The Course of All Treasons

by Suzanne M. Wolfe

  Nick retreated to where Codpiece was standing by the window. It was like watching a reenactment of Chaucer’s “The Wife of Bath,” a cautionary tale of the miseries and hilarities that ensued when an older woman married a much younger man. At the very least, the Queen was not going to come out of the encounter with her dignity intact, and neither Nick nor Codpiece wanted to witness this.

  As if of one accord, they backed discreetly out of the room. The fact that Elizabeth had not given them permission to leave was of little account. The prospect of witnessing the Queen’s humiliation at the hands of one of her inferiors, however favored, was a far more serious offense and one that Elizabeth would never forgive.

  Once out in the corridor, both Nick and Codpiece drew a ragged breath. Even the guards refused to make eye contact but stood stoically at their stations as if they were carved out of oak while the sounds of Essex’s tantrum and the Queen’s placatory response came clearly through the door.

  Codpiece led Nick to his private rooms father down the corridor. Once inside, he poured them both large goblets of wine, and they sat facing one another in front of the fire.

  “What’s going on, Nick?” Codpiece eventually said.

  “I have to have your word you will not repeat this to the Queen,” Nick said. When Codpiece opened his mouth to protest—the Fool was loyal to a fault to his Queen—Nick held up his hand. “There is nothing treasonous. Just politically … delicate.”

  “Oh, shit,” the Fool said. “I smell a Spaniard.”

  “Do I have your word, Richard?” Nick repeated.

  Richard nodded glumly.

  Nick told him about his suspicions that del Toro was a Spanish assassin sent to destabilize the Queen’s spy networks. He said nothing about his suspicion that Walsingham was running a plot somehow involving Mary, Queen of Scots.

  “Why did Walsingham conceal this information?” Codpiece asked.

  “So as not to worry the Queen,” Nick replied, feeling guilty that he was lying by omission to his friend, something he had been doing a lot of recently, he realized sadly, thinking of Rivkah. “Things are politically delicate in the Netherlands, and Walsingham doesn’t want to spark reprisals by Leicester against the Spanish before he can bring all his forces to bear to defeat them.”

  It sounded a lame excuse to Nick’s ears, but Codpiece nodded.

  “Makes sense,” he said. “The Spanish are trying to provoke a response that will give them a reason to invade.”

  Nick wasn’t a bit surprised at the Fool’s political grasp of world events. Codpiece was the Queen’s spy on her own court. Nothing that went on between the palace walls was unknown to him. Although Walsingham did not know Codpiece was Elizabeth’s personal spy, the fact that he kept his center of operations at his house in Seething Lane meant that this part of the spy network was a mystery to the Fool. Nick was hoping to thread the needle of truth between what Codpiece knew and did not know. He prayed that his friend would forgive him when it all came out into the open, as it was bound to do eventually.

  “I am trying to track del Toro down,” Nick said.

  Nick also told Codpiece of his suspicions concerning Henry Gavell and Richard Stace. “I can’t rule them out,” he concluded.

  “You think Essex is eliminating the competition?” Codpiece asked.

  Nick thought back to the recklessness with which Essex had accused the Queen of being a liar barely an hour ago. “He acts before he thinks,” Nick replied. “That makes him dangerous.”

  Codpiece nodded. “There have been times when I actually thought he would draw his sword in the Queen’s presence, so great was his choler.”

  They both contemplated the enormity of that. It was automatic treason for a subject to pull a weapon in anger in his monarch’s presence.

  “One day his temper is going to be his undoing,” Codpiece added. “I just wish …” He trailed off.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  Nick knew Codpiece had been on the verge of saying that he wished the Queen were not so weak when it came to dashing young courtiers of Essex’s ilk, that her vanity was not such that she required the illusion that she was a young, beautiful, and above all, eligible woman. But Codpiece was too loyal.

  Nick looked at his downcast face with affection. “You’re a good man, Richard,” he said.

  “Well, for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone.”

  Nick refilled their goblets. “Tell me what you know about Annie O’Neill.”

  Codpiece stretched out his stubby legs. “Ah, the beauteous Annie,” he said. “That tale is a bloody one, I fear. A veritable Greek tragedy.”

  “I’m listening,” Nick said.

  “Annie O’Neill is the great-granddaughter of Conn Bacach O’Neill, granddaughter of Matthew O’Neill, the illegitimate son of Conn. Conn O’Neill was granted the earldom of Tyrone in 1542 by Henry VIII in return for submission to the Crown of England. This provoked a civil war within the extensive branches of the family that is still raging today because of Matthew’s illegitimacy. Annie’s ancestral home was burned to the ground, many of her family killed, but Annie and her father, Hugh Rua O’Neill, escaped. She fled to England to try to persuade the Queen to restore to her father the ancient title of The O’Neill—sovereign of the dominant O’Neill family of Tir Eoghain—essentially, High King of Ireland—against the claim of his cousin, Turlough Luineach O’Neill, who assumed the High Kingship through force.”

  Nick blew out his breath. “And I thought English politics were complicated.”

  “You have no idea. Whatever you do, don’t accept an assignment in Ireland. The Irish will never give up their right to rule alone. The fighting will go on until doomsday unless England leaves well alone.”

  “Then why is Annie siding with the English?” Nick asked.

  “It is the only way for her branch of the family to come back to power. Once they do, they will turn on their English overlords. It is the way it has always been. That is why the Queen keeps stringing her along.”

  “What’s the connection with Essex?”

  “Annie hopes he will be sent to Ireland with a military force to put her father on the throne of Ireland. It is not an unreasonable hope. The Queen has a habit of sending favorites to Ireland. Especially ones she is beginning to find tiresome.”

  They both thought back to the ugly scene they had witnessed in the royal apartments.

  “What’s your take on Annie?” Nick asked. “Personally, I mean.”

  “She is utterly ruthless.” Codpiece smiled. “I like her.”

  “Do you think she is capable of acting as a double agent for the Spanish and killing off agents?”

  “If the Spanish had promised to restore her father to the High Kingship of Ireland instead of making him a mere Earl of Tyrone as the Queen has promised, then anything is possible,” Codpiece said. “Annie is getting tired of waiting for the Queen to act on her promises. And remember,” he added. “Annie is a Catholic.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Bankside

  His head still spinning from what Codpiece had told him of the Irish situation and the internecine warfare between the clans, Nick summoned a wherry at Whitehall Stairs and instructed the boatman to row him to St. Mary’s Queen Dock on the southern side of the river hard by the infirmary of St. Mary Ovarie, where Thomas had been taken.

  On the long row downstream, Nick wondered how far Annie would go to restore her family fortunes. If he was honest, he could not fault her for joining cause with Protestant England, the enemy of her faith. After all, that was what Nick had done when he agreed to spy for Walsingham, knowing full well that his Protestant spymasters considered England’s greatest enemy to be not merely Spain but the Catholic faith itself. In many ways, he was betraying his family while at the same time trying to save it. Caught up in never-ending conflict, Ireland was not the only Greek tragedy; England was a veritable land of woes. In many ways, English Catholics under a Protestant Queen were in much the sam
e position as the Irish under English rule, and there were many who would be happy to see Elizabeth assassinated and her Catholic cousin, Mary, put on the throne.

  But to actively participate in plots of regicide was a line that Nick would not cross, however much he longed for his family to be able to practice the faith of their ancestors openly and without fear. He would never join cause with the enemy of his country, even for the sake of his faith. If Annie was working for the Spanish as a double agent and had tortured and murdered Simon Winchelsea and attempted to kill Thomas and him, then Nick would hunt her down without mercy.

  Wearily, Nick paid off the boatman and climbed the stairs of St. Mary’s Queen Dock in the descending dusk. Above his head the massive span of London Bridge was still rumbling with life, its wooden road groaning with the weight of the houses built along its length and the heavy passage of carts and foot traffic. It was almost like a separate town from London itself, one that floated in air. Nick knew people who lived on the bridge who seldom went into London or Bankside but lived practically their whole lives suspended over the river. Fleetingly, Nick wondered if there would ever be a time when he could inhabit a spiritual London Bridge between loyalty to his family’s faith on the one hand and loyalty to his Queen on the other.

  Not in this life, he thought.

  Nick knew his thoughts had turned morbid and tried to shrug them off as he entered the church of St. Mary Ovarie and descended into the crypt where Eli and Rivkah had been given space for their infirmary. In truth, he was dreading finding that his friend Thomas had died. He walked quietly between the pallets laid against the wall on either side of the stone chamber. Some of the beds were empty, neatly made up with pillows and wool coverlets that Kat’s whores had made; some of the beds were occupied, their occupants coughing with the influenza or merely sleeping fitfully, chests audibly wheezing as if they breathed in water. A baby was whimpering in its mother’s arms, a low mewling like a kitten’s as if the child was too weak even to cry. The smell in the crypt was a mixture of chest liniment, unemptied chamber pots, and the dank smell of river slime absorbed by the foundations over centuries.

  He passed a bed containing an ancient woman with long white hair straggling over her shoulders. One side of her face drooped like melted candlewax. Her eyes were open, but she lay flat on her back with her clawlike hands crossed over her breast as if she had already composed herself for death. Her eyes moved repeatedly to a beaker of water on the floor beside her pallet.

  “Mistress,” Nick said. “Can I do you a service?”

  Again her eyes moved sideways. Suddenly understanding, Nick knelt, picked up the cup, and slipping an arm about her bladelike shoulders, lifted her so she could drink. Most of the water slid down her chin. He mopped it with the edge of her coverlet. She blinked twice at him but did not speak as he laid her down.

  As he was getting to his feet, Nick saw Eli watching him.

  “An apoplexy has robbed her of speech and movement,” Eli said in a low voice. “She blinks to give you thanks. She is so quiet that I sometimes forget she is there, and she gets very thirsty.” For a moment, Eli’s eyes shadowed with pain. “And the little child over there is dying. There is so little I can do to ease her suffering.” Then he summoned up a smile. “But come,” he said. “At least there is occasionally good news.”

  He led Nick to the far end of the crypt. Lying on a pallet, propped up with pillows, was Thomas. His face was deathly pale, but he was alive. When he saw Nick, he gave a weak grin.

  “My savior,” he croaked.

  “Actually, it was Rivkah who saved you,” Nick said. “I just did as I was told.”

  “Wise man.”

  Beneath their banter, Nick was aware of an enormous burden lifted off his heart. The murderer had failed to kill his friend, just as he had failed to kill Nick. Though monstrous, the killer was fallible, possibly even inept. If so, he could be caught.

  In the shadows next to a stone pillar, Nick saw an enormous dark shape.

  “Hello, Ralph,” he said.

  The figure did not return his greeting, nor did he move. Ralph was the bodyguard of Black Jack Sims’s ten-year-old grandson, Johnnie, the only living heir to Black Jack’s crime syndicate. Ralph was enormous, dumb in speech and wits, and utterly loyal to his young charge. Where Ralph was, Johnnie was sure to be close by, and indeed, as Nick’s eyes adjusted to the gloom in the crypt, he saw Johnnie lying on a pallet on the other side of where Ralph kept guard. The boy was sleeping, his breath ragged.

  “Influenza,” Eli said. “We thought Ralph could keep an eye on both Johnnie and Thomas at the same time.”

  Nick nodded. Ralph would certainly scare off any would-be assassin. His placid, bovine face was unnerving when coupled with his fearsome skill with a dagger. It was like being attacked by a murderous child. Hardened bully-boys had been known to turn on their heels and flee when they saw Ralph lumbering toward them, a beatific smile on his innocent face.

  “How’s Johnnie doing?” Nick asked Eli in a low voice. He knew that if the lad died, Black Jack Sims would hold Eli and Rivkah responsible and his revenge would be terrible. This despite the fact that he was fond of them both and relied on their medical skill for his own myriad ailments.

  “He’s a strong lad and will recover,” Eli said in a voice pitched loudly for Ralph’s ears. Then, in a whisper to Nick, “It was touch and go at first. Mouse and I thought we would have to flee into exile again.” Eli gave Nick a weak grin as if he had made a joke.

  But Nick did not return the smile, even at Eli’s use of his pet name for Rivkah. She had once explained that her nickname came from her ability to go quietly about her business in public without drawing attention to herself, a skill she had learned in Salamanca.

  “We need to move you,” Nick said to Thomas.

  “Absolutely not,” Eli said. “He is too weak.”

  “He’s not safe here,” Nick insisted. “I don’t want Essex knowing where he is. His own boatmen delivered him here.”

  “I can walk,” Thomas said gamely, although he looked as feeble as a newborn.

  “No, you cannot,” Eli said sternly.

  “I want to move him to Kat’s,” Nick said.

  Thomas grinned. “I can definitely walk.”

  Nick ignored him. “Ralph,” he said. “Would you do me a huge favor? It won’t take long. Eli here promises to look after Johnnie while you are gone, and I’ll let you have free ale for a week in The Black Sheep.”

  Ralph frowned and looked down at the sleeping boy. It was clear his feeble mind was laboring painfully with the choice he had to make. Aside from Johnnie, there was nothing he loved more in the world than ale.

  “I promise you no harm will come to him,” Nick said. “Eli will sit by him and watch over him until you return. Won’t you, Eli?”

  Eli scowled. “Yes,” he said. Then privately to Nick, “If Thomas has a relapse, I will hold you personally responsible.”

  Taking this for permission, Nick instructed Ralph to pick Thomas up in his arms as if he were a bridegroom carrying his bride across a threshold. Nick then tucked a coverlet around Thomas and over his head.

  Once out on the street, people gave them a wide berth, some of them crossing themselves, thinking that Ralph was carrying the corpse of one of Eli’s patients who had succumbed to the influenza. As they walked, Nick mused on the aptness of Kat’s brothel being situated in Dead Man’s Place.

  By the time they reached Kat’s and Ralph had carried Thomas up the stairs to the third floor where Kat and Joseph had their private chambers, Thomas looked the color of old cheese. For all his good humor, he was clearly still very ill.

  “Put him in here,” Kat said, pointing to Joseph’s room, which was connected to her own room by a door. “You don’t mind, do you, Joseph?”

  “’Course not,” Joseph said. “I can kip down on a bench downstairs.” Formerly the Terror of Lambeth, Joseph was a retired wrestler who had fallen on hard times. He had met Kat when she w
as a street prostitute twenty years before and had agreed to become her protector. Since then, they had built up a lucrative business, and Joseph was devoted to her in much the same way Ralph was devoted to Johnnie, except with far more intelligence and far less homicidal impulses, although he could be fearsome in a fight if any of the patrons in the brothel got out of hand.

  Task accomplished, Ralph was eager to get back to Johnnie.

  “Thank you, Ralph,” Nick said. “Come to the tavern anytime for free ale.”

  * * *

  Once Thomas was installed in Joseph’s bed, Nick breathed easier. Quickly, he told Kat and Joseph what had happened. Eli or Rivkah, he said, would be coming in regularly to make sure he recovered.

  “It’s best if none of the girls know who he is,” Nick cautioned. “We don’t want them talking to their johns.”

  “Leave it to me,” Kat said. “I’ll tend him myself.”

  At her words, Nick felt a flare of jealousy.

  When Kat glanced at him, Nick avoided her gaze. He knew he had no claim on her, no right whatsoever to play the possessive fool. Why then did he burn with jealousy? Why did he smolder when he saw Thomas looking at Rivkah? Did he believe he had a right to possess the body of one woman and the heart of another?

  What kind of green-eyed monster am I? Nick wondered.

  Sick with self-loathing, Nick declined an invitation to eat with Kat, Joseph, and the girls before the brothel’s nightly business commenced and walked back to The Black Sheep. The streets were now dark and filled with the footfalls, rustlings, scuffles, and mutterings of illicit enterprise. But Nick was well known in Bankside, and no one molested him. He passed Rivkah and Eli’s house and saw a light burning through the window. Rivkah was probably alone making dinner, which she would carry to Eli at the infirmary, for he always stayed the night when there was an epidemic of illness, not trusting the elderly priest or his deacons to take adequate care of his patients. When the infirmary was full, Rivkah and Eli took turns nursing the sick through the night.