Jonathan, wishing nothing more than that this morning’s errand was to deliver groceries.
Lopez’s dark, stone-lined cell at the Tower is no larger than ten feet by twelve. Although, upon entering, Noah is not hit by the overpowering stench of urine and feces that confronts a visitor to Newgate Prison, this cell could use a good cleaning and drying out nonetheless. The jailer lets them in, enters after them, and slams the door shut from inside.