by A D Swanston
Christopher scoffed. ‘A noble ambition, but not one that is likely to be realized.’
‘On the contrary, doctor, I have every expectation that it will indeed be realized because you will ensure that it is. Mr Wetherby will remain here while you return to Whitehall to persuade the noble earl to obtain Her Majesty’s consent to my proposal. I feel sure that she will give it, especially when she is told that Mr Wetherby’s head will be delivered to her, as John the Baptist’s was to Herodias, if she does not.’
‘The plan would have a better chance of success if I stayed here and Roland returned to Whitehall,’ said Christopher.
Simon shook his head. ‘Most gallant, doctor, but I think not. The silver-tongued lawyer should have no difficulty in winning his case. You will leave this house tonight, bound and your eyes covered. Gabriel will drive you to Aldgate where you will be left to find your own way to Whitehall. The guards at the gate will not detain you. Twelve hours later you will return to the gate where Gabriel will be waiting for you. You will inform him that the queen has given her consent and that you will meet me at the gate four hours later. From there you will escort me by coach to the palace. After I have played, you will return me to the gate where Gabriel will be waiting with Mr Wetherby, who will be released on my word.’
‘And if I do not?’
‘Then Mr Wetherby will die.’
Christopher looked at Wetherby. ‘Then I had best persuade the earl.’
‘Please do, Christopher,’ said Wetherby. ‘I do not wish to have my head removed for the sake of a galliard.’
‘Again, Mr Wetherby, I am in awe of your courage,’ said Simon. ‘Dr Radcliff will now return to his room while I play for you. Would a piece by Francesco Spinacino be agreeable?’ Without waiting for a reply he sat down, took up the lute and began to play.
Gabriel nudged Christopher with the barrel of the pistol and whispered, ‘Time to go, doctor.’
‘How long before dark?’
‘Two hours. I will fetch you when it is time.’
It was a long two hours, spent largely in rehearsing what he was going to say to Leicester and what Leicester could possibly say to the queen, and trying to make sense of Simon’s bizarre demand. Coining, crosses and slogans leading to this? Why had he not simply abducted Christopher and Roland and achieved the same result? Did he hope to become a royal lute or was he simply mad? Both, perhaps.
Over and over he turned the questions in his mind, but when Gabriel opened the spyhole he had found no answers. The door opened and Gabriel threw a hood into the cell. ‘Put that on and face the wall,’ he ordered. ‘I am instructed to kill you if you offer the slightest resistance. Mr Wetherby, too.’ Christopher slid the hood over his head and faced the wall. ‘Your hands behind your back, if you please.’
Christopher almost cheered. There would be a moment when Gabriel needed both hands to tie him and would have to put away the pistol. He steadied himself and waited for the moment. When the rope tightened on his wrists he turned sharply, ready to smash a fist into Gabriel’s face. Only his wrists were already bound and the pistol was pointed straight at him. Gabriel had prepared a knot that could be slipped into place with only one hand. ‘I warned you, doctor,’ Gabriel growled. ‘No more chances.’
Another rope went around his neck and he was led up the steps. At the top they did not turn right towards the hall, but left. When Gabriel opened a door, cold air swept into the house. They were outside. ‘Ten steps,’ said Gabriel, ‘and one step up into the coach. I will be sitting beside you.’ So there was a coachman – no doubt some homeless felon scraped off a filthy alley and put to work for a shilling or two. He would be no help.
The coachman cracked the reins and they set off, slowly at first and then at a canter. The road beneath them was pitted and holed and Christopher found himself being shaken about like a sapling in a storm. The ropes remained well knotted and Gabriel did not speak.
If he had been brought to the house on this highway he must have swallowed a heavy dose of dwale. Then he had been conscious of nothing; now he was close to vomiting. He swallowed hard and tried to imagine he was at sea. He loved the sea as he loved the river and on a boat could happily put up with any amount of wind and rain.
He sniffed and detected a hint of salt in the air. So they were not far from the sea. And Simon had said Aldgate, which guarded the road from the east. He had been held to the east of the city. Among the salt marshes perhaps, where few ventured for fear of robbers and disease.
After a while the highway became smoother – a sure sign that they were nearing the city wall. The coachman urged the horses on and they increased their pace. Outside the walls there was always a danger of highway robbers. Simon might have gatekeepers and urchins in his purse but not highwaymen.
When they came to a halt Gabriel said, ‘We are at the Aldgate. You will be admitted through the gate to the left of the portcullis by a guard who will untie your hands when he has closed it behind you. We will step out of the coach now.’
Christopher put a hand on the seat and felt for the door. It was open. He stepped out, the rope still around his neck. ‘Twenty paces,’ said Gabriel. Christopher counted them off. ‘Enough.’ He heard the gate being opened and a voice asking for a sign. ‘The lute player,’ replied Gabriel.
‘Let me have him, sir. I’ll take him inside.’
A church bell struck eight. ‘Do not forget,’ said Gabriel. ‘It is now eight o’clock. I shall be here in exactly twelve hours. Do not be late.’
Christopher heard him climb into the coach before the rope was tugged and he was led through the gate. The gate was closed with a thump and his hands were untied. He pulled off the hood. The guard stood in front of him, sword drawn. ‘On your way, sir. My job is done.’
‘Am I at the Aldgate?’
‘You are. Be gone and take care not to meet the watch.’
The watch would be about but they were seldom vigilant and would be content with a few coins if he ran into them. Without his blade he was more concerned about the creatures of the night who infested this ward and thought nothing of slitting a gentleman’s throat for a purse.
He kept to the wider streets and away from the lanes and alleys into which even the watch seldom ventured. In Leadenhall Street he ducked into a doorway when he heard them coming and waited until they had passed. There were only two of them, chattering away as if at drink in a city tavern but he did not want to have to explain himself or to be delayed.
Without the hustle and bustle of the market, Cheapside was a ghostly place – silent and empty but for a single whore being humped against a wall. For a moment he wished that he could turn down the lane to Ell’s stew where there would be a willing listener and a sympathetic voice. But he had not the time and in any case the chances were that Ell would be occupied. He hurried on to St Paul’s and down to Fleet Street, where Isaac’s shop showed no sign of a new occupant. The owner had better look sharp or it would not be long before packs of vagrants and vermin moved in.
The Strand was a favourite haunt of whores hoping for easy pickings from its grand houses. It was easy enough for a servant or a young man of the house to slip out of a side door for a quick dalliance and their whores expected to be paid well for their service. Taking care not to step in the heaps of horse shit waiting to be collected, Christopher kept to the middle of the street, away from grasping hands and promises of untold pleasure.
A guard stood either side of the Holbein Gate, at that time of night closed to all but the queen’s closest courtiers and members of her Privy Council. Many of the palace guards knew Christopher and would admit him without fuss. These two, however, did not. He explained who he was and that he must see the Earl of Leicester at once on a matter of great urgency, but without a letter of authority, they would not open the gate for him.
He told them that lives were at stake and that the earl would not be pleased to learn that his chief London intelligencer had been refused entry by them. He told them that t
he matter upon which he must see the earl concerned the queen herself. And, in desperation, he told them that it was in his power to have them dismissed from their posts.
The guards were unmoved. ‘Our orders are to admit no one without authority,’ said one of them, ‘and you have none. Be off and come back in the morning.’
He gave up. There would be no getting past these guards. Best try something else.
Whitehall Palace had two landing piers – one for the queen’s private use and a second, larger one for visitors arriving by wherry or barge. At night, the river was seldom used and the entrance which the pier served would be closed and guarded, but he had no better idea.
He made his way down the lane towards the river, passing the backs of the Great Chamber and the chapel, until he reached the riverbank. He climbed a short flight of steps on to the pier.
The pier was lit by torches. Three barges were tied up to it but there was no sign of bargemen. He walked up the wooden ramp to the iron gate that barred entry to the palace grounds. As he approached, a guard on the other side of it challenged him and asked his business. Christopher claimed to have arrived by the river and repeated everything he had told the guards at the Holbein Gate. The guard was unmoved. ‘You have no authority to enter. Get back in your boat and return from where you came. No one enters the palace at night without authority.’
Christopher made one last attempt. ‘Send messengers to the Earl of Leicester and the Earl of Warwick. Tell them that Dr Radcliff asks to see them at once.’
‘No messages. Go, whoever you are.’
What now? Time was passing and he must be back at Aldgate by eight in the morning. He could not afford to wait until light.
From behind the gate came the clatter of boots on stone and three men appeared. Two were guards. The third Christopher recognized immediately. He had once sat in this man’s library in his house on the Strand overlooking the river and been asked if he would consider leaving Leicester’s staff to join his own. He had declined and later, after Berwick had been arrested and hanged, the opposite had happened and Roland Wetherby had left the man to join Leicester. Thomas Heneage and Leicester were rivals but Heneage, Treasurer of the Queen’s Privy Chamber, had remained on friendly terms with him.
For Heneage and his guards the gate had to be opened. One of the barges moored at the pier would be his. It was but a short distance to his house but he was known to prefer the river to the streets. The three men waited while the guard fiddled with the gate. ‘Make haste, man,’ grumbled Heneage. ‘It is time I was in my bed.’
‘Mr Heneage,’ said Christopher loudly, ‘it is Christopher Radcliff. I must speak urgently with the Earl of Leicester but the guard will not admit me.’
Heneage peered through the iron bars. ‘Dr Radcliff? What are you doing at this time of night? You should not be here.’
‘Mr Wetherby is in grave danger. I must speak to the earl. Please have this gate opened.’
‘Wetherby in danger? How so?’
‘Mr Heneage, I have no time to explain. If you would have the gate opened, perhaps one of your guards would escort me to the earl.’
Heneage frowned and shook his head. ‘The earl was not at the queen’s masque this evening. He is unwell.’
‘Mr Wetherby’s life hangs on my speaking to him. Could he not be disturbed?’
Heneage hesitated. ‘I am reluctant …’
‘Wetherby will die if I do not speak to the earl at once.’
Christopher’s tone must have persuaded him. ‘Very well, Dr Radcliff. You may enter but I will escort you myself to the earl’s apartments. I do hope that the inconvenience to both of us is justified.’
The guard opened the gate. Heneage’s guards waited while he led Christopher into the palace. They walked down a long passage lit by torches, up a flight of stairs and into the gallery that overlooked the gardens. Leicester’s apartments were at the end of the gallery. A guard stood outside his door. Heneage ordered him to step aside. The guard did not move. ‘The Earl of Leicester is unwell,’ he said, ‘and will not receive visitors.’
‘He will receive me,’ replied Heneage. ‘Tell the earl that Thomas Heneage asks to see him on a grave matter concerning Mr Wetherby.’ The guard looked doubtful. ‘Do it, man, or I’ll have you on kitchen duty for a year.’ From his initial hesitation, Heneage had become an ally. Did he see an opportunity to impress Leicester or to regain Wetherby’s services? No matter if he did. Leicester must be woken.
‘Remain here, sir,’ said the guard. ‘I will see if the earl is able to see you.’ He opened the door and went in, leaving them outside in the gallery. Neither spoke while they waited.
In a few minutes the guard returned. ‘Mr Heneage may enter,’ he said, ‘but the earl asks who is with him.’
‘Dr Christopher Radcliff.’
The guard disappeared again. He was back immediately. ‘You may enter, sirs. The earl is resting but will see you.’
They hurried through the antechamber and into the earl’s apartments, from which a door led to his bed chamber. Christopher had never been through that door and he doubted Heneage had either. The guard knocked and they went in.
Leicester was propped up in his bed in a nightshirt, with the heavy bed drapes drawn back and candles in silver holders lighting the room. By the colour of his face, he had a fever. A book lay open beside him. In a voice thick with cold, he ordered the guard to leave them.
‘What is this, Dr Radcliff? You disappear only to reappear having persuaded Mr Heneage to help you gain entrance to my bed chamber while I am suffering from a winter cold.’ He coughed. ‘You told me the coiner was safely in Newgate. And what is this about Wetherby being in danger?’ Before Christopher could reply, he added, ‘I thank you, Thomas. Do feel free to return home. I would not keep you from your bed.’
‘I might be of some further assistance.’
‘No, go home and let me deal with this. But please ask a guard to find my brother.’
‘As you wish.’ He sounded disappointed.
When Heneage had left, Christopher said, ‘My lord, Mr Wetherby is a prisoner of the man responsible for the false testons, the slogans maligning Her Majesty and your family, plague crosses where there is no plague, my agent Isaac Cardoza’s murder and the attack on Mr Wetherby at St Paul’s. He also ordered the murder of Isaac’s killer.’
Leicester sat up straighter. ‘Where is he held and what is his captor’s name? I will order the militia out immediately.’
‘I do not know where he is held and only that his captor goes by the name of Simon. He has a servant named Gabriel who does his bidding.’
‘This is making no sense, doctor. Is it my head or have you lost your wits? How can you not know where these traitors are? And why have they taken Wetherby?’
‘I will make the story as brief as I can, my lord, because time is also our enemy.’
The chamber door opened and Ambrose Dudley, in a coat hastily thrown over his nightshirt, limped in. ‘What is this, Robert? What new disaster has befallen us? I was about to retire.’
‘Dr Radcliff is about to explain why we have both been disturbed.’ He nodded to Christopher. ‘Do proceed, doctor.’
While Christopher recounted the events since his own capture, Leicester sipped from a silver goblet and Warwick stood beside him. Their silence made his task all the harder. He felt their eyes upon him and sensed their disbelief. Even to his own ears the tale sounded ridiculous. He told it as quickly as he could and waited nervously for a response.
‘Is that it?’ scoffed Warwick, shaking his head.
Christopher ignored his tone. ‘It is, my lord.’
‘So if I understand you, doctor,’ said Leicester, wiping his mouth with a napkin, ‘if this Simon, who will not reveal his face to the world, is not permitted to play in front of our gracious queen and myself, Wetherby will die.’
‘That is correct.’
‘Why? What could this man possibly gain from it? And why would he put hims
elf at risk? For all he knows, we might throw him into Newgate and drag the truth out of him, leaving Wetherby to take his chances.’
‘I cannot answer that but we must assume that he does not believe we would do so.’
‘Is there anything you can tell us about this Simon? Anything that might shed light on his purpose?’ asked Warwick.
‘I can only imagine that the wretched man is horribly disfigured. He claims that he is not diseased or scarred so he must have been born as he is and having lived a solitary life his mind will also be affected.’
‘Good God. That a man so afflicted would want to play before Her gentle Majesty surpasses understanding,’ said Warwick.
‘As does the idea that I would cause Her Majesty to suffer such an experience,’ added Leicester. ‘The man is a lunatic.’
‘And you really do not know where you were being held?’
‘As I was left at the Aldgate, it will have been to the east of the city, but I could not say where. It might take weeks to find the house.’
Leicester wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. ‘Damn this cold. My head is like a sack of wool.’
‘Robert,’ said Warwick, ‘Dr Radcliff has had a day – several days, by the sound of it – that would have felled many a strong man and he must be hungry. Let us send for victuals for him. He can fortify himself while you and I discuss this problem.’
‘The kitchens will find you something. There will be pies and pastries left over from the masque,’ said Leicester, before sneezing.
It was an order. Christopher left the chamber, spoke to the guard and sat in the earl’s apartment. The chair he chose was the one he had sat in when he had first played the ivory lute. A good omen or bad?
The food came with a bottle of Rhenish wine. He drained two goblets before setting about a chicken pie and a custard tart. He ate most of the pie as he waited for Warwick to emerge. When the earl did so, he was dressed. Christopher rose to his feet. The other man’s expression was grave.
‘My brother is dressing,’ he said. ‘We will go to the privy apartments and ask for an audience. The earl was most reluctant but eventually came to the conclusion that we should at least try. If Her Majesty will not see us or refuses your request, that will be an end to the matter.’