by Sam Burnell
William’s legs had begun to wither and thin. His physicians bled him constantly to balance the humors, yet their strength continued to fail. He had sent them from his rooms when he realised their efforts were futile. Fate indeed had a cruel hand. Now he just waited. Sometimes his mind ran over and over the great events that had brought him power and influence; but now, seated alone, it was difficult to gauge their success. He had finally realised that never again would anyone call at his door to seek his advice or services. The only thing that lived within him that had any force, any power, any real presence, was rage.
The old man had old man’s senses. Once keen eyesight was blurred, faces indistinct unless he peered at them through the glasses that perpetually graced his veined nose. His hearing had fared worse; there was nothing to help reverse it’s decay. So he didn’t hear Jack’s knife as it scraped along the window casement to lift the latch from the outside, he missed the creak as it swung back on unoiled hinges, and his ears didn’t register the light pad of feet as they dropped on to the wooden floor.
The first he became aware of his visitor was when a filthy hand from behind clamped across his mouth silencing him, a blade glinting menacingly in the firelight. A voice said quietly, “One noise and it will most certainly be your last.” The hand remained in place until Jack felt the almost imperceptible nod of acceptance from the man in the chair.
Jack kept the knife where William Fitzwarren could see it and walked round the chair to stand between the man and the fire, staring down for the first time at his father.
William was old, but a coward not at all. He gave the knife not a second glance but settled back in his chair and gazed up intently at the face of the man before him. It was he who broke the silence first.
“So is it silverware or money, then?” William leered at Jack, “Or was it rape? If it was, you’ve bloody got that wrong, the bitches are on the ground floor.”
The man chuckled and smiled, the firelight lit his blond hair and the candlelight twinkled in pool blue eyes. “Silverware or money. Well then, there’s a thought I hadn’t had until just now.”
Jack was rewarded for the briefest of moments as the seated man stiffened slightly, sensing that this might be more than a burglary.
“Well, you have me....” William paused and opened empty hands, “at somewhat of a disadvantage.”
Jack’s face darkened. Those words, the voice, all held a memory of his brother, the gesture so like Richard’s arrogant nature it made him start.
William saw the emotions play across Jack’s face. Well here’s a man with a problem, William thought watching him now very carefully.
“Well, speak up. So, if it’s not silver, then who sent you?” William demanded quietly. The blade was still only a foot from his throat.
“Thirty pieces of silver I believe would be the reckoning.” Jack replied a little too hastily.
“Thirty pieces?” William repeated quietly and thoughtfully, his eyes fastened on the man’s face.
“Aye, that’s the price for betrayal, isn’t it?” Jack’s words were bitter.
William could sense the barely contained anger behind his words. Pushing the glasses up his nose, he carefully considered the man before him. Could it be? William proceeded carefully, still unsure. “Do you think I have betrayed you?”
“Aye, you have,” Jack spat, “and my mother. You have no idea what you bloody well did to me, and care bloody less, I have no doubt.”
So Robert had been right, Richard had found Eleanor’s son.
Robert had not spared his father the details of the lengths he had personally had to go to, to protect both his own inheritance and his father’s reputation. Robert had assured William that they’d as like hear nothing more from Jack; he was nothing but a churl, and now that Richard was no longer alive he would pose no danger.
A thick skinned forefinger pushed his glasses a degree further up his nose, he observed the other man closely. Smell had remained when the other senses had retreated; the common odour of the street mixed with the smell of smoke and sweat met his nose. His clothes had once been good, certainly above the man’s station, and William would wager they were probably not his own. Now they were tired, worn and dirty; it was obvious this was probably all he owned.
That this was his wife’s son, his eyes could not deny. Eleanor’s hair, a sun-bleached river of fine flowing white gold, was the same bright icy colour as the man’s who stood before him. On Jack’s face he saw her mark, her bright summer blue eyes, deep and intense observing him coldly, her disapproving mouth, down-turned at one corner, waiting for him to speak first. It was Eleanor, annoyed, angry, hot-tempered Eleanor who stared at him.
“You look like her,” William’s voice was hoarse. The resemblance to his long dead, beautiful wife, had more of an effect on him than he liked. William dragged his gaze back from Jack’s face and took in the rest of his sorry state. This gutter whelp was a disgrace to her memory. William kept that thought from his face.
Jack’s guard dropped, he’d not expected recognition.
William saw the shock on Jack’s face, and he pressed on. “She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, hot-tempered but she was worth it. You should blame her for what happened. I had to teach her a lesson. For all her ways I loved her and…” Jack’s hand holding the knife had dropped. William saw the move and carried on. “She had your eyes, as blue as summer sky and brighter than any gems.” William was smiling now, “she was always smiling and her hair was like gold, same as yours, but it ran like a river down to her waist. I always wanted a girl, another beautiful Eleanor.”
When Jack did speak his voice was shaking, “Why did you do it to me? Why?”
“I told you, I needed to teach my wife to be a little more submissive.”
“You kicked me from your door, and never thought once again about me just because you’d argued with your wife!” Jack’s voice was incredulous.
“It was done. I saw you, maybe four or five years after at my brother’s house. Mired in filth and even then sounding like a gutter whelp. You had your place and there’s no coming back from it.” William countered.
Jack just shook his head in disbelief. “He told me I’d get nothing from you, and God, he was right.”
“Richard? I heard he’d found you. He might have dressed you in finery, lad, and promised you gold and gifts, but believe me, he lied. He kept you at hand to throw in my face when the time came. It didn’t, thanks to Robert. Look at you! What did he tell you? You fool, you look and sound like what you are, a common churl, you could never be anything else.” William scoffed.
Jack had not seen William’s hand as it reached for and insistently pulled on the cord attached to the table near his chair.
The sleeper in the hall opened the door to the bedroom and stepped inside.
“Robber, robber, robber,” the thin, reedy voice screeched.
The man who had entered was not armed and stopped in fright when he saw the knife in Jack’s hand. Their eyes met for a second before Jack dived past him and out into the corridor, taking the steps three at a time downwards and out of the house.
†
Richard leaned back in his chair and surveyed the group before him. He’d listened to them now for nearly two hours, recognising them for what they were: dangerous zealots. Worse, in fact: dangerous zealots with a bad plan. Mary’s reforms had forced Protestants underground; many had even left for Europe and were waiting to return if Elizabeth took the throne, or if Elizabeth and a new husband took the throne. She would pave the way for reform and a Protestant England once more.
Their fear, and Richard conceded that they were correct at least on this point, was that Mary would permanently remove Elizabeth from the running for the throne. A quick meeting with the headsman on Tower Green would make a terrible mess of their dynastic plans. With this in mind, the loosely formed group hatched a plan. It was simple, highly likely to fail, and even if it did succeed, the outcome was not certain.
“Do you know how many guards there are?” Richard asked of Fairfax.
“There are a few, but as soon as the fire starts we will have dozens of people on site. My steward reduced the size of my orchard last year. We wanted to expand the lawned area; it’s useful for entertaining and now that I’m head of the guild, my wife…”
“Yes, yes. Enough of your wife’s social ambitions, Cuthbert,” another of the plotters cut in, George Sewell was in the same Guild as Fairfax and had been its head three years before Fairfax took over the position.
Cuthbert Fairfax gave him a withering glance. “As I was saying. He cut the orchard back and burned the boughs. The smoke went through the adjacent house and they were forced to flee to a man. This time we’ll do the same but we’ll let them believe it’s not just smoke, but a fire. The smoke will fair persuade them to leave.”
“What,” continued Richard, in the same deceptively mild voice, “if the wind blows in the opposite direction?”
The other five seated men all turned and stared at him.
“Sir, everyone in London fears fire, even if the smoke blows south away from the Lady Elizabeth’s house they will still want to take the precaution of seeing her safe.” Fairfax snapped.
“Her stewards, the men guarding the house, will not all be fools and Durham Place is a sizeable manor. Are you sure that smoke alone…?”
Fairfax cut him off, “We saw what happened last year and there is no reason to doubt it will not work a second time.” Richard, exasperated, at last decided to venture no further comment and sat, a quiet listener, for the rest of the meeting.
“Do we have a date set?” Thomas Cressworth, a small man with a perpetually worried expression, asked.
“The Lady has moved back into Durham Place, her London house. If we look at what happened last year we can guess that she will be summoned to Court by Mary for the Christmas celebrations. So ideally we need to plan on a date before then.” George Sewell contributed.
“Well that gives us hardly any time, it’s already the start of December,” Fairfax said, “She will as like move back to her own lodgings after Christmas. The New Year would be a better time surely?”
“The Queen is due to deliver a child in May, though no-one seems to know if it will be the start or the end of that month,” George provided.
“Phillip will gather all the Court around him, and that will include Elizabeth, as soon as Mary goes into confinement.”
Mary was expected to spend the last month of her pregnancy alone with her ladies. An elaborate church service would be held and after that, she would close herself off from the world until the child was born.
“So if we take a date then of the first of April for Mary to go into confinement, and if Elizabeth is going to be summoned to Court it will be before this date: surely Mary will want to see her before she leaves the world?” Thomas Cresswell questioned, adding, “So that means really, to be safe, our plan needs execution before the middle of March?”
“Elizabeth will be back at her own house, Durham Place, by the end of January, so we have six weeks, really, to work with,” Fairfax took control of the conversation again. “What we need to find is a ship to Holland. Once we know we can get passage for the Lady out of England then we can set a date for her rescue. Richard, you are always pressing your contacts, can we leave this task to you?”
Richard didn’t speak but instead inclined his head in acceptance of the task.
“Good, good, then we can meet again in, say, two weeks, and that should give us enough time to get everything in place. Richard, is two weeks enough time for you?”
“Two weeks,” Richard agreed.
†
The news towards the end of 1554 was all that Mary could have hoped for. A child was to be born, her child, long prayed for and most wholly desired. An heir for Phillip, a child for her husband, a baby for Mary, but most importantly an heir for England. In this child, the succession would lodge. Elizabeth’s position had changed yet again; she was no longer the contender for the throne she once was, not now that Mary was to give England a new heir. Elizabeth could breathe a little freer and a little easier, her sister had other, more pressing concerns. And for the moment at least Elizabeth was not one of them.
†
Elizabeth, Richard was sure, would not want to be a part of this badly ordered plan. Granted, her position under Mary’s reign was uncertain. Already she had been questioned in the Tower and had quite properly feared for her life. Exile on European soil would, he knew, hold a certain appeal. He was sure the uneasiness Elizabeth felt would be lessened when Mary no longer cast her dark, cold shadow over the lady’s life: to speak more easily, to have her own household, to know she was not watched and spied upon from morning until night. Elizabeth was indeed a prisoner even if the cage was a large and varied one. That she lived was because Mary willed it. Escape to Europe could offer her relief, but the price would not be cheap. He needed to speak to the Lady; it wasn’t his decision to make.
†
In the end, the meeting came sooner than he could have imagined possible. Elizabeth had toothache. The Lady had cried, shouted and screamed for two days. A barber-surgeon had been brought but she had flung plates at his head. Another had been summoned as the Lady continued to cry and sob, and he had not been so lucky, a hot poker from the fire spinning end-over-end had left it’s print on his arm. The noise continued. A wad of wet cloth clamped to the side of her face, Elizabeth continued to howl in agony. The ache, which came and went, was so much worse at night and by the end of the second night of sleeplessness, her erstwhile gaolor, Travers, had taken about as much as his nerves could stand. He’d penned a note to Gardiner outlining the Lady’s medical emergency, and had begged leave to summon Kate Ashley back to the house to help the Princess. He suspected that this was the only person who could exert any level of control over the Tudor temper.
Gardiner had taken too long to reply and a third night of sleeplessness was delivered to the household. Elizabeth, unable to contain herself in her rooms, had taken to roaming around the house that night, moaning, exclaiming loudly and slamming doors.
A terse note was received back the following day in Gardiner’s secretary’s neat hand and informed Travers that the day-to-day arrangements for Elizabeth’s household was not the concern of the Lord Chancellor and if there was a need to consult with her former governess then that was Master Travers’ business. Travers balled the paper and sent it to the back of the fire, cursing. One minute, the bloody Bishop wouldn’t allow so much as a change of linen without his damned say-so and now, it seemed, he cared not at all. Travers wished they’d make their bloody minds up and stomped off to summon Mistress Ashley.
Travers’ man delivered the note to the Lady’s hand personally as he had been instructed to do.
“The Master bid me take you there now if you will?” He instructed before she’d even finished reading the note.
“Did he indeed now? Well I’m not his to order about, am I?” replied Kate, pushing the note into her pocket.
“He said you’d say as much and I was to remind you that it is not him, but the Lady Elizabeth, that needs you, and she is in much pain,” he replied.
A black look descended on Kate’s face. “Very well, toothache is it?” she asked, “wait downstairs. I need some of my things and I shall be as quick as I can.
”
In the end, Kate was nearly an hour and when she emerged, a man followed her carrying two huge boxes.
“I was told to just bring yourself to her Lady,” Travers’ servant complained.
“Fine then,” Kate spat, “you carry those boxes.”
He took one look at them from where he sat on top of his horse, then gestured the servant to follow them. They rode on side-by-side, back along the Strand to Durham Place with Kate’s servant walking slowly behind carrying her medicine boxes. It was a short distance, but she could only guess at how much Richard’s arms were burning under their load by the time they arrived.
Kate entered Durham Place, her servant staggering slightly behind her under the burden, “I’ll need those in the kitchen. Can you show him where it is please, and I’ll go and see Elizabeth straight away?”
A servant bobbed in front of Kate. “We are right pleased to see you, Mistress Kate, there’s no-one can get near her and she’s in frightful pain.”
Kate began briskly pulling her gloves from her hands, “Take me straight up to her now. Is she in the solar?”
“No, she’s in her own room, and she’s locked the door.” Lilly supplied.
“Well, we shall soon have that open. Now take me up.” Kate bustled her way up the stairs.
From the kitchen where Kate’s servant sat with her boxes, they heard the hollow, deep scrape of wood on wood as something large was dragged across the floor. Elizabeth’s door, it seemed, was no longer barricaded.
†
“Now scream like you mean it,” advised Kate heeling the door shut behind her.
“I bloody well do have tooth-ache,” Elizabeth replied petulantly, but she wailed loudly anyway for the audience’s ears’ sake.
“Let me see,” Kate took hold of her jaw and set to pull her into the light.