by A D Swanston
A sad song but a pretty enough tune and cleverly chosen. Had it been aimed at Leicester or was it a warning to the queen not to depend upon him? Both, perhaps. He would ask Mr Brewster if he knew where it might be found.
Two days since Gabriel and he had barely left the house. It was not fear that had kept him at home, more a childish wish not to be dictated to. If there were eyes on Ludgate Hill they could stay there until he was ready.
He heard a coach draw up. Just as Ell knew his knock, he knew Wetherby’s. It was a rat-a-tat-tat knock used by no one else who came to the house. ‘Come in, Roland,’ he shouted. ‘The door is unlocked.’
Wetherby let himself in. ‘The earl is concerned for your health, Christopher,’ he said, ‘and has sent me to convey you to Whitehall.’
‘Concerned for my health? Why?’
‘I was in jest. The earl cares not a jot for your health but summons you to the palace. Your lute will not be required.’
‘Then I shall put it away.’
‘And brush yourself down while you are in your chamber. You are in a poor way today and you know how the earl dislikes unkempt intelligencers. Brush your hair, change your shirt and clean your shoes. I will wait for you.’
He must be in a poor way. It was unlike Roland to speak so bluntly. The lute went under the bed, he found a shirt newly washed by Joan, ran his fingers through his hair and went downstairs.
Wetherby inspected him. ‘Shoes, Christopher.’
‘For the love of God, Roland, I’m not going to meet the queen. Leicester is quite used to me by now.’
‘Shoes.’
Christopher sighed, and went to the kitchen to find a cloth. ‘Better,’ said Wetherby when he came back. ‘Not good, but better.’
They were in Fleet Street when Christopher said, ‘I had a visit from Gabriel Browne.’
‘What? When?’ Wetherby looked as if he might fall out of the coach.
Christopher told him the story hurriedly. He finished as they arrived at the Holbein Gate.
‘Why did you not tell me before?’ asked Wetherby.
‘Had you called, I would have. Have you delivered the money to the earl?’
‘I have. He seemed surprised.’
‘That you had not kept it or at its origin?’
‘Both, I fancy. I told him about our visit to Simon’s house, but did not mention Gabriel.’
‘Wise of you. It would have done no good.’
The coach drew up. Wetherby escorted Christopher to the earl’s apartments. Outside the door to the antechamber, they clasped hands before Christopher was admitted by the guard and Wetherby returned to his own apartment.
The portrait of the queen which dominated the chamber looked even larger than usual and Her Majesty looked even more regal. She seemed to be staring at him as if he were a naughty child caught in some forbidden act.
Leicester threw open the door. ‘Dr Radcliff, Her Majesty wishes to speak to you and I am to escort you to her immediately.’ He spoke gravely, the dark eyes holding Christopher’s.
‘May I know why Her Majesty wishes to speak to me, my lord?’ asked Christopher, taken aback by the news.
Leicester’s tone did not change. ‘That she has not confided in me but doubtless you will find out soon enough. Follow me.’
Leicester led him along the gallery that overlooked the queen’s garden and into the Great Chamber where Simon Lovelace had played for her. From there they passed through to the privy chamber. ‘We will await the queen here,’ said Leicester, and to a guard: ‘Tell Her Majesty that Dr Radcliff is here.’
Christopher looked around. The walls were panelled, the floor tiled and painted and spread with rush mats. At one end of the room was a stone fireplace. On a raised platform at the other end stood a single tall chair with a cushioned seat and a matching crimson foot-stool. In one corner water tinkled in a small fountain. A huge painting adorned the wall opposite the window, and another, smaller one hung beside the fireplace. There was a second door beside the platform. It was a room designed to impress but not overpower.
When the guard had left them, Leicester said, ‘Mr Wetherby told me about your visit to Master Lovelace’s house and handed over the money you found. It is a great deal. I have given the matter thought and decided that it should be divided into three equal parts, one each for you and Wetherby and one for the queen’s exchequer. Her Majesty has agreed to this.’
Suddenly, Christopher was wealthy. ‘My lord, I am grateful, of course, but—’
Leicester held up a hand. ‘It is decided. I will keep your share safe and you may call upon it at any time. I will not ask how you intend to use it.’
Christopher bowed. ‘Thank you, my lord. The money will be put to good use.’ Before he could continue, the door beside the platform opened and the queen entered, followed by the very same two ladies-in-waiting who had been with her in the Great Chamber. Again Christopher bowed. The queen stepped on to the platform and sat, her ladies standing either side of her. She wore a pale blue gown with a low ruff and the double string of pearls around her neck. To Christopher’s eye, regal, but less formal than on the day Simon Lovelace played for her and died.
‘Thank you, Robert,’ she said. ‘You may leave Dr Radcliff in my care now.’ Leicester bowed and left Christopher standing alone in the middle of the chamber. The queen smiled and held out her hand. ‘Dr Radcliff, we are happy to welcome you again to Whitehall.’ The voice was calm and measured, just as it had been in the Great Chamber.
He hesitated before stepping forward and kissing the hand and was relieved when she smiled again. Being close to the queen, as he had been in the privy garden and in the Great Chamber, was one thing, being addressed directly by her was quite another. He made an effort not to rub his hand or stretch his fingers.
‘You are wondering why I have asked to see you, Dr Radcliff.’
‘I am, Your Majesty.’
‘The Earl of Leicester has told me much about you. I know how you came to leave Cambridge and join the earl’s staff and of course I know of the part you played in foiling the plot to burn down this palace and put a bullet through my heart. You have served us well.’
Should he speak? No, better to keep quiet until she asked him a question. She went on. ‘And were it not for you, the criminals behind the recent outbreak of coining and the treasonous slogans that have impugned not only the Dudley family but also my own would not have been apprehended.’ Christopher inclined his head. ‘I have found that it is the decisions one makes that determine the course of one’s life, rather than one’s virtue or competence or, indeed, the vagaries of fortune. A wise man may make a bad decision and live to regret it while a foolish man may make a good one and thereby profit from it. Master Lovelace, may he rest in peace, made his decision and who is to say that he was wrong? Poor man, an unimaginable life, mercifully short. I thought his choice of song interesting and have wondered to whom he was really addressing it. One might only guess.’
The queen rose from her chair and stepped down from the platform. ‘The painting behind you’, she said, ‘is by the younger Holbein, a great favourite of my father. It depicts my grandfather and father, his queen Jane Seymour and Elizabeth of York. It is almost life-size. What do you think of it, doctor?’
‘It is very fine, Your Majesty, formidable and imposing. A worthy painting for a family such as yours.’
The queen clapped her hands together. ‘My lord Leicester said that you have a way with words, doctor. But then you are trained in the law, are you not?’
‘I am.’
‘Half my advisers are lawyers. If ever I am in need of an advocate, I shall be well served.’
The queen walked over to the smaller painting by the fireplace. ‘But it is this painting, also by Holbein, that I wished you to see. The two men in the painting are Jean de Dinteville, who commissioned it, and Georges de Selve, French visitors to my father’s court. It was a preliminary study for a larger painting which now hangs in de Dinteville’s ch
ateau at Polisy. Holbein gave it to my mother when she became queen in 1533 and it subsequently passed to me. Holbein called it The Ambassadors. Look hard, doctor, and tell me what you see.’
Christopher stood a yard or so in front of the painting and studied it as best he could with the queen hovering nearby. The taller man wore a fur-trimmed coat over a shirt of pink satin or silk, the other a sombre clerical robe. They stood either side of a low table underneath a draped shelf, on which stood a celestial globe, a sundial and various instruments whose purpose he did not know. On the table were another globe, this one terrestrial, a flute box, an open book and a lute. In the foreground was a strange object he could not identify. Both men looked straight at the artist.
‘Your Majesty, I see two men of wealth and influence – ambassadors, no doubt – surrounded by evidence of their learning and erudition. I see globes, books, scientific instruments and a lute. These are cultured men with a love of knowledge and science.’
‘Very good, doctor. And what do you make of the object in the foreground?’
‘I cannot make it out at all.’
‘Move to your left, doctor, and look again.’
Christopher took a pace to his left and looked again. The object became clear. It was a human skull.
‘Why did the artist show the skull as he has, do you think?’ she asked.
‘Could he be reminding us of our mortality?’
‘Perhaps, doctor, but I think he is reminding us of something else. That life, like people and objects, can be viewed from more than one perspective. And the lute, what do you make of that?’
Christopher looked closer. ‘The lute has a broken string.’
‘It does. I am told by wiser judges than I that the broken string represents the religious conflict of forty years ago when Holbein painted the picture. The split with Rome leading to the intolerance and disharmony that blights us now. But I wonder, also, if Holbein is telling us that nothing in life is certain or simple. A storm may blow down a house; a lute string may break. The painting is full of symbols and contrasts. A globe showing us God’s earth and another his heavens. One man is sumptuously attired; the other is in a simple robe. Like Holbein’s painting, our lives are full of contrast and paradox. And we must make decisions that are not always easy.’ She turned to face him. ‘Decisions of the head, doctor, not the heart.’
The queen returned to her chair. ‘If you are minded to return to Pembroke Hall, Dr Radcliff, you will do so with my blessing. I will grant you a royal pardon for the crime of which you were convicted and you will be able to teach again. I cannot rescind the prohibition against fellows marrying but the pardon I can grant.’
Was she pushing him towards Cambridge? ‘I am grateful, Your Majesty.’
‘Think carefully, though, before you make your decision. Where does your true loyalty lie? To your college or to your country? Where would you best serve your queen – by teaching young minds or by seeking out those who would do us harm, as you have so bravely in the past? Ask yourself these questions and you will arrive at the right decision.’ The queen’s smile lit up her face. ‘I am sure of it. May God bless you.’
He barely had time to bow again before the queen and her ladies had swept out of the chamber, leaving him to be escorted back to the Holbein Gate where Wetherby was waiting for him. ‘I do not want to know what advice the queen gave you, Christopher,’ he said, ‘I just want to offer a little of my own.’
‘As long as it is only a little. My head is rather full of advice.’
‘I think you should ask Leicester for protection from Gabriel.’
‘Or I could return to Cambridge. I doubt Gabriel would bother me there.’
‘Are you going to return?’
‘Her Majesty would be disappointed if I did but I need time to decide.’
‘Well, tell me when you do. Whatever you decide, you will of course have my blessing, although I should miss you greatly if you were to leave London.’
Christopher took Wetherby’s hand. ‘I will let you know.’
Wetherby nodded. ‘Good. You know where to find me.’
CHAPTER 39
Christopher rose early to play. He ran his right hand over the ivory of the body and the fingers of his left hand over the frets. He settled himself and began.
‘Greensleeves’ followed ‘My Lady Cary’s Dompe’. But if the broken string on Holbein’s lute signified discord, his playing signified confusion. He missed changes of stops, left out notes and played too far from the rose, making notes grate. With a grunt of dissatisfaction, he put the lute back in its case.
With Roland he had been less than courteous and regretted it. With the queen he supposed that he had been courteous enough but not perhaps at his brightest. He was trained in argument and disputation not respectful silence. But she had spoken frankly and kindly to him and for that he was grateful.
Joan let herself in and found him in the study, a big grin on her plain face. ‘Dr Radcliff,’ she almost shouted, ‘Alice Scrope is in the Clink. She was caught thieving in Eastcheap.’
‘No more than she deserves, Joan, but what about her child?’
‘In there with her, doctor.’
Christopher nodded. The child would save her from the gallows but what to do with the child of a convicted felon was a problem to which the courts had no good answer. Most likely it would be put in some place of safety until it was old enough to join the ranks of homeless urchins on the streets. The child of a criminal parent invariably became a criminal himself. He had sometimes thought of it like an inheritance – passed down from one generation to the next.
Joan took a sealed letter from her basket. ‘Mistress Allington asked me to give you this, doctor.’
‘Thank you, Joan. I’ll read it while you stir plenty of honey into my porridge.’
‘That I will, doctor.’ She took out a small bottle. ‘And I have mixed this salve for your hand. Rub it in every morning and evening.’
He took the bottle from her. ‘Thank you, Joan. I shall do as you say.’
He broke the seal and spread out the letter. It was not long.
My dear Christopher,
Isabel Tranter died peacefully yesterday and will be buried in the graveyard of St Michael’s church on Friday. Kindly respect my wishes and do not attend.
I shall return to Cambridge within the month.
May God bless you.
Katherine Allington
He crumpled it up and threw it into the grate. Damn the woman. Her blessing, the queen’s blessing, Roland’s advice. But only he could make the decision.
Joan poked her head around the door. ‘Your porridge is ready, doctor. I hope Mistress Allington is quite well.’
‘She is, Joan. Quite well. Have you mixed enough honey in?’
‘Plenty, doctor.’
‘Good. My humour needs sweetening.’
It was a contrary thought but entirely deliberate. To get to Cheapside he went past Newgate, where two cheerful beggars were roasting a pair of fat rats on a fire in the street, and down Dog’s Head Lane. He stopped once to look back but saw nothing. If Gabriel’s eyes were on him they were well hidden.
Ell’s alley was, as usual, running with muck. He stepped carefully around it and knocked on the stew door. ‘Early for you, Dr Rad,’ said Grace. ‘Ell got you excited, has she? Does that for a man, Ell. Go on up,’ she cackled, ‘she’ll be pleased to see you.’
Ell was sitting on her bed, examining her face in a hand mirror. As he came in, she put it away. ‘Lines and wrinkles, Dr Rad,’ she said. ‘A few more every month. Be on the streets soon at this rate.’
‘You, Ell? Never.’ A line or two perhaps but the blue eyes would always sparkle and the lips would always smile. Hers was a beauty that might fade but would never entirely leave her.
‘Never is a long time, doctor. What can I do for you?’
Christopher sat on the bed. ‘I was hoping I could do something for you, Ell.’
‘Good God, and w
hat might that be?’
‘You told me once that if you had the money you would buy a house in Southwark and let the world go to hell. Or something like that.’
‘I did, doctor, and meant it. All I need is the money. A sack full of naughty testons might do it. Have you got one?’ The throaty laugh made her shoulders shake.
Her eyes opened wide in surprise when he reached out to take her hand. ‘Now, Ell, I am serious and I do not want you to tell me to fuck off.’
‘Never, Dr Rad, not you.’
‘Good. Find a house you like and I will give you the money for it. Not naughty money, real, honest silver.’
Ell’s eyes opened wide and then narrowed in suspicion. ‘Why?’
‘Because I want to. Isn’t that enough?’
‘Has the queen given you a cart full of silver, doctor?’
‘Not the queen, but someone else. What about it?’
The brown eyes twinkled. ‘Will you be moving in with me?’
Christopher laughed. ‘No, Ell, I do not much care for Southwark. I might buy a house for myself though. A small house in Westminster village would suit me well.’
‘Lord, doctor, two houses. It must have been a big cart.’
‘Big enough.’
Ell picked up the mirror and took another look. ‘Can’t keep the wrinkles away forever. Be an old hag soon, grateful for a few pennies from a blind beggar in a dark doorway.’
‘Never, Ell, not you. Well?’
‘Are you really in earnest?’
‘Never more so.’
Ell leaned over and kissed his cheek. ‘Then be sure to visit, doctor. Southwark’s not so bad.’
AUTHOR’S NOTES
Ambrose Dudley, known to posterity as ‘the good Earl’, was the fourth surviving child of John Dudley, Earl of Warwick and Duke of Northumberland, and older than his brother Robert by two years. He married three times (Christopher could not recall whether it was two or three), but left no heirs.
He was made Earl of Warwick in 1561 at which time Warwick Castle was restored to him, having been confiscated by Queen Mary from his father who had been executed for supporting Lady Jane Grey, his daughter-in-law, in her claim to the throne. Robert’s Kenilworth Castle was nearby. Like Robert, Ambrose was imprisoned in the Tower and only narrowly escaped execution.