Chaos

by A D Swanston

  Christopher held the guard’s gaze while he hesitated, clearly torn between duty and fear. Then he shrugged and pushed the sword back into its scabbard. ‘One poxed scroyle more or less won’t make no difference,’ he growled. ‘Move on, the two of you, and pray I don’t see you when you return.’

  ‘We shall, sir,’ replied Christopher. ‘Good day to you.’ With an inward sigh of relief he led Simon quickly through the gate. Leicester’s coach was waiting for them on the corner of an unnamed lane.

  The coachman raised his hat to Christopher but did not speak or jump down to open the door. As soon as they had climbed in, Simon laughed and said, ‘A fine show, doctor. What a player on the stage you would have been.’

  ‘Invention bred of necessity. I would not care for a repeat performance.’

  ‘Then we must hope there are no over-zealous guards at the Holbein Gate.’

  They did not speak again until the coach rattled into Leadenhall Street when Simon said, ‘I have much to thank you for, Dr Radcliff.’

  ‘Thank me? I had little choice. You hold the winning card in Roland Wetherby.’

  ‘I regret the inconvenience caused to the admirable Mr Wetherby, but that is not what I meant. Since my mother died two years ago, I have nursed a keen ambition to play before Her Majesty, but no means of achieving this until you presented me with one. Gabriel found you and through you I found a way to her. And, also, as it has turned out, to the good Earls of Leicester and Warwick. I invited Leicester but Warwick is a welcome addition to the audience.’

  ‘And that is why Gabriel followed me.’

  ‘It is. His task was to keep a watch on you and to keep you safe.’

  ‘He assaulted Wetherby.’

  ‘Regrettable, but Gabriel is skilled in such matters and does not kill unless it is necessary. Mr Wetherby was only slightly hurt.’

  ‘And the testons and the slogans? What purpose did they serve?’

  ‘In part they served for my own amusement – my life has not been one filled with entertainments – and in part they served to create chaos or at least the illusion of chaos.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘From chaos and disorder come order and truth. From life comes death. From ignorance comes knowledge. The serpent in the Garden of Eden. It was ever thus.’

  ‘Your meaning is lost on me.’

  ‘Think on it, doctor. Nothing lasts forever.’

  ‘You have had money at your disposal.’

  ‘My mother died in Bedlam, but wealthy from her own inheritance. She had no other children.’

  ‘They will find the house, of course.’

  ‘I am aware of that. They will find the house but I doubt they will find anyone in it. I have tired of it and shall move on, although only God knows where I shall go. But no more talk, now, if you please. I must prepare myself for what lies ahead.’

  What to make of such a man? For all that he had done, for all his crimes, Christopher could not help feeling some kinship with him and half wished that they had attempted a duet. There would not be another chance now.

  Down Fleet Street and into the Strand. Simon raised his head and peeked out of the window. ‘I see we are here. I find that I am calm, doctor. Are you?’

  ‘I am not.’

  At the Holbein Gate they were halted by the guards. The captain opened the coach door and beckoned for them to alight. ‘My orders are to search the visitors. Dr Radcliff, you first.’ Christopher stepped forward and allowed a guard to check that he carried no concealed weapon. ‘Now the lute case, if you please.’ Simon put the case carefully on the ground and stood back. The guard opened it and took out the lute. He shook it gently to make sure there was nothing inside the body, then ran his hands around the case. Satisfied, he closed the lid. ‘And you, sir.’

  ‘The gentleman’s hood and face covering will remain in place,’ ordered Christopher.

  ‘Very well,’ replied the captain. Simon held up his arms and stood still while he was patted down.

  ‘Nothing,’ said the guard.

  ‘Very well, doctor, you may proceed. The coach will remain here with the driver.’

  They were escorted to an entrance beside the Great Hall that led to the private apartments, where another guard awaited them. They followed him up a flight of stairs and through a door into the Great Chamber.

  The chamber was a large, rectangular room, used both for official business and for the more intimate of the queen’s entertainments. For the lavish masques and plays that she so enjoyed, the Great Hall was usually needed.

  Tall latticed windows looked out over a cloistered yard, once used by the queen’s brother Edward as a place for preachers to deliver their sermons, now simply a quiet retreat for courtiers and visitors to take the air. The queen disliked sermons and had been known to walk out if she felt a preacher was going on for too long.

  The chamber walls were panelled. At one end a large high-backed chair, upholstered in fabrics of red and gold, had been placed on a raised dais. Smaller chairs, also upholstered, stood either side of it, with another, single chair to one side of the dais. The lutenist’s seat, a plain oak stool, faced them from about ten paces. At each corner of the chamber stood a helmeted guard armed with a halberd and a sword at the waist. The guards did not move when they entered.

  Without being instructed, Simon took his place on the stool and opened his lute case. He took out the lute, played a few notes, adjusted the treble string with a slight turn of the peg and laid it across his lap. At no time could any of the guards have caught sight of his face. Unsure of how long they would be waiting, Christopher took the single chair.

  It was not long. A message would have been sent to Leicester as soon as the coach had arrived. With his brother beside him, he entered the chamber from a door that led to the privy apartments. Simon did not move but Christopher rose to his feet. Leicester barely glanced at him before taking his seat to what would be the queen’s right. His face was flushed with fever and in his hand he held a large white handkerchief. Warwick acknowledged Christopher with a nod and took his seat to the queen’s left. Christopher remained standing.

  From somewhere in the palace a clock struck three and through the same door from which Leicester and Warwick had appeared, the queen, followed by two ladies-in-waiting, entered. She held her head high, her hands clasped at her waist, her face showing not a hint of what she was thinking.

  Not a word was spoken, yet Christopher immediately sensed a change in the chamber. The guards squared their shoulders; Leicester and Warwick rose and bowed their heads. The queen did not acknowledge them but stood before her chair and allowed her eyes to traverse the chamber.

  Christopher bowed. Simon, too, stood and bowed, face still hidden by the hood. The queen’s eyes returned to him for a few seconds and then, assisted by her ladies, she took her seat. She wore a white lace ruff at her throat and a green velvet gown chosen to complement her auburn hair. Two strings of pearls hung around her neck. Christopher looked for a trace of disquiet or concern and saw none. The queen appeared entirely calm, as if, to the Queen of England, such an occasion was commonplace. Her ladies, demure in pale blue, arranged themselves behind her. The room was silent.

  The queen sat perfectly still and upright, her pale blue eyes fixed on the hooded figure before her. Then she spoke, her voice clear and with no trace of emotion, as if she were addressing her privy councillors on some dry legal matter. ‘We are informed, sir,’ she said, ‘that our loyal servant Mr Wetherby is held at your pleasure and to secure his release we must hear you play. We are unaccustomed to receiving orders from musicians and murderers and are inclined to think that this is the request of a madman who would be better arrested and taken from here directly to the Tower. Can you say anything to persuade me otherwise?’

  ‘A great prince knows when to employ a velvet glove and when a hand of iron. I throw myself on Your Majesty’s mercy.’

  ‘What is your name, sir, and why have you made this impertinent request?’
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  ‘I am Simon Lovelace, Your Majesty, and my purpose will become clear.’

  ‘If your purpose is to do us harm, be assured, Master Lovelace, that my guards will kill you before you can lift a finger.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Your Majesty, and I mean you no harm. I simply wish to play for you.’

  ‘The royal lutes play when we ask them to. There are no finer musicians in England. Why must we hear you play – a man of whom we have never heard and about whom we know only that he holds prisoner a loyal servant of the Crown?’

  ‘My request is humbly and loyally made, Your Majesty. My fate as well as that of Mr Wetherby is in your hands.’

  The queen stared at him. ‘You hide your face yet expect us to grant your wish.’ There was a touch of anger in her voice.

  ‘I will reveal myself when I have played, if that is your wish.’

  The stare did not waver. ‘We are tempted to have our guards save you the trouble. You must know that your crimes cannot go unpunished. The law will pursue you until justice is done.’

  ‘I have no fear of justice.’ Certainly, there was no hint of fear in his voice.

  ‘Have we your word that after you have played, Mr Wetherby will be released exactly as has been agreed?’

  ‘You do, madam.’

  The queen glanced again at Leicester. ‘As Your Majesty pleases,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Very well. With Mr Wetherby’s safety in mind, we shall hear you play. But the merest sniff of deception and my guards will be upon you. What have you chosen for us?’

  ‘It is an old tune entitled “The Maiden’s Lamentation”, and with Your Majesty’s gracious permission I shall sing and play.’

  That was a surprise. Christopher had never heard him sing and there had been no mention of it. From their expressions, neither Warwick nor Leicester seemed to care.

  ‘As you wish, Master Lovelace. Proceed.’

  Simon bowed his head and took his seat. He reached up to untie the cloth covering his face, leaving the hood in place, raised the lute, placed his fingers on the strings and began.

  But late in place

  A pretye lasse,

  That was both fayre and yonge e,

  Wyth wepying eie,

  Right secretlye,

  Untyll hersealfe she soonge e.

  How showld I rock the cradle, serve the table, blow the fyre, and spyn, a?

  He sang in a clear tenor, finding an easy rhythm that suited the melody.

  This lytle foote,

  And ite toote,

  With notes both sweet and cleere e.

  She syght full ofte,

  And soong alofte

  In forms as shall here e.

  How showld I rock the cradle, serve the table, blow the fyre, and spyn, a?

  Alas! she sayde,

  I was a mayde,

  As other maydens be e;

  And thowgh I boste,

  In all the coste

  Ther was no more lyke me e.

  How showld I rock the cradle, serve the table, blow the fyre, and spyn, a?

  Christopher did not know the song and wondered why Simon had chosen one written for a female voice. He glanced at Leicester, who had closed his eyes as if to concentrate better on the words, and at Warwick who sat tapping his fingers soundlessly on the arm of his chair.

  For four more verses Simon continued, his voice steady and strong. He sang of the maiden’s plight and of the child she must care for alone.

  Clene out of syght

  And all delyght,

  Now heere in servitude e.

  At the behest

  Of most and least

  That be, Got wot, full rude e.

  How showld I rock the cradle, serve the table, blow the fyre, and spyn, a?

  I may not swerve

  The boord to serve,

  To blow the fyre and spin e.

  My chyld to rock,

  And plese this flock,

  Where shall I first begin e.

  How showld I rock the cradle, serve the table, blow the fyre, and spyn, a?

  Still the queen’s face showed no emotion. And, beside her, Leicester and Warwick appeared uninterested in anything but having this over with.

  Preserve, good God,

  All maydynhode

  That maydenlye entend e.

  Let my defame

  And endless shame

  Kepe them from shamefull end e.

  How showld I rock the cradle, serve the table, blow the fyre, and spyn, a?

  Beware, good maydes,

  Of all such braydes,

  Before all other thing e;

  Or all in vayne,

  As I complayne, Thus wepyng shall ye syng e.

  How showld I rock the cradle, serve the table, blow the fyre, and spyn, a?

  Simon put down his lute. The maid had given her warning to others not to make the mistake she had and her lamentation was done. In the Great Chamber there was silence. The queen must speak first. Eventually, she did so.

  ‘A strange choice, Master Lovelace, perhaps better sung by a maiden. I wonder why you chose it.’ She held him in her gaze. ‘Could it be a warning to your queen or is the song more personal?’ She turned her head to Leicester. ‘What do you think, Robert?’

  Leicester wiped a drop of sweat from his lip. ‘I think this man is a charlatan, your majesty, and should be arrested at once.’

  ‘A charlatan? How so?’

  ‘How do we know that he has not told us a pack of lies?’

  Simon’s voice was strong and firm. ‘There have been no lies, my lord, and the song carries different meanings for different people.’

  ‘An evasive answer, Master Lovelace,’ said the queen, her face impassive, ‘but you sing well and your playing is ravishing.’

  Simon bowed his hooded head. ‘I thank you, Your Majesty. To play for you has been my ambition. I am honoured to have been allowed to do so.’

  Leicester coughed into his handkerchief. Warwick looked bored. The queen’s expression did not change. ‘Will you now show your queen the face of the man who is so accomplished and has risked all to fulfil his ambition?’

  ‘I will.’ And, slowly, he pulled back the hood. As he did so, there was a gasp around the room. From the corner of his eye, Christopher saw one of the ladies-in-waiting grip the queen’s chair to steady herself, and the other put a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. Leicester made to rise but was held back by the queen’s hand on his arm. Warwick closed his eyes and mouthed a prayer.

  Christopher stared at the face. It was the face of neither a leper nor a victim of the smallpox, nor was it a face scarred in battle. It was a face that could only have been fashioned in the depths of hell. The right side bulged as if pumped full of air by a bellows; the left was sunken as if all air had been expelled from it. A lump protruded from the forehead and hung over the eyes. The mouth and nose were twisted and the chin set to one side. Had he not heard Simon’s voice he would not have believed that a creature so deformed would be able to speak. Yet his voice, except when he was angered, was almost lyrical. Christopher sat unmoving and unable to drag his eyes from this monstrous gargoyle who had held him captive. And who had now played for the queen.

  Still the queen showed no emotion, as if she had known what to expect. ‘Your life has been a hard one, Master Lovelace,’ she said gently, ‘although that does not excuse your crimes or explain why you are here. You must face justice, but before you do, we would hear your story.’

  ‘And you shall, madam.’ Without the hood, Simon spoke boldly, as if he was suddenly free of a great burden. He turned his head to look around the chamber as if wanting everyone present to see his face. Then he began. ‘I was born in the year 1551 in the county of Essex. My grandfather, whom I never knew, had become wealthy from the trading of wool. He found it cheaper to ship his wool by sea from Lynn in Norfolk to London than to send it by road and thus increased his profits. My grandmother had died in childbirth and he doted on his daughter, my mot
her Caroline Lovelace, who was his only child.’ The words flowed. They had been rehearsed.

  ‘Where is this leading, man?’ demanded Leicester. ‘Her Majesty has no time for tales.’

  The queen touched his arm. ‘Hush, Robert, we will hear the story.’

  Simon went on. ‘We lived well and my grandfather often entertained friends at his house. Without a wife, he looked to my mother for support in matters of household management, although she was barely more than a child. This she was happy to give. In the year 1550, when she was sixteen years old, a young man of high birth came to stay. He was considering an investment in the wool trade and sought advice from my grandfather. While staying in his house, he seduced his host’s daughter. An affair followed until my mother discovered that she was with child. The father could only have been the young visitor.’

  Christopher stole a look at the dais. The queen’s face was set, still expressionless.

  ‘In her innocence,’ carried on Simon, ‘my mother expected the young man to marry her. He had declared undying love and she had no reason to doubt him. But on learning that she was with child, he rejected her utterly and refused ever to see her again. She was desolated.’

  And afraid, too, thought Christopher, just as the maiden in the song had been.

  ‘So great was the shock that she fell ill and could scarcely leave her bed for the duration of her time. She suffered great pain in her stomach and in her back. She could not tell the physician why she suffered so but he feared that the child she carried was not normal and its birth would not be easy. Then, as if she was not suffering enough, in the sixth month, my grandfather died, leaving her his estate but with the grim prospect of bringing up a bastard child alone.

  ‘Imagine her grief when that child was born. Not only a bastard but an unspeakable monster.’ Simon’s voice rose. ‘A creature from hell, deformed in the womb by the shock and grief she had suffered and who could never take a proper place in the world. She must have cursed the child’s father with every waking breath. Yet she had given birth to him and would not allow the midwife to put him out of his misery. She fed him from her breast and, as he grew older, taught him to read and write and to play the lute. In this she was assisted by her servant, Gabriel Browne, who was devoted to her and became devoted to her son. It was thanks to them that the boy lived, albeit without the company of other children or the normal pleasures of childhood. The strain on her was great, her mind became fragile and at the age of thirty-eight, she died in Bedlam. She had given her own life for that of her monstrous son.’