Mary Gentle

by A Sundial in a Grave-1610

  “Recalled. Or under guard. Little Edmonds may be dead,” I observed as we came down Dead Man’s Place that night by the fattening moon. “Such things happen.”

  I held a lantern up high in my left hand as we walked, so we should not be dazzled. By common unspoken consent we carried our swords drawn, and walked down the middle of the muddy street, just skirting the kennel. If any man should come out of the disreputable houses or the alleys between them, they must cross open ground to come at us.

  Despite his refusal to wear ought but linens under his cloak, M. Saburo seemed to find London more congenial now that a day or two had elapsed. He threw back the cloak’s hood and swayed as he walked, although to my mind he had drunk little.

  “Man!” He pointed with his cattan-blade.

  In the lantern light, a thin, small figure stood up from the doorstep, and became a page in black velvet, an armed man in livery standing dutifully behind him.

  I sheathed my rapier and took the letter he held out to me, his gaze fixed on Saburo’s un-English face the while.

  The yellow light showed me the seal of the Earl of Salisbury, Secretary of State, Lord Treasurer—Robert Cecil.

  Saburo gazed after the guard and page, who had slipped most professionally off again. I read swiftly.

  “Listen, Messire Saburo. You are to see Lord Cecil. Friday morning, on the hour of ten…which is tomorrow.”

  M. Saburo demonstrated his ear for picking up the language of taverns, and remarked dreamily, “Catso!”

  I fretted, that following day, while the sunny and otherwise blameless hours passed. Caution on M. Saburo’s behalf kept me from shadowing him to Whitehall-palace and Cecil. Lack of occupation left me nothing to do but listen to the dogs bark in the yard, and put France and M. Sully out of my mind.

  How it is that Master Fludd performs these conjuring tricks of his?

  How many more men does he have rehearsed? And for what?

  Does he guess I have betrayed him?

  He’d be a fool not to. Still, a man may be no fool, and yet blind to things outside his desire.

  He knew the names of Tanaka Saburo and Mademoiselle de la Roncière.

  Dariole herself I saw only as a sleeping lump in the lodging’s cot-bed. When, an hour or so later, I took it upon myself to follow her surreptitiously and see if she met with Fludd, I discovered that she spent all her time at the playhouses, the bear-baiting, and the local Schools of Defence.

  “All that is missing from the ‘young gentleman’s education’ is the whorehouse!” I said aloud, after I returned to the echoing empty room that smelled of dust, and whose floorboards creaked when I paced.

  “Roshifua-san!” Saburo’s deep voice and the door opening came at one and the same time.

  He was alone, I saw as I spun about. Perhaps it was not urgency in his voice. He is the hardest to read, of a man and a foreigner, that I ever met!

  “Well?” I demanded.

  “I am to see the Emperor-King. Soon.” What Saburo took out of his sleeve, I saw, was my letter; crumpled and with the seal broken. At least read.

  “You.” He spoke as if he thought exactness necessary with his words. “You, Rosh’-fu’-san, tomorrow, are to see Lord Seso-sama.”

  The dawn wind off Thames-river blew into my face. I brushed heavy coils of hair back over my shoulders, and straightened my falling bands over the collar of my doublet. The wherry-man rowed us slowly past moored herring-boats, in sun that flashed back in prick-points off the water.

  “You are—happy.” Saburo appeared to choose his words carefully. “A man doing what he doesn’t want to do is…happy?”

  I shrugged and smiled, and stared further downriver into the light, making out the shape of oncoming barges in the white dawn haze. “I had little enough expectation of it not coming to this. And…this is my trade.”

  I had still as much necessary apprehensiveness as suffices to keep a man alert. And, truly, not very much more.

  Saburo demanded, “Those. There. Are the barges?”

  “Yes.”

  London has not changed so much in the six years since I was last here. The cries of street-sellers on the banks; the puff of smoke and moments-later boom of artillery announcing a noble visitor to the Tower; the wherry-man’s monologue in an obscene English that it is my dubious privilege to understand…. It would take little to imagine myself going back today, after this meeting, to the sun-bright sandstone of Arundel-house and Andre, Artaud, Maignan: all of us about the Duc’s business.

  I had not, this morning, dressed particularly well, being in the now dust-stained English burgundy doublet and trunk-hose, and having badly disguised scuffs to my boots at toe and heel. That, I thought, assorted well with playing the broken-down spy for Doctor Fludd. I had no desire to tell him of my status as Sully’s first agent and best blade if he did not know it. There are times when an appearance of mediocrity aids a man. Now I must trust that Mr Secretary’s sight is acute enough to pierce a man’s disguise.

  I must take this risk. Whatever else Monsieur Cecil knows, he will know what is happening in Paris better than any other man in England. And I am blind, without that.

  The wherry-boat turned and ran parallel to the starboard side of the slowly moving and highly ornamented barge. I stood up, careful of scabbard and spurs. The barge glided up the river under the power of many oars, the bows passing well above the level of my head, and I had several moments in which to glance up at the velvet, silk, gilding, and paper-and-lath ornamentation.

  With a skilful whirl and flourish of his two oars, the wherry-man struck across the rear of the barge; Saburo and I jumped together in one leap to the firm wooden railings and vaulted over onto the deck. I tossed a purse back to the boatman for his skill. I had just as soon not appear on a royal barge with any part of me dripping wet.

  As I turned about, Saburo dropped forward onto both his knees on the warm planking of the deck.

  Rochefort, Memoirs

  15

  I t crossed my mind, in the split second before I saw the small dark man approaching us, that I must at some point ask M. Saburo the meaning of such prostrations in his own country. Here, one kneels to royalty, to nobility, to one’s master; kneels by way of course in appeal or supplication; kneels in church. But the Nihonese man commonly falls forward on his knees and his hands in submission, and bows his head until it touches the earth. In this case, the planking.

  “Milord de Cecil.” I contented myself with removing my hat and going down on one knee, which made me still an inch or two taller than he. “Monsieur the Earl of Salisbury, is it not, now?”

  M. de Sully and this man had, in our last visit, fallen out with each other with as much open discourtesy as is possible between the King’s Minister of one country and the King’s Secretary of another. Like oft hates like, as the proverb goes.

  “Master Tanaka Saburo.” Cecil signalled and the Nihonese man sat back up on his heels. The King’s Minister ignored me as much as if I were Saburo’s servant in truth—which, under the circumstances, one expects.

  I rose to my feet, thinking that he might have done with myself as well as Saburo prostrate. Robert Cecil, first minister to King James, stands no higher than my breastbone: an inch or so over five feet tall. But I also guessed he would, in any case, have had too many sycophant English courtiers making fools of themselves, trying to bow themselves lower than King James’s “dwarf.”

  Cecil spoke carefully and clearly to the samurai. “It is pleasant to greet you again, Ambassador. This is the royal barge, rehearsing its part in the investiture of our young prince, Henry, as Prince of Wales, which we have done here time out of mind for the eldest sons of kings. If it please you to see it, after you have writ some more of your far land for King James to read, then I will show it you.”

  “Hai!” Saburo’s grunt was unreadable.

  “Do you favour me, and speak more to my secretary about this land of Nihon,” Cecil said briskly, a man running across the deck as he lifte
d his hand. “I thank you, Master Saburo.”

  The secretary put a sheaf of papers into Cecil’s hand before leading off the samurai.

  Robert Cecil, this most powerful man in England, had also the affliction of a humped shoulder. He showed a long, sad face, always with a white pallor, and the lined eyes of a spaniel-dog. I had no doubt he could, equal with my master the Duke, sign execution warrants with no change of expression.

  “I apologise, Milord Cecil.” I made a bow in the English fashion, which I fancy I may manage with some style when called on. “For appearing to you under cover of a false name.”

  He had a copy of my report, I could read at least so much of his papers at this distance. I took care not to be doing so as he folded them together and glanced up.

  “‘A Spaniard-looking man, two yards high.’” The English minister spoke as if he quoted—and probably did; I dare say he had had all Sully’s men reported on, six years since.

  “‘Rochefort’ would be your name, Monsieur Herault, I think?”

  “I was baptised so, milord.” I can be sure of honestly seeming to speak the truth if I say so, even if “de Cossé Brissac” does come after it in the church records.

  We spoke together too quietly to be heard over the noise of the workmen, or the wind from the river. The barge rocked as it glided upstream, the coxswain yelling at the oarsmen. No man would be admitted on board without Mr Secretary’s office having first examined him, and no other man might approach over the water. An admirable thought for a rendezvous, M. Cecil evidently as familiar with the use of agents as my master the Duke.

  He said, “It has been over two weeks since your King’s death. Why are you not at the side of Monsieur de Rosny? Did he send you to me?”

  I did not correct him to Sully. Maximilien de Bethune, Baron Rosny, was made up to Duke of Sully some two or three years before Robert Cecil, second son of Lord Burleigh, was made Earl of Salisbury. Evidently it still stings. I allowed nothing to show on my face except respectful attention.

  “No, milord, he didn’t send me. I was passing through London; this—” I gestured at the report he held “—came to my attention. Forgive my presumption: I remembered your office, Milord Cecil, from when I was here before. I did not expect that you would speak directly with such a man as I.”

  “I remember you from Rosny’s entourage.” He regarded me for a moment. His sad-dog eyes might appear vulnerable if you did not know the man. “Also, monsieur, I happen to have heard your name recently.”

  I expected to find him knowledgeable about rumour. It made me sweat, still. He may have declared himself for the Queen Regent before now….

  “I flatter myself,” Cecil said, “that I know something of M. de Rosny. I never met a Frenchman so scrupulous of ceremony, so honest, so hardworking, so incorruptible—and so aware of his own virtues and status! For all that, he is not one of your Catholics. As a Huguenot, he needed Henry’s protection daily. I can no more think he would order your King’s death, by any man’s hand, than I think he can fly.”

  “Thank you, monsieur.” I bowed again.

  “Come.” He turned about sharply, and led me down the deck. Workmen lowered their heads as he passed, then resumed hammering, pegging, and painting. Aides came up, and he issued orders in a rapid, crisp undertone. He seemed smaller in the white sun than I had remembered him indoors, in the jewelled splendour of James’s court, where he stood out like the only shadow. Here, Mr Secretary Cecil merely looked hot and uncomfortable in black trunk-hose, doublet, robe, and hat.

  His small steps put me in the way of either outdistancing him at every stride, or halting between them. I compromised by appearing to take in, as I walked with slow admiration, the carving and gilding of the barge.

  “Sit, Master Rochefort.” Cecil indicated a joint-stool, placed below a dais. He stepped up onto the dais, and seated himself in an armed chair covered with red velvet, and backed by curtains that further shielded us from watching eyes. It would be for the King, or the young Prince. Cecil’s small shoes did not touch the carpet. But it put him where he might gaze down at me a little, and exposed my face clearly to the sun.

  He did not bid me put my hat on again. I sat, uncovered, the morning light warm on my head.

  “What have you to tell me of this ‘Master R.F.’ and his conspiracy, Master Rochefort?”

  I shrugged. “By the man’s own words—a deal of star-struck nonsense, milord.”

  Cecil’s doll-feet touched together. “It’s a poor salesman declares his wares to be unsaleable.”

  Is he amused? I wondered. At court, six years past, I remember M. de Cecil to be sinister, always in black, always with his shoulder bunched up, like a spider in the dim corridors. Men had not liked him before Great Eliza died, in ’03; rumour said they liked him even less now James succeeded, and Cecil became a figure of power. The bright sun, here, made him look small and dusty in his black velvet and great white ruff, and hardly greater in stature than a twelve-year-old boy.

  He’s twin to M. Sully in so many things—that being why they quarrel—let’s hope he shares the same appetite for blunt honesty.

  “Tell me what’s happening in Paris first, milord,” I said. “If I speak of ‘R.F.,’ and you throw me out, then I’m no better off than before I came here.”

  His thin, defined brows lifted. I could not tell from his serious face—it was barely a warmth in his gaze—but I thought, Dear good God, I believe I have amused M. de Cecil.

  “Is that so?” His voice was rich in texture.

  Yes: amusement . I sighed in relief, and hoped it was not visible. In another mood he might have had me flung overboard.

  Cecil shuffled his papers, holding them to the length of his arm. I judged him ten years or so older than I. And not wearing eyeglasses yet, although it was evident he needed to. “Ask me your questions, Master Rochefort.”

  “Has Ravaillac confessed who set him on to kill the King?”

  Cecil put his papers in his lap, and linked his elegant white fingers. “Master Ravaillac is dead. Two days ago. He died silent—as far as words are concerned.”

  Two days ago.

  Shock chilled me.

  Today, in Paris, is the twenty-ninth of May.

  Fludd said, “Upon the twenty-seventh, by your Gregorian calendar.”

  Cecil will barely have known since this morning!

  If fear went through me, from head to heels, I hardly knew that I felt it.

  A foolish, foolish thing for Fludd to say, if he did not know events would prove him right.

  No: a lucky guess! What else, in all honesty, can it be?

  The sun made me dizzy. I dug the nails of my fingers into the palms of my hands; even through gloves, it brought me back to the rocking barge. Cecil must see me shaken—he showed no sign outwardly. The deck shifted underfoot as the rowers tangled their oars. We backed in a momentary swirl of water. The gothic spires of Whitehall-palace huddled further ahead on our right hand, a great cluster of buildings and courts in which every man may lose his way.

  Cecil’s gentle voice continued, “…In the Greve; his flesh torn by torturers, and then his body pulled apart by four horses. Our ambassador says that this Ravaillac, being a strong, well-made man, could not at first be pulled apart by the beasts, and the executioner had to hack at his joints, until the horses pulled him into quarters. Master Ravaillac had been questioned these two weeks, but said not a word whose employee he was in the matter.”

  “Nothing?” Temporarily thrown as I was by Fludd’s prediction come true, this got my attention. I barely believed it. “He said nothing?”

  “Master Ravaillac claimed he was alone in what he did. That he killed King Henry because King Henry would have made war on the Pope.” Robert Cecil spoke dryly. He added, “No man reporting to me believes that to be the truth. There are many and enough candidates in Paris—Concini and his wife, the Duke of Epernon, Henriette d’Entragues the Marchioness of Verneuil, Father Cotton of the Jesuits…. It seems
Master Ravaillac was not held at all closely before his trial, and men went in to speak to him, and tell him to keep his mouth closed for fear of calumniating the reputations of ‘good Catholic men’….”

  I might despair over the loss of Ravaillac as a witness when I had time to think, but at that, a warmth of relief flared up in me. If the finger points at Catholic nobility, one fewer reason for Marie de Medici to think herself threatened by M. de Sully! One more reason to leave inactive the traitor in his house.

  “And M. de Sully?” For all my care, I could not help but sound anxious. “I have no more news of what has happened to my lord the Duke than I had on the evening of May the fourteenth, when I know him to have straightway taken refuge in the Bastille.”

  “Not straightway.” Cecil nodded his head. “Continue.”

  Remembering Poissy, I thought, Sully did more than Lassels knew of?

  I could not prevent myself asking, “Not straight to the Bastille?”

  “It seems that Rosny rose eventually from his sick-bed, and rode with several hundred horsemen towards the Louvre palace, but he received warnings. I am told he was handed a message. ‘If you enter the Louvre you will not escape, any more than him’—meaning your King Henry. Thus, the Bastille, where he spent that night.”

  My chest tightened. A message. God bless the apprentice-boy, or Lassels! Or, if not my message, God bless the man who wrote it.

  Holding myself in control, I said, “That was near a fortnight ago. He is still there?”

  “Rosny was…” Cecil paused deliberately, “…well enough…to ride again by the next day. Men say that he rode to the palace accompanied by three hundred men, and wept with the Queen and embraced King Lewis—hoping to curry new favour, or else ashamed of leaving too fast the previous day, men have said. But there was a Parliament that Saturday, where Queen Mary crowned her son, and herself regent, and made all her enemies embrace and swear peace. Rosny protested himself ill, but she made him attend. He then returned to the Arsenal, where he has been since.”