“Um, Nick?” Edmund said. “I may have, er … exaggerated the events on the London Road to His Lordship somewhat.”
Nick glanced up. Edmund was shifting from one foot to the other like a schoolboy expecting a whipping. As well he might. But for the fact that Edmund had saved his life, Nick would have been tempted to beat him senseless, so great was his exasperation at Edmund’s foolish boasting to Essex.
“Toad!” Bess the parrot shrieked from her stand in the corner of the tavern. She had fixed Edmund with a yellow eye and was bobbing her head up and down as if taking a bow. Edmund blinked.
“Don’t take it personally,” Nick said, buckling on his sword and slipping his dagger through his belt. “Bess hates everyone.” He opened the door.
Edmund looked at the way Nick was dressed. “You’re not going like that, are you?”
Nick looked down at his stained leather jerkin and baggy breeches. “What’s wrong with this?”
Edmund colored slightly. “It’s a bit … er …” He was plainly grasping at an inoffensive way of saying Nick looked like a Bankside cutthroat.
“Workaday?” Nick offered.
“Exactly,” Edmund said with relief.
“My party togs are at the laundry,” Nick said, snatching up his cloak and whistling for Hector.
* * *
Essex had sent his private barge, a painted, gilded monstrosity that could have accommodated a large orgy and probably had. His oarsmen sat in frigid misery while the boat rocked violently on the swell. A cold pelting rain was hammering the deck, but Nick and Edmund were at least dry, if not warm, under a gilded roof at the stern of the boat. A servant even brought mulled wine for them to sip while the barge pulled across the Thames, going upriver from Bankside to the northwestern corner where the river veered due south.
“How’s your shoulder?” Nick asked.
“On the mend,” Edmund replied. He rotated it. “Like new.” But Nick had seen the involuntary wince he gave at the movement and felt guilty. He had kept thanking Edmund all the way to Henley-on-Thames until Edmund had told him that enough was enough and asked that he kindly shut up. But Nick knew he had an obligation to the man and intended to repay him, even if it was only through friendship. Although this was proving harder than he had thought, considering the mess Edmund had landed him in.
Nick could see that any reference to Edmund’s wound embarrassed him, so he changed the subject. “To what do I owe the honor?” he said, nodding at the straining oarsmen. “A humble wherry would have been fine.” He knew, of course, that Essex was showing off, trying to impress him with how wealthy he was.
“His Lordship wanted to show the proper deference.”
At least Edmund had the grace to blush at how preposterous this sounded and how self-aggrandizing. He was obviously repeating Essex’s words. “And he feels remiss that he did not show a proper sympathy for your ordeal.”
Nick spent the rest of the boat ride contemplating how much could go tits up with Walsingham’s plan for him to snoop around Essex’s network looking for a killer. What if His Nibs was wrong and the murderer did not come from Essex but from the Spanish? Given del Toro’s mysterious disappearance, this seemed much more likely. Despite Nick’s deep mistrust of Essex’s notorious rashness, he did not believe the earl was capable of ordering the torture and murder of a fellow Englishman in cold blood.
In the meantime, Nick had been forced to switch masters from one he did not like but respected to one he neither liked nor respected. He could not help but feel that he was on a fool’s errand; or worse, that he was on a suicide mission.
* * *
Leicester House was situated on Milford Lane facing the Strand where the site of the Outer Temple had been, part of the headquarters of the Knights Templar in former times. Nearby stood the Inner and Middle Temples, where London’s Inns of Court were now housed. Essex didn’t have to go far if he wanted to sue someone, Nick reflected sourly as the barge drew up at the house’s private river steps next to Wood Wharf.
Originally built almost twenty years before for Robert Dudley, the Queen’s longtime favorite and first Earl of Leicester, the house was now occupied by his stepson and heir, the Earl of Essex. Nick thought it indecent that Essex should have already taken over the sumptuous house prior to Leicester’s death. In private, Essex was already calling the place Essex House, although he was barred from legally changing the name until after his stepfather was decently in the ground. Since he stood to inherit a vast fortune from Leicester, his stepfather’s funeral was no doubt already inked into his calendar.
After disembarking, Edmund led Nick through a tall iron gate, which gave onto a huge garden, if miles of weed-infested gravel paths in elaborate designs bordered by dripping privet hedges could be described as a garden. Personally, Nick preferred a bit more profusion and less military precision. Not to mention a bit more horticultural variety. The effect under a lowering sky was depressing, downright funereal. The only relief was afforded by the occasional ghostly glimpse of a marble breast or shapely buttock peeking coyly around the hedges, but even the statues looked as if they might appreciate a few clothes on this dank, miserable day.
Nick could see the house in the distance, and as they approached, the impression of vastness grew. It was said to have forty-two bedrooms, a picture gallery, acres of kitchens, a banqueting suite (to justify the kitchens, no doubt), and its own chapel. Not counting the stables and outhouses. By comparison, it made Binsey House, Nick’s own ancestral home near Oxford, look like a sheepshearer’s cottage. Yet Nick preferred his own more modest home with its hodgepodge of buildings tacked on by successive generations of Holts, causing the present-day dwelling to resemble a cluster of separate houses in different styles mysteriously fused together. Undisciplined it might be—an architectural folly it certainly was—but it gave an altogether friendlier aspect than the one he approached now, the new brick making the house look like a stage set, all exterior similitude with emptiness behind.
As they neared the house, a confused baying greeted them. Hector gave a warning growl as a pack of beagles raced toward them in full bell.
“Oh, dear,” Edmund said. “I was afraid of this.”
“Not to worry,” Nick replied.
Hector had stationed himself in front of his master, a low and continuous growl thrumming deep within his chest, lips peeled back. The lead beagle stopped ten feet away and the rest of the pack came to a halt behind him, yipping and snarling. Both sides regarded each other for some seconds; then, growing bored with the standoff and possibly irritated with the din the beagles were making, Hector gave a deep baying roar and the beagles scattered, howling, running pell-mell back toward the house with their tails between their legs.
“Well done!” a voice shouted. “Well done, indeed!”
Nick saw Essex striding to meet them. He was bareheaded and dressed in a simple shirt and doublet, seemingly oblivious to the wet and cold but somehow looking more attractive, certainly more human, than he had appeared in the Queen’s suite. At twenty-one, he was in peak physical condition and moved with easy grace. It wasn’t hard to see why women swooned over him.
“What a magnificent beast,” Essex said with unfeigned admiration. “May I?” he asked. Then, when Nick nodded, he held his hand out for Hector to sniff.
He likes dogs, Nick thought approvingly, and was surprised at his favorable reaction.
Essex patted Hector and then turned to Nick, his eyes gleaming with pleasure. “Thank you so much for coming,” he said, shaking his hand. “And such a miserable day, too. I hope the row across the river was not too wet.” And with other solicitous pleasantries, he led Nick indoors, Edmund following at a respectful distance.
If Nick thought Essex would show off the house, he was mistaken. Instead, he led them to a small room on the ground floor that, judging by an untidy stack of paper piled on a desk and a roaring fire in the grate, looked very like the steward’s accounting room. Which, Nick learned later, it was. And
judging from the quill propped in a flask of ink on the desk, Essex had been doing his own accounts.
“Welcome to my den,” he said.
Nick was puzzled. This was not the earl he had expected to meet. Instead it was as if he had met Essex’s more human twin brother, and it made him feel off balance, oddly unsure of himself.
“Sit, sit,” Essex said, waving to a chair in front of the fire.
On a small side table rested a tray with a silver ewer and goblets on it.
“Do you mind?” he said to Edmund, waving at the tray. He seated himself opposite Nick.
“Not at all, my Lord,” Edmund murmured. He filled the goblets and passed them round, serving himself last.
“I’m afraid I was a bit of an ass to you the other day,” he said. Gone was the annoying aristocratic drawl. “I apologize.”
Nick covered his confusion by raising his goblet in a toast. It had the advantage of concealing his mouth, which had fallen open, so great was his astonishment at such an about-face.
“The court does something to me,” Essex murmured, looking at the fire. “It’s like an elaborate play with all the parts scripted: the Dread Sovereign, the Wise and Loyal Counselor (that’s Burghley), the Hunchback (Cecil), the Obnoxious Fool. That’s me, by the way,” he added, smiling. “Don’t ask me why it happens. It’s very peculiar. And I always regret my behavior afterwards.” He looked rueful. “But by then it’s too late and I find I have made another enemy. Especially Walsingham.”
It was neatly done, and but for the fact that Edmund was still standing awkwardly behind Essex’s chair like a valet, Nick would have been impressed.
“I’m afraid I’m on the outs with him too,” Nick said. He paused to let Essex reply, but Essex just raised his eyebrows as if mildly interested but too polite to probe.
“He seems to think I am indirectly responsible for the death of one of his agents.”
“But you and Edmund were also attacked,” exclaimed Essex.
Nick glanced at Edmund and saw that he had the grace to look sheepish. Nick decided to let it drop. He could hardly blame Edmund for wanting to raise himself in his master’s esteem, to make himself seem more important than he obviously was. It made Nick sad to see that, even in adulthood, Edmund had learned nothing from his days at Oxford.
Essex sipped his wine reflectively, then put the goblet down on a table as if he had reached a decision. He leaned toward Nick.
“The Queen wants you to come and work for me,” he said. “I want you to work with me.”
While he waited for Nick’s reply, Essex casually held up his empty goblet. After Edmund had filled it, he held up the ewer, offering Nick a refill.
“No, thank you, Edmund,” Nick said.
“Walsingham was furious when the Queen told him you were coming to work for me,” Essex said, clearly relishing the chief spymaster’s discomfort and feeling that he had put one over on him.
Nick doubted that. It appeared that the canny old spymaster had gotten exactly what he wanted. A spy—namely, Nick—embedded in Essex’s network.
“But what could the old misery do?” Essex gloated. “Young men should stick together, don’t you think, Nick? Edmund here has vouched for you, isn’t that so, Edmund?”
Essex was animated, even boyish. His hair had dried in the warmth of the room and now curled to his shoulders, spots of color showing on his cheeks. He seemed genuinely excited. Nick was sure he was unaware of how patronizing he sounded.
Edmund nodded. “Yes, my Lord,” he said. “Nick and I were friends at Oxford.”
Nick thought that was overstating it a bit, but he said nothing. Instead he looked at the fire as if he were mulling over the offer.
“Surely you want to get to the bottom of who tried to kill you and Edmund?” Essex pressed. “And killed this other agent too, of course.”
“I can do that on my own time,” Nick said, glancing at him.
“I’m sure you can,” Essex said. “You certainly caught the monster who murdered those poor girls at court last autumn. No doubt that is why Her Majesty trusts you. But don’t you see, Nick,” he said, his eyes flashing. “That’s exactly what’s perfect about you coming to work for me. I only have the Queen’s best interests at heart. I don’t serve her for preferment or titles.” He laughed and waved his hand to indicate the house. “I already have those.” His mouth twisted. “Unlike others we know.”
This was a not-so-veiled reference to Walsingham. It was common knowledge at court that Essex and Walsingham were engaged in a nasty feud after the Queen had—rashly, in Nick’s opinion—awarded Essex’s stepfather, the Earl of Leicester, the tax on all sweet wine imported into England. A staggering sum. With Leicester in the Netherlands, Essex had taken it upon himself to openly gloat about this lavish gift, one that Walsingham had thought had been his for the asking, making public remarks about Walsingham’s relatively low birth compared to that of his stepfather. This had earned him Walsingham’s undying hatred. Since then, Walsingham had been lobbying hard for an equivalent sign of the Queen’s favor. So far, Elizabeth had rebuffed the entreaties of her “Moor,” as she called Walsingham, a reference to the black he always wore. Playing on this nickname, Essex had taken to calling Walsingham “More,” a nasty jibe at Walsingham’s perennial need for gold. Considering that the spymaster freely spent his own fortune in the service of the Crown, Nick thought it quite reasonable for him to be compensated by the Queen.
Essex’s boast about his own wealth was true but complicated. Like most nobles, he was rumored to be deeply in debt due to his penchant for gambling and high living and was mortgaged to the hilt. It was said that his recent excesses in the Netherlands had depleted his coffers disastrously. However, his credit in London was nigh limitless thanks to the vast inheritance he would receive after Leicester’s death. And the Queen’s favor opened even more coffers to Essex, as it was a reliable conduit to titles, land, royal gifts, and military plunder.
Even so, Nick knew Essex was not averse to having his hand out for even more largess when it came to his monarch. He too had his eye on the sweet-wine tax once Leicester died, and it was rumored that he sometimes even borrowed money from her to pay her back when he lost at cards to her. That Essex should pay the Queen her due in her own coin was typical, Nick thought. Somehow he always managed to avoid taking responsibility for his own losses by getting others to pay.
That the Queen, usually as sharp as a steel bodkin, should allow herself to be so gulled was a mystery to the entire court. Personally, Nick thought it had less to do with the flirtations of her younger days and more to do with her childlessness. The fact that Essex’s mother had married Leicester so soon after his father’s death made their relationship more than a bit dodgy, if you asked Nick. Essex was a bit of an Alexander the Great who was supposed to have had a relationship with his mother that was very peculiar indeed. Perhaps Essex’s unstable and confusing family life had produced an unstable and confused man. Perhaps Essex was deluded enough to think Elizabeth might make him her heir to the throne.
Nick returned his attention to what Essex had just said and was relieved that Essex’s spurt of malice aimed at Walsingham was a return to the man Nick recognized, a man much given to glee over his enemies’ misfortunes. What dismayed Nick was when the new Essex—the frank, relaxed, cordial Essex—returned. Nick much preferred the old one; at least he knew where he stood with that one.
“Come, man. What do you say?”
Walsingham had stressed that Nick should play hard to get, but in view of the Queen’s order, he could see no sense in this. For all his cunning, Walsingham was not a very good judge of character; Essex was too impatient to wait for Nick to take his time considering his offer. He wanted an answer and he wanted it now.
“I’m honored,” Nick said.
Essex jumped to his feet and, grasping Nick’s hand, pumped it up and down. He looked like a boy who had received his first sword.
“Splendid!” he exclaimed. “Absolu
tely splendid.”
Edmund also shook Nick’s hand, but solemnly, as if this moment were too auspicious for levity. But Nick detected a hint of triumph in his face, as if he were taking the credit for Nick’s recruitment, which, in a way, he deserved.
“Come,” Essex said, virtually pulling Nick to his feet. “Let’s go meet the lads. And the lass,” he added with a wink.
CHAPTER 7
Leicester House
The lass in question was a tall redhead perched on a table, nonchalantly swinging her daintily shod feet. The room they had entered, Nick surmised, was the banqueting suite that had been converted into the nerve center of Essex’s spy network. The long dining table was strewn with papers, the dining chairs occupied by busily scribbling clerks. Several men stood around the room in low conversation, which instantly stopped as the three men entered. Essex made a beeline for the lady and gave a low courtly bow.
“Lady O’Neill, may I introduce the Honorable Nicholas Holt.”
“Call me Nick,” said Nick.
“I’m Annie,” the woman said, jumping down from the table and, instead of curtsying, giving Nick a firm, manly handshake. He looked into the wide-set green eyes and realized here was a woman as slender and honed as a rapier and just as dangerous. And her name proclaimed her a member of the powerful Ulster O’Neill clan, the head of which was Hugh O’Neill, Elizabeth’s favorite Irish vassal. The Queen had backed him in his bid to take over the territory of the rival Lord of Tyrone clan, an offshoot of the O’Neill family, long an enemy of English rule. This bloody internecine war was still raging, drawing the interest of Spain, which—correctly, as it happened—thought they could use it to distract the English from a possible Spanish invasion. So far Walsingham had not sent Nick to Ireland, but he thought it would only be a matter of time, especially if he became chums with an O’Neill.
The Course of All Treasons Page 7