Mary Gentle
Page 57
Dariole turned in the saddle. “Heavy night, messire?”
Her tone held icy formality and sarcasm. She had her hand down on her hanger as she rode, where she wore her rapier over the samurai clothing.
I groaned under my breath. With the bay about to take advantage, I recovered my grip on the reins. Apprehension grew within me, that was nothing to do with the likelihood of a duel.
If she were another kind of woman, I thought—if she were a woman in the court, in skirts—I would understand what my sin is.
If she were another woman, my unpardonable sin would be that I did not come to her bed last night.
Watching the anger on her face, I wondered, Is it indeed so? Despite this matter of Fludd that lies between us? And if it is, does she know herself well enough to understand that?
“You would have been afraid of a man’s touch,” I said, in French, as quietly as I might. “Rightly so, at present; all I could have done was frighten you.”
She rubbed her hand against the muffler of linen that covered the lower half of her face, as if it were uncomfortable. Her eyes were perfectly cold. “I’m not afraid of you. Under any circumstances.”
I clenched my fist. Oh, that was well said, Rochefort…
We passed into the shadow of St Paul’s and slowed as we came to Fleet Street, it being busier.
Still in French, and too quietly for any other man to hear, I said, “Here, where I may do nothing else, may I ask you to forgive me?”
The look she gave me was open, self-possessed, and rather older than one might expect from a woman of her years. I found myself reminded that most women of her years have not spent a year or two in Paris, living by the sword, and killing or injuring her fellow man.
“Messire, we may not be at home in Paris, but there’s still a gutter here, and you can end up in it!”
I winced, but did not let it show. Yes, I am correct; yes, there is no apology I may make.
Ahead, the yeomen warders slowed. I realised we had come far enough towards Middle Temple to be at our destination—Prince Henry’s room, as it had been known before his accession; set aside for meetings of the council of the Duchy of Cornwall. The arrival cut off any possibility of converse with Mlle Dariole: I regretted that, with a sick ache that was part heart-ache, part hangover.
The house stood on the south side of Fleet Street, the Prince’s room at the front, in the jettied first storey. I thought it a poor place from the outside: merely oak beams and plaster and a little carving. We dismounted and were escorted in, by men in Henry’s livery. Upstairs, they ushered us into a broad light room panelled in oak, the jewel of which was a great white ornamented plaster ceiling, the initials P and H and the Prince of Wales’ three feathers bold in the centre of the complex patterns. It was of a quality that a man might almost have thought commissioned by a Frenchman.
A long table stood down the centre of the room, uncomfortably reminiscent of the one used for cover in Wookey caves. As we entered, a small, hunched black figure rose to his feet.
Two of Cecil’s men accompanied us into the room. They spared no real attention for the two extra ronin—they are used to M. Saburo, I realised. And I am a useful distraction: the notorious duellist Rochefort…
I moved to the King’s side, with Mlle Dariole behind him. Painful as the admission may be, of the four of us, she is capable of defending herself far better than he.
I had expected a cry of “Arrest the pretender!” the moment we entered the building. None came. And still none comes, I thought. Although there may still be one before we leave. But for the moment, Mademoiselle Dariole’s play-borrowing works. Dear God.
Finding myself beginning to sweat, I smiled sardonically, wishing myself also safe from being seen, beneath Nihonese head-gear.
The diminutive Robert Cecil received Saburo’s bow. There was no sign of the Prince—or King—yet; that did not surprise me. Henry leaves Cecil to sound us out, first.
And where is Doctor Robert Fludd?
Cecil seated himself as the samurai did. As I moved forward and took my place behind Saburo’s chair, beside the King, there was a great deal of ruffling between myself and Cecil’s gentlemen, of the kind that goes unnoticed by any man who has not been bodyguard or gentleman-in-waiting to some powerful man. M. Saburo grunted to himself—in a European, I thought, it would have been laughter.
“If I may open proceedings unusually,” Robert Cecil remarked, a little dry. “Why is the Ambassador from the Japans accompanied by Monsieur de Rochefort?”
He looked no different from when I had seen him on Henry’s ceremonial barge: thin, hunched, eyes preternaturally bright, all his posture speaking power and confidence. I bowed, as a French gentleman should, speedily collecting my thoughts.
“Milord, because I have been in the King’s company from the masque at Wookey to this day: I can witness that he is indeed no impostor.” I looked at him steadily. “That it is indeed James Stuart, First of England and Sixth of Scotland, who has taken up his stand in the armoury of the Tower. And,” I added, “it is the father who will give joy to his son, when the Prince beholds him alive again.”
Cecil placed the tips of his pale fingers together. “Or—forgive me, Master Rochefort—it is an actor who resembles the late King, by whom rebellion can be fomented against King Henry.”
“The King will prove himself, Seso-sama,” Saburo interjected politely. “When he consider it right.”
I gave a shrug, holding Cecil’s gaze. “Once you lay eyes on him, milord, the matter is done. Prince Henry’s regrettable error can be rectified. And the less judicious counsellors to the young Prince, such as Master Fludd, can be relieved of their posts and held to account.”
Cecil frowned, very slightly, the long features moving into something lugubrious. “You are too much involved in this, Master Rochefort. Pardon my unusual frankness, but there are undoubtedly Catholics in France who would welcome confusion about the succession to the English throne, especially with the Huguenots in disarray as they now are.”
Something has happened, I thought, coldness tightening in my belly. What? To the Duke my master?
“Here you are, in conjunction with another dead monarch,” Cecil remarked, his voice clipped. He fixed dark eyes on me. “I warn you, Master Rochefort: if I find the slightest evidence that you were connected with the accident that took the late King James from us, I will have your entrails out of your body, and your head on London-bridge, whether the court at St Germain likes it or no!”
Suppressed anger burned in his voice. That and the whiter patches on his cheeks would have put me in fear, if I had been the man he thought me.
Things being as they were, I felt warmly pleased. I did not catch James’s eye, fearing he might betray the masquerade too soon.
“Are you Catholic?” Cecil demanded.
“I am with your late Queen on this,” I said. “As to not making windows into men’s souls. A man’s religion is his own business, if indeed he has any religion. After the late wars in France, and my time in the Low Countries, I do not in the least care how a man prays to his God—or if he does. Milord, I am no hired Catholic assassin. I am here only as witness to the identity of the living James Stuart.”
Cecil’s expression, which had begun to relax, tightened almost imperceptibly. “If I were you, Master Rochefort, I should take care to depart from these shores while it is possible. King Henry is not liable to be merciful to men who play with his late father’s name and honour. Master Ambassador Saburo, I beg your pardon: this is not business with which I should interrupt your mission.”
Saburo grunted. “I’m only a humble captain of ashigaru, Lord Seso. Forgive an old soldier bluntness. We’ve no need to talk of will King Henry forgive this or that. Is no King Henry. Is King James, alive; I give word as a samurai.”
Cecil bowed his head, acknowledging the samurai. “While it’s true there were irregularities about the late King’s death—”
“You see.” Saburo planted his broad finger i
n the air, pointing at Cecil. “You’re magistrate. Judge. Investigate crime.”
The tiny man’s brows rose. More unguarded than I had yet seen him, he remarked, “Were I of the present King Henry’s party, or likewise were my lord Justice Coke, such a thing might be done. I am not. As matters stand, there is—forgive me, Master Ambassador—King Harry, Ninth of that name, King of England and Scotland, to whom we here owe our loyalty.”
“Not of the King’s party?” I got the question in bare moments before James Stuart spoke, catching him out of the corner of my eye opening his mouth. “Are you not Henry’s counsellor, Milord Secretary?”
“The young King has, as is natural, preferred the young men of his own party.” Cecil spoke deliberately to Saburo, as if the Nihonese man had asked the question. “It is possible we should debate various matters with the King of Japan. There may well be war with Spain before next spring. However, this is not to the point. I have been informed that this impostor-James came to the Tower of London out of a Southwark playhouse.”
A number of things came together in my mind, and sufficiently added themselves to her absence from the Tower. “Mistress Lanier told you that, milord.”
Still playing Fludd’s game for him, it seems.
Cecil looked up at me. I guessed him shaken by the events of the last week. He gave himself away as feeling irritated at having to speak with the Duc de Sully’s spy again.
“I cannot understand you, Master Rochefort. The Lanier woman’s evidence confirms all you have told me about a conspiracy to kill King James. She claims Master Fludd to be the chief mover.”
Ah, does she, indeed? Attempting to ride two horses together: that is rarely wise.
“Have you arrested him?” I put in.
“Doctor Fludd is not in London, it appears.”
Does he know this? Or….
I did not look at Dariole. I knew what she thought. Even Milord Cecil is not infallible.
Mr Secretary Cecil sat back in his chair, his white face paler in the bright room. Ill-tempered, he snapped, “You appear with this nonsensical player-king—”
Saburo lifted his head and fixed his gaze on Cecil. “Send your men out. Will discuss matters of confidence.”
“And your men, will they also withdraw?”
“They don’t speak English,” Saburo said—even-toned, I noted, as he lied himself black in the face. “Send away men, Seso-sama.”
Cecil hesitated a long moment. He lifted a hand, finally, signalling his two men to leave. Both burly men glanced at each other. The Secretary snapped, “Go!”
A longer moment of hesitation passed, on their parts; both then crossed the room and left. The carved oak door banged shut behind them.
Those are Henry’s men, I thought. Cecil isn’t trusted. Now there is a matter of interest.
Cecil spoke before Saburo could.
“Hear me, Master Ambassador. The evidence of a foreigner from the Japans, a French spy, and a woman playwright, will not suffice to prove conspiracy by an honest English Prince.”
In the sunlit room, with the noise of the distant crowd coming in through the glass windows, and the smell of fresh paint apparent from somewhere in the house, I set myself at attention, and looked down at the small, hunched man in his funereal black.
“It might serve to convict Master Fludd,” I said. “And that, besides ridding your lordship of a dangerous traitor, would have the advantage of putting you into the new King Henry’s good graces.”
Cecil looked flinty at me. “I am not of the war party. The Prince’s fledgling court was always composed of men opposed to myself and the late King. He has my lord of Northumberland and Sir Walter released from the Tower: there is his government.”
Saburo rested his hands on his belly. “He free condemned men, now he Emperor-King?”
“He is King: he has the royal seal.”
I felt James’s shoulder quiver against my arm. Setting myself to dumb insolence, I remarked, “Milord, you will of course have given the Prince his father’s seal as soon as the false news of James’s death was put about. I understand. Men love the rising sun.”
Cecil’s face became a frozen mask.
Saburo said, “If I were counsellor to bad prince, I should revolt and put other prince on the throne. James have other sons, yes? Younger sons? Might be guided by a wise counsellor?”
The temptation to put ten-year-old Prince Charles into his brother’s place must have gone through Robert Cecil’s mind, I thought. Even if only in those hours before dawn finally lightens the horizon.
I assumed an air of contempt. “You know the Prince attempted a murder of his father. Milord, you were at Wookey. You saw him stab the King!”
Cecil said, “I will not hear this.”
He did not appear to give it special emphasis, but it was audible in every corner of the room. His eyes were dark-ringed, I saw, even more than before. Sleeplessness? Worry? Grief? Planning rebellion?
Whose side is Mr Secretary on?
“You saw,” I repeated, “that the Prince is a young man who has no hesitation in killing with his own hands. That he is an attempted parricide. And that, if not for what we concocted between us at Wookey, he would most certainly be a parricide. Is this a fit prince for you to serve?”
I spoke with a degree of moral outrage, hoping Mr Secretary involved enough in his own affairs not to mention the sons of Catherine de Medici, those Valois kings whom a man must have served simply because they were legitimate kings.
“I will not listen to you, monsieur.” Robert Cecil looked wearily up at me. I knew him for ill or desperate: he would never let so much of his mind be visible otherwise.
I ticked options on the gloved fingers of my right hand. “With Henry gone, you might be Regent for Charles. The situation here in England, now, is as it is in France, with Marie de Medici and King Louis. Charles is only a year older than Louis. But with Henry as King, you will be out of office as soon as your usefulness here in these talks is done. Henry will put his own men in your place: you will no longer govern England as you did under King James.”
Cecil flushed, pale spots of heat appearing high up on his cheeks. “The late King and I worked together! We worked to make this kingdom prosperous, peaceful—no war with Spain, with France, with the Dutch; peace for all men! Worked as two oxen in harness, Monsieur Rochefort; as your King Henri and your Sully did. And what was James Stuart’s reward? To be called coward! Even by your Sully!”
Robert Cecil took a breath, in the echoing silence. His small hands made fists where they rested on the beeswax-polished surface of the table.
“I will not betray James’s memory,” he said stiffly. “Henry is a legitimate son of James and Anne. Believe me, if I could put a counsellor at his side who would counsel him against this ‘Protestant Crusade,’ I would! If I hold some remnant of influence, it may be that in the future…. And I might at least have brought down this Robert Fludd, had you not set about ruining your honesty as witnesses to his treachery by bringing some player-impostor into London with you! It is an insult to King James’s memory; it hurts my efforts to remove this parasite from his son; you are a fool, Rochefort!”
I bowed. Robert Cecil’s chair scraped back on the bare boards. He slammed his hands down on the table, his eyes black and wrecked in a face paler than usual with visible fury. “I will have you hanged, drawn and quartered, spy! You might have saved him. For what other reason were you at his side, in the masque? To keep the King alive! Not to run and save your own skin! If I’d not been fool enough to put my trust in you, James might be alive today!”
Equally loudly, I snarled, “Men may say I have given you a chance, milord, and you fail to exploit it! Any other man might have been Regent for the young Prince Charles by now—widowed Queen Anne is no Marie de Medici! You are enough of a politician to put yourself in the Queen Regent’s position, here!”
“I will not hear this!”
“Because I speak your secret thought?”
Slowly, Robert Cecil seated himself.
He spoke out of a brittle calm. “You over-estimate me, Monsieur Rochefort. I am not as clever as a Frenchman. I cannot manage such treachery.”
He leaned forward; there might have been no other but he and I in the room.
“Is that what this impostor is—a matter for blackmail? You think I feather my nest with King Henry, and thus I’ll be rid of you and your player-king both with purses of gold? Is that it?”
I gave him an insouciant shrug. “And if it is?”
The small man gave me a look of such contempt that, even knowing it undeserved, I coloured to my ears.
Cecil said, “James Stuart and I worked on his Great Contract with Parliament, which legislation I believe we would have passed this autumn. That, alone, was a delicate and difficult matter, worth more than your understanding can comprehend. I do not foresee what will happen now between Henry and the Commons, but I fear for this country. And you, you have thrown us into this, because you thought to become rich by betraying the man I set you to guard with your life!”
Neither Saburo nor Dariole stirred; I believe they barely breathed. I felt James Stuart shift from foot to foot beside me. Only a little more, sire….
“You’re a fool,” Cecil said bitterly.
He stood, and limped around the length of the table, until he stood before me, looking up. There was no consciousness in his eyes of the difference in our stature.
“You’re a spy, and assassin, and traitor. A fool,” Cecil repeated, his voice suddenly weary. “But at least you’ll be executed for it. God He knows, I wish I had struck you through with a sword when first I saw you. I am a fool.” He absently muttered, as he turned away, “A fool. And likewise King James, for dying thus. A fool.”
He spoke absently, as if he spoke his thought aloud; I thought he did not know he had said it. Illness, sleeplessness, and bitter worry all left tracks in his lined face and stooped, hunched spine. I began to turn, to open my mouth to say Your Majesty, please, now is the time.