State of Treason

by Paul Walker

  My thoughts run too quickly to form any logical deductions from what is being said. What advice can I possibly offer on high affairs of state to such a man as Walsingham? I can think of no phrases to fill this heavy and confusing period of silence, so I sit and wait to hear more.

  ‘An object has come into my possession,’ he says finally. ‘An unusual and perplexing object, both in itself and in the nature of its presentation.’ I incline my head and he fixes me with an expression of directness before continuing. ‘Our affairs in France have reached a heightened state of activity. Recently, a courier was intercepted; a man named Brouillard who we know to have strong connections to Rome. The prosecution was bloody and Brouillard suffered a mortal wound before his intentions were uncovered. The nature of his death and our part in it were disguised by setting a fire to his lodgings and the quieting of a witness.’

  He pauses to let the weight and nature of this news take its hold. The acts of murder, arson and a ‘quieting’ are spoken without any hint of regret, while an air of satisfaction underlies this deception as common misfortune.

  ‘Brouillard was carrying an object,’ says Walsingham. ‘This was safeguarded and transported here for our appraisal.’

  ‘May I know the nature of this article?’ I enquire.

  ‘You will know soon enough, but not tonight.’ He stifles a yawn and presses his body against the back of his chair. ‘I would have you accompany me to my house at Barn Elms tomorrow and there you will learn more.’ He stands and I am obliged to follow his example. ‘There is a truckle bed in the adjoining room which has been prepared for you with other small comforts. Rest now and we will talk again tomorrow.’

  I beg his indulgence and request that he sends word to my house in West Cheap that I am detained, and that my time here is no cause for alarm. There is a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth as he readily agrees to arrange this in the morning. Encouraged, I mention that I am attending my sick mother and should not wish to be absent from her bedside for more than a day or two. His expression shows a fleeting and genuine concern before he offers a gruff assurance that he does not expect a protracted delay at Barn Elms.

  As he turns, two men scurry from their hidden places and usher me towards the door from which I entered. The anteroom has been transformed. A truckle is made and ready with a spray of dried lavender on the pillow. A plate of bread and mutton and a jug of ale are placed on a small table. I have seen terrible sights and heard a strange story this night. I am intrigued that Walsingham should seek my advice, but my overwhelming sense is one of relief that my waking hours will end with no harm and an unexpected show of hospitality.

  Two

  We arrive at Barn Elms mid-morning under the escort of Captain Askham and twenty horse soldiers. The house is in an expanse of open fields about a mile distant from the south bank of the river. It is in the process of renovation and improvement with extensive wooden scaffolding in evidence on both wings. There is an encampment of soldiers about eighty paces from the house and, together with the various workmen, the scene is one of industry and purpose – not at all what one would expect of a quiet country retreat.

  We leave our horses at the stables, Walsingham takes me by the arm and leads me around the back of the house and points to a stone building about thirty feet in height, which has the appearance of a fortified keep. Walsingham explains that it is the old house from the time of the second King Richard, which he has recently restored. I wonder what purpose he has in mind for such a building. Its small windows and crenelated battlements do not lend a homely aspect and it looks more suited to serving as a prison than a place of rest and consultation. Four men are patrolling the perimeter of the building, not uniformed as the soldiers, but well-armed and with an appearance to deter all but the most determined trespassers. One of them, heavily-bearded and with a livid scar slashed down the left side of his face, bows to Walsingham and pounds his fist on a wooden door reinforced with iron straps. The door opens and I follow Sir Francis into the dark interior.

  We are ushered into a small room on the ground floor, which has slits in thick walls, throwing narrow shafts of sunlight on to a table and two chairs. A man lights two candles on the table and closes the door as he leaves. Walsingham gestures to one of the chairs and we take our seats.

  ‘I would talk more with you William,’ he hesitates and clasps his hands together, ‘to prepare you for your task ahead.’

  The mystery grows and I confess that I have a sense of nervous anticipation waiting to confront this peculiar entity. I incline my head, inviting him to continue.

  He says, ‘You know of Doctor John Foxe?’

  ‘I know of him through his Book of Martyrs, but I have not met with him.’

  ‘He will be your confederate in the study of the object.’

  ‘I see.’ I had not expected this. The prospect of working with another does not appeal to me. ‘Doctor Foxe has the reputation of having fixed positions and beliefs. I have not read the fullness of his works, but I understand that he may be described as a Puritan; one with extreme intolerance for opposing views?’ I speak too quickly, forgetting that Walsingham is reputed to have Puritan leanings himself, but he does not appear to take offence at my comment.

  ‘You will find him less forbidding than his reputation suggests. His religion is impeccable and his written pronouncements against popery reflect an idealised vision, whereas the man in person you will find pragmatic and kindly.’

  His words do little to settle my unease about future confinement with a man who I do not know, but whose reported character I dislike. ‘Are there others, in addition to Doctor Foxe and myself, who will labour on this mission?’ My words have an air of petulance and Walsingham looks at me sharply.

  ‘Indeed, I expect that two renowned intellects should be sufficient on this matter. Together you will offer a balance of positions on structured thought and free thinking. My hope is that you will arrive at a learned consensus on the nature of this object and its purpose. I suspect that your deliberations will not be without some turbulence and disagreements, but you will come to a collective understanding with my guidance on practical aspects that you will consider.’

  My curiosity grows to know what it is that requires such delicate and secretive handling. ‘Is my partner in this investigation already at work and will I meet with him soon?’

  ‘Doctor Foxe is in a room above us and you will meet with him in short time, but first a word about the object.’ He breathes deeply as if mustering his thoughts. ‘You must never divulge to anyone, even to your closest family and associates, the article in particular, or generality, that you are asked to examine in this place. Your task will be to consider all aspects from obscure symbols and script to origin and manufacture. After your tests are complete you will engage in a period of learned discourse with Doctor Foxe and thereafter present your combined opinions and advice to me.’

  He hesitates as though considering whether to say more, then rises from his seat and gestures towards the exit. An unseen hand opens the door and Walsingham strides out. I follow him up stone stairs to a heavy oak door at the top, which is guarded by two more of his men. The entrance opens on to a large chamber. It is cold and damp, but better lit than the one we have left and is dominated by a generous rectangular table in the centre covered in green carpeting. At one end of the table, a figure in a plain dark gown and black scholar’s hat is hunched over curled papers with a quill in his hand.

  ‘Good morning to you, Doctor Foxe,’ announces Walsingham, ‘I have Doctor Constable here to assist with your contemplations.’

  Foxe lifts his head from the table and regards us with interest. He is a small, elderly man with striking blue eyes and long, grey beard. ‘Ah, Mister Secretary, is it still before noon?’ His voice is thin and hoarse, suggesting some congestion of the lungs.

  I move towards him, bow slightly and extend my hand. ‘Good day to you, Doctor. I am William Constable and I understand we will work together these
next days.’

  Foxe rises from his seat and takes my hand. Hunched shoulders and a stoop add to an impression of frailty.

  ‘It is a pleasure to greet you, William Constable. I have heard tales of your scholarship and quick mind, although our interests are diverse.’

  I thank him for his compliment and wait for Walsingham to progress our conversation. I notice that both Walsingham and Foxe are gazing at a linen blanket in the centre of the table. It is dyed in a pattern of deep red and indigo and there is regular shape forming a hump underneath. ‘Is the object under that cloth?’ I ask.

  Walsingham doesn’t answer directly, dons a pair of white gloves from the table and carefully folds away the cloth to reveal what lies beneath. I experience a sense of mild disappointment. It’s a small chest or large box about three hands square with a depth of no more than one. The colour is very dark; almost black with the top and sides covered in intricate Moorish patterns. I am no expert, but I would hazard that it is made from ebony. It is well-crafted and I can see that markings or symbols have been worked into the design around the side which have the appearance of an ancient script, possibly Aramaic. I peer at the box without touching.

  ‘Do you have an opinion?’ ventures Foxe.

  His words startle me and I raise my head to see that both men have their eyes fixed on mine.

  ‘No… at least none beyond obvious observation that it is unremarkable from a distance, but a charming article on closer inspection.’ I notice that there is a small, circular hole on one side. ‘Is there a locking mechanism that can be opened?’

  Walsingham produces a small key, inserts it in the hole and turns it slowly. There is a click and he lifts the cover. The interior is lined with red velvet and a square of folded paper fits neatly within its dimensions. He lifts the paper between thumbs and forefingers, unfolds it with some delicacy, smooths it flat with his gloves, then stands back and invites us to inspect. It is an astrological chart. Now the reason for my presence comes clearer.

  ‘Doctor Foxe, do you have any preliminary view on what you see before you?’

  ‘It is far too early to have any reasoning. I am no expert on the stars, so I will have little to say about the paper inside the box. The symbols around the side are a form of Aramaic and I may be able to enlighten in that respect after some study.’

  ‘Good,’ says Walsingham with emphasis, ‘We do not want instant judgements in this matter. Careful examination, scholarship and an exchange of reasoned arguments are the obligations I place upon you both. I trust that you will not fail me in this regard.’ He looks in turn at Foxe and then me. ‘I will leave you now to begin your work. You may call one of my men at the door when you require any comfort or supply. Your beds and dining are in the main house, but understand this; while you may come and go, the box and contents must remain in this room.’ He removes his gloves, places them with a flourish on the table, nods his head in acknowledgement and departs.

  ‘A dangerous man who should not be crossed,’ observes Foxe when the door closes.

  ‘To this point I have found him less severe than common intelligence would suppose.’ Although this is true, I have a sense that life would not be comfortable for me if my words and actions in this assignment do not accord with Walsingham’s wishes. Foxe smiles and bows his head in acknowledgement of my observation in a way that suggests he has already seen a less amicable side to Mister Secretary. Foxe himself is a challenge to my preconception. He is friendly and welcoming, seeming more likely to chuckle at a coarse jest than to argue the meaning of a passage from the gospels. I must take care not to assume that this face shows the real John Foxe.

  ‘How long have you studied the object?’ I ask.

  ‘Your first view was mine also. I met with Sir Francis two days before and was escorted here yesterday evening. I was taken to this chamber earlier and instructed not to lift the cloth until he arrived. I was passing the time by improving some of my writings.’

  ‘In that case, let us examine it together in some detail.’

  He inclines his head to indicate his assent, but appears curiously detached as though he may have more pressing and interesting tasks than the one before us. I am struck by our odd situation. Why have we been chosen? Surely, he has men within his coterie that would be competent to undertake this examination.

  ‘Do you not find our recruitment to this current task and location odd, Doctor Foxe?’

  ‘I can understand your concerns, but you must call me John, or our conversations will become overlong.’

  ‘Very well, John. I am puzzled that you appear to have only a mild interest in our task.’

  ‘Forgive me, I am intent on our examination, but there will be time enough and a weakness in my breathing leaves me less alert than I would wish.’ He coughs and places his right hand on his chest. I briefly consider whether I should offer to rub his back to help release his congestion, but that would be too familiar. I notice that he is eying a bowl of fruit on the table. ‘I have heard it said… that an orange fruit is good… for the relief of chest pain,’ he utters with some difficulty in his breathing.

  ‘I believe several fruits help general wellbeing, but I have heard nothing specific about an orange.’ I lean over and pull the bowl nearer. ‘Would you like to eat this orange, John?’

  He hesitates and focusses closely on the orange, but does not touch it. ‘I have never before tasted an orange. I have seen them at my Duke of Norfolk’s table, but have not eaten one. I eat simply, following the example of our Lord, but I am tempted by this orange.’

  ‘Would you like me to prepare it for you? It may have a positive effect on the congestion in your chest.’

  ‘That would be kind, William.’ He sits in a chair and hunches forward to stop another painful cough. ‘How is it taken?’ he asks.

  ‘I understand that the fashionable way is to dip portions into hot, liquid sugar and then let it cool so that it presents with a sweet crust. For my own part, I have found them to be succulent and tasty in their natural state.’

  I take a small knife to tear the skin of the orange and finish the peeling with my hand. I lay my hat on the table, spread my kerchief on top of that and place the segments of the orange on this arrangement. He looks unsure what he should do, so I pass him a segment and take one myself to show how it is eaten. Its taste is delicious; both sweet and sharp. He puts the juicy flesh to his mouth and with a small hesitation bites the orange. He beams with delight at the result and I feel myself smile at his innocent enjoyment.

  ‘It is a wonder to me why our deliberations and the chest are matters of such secrecy,’ I say as I lick the juice from my fingers.

  He takes another segment and bites it in half. ‘We live in an age of mistrust, William. Who is my friend? Why should I believe what I see before my eyes? In a world that changes so quickly there are many questions to ask and secrets to guard. Mister Secretary appears to me as one who values certainty and will tread carefully in his quest for this elusive quality.’

  I know John Foxe for an educated man, but the philosophical nature of his discourse surprises me. ‘Forgive my ignorance, John, but by repute you are an unchangeable Puritan with fixed and damning views on those who do not follow your lead. Here, in person, I find you are much gentler and more thoughtful than I would gather from the common assessment.’

  He looks questioningly at another slice of orange before slipping it whole inside his mouth with a smile. He finishes this treat in silence with an expression that suggests he is giving some thought to his reply. ‘I am of the Puritan persuasion, but was not born so. I became convinced of the righteous way to God through study, reasoned argument and divine inspiration. I desire that others follow this path, but I will not injure or take the life of those who choose a different route so long as they do not endanger our faith, Her Majesty or our state. To my mind, there is nothing so fulfilling as a forceful and logical argument on matters of divinity between opposing views. Through these arguments, we will find a
way to contentment and a true knowledge of Christ. Besides… I am not too old to learn new truths. This orange fruit is a reminder of the value of new experiences.’

  We exchange smiles and I find I have a fondness for this old man, as well as respect for his intellect. It is time for us to examine the box more closely. I take it in both hands and lift it slowly. It is heavier than it looks.

  ‘Shall we begin by considering this script on the sides,’ I suggest.

  I look at Foxe for confirmation, but he puts his hand up as if to beg my indulgence. He coughs loudly and struggles to bring up phlegm with a rasping and wheezing that is painful to my ears. He deposits twice in a spittoon and waves his hand by way of an apology. He breathes deeply and composes himself before replying. ‘I am sorry for my disruption. The colder weather brings an infirmity in breathing upon me. I will repair to the house for a little refreshment and a seat in the library. Mister Secretary has a fine collection of books and I will study there for a time before returning.’

  He shuffles to the door and talks briefly to the guards, before one takes him by the arm and accompanies him down the stairs. His fit of expectoration appears to have aged him and he exits as a less sprightly figure than the one I found on entry. I am alone. The box and chart sit unmoved on the table tempting me to uncover their secrets. I am no expert on Aramaic, but I know a little and will endeavour to uncover their significance before I examine the chart.

  Three

  I have stood in one place staring at the object for too long and I am jolted from my lethargy by a large spider crawling across the table. The carvings on the chest are accomplished, but above all it is the locking mechanism that fascinates with its small and intricate scale. The symbols on the side are familiar and many resemble the Aramaic I tackled briefly as a diversion some years earlier. I know that there are variations in this ancient language and, although I have deciphered a sequence of symbols as Malikh or Malikah, which I understand to signify a ruler, lord or king, I can make nothing of the symbols on the other three sides. I must hope that John has a deeper knowledge of Aramaic. It’s time for me to visit the main house and examine Walsingham’s library. I should also enquire into John’s health and perhaps offer my services in the preparation of a curative.