by A D Swanston
When Simon paused to wipe a tear from his eye, the queen asked, ‘And the son sought revenge on the world?’
‘No, madam, not revenge but truth. Truth that should not be hidden.’
‘Did she tell her son who his father was?’
‘She did.’
‘Your story has little meaning without his name. We would wish to know it.’
Simon stared at Leicester. ‘His name was Robert Dudley.’
The earl was on his feet. ‘This is outrageous. How dare you suggest such a foul thing?’ He stepped down from the platform as if about to silence Simon himself. Christopher too was on his feet. Roland’s life was at stake and Simon must not be harmed. If he had to, he would restrain the earl. Simon had not moved but sat calmly facing the man he claimed was his father.
‘Hold, Robert,’ ordered the queen. ‘Leave us if you wish but we shall hear the end of Master Lovelace’s story.’
Leicester stopped and turned to face her. ‘Do not listen to this, madam,’ he shouted. ‘The man is deranged and should not be believed. Have the guards arrest him.’
Simon appeared unafraid. He spoke clearly but did not raise his voice. ‘Why should I not be believed, sir? Is it for the shame of a man such as yourself siring a creature like me? Or is it for the shame of deserting my mother and causing her unborn child to be so affected?’
Leicester’s handsome face was suffused with rage. ‘Guards, arrest this man,’ he spluttered.
‘No, Robert,’ ordered the queen, her tone allowing no further discussion. ‘Allow Master Lovelace to finish his story.’
Simon took up his lute and fiddled absently with a peg. ‘There is no more to tell,’ he said. ‘I have played before my queen and I have told my story. The truth is now known. That was my purpose and that is an end to it.’
The room was silent as if waiting for the queen to speak or to leave. She did neither, but sat looking at the creature before her. Simon watched her as he fiddled with the peg. Christopher thought he was going to spit in the hole to make it fit more closely. It was a common enough practice.
He was mistaken. Simon pulled the top from the peg, tipped something into his hand and swallowed it. Almost immediately, his body began to convulse and he fell from the stool. Neither Leicester nor the guards moved. Christopher rushed forward and knelt over the stricken man. Whatever Simon had taken was working fast. Blood seeped from his crooked mouth and one eye bulged in shock. The gargoyle was dying. Christopher lifted the grotesque head and turned it to one side. If Simon could be made to vomit, the poison might yet be expelled. He coughed and retched but spat out only blood. Christopher lifted him up and made to thump him on the back.
‘Hold!’ commanded the queen. ‘Leave him. He must die as he wishes. We will not inflict more pain upon him.’ Christopher looked up at her, and let the young man down slowly. Simon’s body jerked once and then he lay still. ‘For all his sins we shall be gentle with him in death, as God will be.’
Abruptly, she stood and left the chamber as regally as she had entered it. She was followed by her ladies. Neither brother moved or looked at the dead body. Unsure what to do, Christopher waited for instructions from Leicester. But Leicester seemed too shocked to speak. The instructions came from Warwick.
‘Make haste, doctor,’ he said. ‘Mr Wetherby is in danger.’
Christopher carefully picked up the peg between finger and thumb and looked into it. It had been hollowed out. There were two small seeds in it. He sniffed. Hemlock. No more than four or five seeds could kill a man instantly. And they had been hidden so as to disguise Simon’s true intention. A taste for the dramatic, even in death.
Deception and trickery. Disorder and chaos. And knowledge from ignorance.
CHAPTER 31
The coach was waiting at the gate. If the coachman had been expecting two passengers he gave no sign of it. Christopher ordered him to the Aldgate.
The coachman cracked his whip and the horses broke straight into a canter. In the Strand he bellowed at a rider blocking their way and in Fleet Street they sent a box of eggs flying into the road. Shrieks of outrage followed them down the street but did not detain them.
Christopher hung on to his seat and silently urged the coachman on. They had been tricked. Gabriel had known that Simon would not return from Whitehall so Wetherby was in danger. Gabriel had no reason to keep him alive.
They sped down Cornhill and Leadenhall and came to a halt at the Aldgate. Christopher jumped out and pushed his way through the last of the traders making their way home. He scanned the road. Of Simon’s coach there was no sign. He ran back to the gate and asked a guard if he had seen a slightly built man with a lute case come through. The guard had not.
He hesitated.
‘I am here, Christopher,’ said Wetherby from behind him, ‘and quite unharmed.’ In his hand he held the lute case.
Christopher turned, laughed and gripped his shoulder. ‘Trust you to have me worried, but I am truly relieved to find you well. How long have you been waiting and where is Gabriel? I imagined he would have killed you.’
‘Happily not. Gabriel has gone. He left me here an hour ago. I thought it best to wait for you. He knew Simon would not be returning with you. Is he dead?’
Christopher nodded. ‘He is. Hemlock seeds hidden in a hollow lute peg.’
‘Did he play for the queen?’
‘He did. “The Maiden’s Lamentation”.’
‘Gabriel would have been happy to know it. He told me Simon’s story and the unspeakable life the man had. Was his deformity appalling?’
‘It was. I wonder that he could speak let alone sing.’
‘And what now for us, my friend?’
‘I shall return to Ludgate Hill. Leicester will be in his bed and best left alone.’
‘And I shall request the coachman to take me on to Whitehall where I shall sleep the sleep of the just.’
Christopher left the coach on Ludgate Hill. He let himself in and put the lute in the study. There was neither food nor drink in the house. He considered the Brown Bear but could not persuade himself even to a quiet inn.
He went up to the bed chamber, thinking to rest, but found that sleep was impossible. That day he had seen one man die and another live. Simon Lovelace had chosen to die; Roland Wetherby had been allowed to live. How easily it might have been otherwise. And what of the faithful Gabriel Browne, a murderer who had devoted himself to caring for a child cursed as cruelly as any child could be? What did the fates have in mind for him?
Where would Simon’s body be taken and where would he be buried? An unimaginable life, cursed from birth to death, yet blessed with a beautiful voice and a love of music. And he had been granted something denied to all but a very few – the manner and time of his death. Only then had he found the fulfilment his life had lacked.
He went down to the study where he sat idly leafing through sheets of music and wondering whether or not to play. He barely noticed the tunes he was looking at, until he came to a piece he had tried before but since forgotten. ‘Awake ye woeful wights’ had been inspired by the ancient story of Damon and Pythias whose friend-ship was so strong that Damon offered himself as a hostage to King Dionysius of Syracuse in place of the condemned Pythias. It seemed appropriate. He took up the lute and began.
It was a contemplative piece and he did not hurry it. He stopped once to adjust a fret in the hope of making the notes sweeter and missed a change of stops towards the end but otherwise felt that he had done the music justice.
He hid the lute under the pile of shirts and sat stretching his fingers. Abruptly, almost without conscious thought, he got up and put on his coat. The light had faded and the curfew had begun, but he could not sit still. Out of habit he glanced up and down the street before locking the door. No watcher, no shadow.
He stayed away from Newgate where the night creatures would be emerging from their secret places, and kept to the middle of the streets. The alley off Cheapside reeked of rotting food
and human waste and he almost ran down it.
The stew owner opened the door. She took the clay pipe from her mouth and looked him up and down. ‘Dr Rad, isn’t it?’ she asked in a voice raw with smoke and drink. ‘Ell’s busy but you can wait if you like.’
‘Thank you, Grace. I’ll wait.’
In the little parlour with a glass of Grace’s thin Spanish wine he tried not to hear the humping and grinding above him. At least it was not Ell. Her room was along the passage. Or he hoped it wasn’t her. He caught himself. Ell Cole was a whore. Why should he care?
Grace had lit a fire and the parlour was warm. He drank a second glass. His eyes closed and his head lolled on his chest.
He was woken suddenly. ‘The devil’s ball sack, Dr Rad. Don’t tell me you’ve come here to sleep. Mistress Allington thrown you out of your own home, has she?’ He opened his eyes. Ell stood over him, hands on hips and a wide grin on her face.
He shook the sleep from his head. ‘No, not yet. I have not seen her for a while, though. I’ve been busy.’
‘Wish I had. Quiet as the grave, it’s been. Don’t know why. Still, I’ve been getting more sleep. Does it show?’
Throw her into a dungeon with a pack of murdering felons and slavering hounds and Ell Cole would emerge unscathed and radiant. ‘Lovely as ever, Ell.’
She poked out her tongue. ‘Bit more enthusiasm, Dr Rad, wouldn’t go amiss. What can I do for you?’
‘Nothing really. My day has been one I hope not to see repeated. I just did not feel like being alone.’
Ell sat down in Grace’s chair. ‘Bad thing, being alone. When I’m in company I sometimes wish I was alone but when I am I don’t like it. Difficult cow, aren’t I? Sorry to see you low, Dr Rad. Would you like some food?’
Christopher realized that he was starving. ‘I would, Ell. Have you got anything?’
Ell threw up her hands. ‘Course we have. Grace keeps the cupboard full for our gentlemen. Some of them need a bit of meat first. Even I can’t rouse one old fellow until he’s had half a chicken. Poor sod. His wife treats him like a child. Made him queer in the head, she has.’ She got up. ‘I’ll go and see what there is. Stay here and drink Grace’s wine. Gets better with a few glasses, you’ll see.’
It did, but not much. God knew what Grace had mixed in it. Gutter water, probably. Ell returned as he was draining his fourth glass. ‘We’ve mutton and onions and fresh bread, doctor. Go up to my room and I’ll bring it up. Be more private there and Grace wants her parlour.’
Ell had tidied the bed. Christopher sat down and waited for the food. Why had he come here? Why was he not asleep in his own bed?
Ell brought the food. She watched him eat and poured him another glass of wine. He felt better for eating but he could barely keep his eyes open. ‘Lie down, Dr Rad,’ she said. ‘There’s room for two.’ He put his head on her pillow and knew no more.
Sometime in the night he woke. There was a figure sleeping beside him. He put his hand on a hip. ‘Katherine, I …’
‘Shush, Dr Rad,’ whispered the figure. ‘Go back to sleep.’ When dawn came, he woke again. He lay still with his eyes closed. The figure beside him had gone. Why had Katherine left the bed so early? With a start he sat up. This was not his chamber. It was Ell’s. His shirt was loose and his legs were bare. Where was she? He lay down again and closed his eyes.
Voices outside woke him the second time. The lane was coming to life. He pushed himself up and swung his legs over the bed. Where was Ell? Had he spent the night with her?
The chamber door opened and Ell came in, carrying a bottle and a beaker. She was grinning. ‘Good day, Dr Rad. Didn’t know you talked in your sleep. Slept well, did you?’
‘What am I doing here, Ell?’ he croaked. ‘Where are my trousers?’
Ell poured ale into the beaker. ‘Drink that, Dr Rad. It’ll make you feel better.’
He took the beaker and sipped the ale. It could have been rat’s piss. He handed it back. ‘Why am I here, Ell? Have I been here all night?’
‘You have, doctor. Asleep in my bed. You were troubled so I let you stay. Chattering away, you were. Never heard anything like it.’
‘What did I say?’
‘Hard to tell. Jumble of words, it was. Simon, testons, Damon, Pith-something, lute, Joan.’
Oh God. Joan Willys. ‘Did you undress me?’
‘Might have. Fine legs you’ve got, doctor. Very shapely for a man. Do you dance with the queen?’
‘Ell, did anything happen?’
‘Like what? You falling asleep and chattering happened.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No, doctor, nothing happened. Could do now, though, if you feel strong enough.’
Temptation. Lie in Ell’s bed with her beside him while the world outside went about its business. No sane man would refuse. ‘I’d like that, Ell, but I’ve work to do.’ Joan was still in Newgate.
‘Work, work, always work, Dr Rad. It’s no wonder you’re so troubled.’
‘Where are my trousers?’
Ell handed them to him. His shoes were on the floor by the bed. He put them on and stood up. ‘Thank you for letting me sleep here, Ell.’
‘You owe me two shillings.’
‘Do I? Why’s that?’
‘To make up for the money I could have earned if my bed had been free.’
‘Oh, very well. Where’s my purse?’
Ell held it up. ‘Any other whore and you’d have lost it. Shall I help myself?’ Ell fished out two shillings. ‘Take more care next time, doctor.’
Sarah Cardoza welcomed him in. She offered him wine and cake and asked after his health. ‘I miss Isaac, of course,’ she told him, ‘but I speak to him every day. He will guide me until we meet again.’
‘And the children, Sarah?’ he asked. ‘How do they fare?’
‘They are a comfort to me as they were to him. I am blessed.’
‘I envy you your family and your faith.’
The sharp eyes twinkled. ‘Then you must find a wife and from her you might find faith. Life is so much harder for those with neither a family nor a god.’
Had Simon Lovelace had faith? he wondered. It would not have been surprising if he had believed in almost anything other than God, yet he was ready to die.
‘Sarah, I have come to tell you that the man who murdered Isaac is dead.’
‘He who lives by the sword, Christopher?’
‘Yes. There were others involved in the counterfeiting, of course.
Two are dead; one is in Newgate. Another has fled but he is no danger and I doubt he will ever be caught. Would you like to know about them?’
‘No. It is over. I wish only to think of Isaac.’
Christopher rose. ‘He was a good man and my friend. I too miss him. Good day, Sarah.’
‘Shalom, Christopher. Call again. And remember what I have said. A man should not be alone in this world. Find a wife and have many children.’
A wife and many children. He would be happy enough just with Joan as his housekeeper. The cupboard was bare and must be replenished.
In Cheapside the prices had risen again. A penny and three farthings for six eggs and three pence a small loaf. Simon’s testons were still doing their work. He bought cheese and apples and a piece of mutton and was wondering whether Ell could be persuaded to cook it for him when he saw her. At a confectioner’s stall, Katherine was filling a bag with biscuits and cakes. She had not seen him.
To ignore her would be churlish. He swallowed his pride and walked over to the stall. ‘Joy of the day, Katherine,’ he said. ‘Do I find you well?’
She looked up sharply. ‘Christopher. I had not thought to see you here.’
‘A man must take care of himself if no one else will.’
She took some coins from her purse and paid the confectioner. ‘You know why that is so. Joan is in Newgate on a ridiculous charge and I will not keep house for you while you are seeing that whore. Or are you no longer seeing her
?’
‘She is my agent. That is all.’
‘Then I suggest you ask her to cook and clean for you. I daresay she’ll be delighted. Good day, Christopher.’ She had gone before he could speak.
Infernal woman. Did she really not believe him or was it a pretence? Perhaps he should tell her that he had spent the night in Ell’s bed. It would be the truth but also a pretence of sorts.
The slogan could not have been there long. It certainly was not there when he had left the house. He put a finger to the paint. It was wet. Three men and a woman stood looking at it. It was written on the wall of St Martin’s church. Chaos comes in many a guise, Death and fear and monstrous lies. It was marked with a cross.
‘What does it mean?’ asked the woman.
‘Nothing,’ replied one of the men. ‘Just like the others, it means nothing.’
‘But it’s painted on a church,’ said another. ‘It must mean something.’
‘Or it’s there to frighten us,’ said the woman.
‘Well, it doesn’t frighten me,’ said the third man. ‘Not unless it was the devil himself who wrote it.’
Christopher walked on. Simon Lovelace had said that not all the slogans had been his work. There had been copiers. But this – mere chance or were the testons not the dead man’s only legacy?
CHAPTER 32
Two days had passed since he had visited Sarah Cardoza. Two tedious days waiting for a summons from Leicester or a visit from Katherine. Two days of fiddling with his lute, tightening the strings, loosening them again, moving the frets up and down the neck and playing a few short pieces.