Death of the Fox: a novel about Ralegh

by George Garrett

  Perhaps King and Council work with wisdom, after all. True, the King is hard pressed for money and therefore a bishopric can cost a fortune. Yet there is some justice in this; for by moving the older bishops about or elevating such types as Martin Fatherby, known to be in poor health, the King can be certain that there will always be places to offer. And here’s irony too. For if Fatherby, for example, should die soon enough (pray for the health of his immortal soul; flesh is as grass that withers away), he shall not even have commenced to regain his investment. And still the diocese will be worth its weight and more. Why not earn it twice over, if one were a king?

  The King is a shrewd merchant when it comes to the keeping of his church.

  Why not, by the same token, the price having already been paid in full, use the Bishopric of Salisbury, a mere example mind you, as a reward for good service by a man who cannot pay such a large thanksgiving offering?

  Yesterday afternoon the See of Salisbury (“a mere example, mind you,” the Archbishop told him) had been planted in his head by George Abbot, Archbishop of Canterbury.

  After the King’s Bench hearing in the hall, Abbot dined with Tounson and some other churchmen. When Tounson complained that this unexpected matter added to the burden of a busy week, Abbot, ever crusty as seafarer’s bread, allowed how it might add to his busyness, true enough, but that he could imagine no other affairs of this week, or any week, which stood as fair to add as well to Tounson’s stature.

  Abbot was always, it seemed, forthright, blunt, and direct; but it is unwise to take him so simply. Tounson politely asked him his meaning.

  “Why,” he said, “it is simple enough. The King is much concerned in this matter, more so than he knows. But he shall know. Yes, he will know it soon enough. And, let me be plain and unequivocating, an affair which is of concern to the King and will come to concern him more, that affair, my good Dean, is of more concern to you than all other business. It does not often happen so, not often in one lifetime.” Then: “On my word, your innocence does you some credit in heaven, but not in this world.”

  “It is not my innocence of the world,” Tounson replied. “Allow my puzzlement to come from ignorance and from fear.”

  “A man’s ignorance can be remedied if he is reasonable,” Abbot said. “Fear is not so easy cured.”

  After dinner, as they walked in the cloisters, the Archbishop delayed his departure, to take Robert Tounson aside. It was then that he offered, as a mere example, mind you, the news of Martin Fatherby’s decline in health and the prospect of Salisbury.

  He must have had good reason for this. Abbot knows something more than he would or could openly declare. There is some surety in that. The explanation for his interest may be that already Abbot can see Robert Tounson as the Bishop of Salisbury. In which case Abbot will need his friendship; for Abbot, though high, is far from unshakable.

  To be Bishop of Salisbury!

  He has often imagined such a thing, but now has real cause to consider the prospect. And as if that were not enough, there is the prospect that at his age, with, Lord willing, with a long life before him, he may rise even higher.

  “For, my young Dean,” Abbot grumbled, “you stand in a favorable position in this matter. It must go well for the King. Otherwise it shall go ill. There is no chance for something betwixt and between.

  “Much that is outward and visible is not in the King’s hands. He is at the mercy of weather, the hour, the disposition of the crowd. And Ralegh’s behavior shall reflect upon him. No doubt of that. The report of all who behold it shall be most influential. Meaning—do you apprehend?—that though the King says the last word, the culprit shall have the last word nonetheless.

  “Outward and visible, I have said. But you, sir, shall be the sole arbiter of inward and spiritual truth. And should the affair go ill for the King, it shall be within your power to turn it well by your accounting. In the matter of his faith, you, sir, shall be the judge, clerk, advocate, and jury. And so I say you shall render the verdict, which is the last and best report.”

  Bishop of Salisbury …!

  “You are able, then, to render the King good service,” Abbot continued. “For your own sake, I pray you shall be both honest and careful.…”

  The rest, cautionary grumblings of the old man, he scarcely listened to.

  The outward and visible Robert Tounson nodded and responded gravely.

  Perhaps Abbot is afraid. Fears have overcome judgment. No matter. His views of the large meaning of this affair are theatrical and improbable. Not to be considered seriously. And even if true, still no concern of Tounson.

  Ralegh, according to Abbot, is merely the goat. A sacrificial goat upon the altar of the Spanish Match. Gondomar, crafty Gallego, has demanded it. But Gondomar cannot have imagined the King would honor his demand. Clearly, it is the intent of the King to turn the tables, to render Gondomar and Spain speechless and beholden to him at the cheapest price.

  Whether or not this stratagem will succeed, remains to be seen. And if it does, the results are far from clear, though the first effects may be gratifying to the King. For the stratagem is larger than this and the stakes are greater than they seem. We cannot see and know it all, but let us look to our own vineyard, the Church of England. Strange doings are afoot. Shifting winds and tricky tides. Upon the one hand it seems the King has lost patience with the recusant Catholics. So much so that it would appear he has cast his lot, or at least his favor and encouragement, in the other direction, toward the Puritans and eager pursuivants. Would seem, of late, his purpose is to punish the Catholics severely.

  Yet …

  Yet how does this match with the Spanish Match?

  And where does this leave the Church of England? How explain the King’s favor to certain particular churchmen who lean a long shadow toward Rome even while mouthing the articles of our faith?

  Does the right hand know what the left is doing?

  And so on and so on …

  Abbot is old and troubled. For a man upon the threshold of something worthy of his gifts there is no cause to consider the fancies of an old man who has seen better days. Be polite and deferential, to be sure. But stand aside, just a little, in case he cracks and falls from his pedestal.…

  “Are you the one that is to serve as chaplain?”

  A rude, coarse, ill-mannered voice breaks his meditation.

  Tounson blinks in surprise at crimson and gold and a tall bluff yeoman of the Guard. Who has entered the Jerusalem chamber without a knock.

  “I am the Bishop …” he begins. Then pauses, unable to check a slight smile at his own mistake, despite this fellow’s impudence.

  “I am Dr. Robert Tounson, Dean of Westminster,” he says gravely.

  The fellow must be daft. He is not in the least humbled.

  “Well, you are late,” he snaps. “If you plan to do any preaching or praying over Sir Walter Ralegh, you’d better be quick about it.”

  And then, without by-your-leave, turns heels and is gone.

  Tounson can’t believe this has happened. So startled he cannot remember the face of the soldier. Should make complaint of the man’s lack of respect, but doubts he could recognize the culprit if they parade the whole Guard before him. Then why not act in Christian charity and forgiveness? These soldiers, bloody-minded men, lose whatever religion they may have had when they first learn to trail a pike. Might as well try to teach good manners to a wolf or a wild boar.

  He will offer a prayer for the man’s soul when he has the leisure to do so.

  Meantime he has no leisure to think about it. He must quickly rouse his party of prebend, acolyte, and linkboys and be off to the gatehouse.

  He comes through Jericho parlor and down the stairs into Dean’s Court, shouting for them. Only to find his little party all there waiting for him, torches burning, and a servant with his hat and warm cloak ready.

  His fault, of course. He has schooled them all against the offense of interrupting his meditations. For
he can wield a birch rod (in Christian charity) as well as any schoolmaster in England. But it is their souls he is concerned with, not the wincing cheeks of their fleshly backsides.

  “You lazy lads!” he calls out, as he slips into the cloak. “What good are you standing about like mice? Be quick! Be quick! Lead the way! And God help you if you lead me through mud puddles!”

  On this day, by coincidence, there are not the two, but four sheriffs for London and Middlesex.

  The sheriffs for London and Middlesex are by tradition elected on June 24, Midsomer Day. They are sworn in early October, upon Michaelmas Even. The following day they appear at Westminster Hall, clad in scarlet and furred gowns, cut in the old fashion and still including a hood, though these days officers affect a fine hat of Spanish felt to cover their heads, accompanied each by their appointed men in parti-colored gowns, each with six clerks, sixteen sergeants, and each sergeant with his yeomen, all to be sworn. And to assume their duties for the new year.

  Yet in a strict and literal sense of law the new sheriffs do not assume offices until after they have joined in yet another ceremonial oath-taking, together with the Lord Mayor of London, the aldermen and all their retinue, upon the morning of Lord Mayor’s Day.

  Which means that the sentence to be imposed upon Sir Walter Ralegh, should the King stand fast, is a problem for four men, two who have in truth already passed on their duties and perquisites to the others. The situation is exceptional. Indeed none can recall an execution on Lord Mayor’s Day, at least not one of importance.

  None of the four were happy about this. For the duties of the office of sheriff, especially of London and Middlesex, are demanding and expensive. And though the perquisites and means of offsetting expense are richer here than in other counties, it can easily be a purse-thinning office. Especially when the King has studied all possibilities of increasing revenues in extraordinary ways. In the country a gentleman may be expected to move adroitly to avoid the burdens of this office. Too many tasks have lately been imposed upon sheriffs, too many duties and responsibilities; the expenses growing and occasions for return small. In the country the gentlemen have shown themselves willing to pay a good price not to serve. King and Council, alert to this, have used it to advantage. Not only to gain gifts from a list of eligible gentlemen, but also to chasten this man or to diminish that ambitious man’s estate. Moreover, he who is finally elected—that is, after being chosen by Council—is then encouraged to pay handsomely for the privilege to be named as an eligible gentleman when he would be so, anyway.

  To be a sheriff of London and Middlesex is not a perilous calling. In good times a man can turn a profit. And it is one step toward becoming, later, Lord Mayor.

  All well and good. But here is a difficult problem for these men. Who can be strictly by the letter, and the letter may prove vital to them all, called sheriffs of London and Middlesex in the early morning hours of Lord Mayor’s Day? For whatever is the will of the King, be it mercy or rigor, he may come to regret it. Indeed it would be not unlike the King to regret action either way. The King may intend to regret his choice. And when a king has second thoughts, it is not he, but those who executed the first ones, who pay the regretful price.

  These four remember how in ’03 at Winchester, the page, a mere piping boy, bearing the King’s clemency, could not push through the crowd and cried out until others with more voice echoed him and caught the attention of that sheriff in time to perform the King’s stage play.

  But (four men have thought) what if that boy had been delayed?

  What if his cries had not been heard in that rain-swept crowd?

  What if the sheriff had been too preoccupied to hear? For the poor man would have been busy enough with the hanging, drawing, and quartering of three men, one after the other.

  Well, it could raise the hairs on the back of a man’s neck to think on that.

  Now when this hasty business of the habeas corpus writ, the delivering of Ralegh from custody of the Lord Lieutenant of the Tower to the sheriffs at King’s Bench, had been told to them, the four met in a tavern on the eve of Simon and Jude.

  The affair must be correct in each detail. And responsibility must be diffused among them so that none could bear blame entirely. A bargain made more complex because not one would dare to deal directly with the true subject—that all four feared the double-dealing of their own King. No, the discussion must be only how and in what fashion they might join together to work out His Majesty’s wishes.

  Oblique negotiation made the more tentative because the two sheriffs of 1617, William Hollyday and Richard Johnson, are gentlemen of means and distinction. Active in foreign trading and ventures, they are acquainted with Sir Walter Ralegh. The newly elected sheriffs are Sir Hugh Hammersley, a wealthy member of the Haberdasher’s Guild and one of King James’ carpet knights, a man of repute in the Royal Artillery Company; the other, Master Richard Harne, a mystery to the others, who makes his home in London at The Blew Anchor, an inn in Cheapside. It is said that his wife, Alice, comes of gentle people in Cambridge and that they have no children.

  Hammersley was polite, cautious, circumspect, and properly deferential to the other two gentlemen. Who, though not knights themselves, could afford to do without that distinction.

  All three were equally, and separately, suspicious of Richard Harne. Who was a trifle too familiar when he was not openly indifferent to their reputations and the distinctions among them. Who drank too much ale while they sipped theirs. Who talked too loud when he did speak and laughed too much, often at nothing at all, some secret mirth. Who remained in the tavern when they parted company to go their ways. Last seen by them joining a group of roguish cutpurse types at the dicing table. Where, it seemed he was known, and not only as a new sheriff of London and Middlesex.

  The fellow had not seemed to comprehend the difficulty. He had yawned in their faces.

  “I know nothing of inkhorn law. And what’s more, gentlemen, I do not care a rotten fig. Decide for yourselves what you wish to do and you’ll find me agreeable. But let us not waste the best hours of the night. Decide for yourselves.”

  He played with a gold coin on the table and appeared to pay them no further heed until they had reached an agreement.

  Yet, for all his sullen, ill-mannered unconcern, each of them accounted it likely he missed not a word they said. And in an hour or two might be able to write it all down verbatim.

  They each allowed themselves to consider the possibility that Master Richard Harne was not the man he seemed to be. He might dupe ordinary rogues and half-drunken cutpurse ruffians. But something about him, Master Richard Harne—if indeed that was the man’s true name—was clipped, a counterfeit coin.

  Hammersley knew him no better than the others.

  Of course, this fellow might have acquired enough substance, never mind how, to purchase the office. And, considering the company he made familiar with, he might manage to turn a profit on his investment in a year’s time. More so, in sum and total, than a gentleman sheriff. Who would not deign to cast their lines or nets to catch small fish.

  Still they must each weigh another possibility, that Richard Harne smelled like a spy, an intelligencer.

  Was it when they noticed that the gold coin he toyed with was Spanish? Or was the coin merely circumstantial? Afterwards, if asked, none of them could have told where reason and imagination first shook hands.

  In the late years of the Queen, when there was discontent and when she seemed so influenced by Archbishop Whitgift to fear the dangers of Puritan and Papist equally, there was much use made of spies. Spies upon Englishmen. Spies to spy out other spies—Jesuits, Puritans, and these likewise spying upon each other. No one could know who might be a spy or spied upon. Well, the new King is even more fearful for his person than the late Queen. And there are believed to be more agents afoot now than then. So much so that it is a constant subject for ballads and broadsides and certain, if touched upon lightly, to raise laughter in the playhou
ses.

  That may be an explanation. Richard Harne, intelligencer for the King or the Council, called to London after service elsewhere. Perhaps having finished his spying for good and all. And given a name and a modest pension and a reward—a year as sheriff to feather his nest.

  In which event he has nothing to fear. Or like every snake of a spy, cold-blooded, he has lost the habit of fear. Lives by his wits from each moment to the next. And, as he put it, does not care a rotten fig.

  Still, they must allow the possibility—that Master Richard Harne is still at this time an intelligencer. That the King or Council would place a spy in the honorable office of sheriff may seem strange. But there are many strange things these days. A reasonable man knows not what to credit and what to laugh at.

  Very well, then ask why. One cannot deny the King’s present irritation at the city of London. Perhaps he wishes to marshal information about them, if not evidence against them. But would that not be too simple? In his stratagems the King likes scatter shot, which can riddle more than one target.

  Certainly to have his own man as a sheriff is one form of assurance in the matter of Walter Ralegh. And Richard Harne was chosen not long after Ralegh’s return to Plymouth.…

  The spinning Spanish gold coin tipped on its edge and spun in circle by … long slender tapering fingers.…

  Clever fingers, not those of a common rogue. Hammersley, noticing the man’s hands, felt his own, heavy and meaty as lamb chops.

  All reason could do was to allow for possibilities and allow there was neither knowledge nor evidence yet of any.

  They managed to reach an agreement. The two gentlemen soon to be retired for good, would go to King’s Bench to take custody of the culprit. And would place him in the gatehouse and arrange for his security there. Sensible and strictly legal. Except, of course, for the whole begged question of the legality of any of these proceedings and actions. And nothing to be done about that.

  Sensible, for since both these gentlemen are acquainted with Sir Walter Ralegh, they are in the best position to judge his mood and intent.