by Neal Roberts
Henry nods. “Indeed. Essex may not know that. I do know Essex has had his men polling old classmates of yours at Eton and Oxford.”
“Including you?” asks Noah.
“Amazingly, no. He has not asked me, and with good reason.”
“What reason?”
“He suspects I would not tell him anything useful, and I wouldn’t. And my refusal might cause a rift between him and his cannon maker.”
“Ever the pragmatist. Perhaps it’s the same with Savile.” Noah shakes his head. “I cannot, for the life of me, see why either Master Savile or Master Neville curries the earl’s favor. It’s beneath you both.”
Henry looks disappointed. “There are no angels on the Privy Council, Noah, even though you may feel you know a couple from your time at Billingbear. Anyway, look for Essex to try to turn Lopez’s clemency hearing into an inquisition against you.”
“Forewarned is forearmed,” says Noah pensively. “Perhaps I can make that work in Lopez’s favor.”
“Can you?”
“Depends,” says Noah. “What would you say is Essex’s greatest weakness on the battlefield?”
“By all accounts, he has two,” says Henry. “First, he does not appreciate the degree to which a battle’s outcome is determined by the lay of the land, thinking mistakenly that all things can be accomplished by valor.”
“And the second?”
“Rather than to lose a single battle, he’d sacrifice his whole army, and even himself.”
“Much can be done with this knowledge,” says Noah, smiling craftily.
“Mother,” says Stephen, “a distinguished guest awaits you in the upstairs parlor.”
“Who is it?” asks Marie.
Stephen smiles abashedly. “He said it’s a surprise.”
She observes her son skeptically, but, as he’s never wont to be taken in, she expects that the visitor, whoever he is, has some valid claim on her attention. She goes to the parlor.
The visitor stands with his back to her, gazing out of the window toward Gray’s Inn. His long hair is reddish brown. He wears a black doublet with a white ruff, and stark white gloves. He turns to face her. He’s still handsome, but wears a mustache and light whiskers now.
She curtsies impatiently. “May I ask, m’lord, what brings the stylish Earl of Southampton to the unstylish suburb of Holborn?”
“Why, you do, Marie! Or shall I address you formally, as you have me? Is it ‘Mistress Rodriguez,’ or ‘Miss Miller,’ as of old?”
“Mistress Rodriguez will do.”
“The way you’re glaring at me, you must remember me as some sort of ogre … and yet,” he clasps his hands together reverend-like, “I never mistreated you.”
“Perhaps his lordship has received a blow to the head that has affected his memory.”
Southampton seems genuinely surprised by her hostility. “What have I done to earn a greeting of this foul tenor? I never laid a hand on you!”
“Nor stopped any of your friends from laying as many hands on me as they could manage.”
“I — I didn’t know things were so bad for you. I didn’t even know where you kept yourself most of the time.”
She blushes. “I slept in the stables to make sure to keep my virtue.”
“I’m most sorry for it, Marie, and even sorrier that it has left you with such a sour memory of me.”
Marie reminds him how little care he’s shown her. “Tell me, Henry, if I may call you so,” he nods indulgently, “when you saw my murdered husband lying on the ground that day at The Rose, did it occur to you to step down from your coach and lend me a hand? Or at least to express your condolences?”
“Marie, you know how Robert is — ”
“ — And what has Lord Essex to do with this?” she demands. “If you’d cared for me one whit, you would have come to my aid. I was alone, for heaven’s sake, and my husband had just been murdered! Common courtesy demanded it, Henry, if not affection.”
Now it’s Southampton’s turn to blush. “Robert had asked me to remain in the coach,” he says, staring at his feet.
You bastard! she wants to shout, her heart pounding in her chest. Your precious Robert had my husband murdered, and you did nothing to stop him!
“What brings you here, Henry?” she repeats.
Southampton responds hopefully to her improved tone. “I was wondering: Do you know a barrister named Noah Ames?”
So, this is what he came for. Something to use against Noah!
“I do know him,” she says impatiently.
He shuffles in place, looking anywhere but at her. “What can you tell me about him?”
She sighs. “He lives at Gray’s Inn. Appears at Queen’s Bench quite often.” She shrugs.
He smiles. “Yes, but that’s professional. What can you tell me about him personally?”
“Only that he has a daughter by his late wife. She’s one of you now.”
“One of us?” he asks, apparently puzzled.
“A noblewoman,” she explains.
“Yes, I’ve met her,” he says. “Anything else?”
She feels the heat rising under her collar. “Henry, if I never told anyone about the grunting coming from your room every night you spent with Robert, what makes you think I would tell you anything about Noah Ames — or about anyone else, for that matter? I’m not wont to tell tales out of school.”
“Marie!” he gasps, as though it’s a terrible breach of manners for her to mention such a thing, “Robert and I were both young.”
“You’re both still young, I think!” she snaps back at him. “You are ever by his side!”
He stiffens, and observes her coldly. “My business here is complete, I think.”
She curtsies. “Do come again.”
Southampton storms out of the parlor and down the stairs. As the front door slams, pride wells up in her breast. She can almost hear her old dad say, “Got a bit o’ yer own back.”
Noah waits alone in a silent corridor outside a great room adjoining the royal residence in Richmond Palace. His silk Serjeant’s robes are surprisingly warm, and so new that he still feels something of an impostor in them. Any moment now, he’ll be called into the room where Lord Burghley will preside over the clemency hearing of Roderigo Lopez. This will be the first occasion upon which Noah will act as advisor to the Crown, and he prays he’ll acquit himself well.
The windows rattle and bang, making a startling racket. Although it sounds as though something alive is struggling to gain entry from the roof, it’s merely the March wind blowing hard. Outside, the lowering sky portends a storm. The heavy door before him is at least twenty feet tall, painted in a mottled off-white, its every molding finely gilded. He hears footsteps on the other side of the door, and his heart pounds.
The door swings open slowly as befits its grandeur, and a man in richly colored royal livery appears. On his right shoulder is sewn the Tudor rose of conjoined white and red, symbolizing the resolution of the Wars of the Roses by the reunification of the ancient houses of Lancaster and York. He holds a white staff symbolizing the office of the Lord Steward.
Noah bows low. “Lord Steward,” he says, having been prepared for this moment by Lord Bleffingham.
“Serjeant Ames,” replies the Lord Steward. “Please enter, and take your seat beside the Lord High Treasurer and the Secretary of State.”
As Noah enters, he’s momentarily disoriented. This is the first time he’s ever entered a room designed for official business from the rear. He was prepared to traverse the room to come face to face with those in power, as he did in Guildhall, yet now, in this world behind the looking glass, he need walk only a few feet, and it will be Noah himself occupying a seat of power.
As he enters, Lord Burghley and Sir Robert turn to greet him. Noah bows low, and the diminutive Sir Robert elegantly escorts Noah to his chair. The door through which he entered is on the same level as the dais, but the main part of the room, as well as the main entrance on its op
posite side, lie several feet lower. Noah’s seat looks down on a huge well, not much different from those in which he’s tried many cases.
The wall to Noah’s extreme left is covered with deeply colored paintings of many different sizes and subjects, from mythology to landscapes to royal portraits. Before the wall, a dozen or so wooden chairs have been assembled for the occasion. As no prisoner will be present, and no testimony taken, the room contains nothing resembling a fixed jury box, a prisoner’s dock, nor a witness stand.
The right side of the room is dominated by a huge marble pedestal occupying the full width of the room, slightly higher than the dais upon which Noah sits. From its center is thrust an alabaster apron, upon which stands a great golden chair with dark red velvet cushions. Atop the back of the chair is the coat of arms of the royal house of England with the lion and the dragon, under which is draped a light blue horizontal ribbon bearing the words Semper Eadem gilded with such finesse as to resemble a golden filigree. On those occasions when Her Majesty is present, this is the Throne of England.
Curiously, the throne is situated far from the wall behind it. In fact, it’s a good twenty feet into the room. Suspended from the smooth white ceiling, draping gracefully down onto the apron just behind the throne, is the largest, most ornately woven arras Noah has ever seen, its twenty feet of width concealing everything behind it from view.
Echoing through Noah’s mind is an observation of Henry’s, made on a summer’s day at Billingbear that seems impossibly distant now: “If there is an ornate arras onstage, a Sovereign must be concealed behind it.” But, alas, this is real life, and a real Sovereign is not bound by the rules of the theater. Indeed, the cold purity of the alabaster seems to belie the very possibility that a warm, living woman has ever been there.
The Lord Steward steps down from the dais into the well. A young page scurries over to him through the entryway across the room. “Please summon the Yeoman Warder first,” says the older man, and the page hurries silently away through the main entrance.
A moment later, Gardner appears, arrayed in royal livery second in richness only to that of the Lord Steward himself. He carries no weapon, which strikes Noah as strange, as he’s accustomed to seeing armed guards in courtrooms. But this is not a courtroom, he reminds himself. This is the royal residence, a sacred precinct in which arms are forbidden to all but a trusted few. Gardner takes up a position near the vacant throne, his face deadpan, and winks at Noah almost imperceptibly. Noah nods equally subtly in return.
“Yeoman, please escort the invited spectators.”
Gardner bows, goes to the main entrance, and escorts about a dozen people into the room. The only one Noah recognizes is Henry Neville, who avoids his gaze. The others, judging by their attire, are nobles of high rank. Gardner escorts them to the wooden chairs near the paintings, and bows low.
“Guardsman,” says the Lord Steward. “Please bring in counsel for the concerned parties.”
No sooner are the words out than the Earl of Essex barges in through the main entrance, wearing an irritated expression, as though it was intolerably rude to keep him waiting. Noah notices immediately that he wears a sword, which is blatantly inappropriate to the place and occasion. Gardner obviously notices the sword, too, and apparently can do nothing but shrug and wait for orders.
In Essex’s wake follow eight men of his retinue, including Noah’s old Master Savile, carrying his accustomed portfolio containing paper, quill, and inkpot. He also seems to be carrying a black book, possibly a Bible.
Two burly men in Essex livery forcibly escort Master Treasurer into the room by either arm. The old man looks positively terrified, and shoots a pleading glance at Noah. Although Noah’s heart goes out to him, he sits impassive, avoiding any show of favor.
The Lord Steward seethes at this blustering entrance. Lord Burghley and Sir Robert just seem weary, as though Essex’s continually outrageous conduct has left them incapable of further exasperation.
Essex leaves his retinue behind, and strides up to Burghley. “Let’s get on with it. I’ve been kept waiting long enough.”
Burghley takes a deep breath and speaks.
“M’lord Essex, as you have sought, and been granted, leave to participate in this proceeding as though counsel for the Crown, it is particularly inappropriate for you to complain about having to wait with other counsel. Lord Steward, it might help to avoid any appearance of favor if we were to have all counsel in here now.”
As a demonstration of evenhandedness in the face of Essex’s loutish conduct, the Lord Steward signals Gardner to remain at his post by the throne, and personally goes to the main entrance to escort counsel for Lopez into the well. Noah watches proudly as Jonathan strides confidently in, just as he has been taught, followed by Arden and Salazar, all looking impossibly young, and somehow imposing, in fresh new barristers’ robes. Jonathan waits to be addressed by Lord Burghley.
“Master Hawking, are you prepared to proceed in the clemency application of Roderigo Lopez?”
“May it please the Lord High Treasurer, we are prepared.”
Burghley nods, obviously pleased with Jonathan’s demeanor, which contrasts so sharply with Essex’s boorish impertinence.
“Then, you may — ”
“I object to the composition of this Court … ” shouts Essex. He sneers at Noah, adding “as seems to be the fashion.”
Burghley looks down sympathetically at Jonathan and raises his index finger to suggest that this outburst will take only a moment to be dealt with. “M’lord Essex, you will have your opportunity to speak after esteemed counsel for the convicted has — ”
“I have been led to believe,” interrupts Essex, “that objections to the composition of the court may be waived if they are not made prior to commencement of the proceeding.”
Burghley turns on him angrily. “M’lord, you have had a full week to submit any motion you wish. Are we to understand that you wish to make a prefatory motion at this late hour?”
“Yes!” says Essex.
“Well,” says Burghley, more composed, “as this is not strictly a court, and as the proceeding is being conducted by the Lord High Treasurer and the Secretary of State, what possible objection could you have to the composition of the ‘court,’ as you call it?”
Essex points to Noah. “That man is an impostor!”
Jonathan is about to speak, when Burghley holds up his hand and says kindly: “Master Hawking, there is no jury here. There is only us, so please bear with us.”
Jonathan nods, evidently satisfied.
Burghley turns sharply to Essex. “By ‘that man,’ m’lord, I believe you are referring to Serjeant Ames?”
Essex says dismissively: “If he so calls himself.”
“But Serjeant Ames will take no part in this proceeding,” says Lord Burghley. “He has been selected to act as counsel to Her Majesty, and has no influence over the record we are compiling today. Nor shall he influence our recommendations in any way. His sole function is to make his own separate recommendations to Her Majesty at the conclusion of today’s proceedings. Now, may we begin?”
“He is not a Serjeant!”
“M’lord, I signed his commission. As did Her Majesty!”
“But in err— ”
Now it’s Burghley’s turn to interrupt. “This proceeding presents no occasion to challenge the admission of the Queen’s counsel to the roll of Serjeants, m’lord. If you have such a complaint, you must take it up elsewhere with the treasurer of the Inn of Court by which was he was admitted to practice.”
“I have brought with me the treas — ”
Noah rises and stares stone-faced down at Essex, thereby shutting his mouth, a task which seemed impossible a mere moment before. The great test of Noah’s faith has arrived, and there’s no escape. He turns to Lord Burghley, and addresses him serenely.
“M’lord, as you have said, there is no jury present. There is only us. I have no objection to m’lord Essex’s impeachment of my
right to practice law.” He turns toward Essex. “In fact, I welcome the opportunity to respond.”
In the well, a wide-eyed Jonathan instinctively steps backward, clearly understanding that a titanic struggle is about to take place in which he has no part to play. Noah has just opened a door for Essex, and Essex is about to walk through it, heedless of something every barrister knows: When an adversary opens a door, it is only the fool who enters.
The clerestory windows rattle sharply in the wind.
Burghley walks over to Noah on the dais, and whispers. “I have done everything I can for you. If you insist on participating in this, I cannot control the outcome.”
Noah nods, looks the old man fondly in the face, and whispers in reply. “Thank you, m’lord. I ask only that you not interfere, though he strike me down. Do I have your word?”
Burghley’s eyes grow wide. “You have,” he says with resolve.
Noah goes to the small staircase at the end of the dais, and descends into the well. Seeing the room from this familiar perspective, he immediately feels more at home. He bows theatrically to Essex, who observes him warily. “M’lord, you have some question concerning my capacity to practice law?”
“‘Lord’ me no ‘lord,’ sir. You are a Jew!” When the gasp expected by Essex does not materialize, he seems deflated.
Noah nods politely. “Yet I am a Jew admitted to practice before the courts of England, m’lord.”
“Bah!” says Essex. “There is no such Jew. Did you not attend Eton and Oxford?”
“I did.”
“And was it not then a requirement that every scholar attend religious service every day?”
“It was. And I did.”
Essex is frustrated by the admission. “But you do not pray to Jesus Christ!”
“No, m’lord. I rather pray as Jesus prayed … and to the same God.”
“Then, how did you participate in the service?”
“At Eton, I assisted Reverend Lamb in the service.”
Essex is outraged. “And did he know that you were a Hebrew?”