Chaos

by A D Swanston

  He had walked to Fetter Lane where Mr Brewster had sold him a ruled music book for his own compositions and he had ventured into Holborn Fields where the lawyers’ horses were grazing and where he had watched a trained band drilling and he had visited Ironmonger Lane where he had bought a new blade.

  He had received no callers and no messages from Whitehall. And he had not called upon Ell.

  The summons came by messenger on the third morning. The Earl of Leicester wished to see him at once.

  Leicester still looked a little fevered but he was out of bed and at his table. His brother sat beside him. Christopher doffed his cap, bowed low and waited. He had rehearsed this scene in his mind, practised answers to possible questions and tried to find some tactful middle ground upon which to pitch his tent. Now that the moment had come, however, and faced with both Leicester and Warwick, he could remember almost nothing of what he had planned to say.

  Leicester began: ‘Dr Radcliff, you will appreciate how difficult this is for my brother and for me.’ He paused as if searching for a way forward.

  ‘Our family name is at stake,’ said Warwick, ‘not to mention Her gracious Majesty’s goodwill and the security of the realm.’

  Leicester continued. ‘What happened in the Great Chamber was a drama, a piece of theatre designed to cause trouble for the amusement of the dramatist.’

  Taken aback, Christopher spoke without thinking. ‘Drama, my lord? A man died. Was it not painfully real?’

  Warwick leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the table. ‘Good dramas should wear the clothes of reality, Dr Radcliff, don’t you think?’

  Christopher did not know what to think. Were they suggesting that the whole thing had been a charade, a dream? Or that Simon had invented his story? ‘I saw a new slogan painted on St Martin’s church, my lords.’

  ‘I am aware of it,’ replied Leicester. ‘Mischief-making, I fancy. Let us not concern ourselves with it.’

  A brick wall against which Christopher knew he would only be banging his head. The brothers had made up their minds and would not be shifted. ‘Should we have denied Simon Lovelace his wish and abandoned Mr Wetherby, my lords?’

  ‘No, no, doctor,’ replied Leicester hastily, ‘Mr Wetherby’s safety was of the greatest importance.’ He glanced at Warwick. ‘It is simply that Lovelace’s story is best treated with a certain caution.’

  Weasel words. Had Simon Lovelace told the truth or not? If not, why not bluntly deny his allegations? ‘Caution, my lords?’

  ‘Her Majesty is anxious that what occurred in the Great Chamber should not become known by her loyal subjects,’ replied Warwick. ‘It could do great harm to our country at a time of national danger and we all know the trouble that ill-informed gossip can cause.’

  ‘Yet truth will out, my lord. The queen’s ladies and her guards were present.’

  Leicester tapped a finger on the table. ‘Neither the four guards nor the queen’s ladies will utter a word of what they heard and saw.’

  ‘I am neither a guard nor a queen’s lady. It was I who discovered the source of the false testons designed to blacken the Dudley name, my lords, and I, with Mr Wetherby, who was held captive by Simon Lovelace. I am in a trusted position on your lordship’s staff. I will protect a confidence but may I not know the truth of the matter?’

  Warwick shrugged. ‘Truth, untruth, something between the two – what does it matter? What matters, Dr Radcliff, are the consequences. And you will serve our family and your queen best by a loyal silence.’

  They were not going to say more. ‘If that is what Her Majesty wishes.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And Mr Wetherby?’

  ‘We assumed that Mr Wetherby would know what occurred and have secured his promise to say nothing of it.’

  ‘And we thank you, doctor, for finding the coiners and for your loyalty. I am sure we have seen the last of them and their foul treason,’ added Leicester. ‘And Her Majesty has authorized a reward for your service.’ He took a leather pouch from a drawer in the table and pushed it across to Christopher.

  Christopher stared at it. ‘There is really no need, my lords.’

  ‘Take it, doctor,’ said Warwick. ‘It is just reward.’

  Christopher reached out and took the pouch. It was heavy. ‘Thank you, my lords. I am grateful.’

  Warwick remained sitting but Leicester stood and extended his hand. ‘I am fortunate to have you in my service, doctor.’

  He sat in the Brown Bear with a tankard of beer. So much for rehearsing what he planned to say. The play had been written by the noble lords, not by him. Without denying the truth of Simon’s story they had managed, without saying as much, to cast doubt upon it. And they had played on his loyalty. He should not be surprised.

  He would tell no one what he knew. Of course he would tell no one. The Earl of Leicester was Master of the Queen’s Horse and a member of her Privy Council. It would be treasonous to do so.

  He grinned at the sudden thought that the pouch of coins hidden under his gown might be full of bear and staff testons. In an odd way, that would have endeared the brothers Dudley to him more than a pouch full of crowns.

  For an hour he sat nursing his beer. Perception and reality. Order and disorder. Truth and untruth. As a lawyer it was the last that troubled him most.

  A slight figure was standing outside his door. ‘Have you no better occupation than to stand about and wait for me, Roland?’ he called out as he approached. ‘I have been at Whitehall.’ He unlocked the door.

  ‘I know,’ said Wetherby. ‘And no doubt you were treated to the same advice as I was. Did you come away with a purse of crowns for your trouble?’

  ‘I did. Did you?’

  ‘I did. For what I had suffered.’

  ‘Come in and sit. We may tell no one of what we know but, as we both know, we will be telling no one. Does that make sense?’

  ‘I believe it does. Lawyer’s sense at least.’

  Christopher poured two glasses of his best Rhenish, which they took to the study. He raised his glass. ‘To Simon Lovelace. May he have found peace.’

  ‘May we all, when the time comes,’ replied Wetherby, raising his. ‘Simon Lovelace.’

  They sat in silence, each with his own thoughts, until Christopher asked, ‘What do you think is the truth of the matter, Roland?’

  ‘I did not hear Simon speak in the Great Chamber,’ replied Wetherby, ‘and know only what Gabriel Browne told me, so it is more difficult for me to form an opinion. However, I find it impossible to suppose that any man, even one as tormented as Simon, would fabricate such a story without good reason.’

  ‘With that I agree. That which starts out as a story, however, can sometimes become truth in a man’s mind.’

  ‘You mean that we come to believe our own stories. That is true. Do you think that Simon had come to believe his own story?’

  Christopher threw up his hands. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps – or perhaps it was the truth. Young, handsome Robert Dudley seduces beautiful Caroline Lovelace who becomes pregnant with his child. It is hardly a new tale.’

  ‘Nor a particularly interesting one,’ added Wetherby, ‘until he deserts her and she suffers such grief that their unborn child is so affected that he comes into the world barely human.’

  ‘She cannot have known when she first set eyes upon the child that, despite his deformity, his mind would be that of an intelligent and sensitive man. He would not have survived but for a mother’s unconditional love.’

  ‘And now the mother and her child are dead. We should let them rest in peace.’

  ‘We should, yet, as you yourself suggested, there is more to Gabriel Browne than we know. I have a wish for the truth and we are forbidden only to speak of what we know, not to discover the truth of it.’

  ‘How might we do that, Christopher?’

  ‘The house. I believe I know where it is.’

  Wetherby sat up. ‘Where?’

  ‘The j
ourney to Aldgate took about an hour at a steady pace.

  The road was rough and there was salt in the air. I heard gulls and curlews – sea birds and marsh birds. Simon would have chosen a place where few live and to which travellers would have no reason to venture. My guess is that the house is in that place where the river turns south and then north again, creating the shape of a horseshoe. The Isle of Dogs.’

  Wetherby considered. ‘And if you are right, what do you suggest we do?’

  ‘The house may hold secrets. I suggest we find it.’

  ‘Gabriel may already have burned it down.’

  ‘He may. In which case we will have had a wasted journey.’

  ‘I am not sure, Christopher. What is to be gained?’

  ‘The truth. No more.’

  Wetherby sat with his hands steepled at his chin. He did not speak for several minutes. ‘Very well, Christopher,’ he said eventually, ‘rather than suffer your jibes for the rest of my life I shall accompany you, but I hold out no great hopes of our discovering anything but a pile of ashes.’

  ‘Good. Can you find us a coach?’

  ‘I can find us a pair of decent mounts more easily.’

  ‘More riding. How foul. Well, if it must be.’

  ‘Be at the stables in Chancery Lane at eight tomorrow morning.

  I will make the arrangements.’

  CHAPTER 33

  Wetherby had found them a pair of tolerable palfreys and by nine they had left through the Aldgate and were on the road heading east. The days were getting longer and the worst of the winter was over.

  ‘A joy to be out of the city,’ said Wetherby, ‘even if our journey proves wasted.’

  ‘I doubt it will be,’ replied Christopher, ‘and I certainly hope not. This is a most uncomfortable beast.’

  Wetherby laughed. ‘You will soon get used to it. And you seem confident.’

  ‘When you returned with Gabriel from the house to Aldgate you were hooded. He did not want you to know where you had been. Had there been nothing to hide, that would not have mattered.’

  ‘We might be too late.’

  ‘We might. It has been five days. If I were Gabriel I would have disappeared, leaving nothing for us to find but the satisfaction of knowing the place of our imprisonment.’

  They left the river when it turned south and joined the causeway that ran through a forest of reeds and little else until they arrived at a crossroads. It was a bleak spot with neither building nor human in sight. A few sheep grazed what little grass there was while carrion crows squawked overhead, waiting for a lamb to be born or a rabbit to venture too far from its burrow. Here they took the road south.

  ‘Do you not think this is it?’ asked Christopher. ‘Here there are the ruts and holes I am sure I felt in the coach.’

  ‘Christopher, this far from the city wall any road is full of ruts and holes. But you may be right. Let us carry on.’

  They passed deserted hovels and a mean cottage or two built in the lee of a thin copse or low mound until the road forked. They took the left fork, a rough path banked up against encroachment by the river. The trees here were taller and more numerous. In the distance they heard a dog bark.

  Then they saw it. Through a screen of elms the roof of a large dwelling appeared. They dismounted and quietly led the horses closer until they had a clear view of it. It was an old, two-storey house, stone-built, with a grey slate roof and shuttered windows, just as in Simon’s story. There was no sign of life. They looked at each other and nodded. Whoever had built this house a hundred years ago had sought to impress. And whoever had most recently lived in it had sought privacy.

  They tethered the horses to a tree and approached the great oak door. For the journey Christopher had bought a new blade. He knocked on the door with its pommel. From within there came not a sound. He turned the handle and pushed the door. It creaked open and they entered. Christopher peered into the gloom. A chair had been set by a cold fireplace; two more stood opposite. There was no other furniture. They were standing in Simon Lovelace’s hall.

  The oak door closed behind them. They turned in surprise to see a figure holding in one hand a lantern in which burned a thick candle and in the other a cocked pistol. ‘Welcome, gentlemen,’ said the figure. ‘I have been expecting you.’

  Gabriel’s beard had gone and his hair was neatly trimmed. He wore a high-necked doublet and long leather boots. The working man had become a gentleman. Even his voice sounded different, the vowels less flattened, the tone lighter.

  Christopher was the first to recover his poise. ‘Gabriel Browne. We imagined you long gone. Have you been watching for us?’

  ‘I am not entirely alone in this miserable place, doctor. You were seen.’ He gestured with the pistol. ‘Sit down. I will take Simon’s chair.’ He waited for them to sit before he did. He put the lantern on the floor. ‘Simon said you would come. I confess to having been less sure. But he was right. He was nearly always right, and here you are.’

  ‘Unless that is a most unusual pistol,’ said Wetherby, ‘you have but a single bullet with which to shoot both of us.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Wetherby. Simon approved of your spirit. However, one bullet is quite enough to kill Dr Radcliff, after which I will take my chances with you. Now, tell me why you are here.’

  ‘We were curious,’ replied Christopher. ‘Curious to see the house in which we had been kept prisoners and curious to know whether Simon’s story was as true as he made it seem.’

  ‘And how did you expect to discover that? Simon is dead. Did you think to find a confession or a journal in his hand revealing all?’

  ‘We expected nothing, Gabriel, least of all you. But our journey has proved worthwhile. Here we are and here you are.’

  ‘Was Simon’s story true?’ asked Wetherby. ‘The story which he told the queen and which you told me.’

  ‘Why should I tell you? What is to be gained from it?’

  ‘The truth,’ replied Christopher. ‘The very thing that Simon Lovelace claimed was his purpose. Reality from deception, and knowledge from ignorance.’ He let that sink in. ‘Was Robert Dudley Simon’s father?’

  They sat in silence. For some minutes Gabriel did not move or show any inclination to reply. Eventually, he spoke. ‘Caroline Lovelace, Simon’s mother, was a sweet child, beautiful and clever. My father was in the service of her father and I knew her from the day she was born. I watched her grow into a young lady who could have married any man she chose. She was talented and accomplished and, from an early age, young men doted on her. We all doted on her – her father, his servants, all of us. But she was no maiden pure. I do not doubt that Robert Dudley was her lover – he came to the house often enough – but he was not the only one.’

  ‘Did her father not know of this?’ asked Wetherby.

  ‘He did not – or at least he chose not to. Are fathers not blind to the sins of their children?’

  There was another long silence. ‘So Caroline Lovelace did not know whether Robert Dudley was her son’s father or not.’

  ‘She chose to believe that he was. For her, that was the truth. He was young, handsome, of noble birth, destined to rise high. If he took her as his wife she would rise with him.’

  ‘And she brought up her son to believe as she did.’

  ‘Exactly. But do not judge her too harshly. How many women could survive the shock of rejection yet devote themselves to the care of a son like Simon? Caroline Lovelace was only seventeen when Simon was born, her life ahead of her, yet she did so and it hastened her death.’

  ‘Why did she think that Simon’s condition was caused by Dudley’s rejection?’

  ‘The doctors were agreed. So great was Simon’s deformity that no one thought it could have been caused by anything other than a shock to his mother that played havoc with the balance of her humours and thus also those of her unborn child.’

  ‘Did the doctors not ask the name of his father?’

  ‘They did but she revealed
it to no one until Simon was sixteen and then he was sworn to silence until she was dead. The doctors knew only that she had been left with a bastard child.’

  ‘No one except you.’

  ‘I too was sworn to silence and I gave my word that I would care for him until one of us died. He wanted to expose Dudley but I think he also dreaded being alone. He wanted to die before I did.’

  ‘Why did you stay with him, Gabriel?’ asked Wetherby.

  ‘His mother asked it of me.’

  ‘Simon was a clever man,’ said Christopher. ‘The testons, the slogans, the crosses, a disappearing body, even the hemlock hidden in the lute peg, and God knows he had good reason for wanting the truth to be known, but three men have died. He had blood on his hands and so do you.’

  ‘Fossett killed Pryse and the goldsmith. Neither was necessary. And he could not keep his mouth shut. Simon wanted him out of harm’s way.’

  ‘Did you paint the slogan on St Martin’s church?’

  ‘I ordered it done.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To make you ask yourself why. Simon would have done the same.’

  Christopher rubbed his hand. He had killed, accidentally, and been fortunate not to hang for it. Did this man who had killed on another’s orders deserve to live or was he as much a murderer as a throat-cutting thief? Did it make a difference that his victim was also a murderer? Some might think so but the law said not.

  He stretched his fingers. Jury? Law? Gabriel was armed, there was no rescuer outside and he would not want to leave them alive. He would put a ball between Christopher’s eyes, take his blade and kill Roland.

  ‘You seem deep in thought, doctor,’ said Gabriel. ‘Are you planning your escape?’

  ‘I am,’ replied Wetherby, ‘but I cannot at present see one.’

  ‘And you, doctor? Do you see one?’

  ‘An escape, no, but a possible solution to our problem.’