A Second Daniel

by Neal Roberts

  “He did, m’lord.”

  “What qualifications had you to assist in a service of the Church of England?”

  “M’lord, thousands of years ago, my ancestors were priests in the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem, and assisted in services on the Highest of Holy Days. Reverend Lamb was of the opinion that this qualified me to assist in a schoolboys’ service at Eton Chapel … and to sweep up afterwards.” This carefully planned addendum brings the slightest titter from the spectators, which infuriates Essex, who is not to be denied.

  “Did you touch the wine and bread at the Eucharist?”

  Noah shakes his head. “I transported them on a tray for the Reverend, but I did not touch them.”

  “Ah. Why not?”

  “Because Reverend Lamb told me that someday a bigot might ask me whether I had touched them, and that it might be important for me to answer truthfully that I had not.”

  Essex draws himself up. “Are you saying that I am a bigot?”

  “Not in the least, m’lord.” Noah bows respectfully. “I merely answered your question with Reverend Lamb’s own words.”

  At this point, everyone in the room knows that Noah has gained the upper hand. And Noah intends to rely upon Henry’s assessment of Essex’s weakness, trusting that Essex simply cannot find it in himself to relent. True to character, Essex plods on. “But you might have touched them, if such had been permitted.”

  “If I had not been so forewarned, m’lord, I might have touched the wine or the bread incidentally, but it would not matter.”

  “To you, perhaps!”

  “Reverend Lamb had a pet saying on the subject, m’lord. ‘It is not the vintner who makes the blood of Christ, nor the baker His flesh. It is rather the true faith of the parishioner that transforms the wine and the bread into the blood and body of Christ.’”

  “And did you ever take the sacrament?” asks Essex.

  “I would not so profane it, m’lord. It is a terrible blasphemy to take the sacrament unless one’s mind is absolutely right concerning its meaning.”

  “You mean concerning the transubstantiation of the wine into the blood of Christ, and the bread into His flesh?”

  “More precisely, m’lord, the consubstantiation.”

  Noah has deliberately guided Essex into a difficult area of reformed Church of England theology about which he’s made sure to educate himself thoroughly. He’s pleased to demonstrate for the assembled that Essex’s grasp of the distinction is poor. But that does not dissuade Essex from further probing.

  “You believe transubstantiation to be impossible, do you not?”

  Noah shakes his head at Essex’s stubborn refusal to adopt the correct term. “No, m’lord. For me to say it is impossible would mean that I believe I know all that is possible. Not even I am so arrogant as that.” The spectators are well pleased with this feint at intellectual modesty. “In truth, I have seen such devotion in true believers at the Eucharist that I would not wish it to be impossible. Faith is all, which is no doubt why Her Majesty herself publicly declined to take the sacrament prior to being crowned, until Her Majesty was certain she had her own mind right on the subject.”

  Essex is flustered. “You little Jew,” he spits out, “do you pretend to know Her Majesty’s mind now?”

  “I know her mind when she expresses it, m’lord, as she did shortly thereafter in the Religious Settlement, which addressed the very place of the Eucharist in Church of England theology.”

  “And you purport to be loyal to the Queen, even though you are no Englishman?”

  It smarts for Noah to be told he is not an Englishman, but not enough to move him off his mark. Still, a suppressed anger rises in his voice. “I am required by Hebrew law to be loyal to my earthly Sovereign, Queen Elizabeth, God save her, and would be so loyal even if it were not required of me. And something which not many Englishmen can say for themselves, m’lord: Neither I nor any member of my tribe has ever been divided in his loyalty to the Crown. We have never had a Pope, nor has the Pope of Rome ever done anything to warrant our loyalty.”

  Essex is inflamed at Noah’s impertinence. “Were you not required, as a condition to gaining admission to the bar, to swear your loyalty to the Church of England?”

  “No, m’lord, although in the absence of a Crown waiver, I would have been so required.”

  Essex turns and looks suspiciously at Master Treasurer, who cowers. “So, then there was a Crown waiver!”

  “Aye,” replies Noah.

  “And who signed it?”

  Noah considers before replying. Essex wants the answer to be “Lord Burghley,” as he wishes very much to paint Burghley as being “in league” with the Jews, such as Noah and, by implication, Lopez. His thrusts on Noah’s religion are, of course, targeted primarily at Lopez, and Noah’s parries are in Lopez’s defense, and, by now, every thinking person in the room knows it. “I am bound not to say,” he replies at last.

  “By whom?”

  “I have sworn, m’lord, which means that I am doubly bound, not only by the person at whose request I have sworn, but by God Himself.”

  Essex turns away in disgust. “Your God!”

  “Yes, m’lord, my God, and the God of Abraham and Jesus of Nazareth!”

  Essex turns and shouts: “But you do not believe in the divinity of Jesus!”

  Noah glances at Henry in the gallery. “Who some believe to be a god, I think of as a distant relative.” Henry winces to hear his words used to such suicidal effect.

  Essex marches over to Noah, who stands his ground and stares insolently into his eyes, making no motion to retreat or avert his stare.

  Essex slaps him hard in the face. The spectators gasp. Noah nearly goes down, but recovers, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He brings himself up to full stature, and resumes his former defiant posture.

  The windows rattle, breaking the silence. In the corner of his eye, Noah sees both Jonathan and Gardner take a step toward coming to his defense. He shakes his head to warn them off, and both reluctantly step back.

  Essex is red-faced with anger, as well as embarrassment for losing his temper. “You Jew bastard! Loyal to the Crown? When have you ever risked your worthless life for the Crown?”

  Noah barks a laugh, despite himself: “Why, m’lord! That is precisely what I am doing right now.”

  Essex smacks him again, harder this time.

  But this time Noah is expecting it, and braces himself steadfastly, his insolent stare never wavering. He silently recites a prayer. Knowing full well that he’s about to take his life in his hands, he says aloud: “And taking the advice of my distant relative, m’lord, I turn the other cheek!” He turns his head insolently.

  Essex’s anger overthrows his judgment, and he draws his sword, which emits an unmistakable ring that echoes through the rafters.

  “ENOUGH!” comes a woman’s commanding voice from behind the arras.

  Essex quickly puts up his sword and drops to one knee. Noah closes his eyes and mentally recites a quick prayer of thanks. He turns toward the throne, and bows.

  There stands Queen Elizabeth, the Red Lady, in sharp contrast to the ivory and alabaster upon which she stands. Her auburn hair falls about her shoulders onto a velvet gown of forest green bedecked with ribbons of darkest red, her expression a stern mix of amazement and fury. The assembled bow in place before this vision of mature and terrifying beauty, every eye fixed on the floor. The room is silent once again. Not even the windows dare make a noise.

  Her mouth, which was severely pursed, relaxes.

  “Which of you is Master Hawking?” she asks equably.

  Noah has been watching Jonathan out of the corner of his eye. When the Queen singles him out by name, he nearly pitches forward, but quickly rights himself, rises, and looks in her direction without making eye contact.

  “I am Hawking, Your Majesty,” says Jonathan, his voice quavering. Whatever he was expecting when he got out of bed this morning, it certainly wasn’t
this.

  “Ah,” she says calmly. “Tell me, Master Hawking. What punishment is prescribed in law for someone who draws his weapon in the Court of Queen’s Bench?”

  Jonathan’s eyes go wide, but on his first try to speak, his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth.

  “Calm down, Master Hawking. We rarely ask a question of one so young, unless we already know the answer.”

  Jonathan tries again, and this time his voice emerges. “If the Sovereign be not present, the hand which poised to strike is forfeit.”

  “But the Sovereign was not present when Lord Essex poised to strike. Is that not correct?”

  “Her — Your Majesty’s presence was unknown to us. Whether Your Majesty was in fact ‘present’ while behind the arras is a fine point. That I cannot tell for certain.”

  “Carefully phrased, Master Hawking,” replies the Queen with exaggerated admiration. “Do you know why the law provides its warrant for punishment only in the case where the offender draws a weapon outside the Sovereign’s presence?”

  “It is unwritten, Your Majesty. But I believe I know why.”

  “Ah,” says the Queen. “Then, here is a real test of your feel for English law. Why?”

  Jonathan rocks anxiously before answering. “Because, Your Majesty, no warrant in law is needed for the Sovereign herself to take the hand of the subject.”

  “I see,” says the Queen pensively. She looks over Essex’s retinue. “Master Savile, how are you today, sir?” she asks, as though she just noticed him and no solemnity should ever be permitted to interfere with old acquaintance.

  “I am well, Majesty,” comes the aged voice of Noah’s old master.

  “Is that a Bible in your hand, Master Savile?”

  “’Tis, Majesty.”

  “Good for you. Hand the Bible to Yeoman Gardner, if you would be so kind, sir.” Savile shuffles over to Gardner, hands him the Bible, bows to the Queen, and returns to his former place.

  Gardner stands there awkwardly with the Bible in his hand, awaiting instructions with obvious dread.

  “Yeoman Gardner,” says the Queen, “place Lord Essex’s hand on the Bible, and cut it off.”

  Chapter 30

  GARDNER APPEARS BAFFLED. “I haven’t a blade, madam,” he says with chagrin.

  “No bother,” says the Queen. “Use his. He should not have brought it here, anyway. Might as well put it to good use.”

  Gardner places his own hand on the hilt of Essex’s sword. “Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord,” he says. Essex nods his assent. Gardner draws Essex’s sword, and places the Bible on the table in front of him.

  Although no one has been given leave to rise, everyone has done so nonetheless. At this point, all eyes are fixed on this impossible event.

  “If you’d be so kind, m’lord,” says Gardner to the earl. “Please put your hand on this book.”

  Noah is amazed that Gardner can be so cold-blooded in performing such a horrific act, but, of course, Gardner is a Yeoman Warder, one of the guards of the Tower of London, whose collective reputation for inflicting corporal punishment strikes fear into every heart in Europe.

  Essex places his hand on the Bible, never taking his eyes off the Queen. There is a contest of wills taking place here that Noah can barely fathom.

  “Hold off a moment, Yeoman Gardner,” says the Queen, turning to Noah. “Serjeant Ames, can you offer us a persuasive reason that we should not remove Lord Essex’s hand?”

  “Well, madam,” Noah says, “such hand would better serve the Crown slaying its enemies in battle than rotting on a pike on London Bridge.”

  The Queen frowns in disappointment. “A facile argument from utility, Serjeant Ames. Is that the best you can do? No, if Lord Essex has shown anything today, it is that he does not understand that a field of battle is independent of his inexorable will, and that he will always be defeated by an opponent who understands the battlefield better than he. No, Serjeant Ames, England is not persuaded.”

  To Noah’s amazement, she nods to Gardner, who raises the sword to strike.

  “Madam, I cry you mercy!” says a man’s voice. It takes a moment for Noah to realize that the voice is his own. He drops to one knee.

  The Queen looks at him askance. “Have you more to say on this subject, Serjeant Ames?”

  “I beg Your Majesty to exercise mercy,” he says feebly, his mind racing. He has nothing prepared for an eventuality such as this, and so has no choice but to speak extemporaneously, something he avoids whenever possible.

  “Mercy?” asks the Queen skeptically. “What kind of argument is this? Do you say it is our duty to stay our hand?” She shakes her head. “The law is clear on this. We have it from Master Hawking himself, and from many others, as well. What duty in this regard have we failed to discharge?”

  “None, Majesty, for mercy is not a duty, nor would its exercise prove such greatness if it were. It cannot be extracted by constraint or argument. It cannot be found in the statute books or the law reports. It resides rather in Your Majesty’s heart, or nowhere at all, and it must flow, if at all, as a free act of your will.”

  Tears well up in Noah’s eyes. “For you alone, Your Majesty, stand at the intersection of God and man. For most of your pitiable subjects, Your Majesty is all we ever glimpse of Him in this life. I beg you to exercise mercy in this case, not because it is your duty, but rather because it is your royal prerogative to import some small quantum of mercy from the heaven that made you and sent you here, to show it to your earthly subjects in your royal hands, and provide Christian example for millions of your subjects to follow.”

  The Queen takes a step back, a quizzical look on her face, and turns her back to the assembled. My God, thinks Noah, she wants to lop off his hand. This makes no sense, as Essex is known to be the Queen’s favorite.

  Essex turns his head slightly to look at Noah. If there is some emotion there, he cannot tell what it is. Curiosity, perhaps. Still, it’s better than nothing.

  The Queen turns. “Very well, Serjeant Ames. You have moved us. We shall leave the choice to the earl. M’lord of Essex, if you shall take an oath on that Bible to guarantee the safety of Serjeant Ames, his family, and all those in his company or service, then you may keep your hand. If not, then your hand is ours. And if you do take the oath and violate it, your hand is the least you will be missing. Do we make ourselves clear?”

  Essex glowers at her. In his face, fear mixes with utmost contempt. He clears his throat. “I so swear, Your Majesty.”

  After a moment’s equivocation, the Queen says: “Not good enough. Master Savile, please escort the earl from this room, write up the oath as we have pronounced it, and present it to him for signature before three witnesses. We want it by tomorrow. We do not wish to see the earl’s face again today, nor for the rest of the week. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Majesty,” says Savile. As he steps forward to escort Essex by the arm, Essex shakes him off and storms out of the room. Savile shrugs at the Queen, who shrugs back at him. He raises his eyebrows at Noah, who cannot help but smile in return. Essex’s remaining retinue trails Savile out of the door.

  The Queen turns to those remaining. “We have not forgotten you, Master Hawking, nor your client. Although you have not advanced your case today, nothing will befall Doctor Lopez until this matter is given due consideration. We shall leave it to you to decide whether you wish to have another audience with Lord Burghley, with neither Essex nor your Sovereign present, who seem only to interfere in such matters in any event. Alternatively, you may make your submission in writing. You need not decide now, but let Lord Burghley know by letter this week. We can assure you that Serjeant Ames will be consulted in our deliberations in this matter, which should be of some comfort to you.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” says Jonathan, bowing low.

  “In any event,” says the Queen, “you have learned something today about pleading for clemency. It is our sincerest hope that our clemency has not been waste
d on an unworthy subject. You may go. In fact, you may all go, but for Lord Burghley, the Secretary of State, Serjeant Ames, and Master Neville.”

  With much bowing and stepping backward, the room is soon vacated by all except those bidden to remain.

  “Serjeant Ames,” says the Queen impatiently, “I seem to be spending an inordinate amount of my time signing documents and doing other things for the sole purpose of keeping you alive.”

  Noah winces, although he’s relieved that she’s suspended her use of the ceremonial “we.” “I shall endeavor in all things to make such efforts worth Your Majesty’s while.”

  “See that you do. And please do what you can to render them unnecessary in future. We have other business, you know.”

  Noah bows.

  The Queen looks down upon him with grudging admiration. “My congratulations to you on mastering the weapons of the powerless, as they are not customarily fashioned of a size to be wielded by the hand of a man.”

  “Thank you, madam.”

  “I did not take you for a gambling man, Serjeant Ames. You surprised me. You could not be sure I was there behind the arras.”

  “A gambler puts his faith in probabilities, Your Majesty. I put my faith in God. If He wishes to take me back to Him, who am I to argue?”

  She nods pensively. “A strange courage, Serjeant Ames. I was in any event relieved to see that you did not goad the earl for the purpose of gaining a pound of his flesh, as he would have us believe of all your tribe. You defended yourself, and Master Hawking’s client, magnificently.” She glares down at him. “And don’t think for a moment that I don’t know that’s precisely what you were doing, and what you had planned all along.”

  “Some things cannot be planned, Majesty.”

  “Perhaps not, Serjeant, but that’s the first thing you’ve said today that I’m not sure you believe. In any event, I think you have had enough majesty for one day. Don’t you?”

  “I could never tire of Your Majesty … but this has been quite an exhausting experience.”

  The Queen smiles, with a hint of skepticism. “Return to us alone tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock. Serjeant Ames and Master Neville, you may go.”