State of Treason

by Paul Walker

  ‘I am sorry, my love. My business is not finished. I must beg a favour. I am reluctant to ask, but the exposing of the conspiracy and its ending depends upon your willingness.’

  ‘What – me? What can I do?’

  I pick up the box, which lies on the table. ‘Tuesday next, I would have you place this box in Darby Wensum’s chamber of business. It must be done on that day, without his knowledge, or any other member of the household. Please do not open or tamper with it.’

  ‘Master Wensum, but he…’

  ‘I may not answer your queries, clarify misgivings or confirm suspicions. I simply ask that you trust me and oblige me in this task. Can it be done? Will you?’

  I place the box in her hands. She gazes at it then looks me in the eye. ‘I will; for you, William, and the Queen.’

  The stiffness in my body eases with relief at her compliance. There was no necessity to mention her part in the conspiracy as the ‘unknowing maid’. I wonder if an unravelling of the intrigue will bring her knowledge of the true nature of her birth. I must hope not, for it was a deeply unhappy circumstance and the knowing would cause distress. Yet, there is a contrary piece within me that wishes for honesty in something so fundamental.

  Thirty-Seven

  Sunday. We are in St Giles again and John is preaching. His subject is the relationship of man with scripture and the necessity for each of us to learn directly from its teachings and strive for salvation through obedience and good works. My mind wanders as he is overlong in his oratory. I reflect on the nature of religion in general, and in particular how the proscribed manner of observance changes in our country. There are many, John, included, who consider that the church governed by our Queen does not have sufficient distance from ‘popery’. They would remove all colourful icons, gold and silver trinkets from our churches and burn the gaudy vestments of priests. I am struck by the force with which diverse groups attack one another for worshipping the same God in the way they hold to be righteous. I am not a Godly man and mistrust those who proclaim to know the only true faith. Then, why do I tolerate John’s certainty? His way is not mine. It occurs to me that we have not had a meaningful or deep discussion on his religion since our first meeting. He finishes, at last.

  At West Cheap, I invite John into my library for wine and conversation. I compliment him on his sermon, which was received enthusiastically by most of the congregation. I am direct in my first question and ask if he ever doubts his religion.

  ‘Do you mean, do I doubt the very existence of God, or my understanding of His grace and the nature of our association with the Almighty?’

  ‘My enquiry concerns the connection and your way of worship.’

  He toys with his cup of wine and takes a few moments to consider before replying. ‘Truthfully, I have doubted both. Anyone who recoils at the wickedness in this world will wonder why a benign God does not intervene. Meditation on the glory of His creation will soon dispel this uncertainty. As to my belief in the true faith… well, I have told you that I was not always of a Puritan leaning. The light came through logic, reasoned argument, a better understanding of the scriptures and how Our Lord wishes to commune with each of his subjects.’

  ‘So, you are set now. Could further enlightenment change your view?’

  ‘I am sure, that if I live long enough there will be refinements to my thinking, but I am content that I follow the true path to salvation.’

  ‘You have never questioned my faith.’

  ‘You are a man of science, William. You study the stars. Your mind turns to logic rather than faith. I understand that every man has his place on this earth and not all can have certainty in their union with God. That is why men such as me are here; to bring the light. You are a good man, William, and I do not doubt that you convene with God in a way that does not cause offence.’

  ‘Then, I have a particular question about the conspirators. Do you consider it is their Catholic religion or their desire to overturn our state that is the greater wrong?’

  He sits back and folds his arms. ‘It is interesting that you pose this question at this particular time. God willing, the plotters will be arraigned and suffer a most dreadful end for their evil designs. If they were followers of the old religion and went about their business in peace, with no thought of harm to our ruler and state; why then, I would say they are merely foolish and are deserving of guidance for the salvation of their souls, but no physical harm.’ He pauses. ‘It is the way of the world that violent actions will be met with brutal and corrective force. So, it is their intention to launch a cruel assault on our humanity that must be punished by death.’ There is a quiet between us. He takes his cup and sips the wine. ‘Does that ease the troubled thoughts that directed your enquiry?’

  There is some comfort in his answer. Why? If my design for ending the conspiracy is successful then the guilty will be tortured and killed. Their dreadful end will be the same, whether the cause is belligerence or religion? Yet, there is some reassurance in John’s words.

  We converse together for some time in relaxed fashion. It is an unspoken pact between us that we leave the subjects of conspiracy and religion behind and talk of travels to other countries, the work of physicians, the art of bookbinding and mathematics. Our dinner is ready. John bids me join him in prayer for a safe and successful outcome to our plans for Christmas Eve. When we are done, we make our way to dinner and John enquires how I will pass the days until Wednesday next. I reply that I will go to Whitehall tomorrow for my last day as a court physician. I intend to resign my position there. As for Tuesday; my mind will be filled with anxious thoughts about Helen and her clandestine delivery of the box to Wensum’s chamber.

  *

  It is a slow plod through a light covering of snow to the Palace of Whitehall. Cassius is no lover of this weather and I share his sense of melancholy. I do not like the place and will be happy to be released from its grip. I go directly to Forester’s chamber and find him directing two servants on the arrangement of furnishings and bundling of items into leather satchels. He bids me good day with an air of impatience and harassment.

  ‘May I speak with you, Sir John?’

  ‘Can it be later? I am pressed with our move to Greenwich on the morrow.’

  ‘I will be brief, if I can beg your forbearance.’ He shakes his head fussily and dismisses the servants. ‘It concerns my tenure as physician here.’

  He sighs. ‘Doctor Lyle will return here in the New Year and there are others eager to seek the favour of a court appointment. Your attendance has been irregular and, while there have been no grievances, I have also received no commendations on your consultations. Therefore, I regret…’

  ‘You misunderstand. I wish to resign my temporary position here, not prolong it.’

  His eyes widen as his chin retreats into his ruff. ‘Well then, that is an agreeable end for both parties. You have your reasons, I am sure.’

  I do not elaborate. I thank him for his understanding and enquire if there are any patients who require my attention. He huffs and answers that the court is too busy with the impending transfer to Greenwich to concern themselves with trivial ailments this day. He tilts his head and says that if there is no more, he will ensure my bill is paid in the New Year and that he must attend to his urgent business. I make to depart and as an afterthought enquire after Doctor Huicke. He mutters something under his breath and then declares that he has not seen him recently, but assumes he is much the same.

  Huicke is propped up against bolsters on his bed and he is reading a book. This is certainly an improvement from my last visit. I bid him good day, go to his bedside and sit on a stool. Closer inspection shows that my hopes for an advancement in his condition were deceived. His complexion is grey, his eyes rheumy and there is an excessive dribble of bubbling saliva from the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asks with an air of indifference.

  ‘I am Doctor Constable, come to visit you again. I am pleased to see that yo
u are recovered sufficiently to read this book.’ I see it is a volume of Aristotle’s Organon.

  ‘There are words I cannot fathom. It is as though I have a bucket on my head. It is heavy and there are but two peepholes for viewing. They move without reason. It is maddening in the extreme.’

  He tries to describe how he sees the world through an addled mind. I do not know what to make of his strange discourse. His way of talking is steady, but the words mystify. I ask if he is provided with food, drink and other small comforts.

  ‘There is a man who brings foodstuffs and beer. I have asserted many times that I do not have the French Disease, but he insists on spooning me a curative as though I am a babe.’

  ‘Who is this man?’

  ‘He is familiar, although the bucket obscures his finer features and a name. He is small and pink.’

  It sounds like Forester, but why would he administer medicine to Huicke? The new term for the French Disease is Syphilis and it is rife among sailors and those that frequent the whorehouses by the quays. I have met with only a few cases and know of no adequate remedy, although many prescribe small doses of mercury. I judge it unlikely that Huicke will suffer from this ailment.

  I say, ‘Might the man be Sir John Forester?’

  ‘Exactly, if he is sufficiently pink.’

  ‘And does he administer quicksilver?’

  ‘Exactly. You have a shrewd mind. It has a foul taste on the tongue and I will not take any more.’

  I know little of the effects of mercury on the human body, but suspect that it will not benefit in the long run. To my mind, the mixing of a metallic with flesh and blood is a recipe more likely to harm than cure. I wonder if his befuddled mind, excessive salivation and sores around the mouth are a result from this ‘cure’. I will put a strong request to Forester that he ceases from this practice. He mutters something. I ask him to repeat his words.

  ‘There is danger.’

  ‘Danger – to who?’

  ‘To Her Majesty that is called Elizabeth. I must warn her. They try to stop me.’

  ‘What is the nature of this danger and who stops you?’

  ‘It is foreign and will arrive in ships. The pink man keeps me here; and the other one.’

  I try to press him for more, but he jerks his head and complains of the bucket. His eyes stare at me, he points an accusing finger, then shakes his head and subsides. He mumbles more, of which I can make no sense and becomes quiet. I stay at his side for an hour or more, but his lucid period has passed and he is either mute or nonsensical in his ramblings.

  I call at Forester’s chamber. It is empty and I leave a note instructing that the dispensing of quicksilver to Huicke should cease. I am disturbed by what I have heard. Could there be some coherence in Huicke’s assertion that he knows of some malign force that will seek to endanger our Queen? The mention of foreign ships suggests his knowledge coincides with our astrological conspiracy. How would he have come by this intelligence and who tries to confound his warning? The small, pink man may refer to Forester, but as likely some other of the many at court. Or, was it all merely the muddled babbling of a decayed mind?

  *

  Seven bells have tolled and I break my fast with Mother and John. My appetite is poor and I pick at a couple of eggs on buttered manchet, deciding I have no stomach for the fish. Mother is unusually reserved in her speech and casts furtive glances in my direction. I know what irks her. She has been fractious with me for some days and knows, from my demeanour perhaps, that there is an event of significance in the offing. She has learned of the conspiracy and wishes to share in any intelligence on the progress of our investigations.

  She says, ‘You have not enquired on our plans for Christmastide, William. Do you not wish to hear how your household will celebrate the coming of Our Lord?’

  ‘I am certain your arrangements are well made, Mother. It is not my usual practice to interfere with your preparations for Christmas.’

  John says, ‘The lady Amy informs me that we will attend the morning service at St Giles on Christmas Day. We will have dinner with guests and we will serve a supper for the servants.’

  It will not be an easy time to have John here, as he will no doubt disapprove of any merrymaking and mummery.

  ‘And what are your plans William? Will you be here, or does important business require your attention elsewhere?’

  ‘I will be with you for Christmas Day, Mother. I will meet with Captain Askham this next day and place the household in your capable hands for this Eve of Christmas.’

  John sees my discomfort. He clears his throat and talks gently to my mother. ‘My lady, we understand your anxieties and desire to be informed of any advancement in our enquiries into the conspiracy. We respect your discretion, but the matter in hand is of such delicacy that we may not share an account with any person, however virtuous.’

  I am grateful for John’s intervention and I hope that it has calmed Mother’s temper. My own senses are agitated. I am fretful and fidgety in the hallway, assisting Mistress Hilliard with sprays of holly and other greens, when Master Chap calls. This was not expected. I take him through to the parlour where we are alone.

  ‘What brings you here, Master Chap?’

  ‘I had an early visit this morning. It was a message from Sir George, delivered by Master Wensum.’

  ‘What was the nature of this message?’

  ‘I am instructed to halt work on the shadow staff until such time as Sir George permits its continuation.’

  This is a surprising and unwelcome development. ‘But why? Was any reason given?’

  ‘Master Wensum would only say that you were the cause. The circumstances were not explained, only that you had offended Sir George in a most shameful manner. He no longer wishes to be partnered in a project with you. This, Master Wensum took great delight in the telling. He is a man who does not encourage warm feelings.’

  ‘Indeed. Thank you Master Chap. I am sorry to be the source of this disruption to your work.’

  My initial impulse is to condemn the petty nature of this action. It will harm the great venture more than my pride. Is it a signal of my permanent exclusion from his regard and the hopelessness of my suit for Helen? I sense the influence of Wensum in this act.

  ‘I was requested to hand you this note.’ He reaches into his doublet and passes me a paper.

  The note is signed by Sir George. The text is in a different hand. It will be Wensum’s. It reads much as Chap has reported. Further, he requests my presence at his house, midday on the morrow to negotiate a financial consideration for his full ownership of the shadow staff. My consultation will be with his man of business and not Sir George himself. Christmas Eve. Midday. Is this an accidental correspondence with our rendezvous at the North Quay, or something more sinister? The box should not have been delivered by Helen until this day. Has Wensum already discovered it? Was Jane indiscreet in her gossip? Or Helen? I am perplexed and anxious. Walsingham would not take kindly to any alteration in our strategy, and it will be too late. Oxford’s box will be waiting his arrival at Greenwich if it is not already opened. Chap says something, which I miss. I ask him to repeat his words.

  ‘I said, shall I take your reply to Leadenhall?’

  ‘What – are you Wensum’s messenger? Did he ask you to bring my answer?’

  ‘It is an issue of vital interest to me, Doctor Constable. I offered to facilitate the communications, so there could be no misunderstanding.’

  ‘I see, then apologies to you for my brusqueness.’

  ‘It is no matter. It is clear that you are upset by this development.’

  How should I respond to the note? I cannot accept the time and date of meeting, but a denial of my attendance may be taken as an indication that more important matters have been arranged for that hour. To ignore the note and offer no rely would be taken as a discourtesy, and I must do no more to offend Morton.

  I say, ‘Please convey my thanks for the invitation to next day’s meet
ing. I only discuss matters of finance with my steward in attendance. Hicks journeys to Kent to convey Christmastide cheer to my tenant farmers there and will not return until Christmas Day. Please therefore, request a deferral and an alternative date for my visit.’

  This is the only way, although it intensifies my worries. I must sit tight and hope that Helen has succeeded in her task and that the message delivered by Wensum is an unfortunate coincidence.

  Thirty-Eight

  This is the day when all the tantalising threads are joined to my imagined design. Or, it may see my reputation trod in muck if I am wide of the mark. And what of Helen? Any triumph in a happy resolution to the conspiracy will be Walsingham’s. It will require recognition of an exceptional success to relight my star in Sir George’s assessment.

  Only Elspeth is up and lighting the fires in her kitchens when I rise. I surprise her, but she soon busies herself making coddled eggs for my breakfast. I tell her I will be on the road for much of this day and she packs cheese and bread into a leather pouch. I also take a flask of warming brandywine, as I reason we will have some time to lie in wait for our quarry. I saddle Cassius myself and make my way to the front of the house. The chill air nibbles at my fingers and toes. I pull my cloak tighter and wonder if a snowfall will hinder our plans. Cassius paws at the ground and snorts warm vapour into the cold morning. I hear a faint clatter of hooves on the stone pathways by St Paul’s, mount up and ride to meet, what I assume will be, Askham’s posse. He is at the head of a group of about twenty men. Will that number be enough?

  We exchange a brief greeting and he bows his head in approval at the sight of my sword. I would have a sense of nakedness without it in present company and, although I am not eager for blood, a part of me senses that my role in this scheme will not be complete unless it is unsheathed this day.

  We are unhurried in our progress through the dark streets, into Goodman Fyelds and through the villages of Shadwell and Limehouse. We are a half hour or more from our destination when Askham raises his hand and calls a halt. He dismounts and leads his horse into a large barn. His men follow and I am the last one into an area of bustling activity as attendants take the horses to stabling posts, remove saddles and offer buckets of water.