by Robert Nye
‘Captain Thomas Stukeley,’ I said politely.
My cousin kept on smiling. ‘Stukeley Baron Ross,’ he said. ‘Viscount Murrough. Earl of Wexford. Marquis of Leinster. The Duke of Ireland. My father.’
‘Quite so,’ I said.
There was a pause. I had to look away from my kinsman’s smile. There were great vessels looming in the darkness at anchor all around us now as we made our way ever eastward through the Pool. Sam had no need to urge on the watermen. They were rowing flat out. I saw the white face of the Tower up ahead.
‘These were once my father’s clothes,’ said Stukeley. I said nothing.
‘My father was King Harry’s son,’ said Stukeley. I looked back at him. His eyes were cold and blazing, his lips still twisting in that crazy smile.
‘My father was Prince Thomas,’ Stukeley said.
*
I never met this madman, Thomas Stukeley. He ruffled it at Elizabeth’s Court before my time, when I was still a penniless youth just up from the West Country. Later, I heard that his inordinate pride, his vanity, and his ambition were considered an amusement, rather than an insult to the Court. As for his titles - none of them was real. They were all of them self-assumed, or showered on him by England’s enemies after he turned traitor. The Queen herself referred to him only once in my hearing, and that with laughter. Stukeley told her, she said, that in quitting England, he was determined to be recognised as a prince before he died. ‘I hope,’ said Elizabeth ironically, ‘that you will let us hear from you, when you are settled in your own principality.’ ‘I will write unto your Majesty,’ Stukeley said. ‘And how will you address me?’ asked Elizabeth. Oh! in the proper style,’ Thomas Stukeley said, solemnly. ‘To our dear sister….’
*
‘So there’s royal blood in these veins,’ my cousin cried, biting his fingernails.
‘Blood will out,’ I said.
Stukeley clawed at my cloak.
‘You believe it then, Sir Walter? That my father was Prince Thomas? That my father was great King Harry’s bastard son?’ We slipped past the Tower.
We pressed on fast down river towards Wapping. ‘I believe he was a bastard, sir,’ I said.
*
I should note that Sir Lewis Stukeley’s knighthood is real enough. He got himself beknighted by being one of the first to rush north to kiss King Jamie’s arse as the Scotch king made his way down to England while Elizabeth’s corpse was still warm. James scattered titles like confetti in the course of that progress.
*
The boat that pursued us must have come from the Tower. It would have been waiting there, lying close to the wharf by St Thomas Tower inlet. I never noticed it. Such a crowd of tall ships in the dark. Besides, Sir Lewis Stukeley did his work so well. He diverted my attention. He engaged me all the way to Shadwell Stairs with his boasts and his nonsense about his father. I insulted his family, he said. I was a sneerer, a scoffer, an atheist. Yet, in his magnanimity, he forgave me. He found it possible, having a quarter-royal heart, to forgive me all. He was my cousin, my true friend. Had he not endured much uncalled-for contempt and suspicion at my hands? He had suffered all silently, and with patience. I had tricked him. I had basely counterfeited sickness. He, great Harry’s grandson, could pardon me even that. And now I knew his true worth, the depth of his love and compassion. He had proved himself to me as an honest man. More even than kinsmen, we were brothers. He embraced me. He kissed me on the cheek. I said: ‘What makes you think I counterfeited sickness?’
Stukeley chuckled. ‘The little Frenchman told me.’
What?’
‘Dr Manourie. He told me the whole thing.’
The ague seized me. And something worse than ague I can’t name. I was shaking all over. My hands gripped the sides of the wherry with such fierceness that I heard my knuckles crack.
‘When?’ I cried. ‘When did the Frenchman tell you “the whole thing”?’
‘At Hertfordbridge,’ my cousin answered amiably.
My head swam. Then all clicked suddenly into place. Why Stukeley had made no protest when I asked him to let Sam ride on ahead to London. Why he had consequently come to me in such high spirits. Why the guard had been tightened at Staines. Why he had even been prepared to shake my hand. By then he had known there was no death in it. How he must have laughed at me with Manourie! There had been no extra orders from the King. The watchdogs in my room, no doubt, their joint idea My cousin and the Frenchman, hand-in-glove. To make sure that Stukeley stayed by me on the way down river. To what end?
The answer was both obvious and horrible.
To discredit me. To have me caught in the very act of running away. To make perfect my ruin.
I pushed my cousin from me. I turned and looked back. We were passing the Isle of Dogs. The second wherry was following us. And behind the second wherry I saw the third.
*
I knew that I was done for. The Indian was shouting to me through the murk. He was pointing behind him. He had noticed the pursuing vessel also. He was spurring his watermen on. But the third vessel was bigger and stronger than either of our two. It was plain she could overtake us whenever she liked.
‘How much did you pay the Frenchman?’ I demanded.
My cousin looked shocked.
‘Sir Walter, you still do not trust me?’
If I had been carrying a sword, I swear (God forgive me) that I would have run him through the heart. But I had no
sword. And Stukeley’s heart I would not have found it,
anyway.
‘I didn’t pay him anything,’ he said. ‘Dr Manourie is an honourable gentleman. He volunteered the information he gave me. He could see how you needed my assistance to escape.’ I knew he was lying. I recalled the rewards that the honourable gentleman had already had from me. Once more I had trusted a cheat, a liar, a serpent. Perhaps if I had offered that foul Manourie something larger than a £50 pension? But the thought is worse than futile. Traitors take pleasure from their treasons. Some are born to betray, others to be betrayed left, right, and centre. I am of the latter company, and there’s an end to it.
*
‘Shall I kill him?’ Sam said.
He had overheard what Stukeley had told me, of course.
He had made his way between the watermen, still pulling valiantly for all they were worth.
He was standing behind my cousin.
His bare hands were extended.
I would like your permission to strangle him, Admiral,’ Sam said.
*
Stukeley was struggling to unsheathe the black-hilted sword.
‘Cousin, your fellow does me wrong! You see this sword? This was my fathers sword— I assure you that I know well how to use it! But you still don’t understand I am with
you now because I am your friend! I protest before God and his angels—’
‘Don’t,’I said.
‘What?’ Sam and Stukeley said the word in unison. ‘Don’t touch him,’ I told Sam.
‘Don’t presume to tell God the same lies you are telling to me,’ I snapped at Stukeley. ‘But, cousin—’
‘You are my friend, cousin Lewis,’ I said. ‘And I see with my own eyes those other friends of mine you have brought along to see me safely off to France.’
I pointed to the third boat. She was maintaining her distance behind the wherry that held the Indian and my page and the odious Dr Manourie.
‘Good Christ!’ Stukeley blustered. ‘What a coward you are turning out to be! You imagine that vessel is following us?’
I know it is following us, cousin Lewis.’
Stukeley’s face set in a pout of pretended disdain. ‘Then I am ashamed, Sir Walter. Ashamed to have risked my life, my name, my fortune, to assist a man who shakes at shadows. I assure you we shall reach Gravesend. We shall board the ketch all ready waiting. We shall—’
‘We shall turn back now,’ I said.
I ordered the watermen to stop rowing. I made them turn about.
We rowed back up river. Sam said nothing. There was nothing left to say.
*
When we got to the second wherry I explained all in few words. The Indian wanted to dash Manourie’s brains out with an oar. I told him I did not need this. Robin was weeping. The Frenchman crouched, staring at his shoes. I only looked at him once.
The third boat had come to a halt.
I ordered the watermen to row up to her.
We effected that passage in five minutes. Our two wherries moving up Thames side by side.
Stukeley tried to stand beside me in the bow of our wherry. Sam pushed him so that he went sprawling.
‘You’ll regret that,’ Stukeley promised.
Then he started giggling.
‘You fool,’ my cousin cried. ‘Fool! Fool! I fooled you!’ He lay on his back in the wherry. He was kicking his legs in the air. He was consumed with his own merriment.
‘Do you think I did all this just for money? Of course not! Though the money is good, all the same. But I am a gentleman, Sir Walter. I mean: a real gentleman. A man of honour! A man with King Harry’s blood in him! And you!’ Stukeley spat at me. ‘You, Sir Walter Ralegh, you are no body I What are you? Muck and common clay, a pocky peasant! A brute bumpkin shit whose only claim to glory came from bedding my grandfather’s daughter! I hate you. I despise you. I always hated and despised you, all my life. What got you to the top? Your prick! That’s all. My aunt Elizabeth’s little carnal weakness! Bloody Walter Ralegh and his proud prick! I shall be seeing it in Madrid, don’t worry, cousin! When they hang you naked and you get your last erection!’
*
Sam begged me to let him kick Stukeley. I told him not to soil his muddy boots.
*
There was dim light beginning as the King’s men leaped down with drawn swords and lanterns from the third vessel.
I looked at them. Hats with high crowns and wide brims. The Yeomen of the Guard. I was once their Captain. I recognised none of them. But they stood aside. They saluted. They sheathed their swords.
They let me climb the ladder unaccompanied.
Stukeley scrambled up after me.
‘Sir Walter Ralegh,’ he shouted, ‘I arrest you in the name of King James!’ I looked at him.
‘Sir Lewis Stukeley,’ I said, ‘these actions will not turn out to your credit.’
*
So they brought me here to the Tower, coming in through the Traitors’ Gate which lies open to the Thames. I was searched and an inventory was made of my possessions.
£50 in coin.
A spleen stone.
One ring with a diamond which I wear on my finger. Queen Elizabeth’s gift. The Tower Lieutenant allows me to keep it.
A map of the Orinoco.
The little grinning gold devil the Indian gave me.
An ounce of ambergris.
A lodestone in a scarlet purse.
One lump of Guiana ore with no gold in it.
A miniature of Bess.
That was it. That’s all.
51
11 September
A month has passed. A month in the ultimate prison. I don’t mean the Tower. I am locked in the prison of myself.
As to the Tower Mr Lieutenant has treated me with kindness. First I was permitted to share his own lodgings. Bess, granted one visit, took away in her petticoats that last chapter describing my arrest. I shall not write down the present provenance of all that I had written formerly. (Because I know that whatever I write now can be spied upon at ease.) Sufficient to say that those papers were safely secreted before I left Broad Street on my way to be betrayed by Sir Lewis Stukeley. And that any wretch who, reading this, tears my wife’s house apart in searching for them is wasting quite good granite and his time. One day Carew may read them. That’s enough.
Sam King, Robin, and the Indian were arrested with me. Sam and Robin were released a week ago, after every attempt to persuade them to testify against me had failed. It was a sad parting. I know I shall not see them again in this world.
By order of the King, I was then moved to a cell in the Wardrobe Tower. The Indian was kept in the cell next to me. Yesterday, a third move. I am back in the Brick Tower, where I began. I mean: so many years ago, after my marriage. The selfsame room. With the Indian again next door. I do not know the purpose of these removals. Nor why the innocent Christoval is being kept. The Lieutenant (who seems honest) says that it may be to satisfy the Spanish Ambassador. Gondomar must intend that Christoval will be dispatched along with me to Madrid, and then perhaps returned to Guiana to bear witness that I was indeed executed with the appropriate ignominy.
Sometimes he is allowed into my cell to talk with me. Of course, these conversations are overheard by well-trained ears in the walls. I am a fool, but I have not spent so many years of my life in this Tower without learning something of its ways. Everything I say will be listened to. Everything I write here will be read. The fact holds no fears for me. I have nothing to hide. I am no traitor.
Nor is Christoval.
His company is some comfort.
We can talk freely, because we have nothing to hide.
*
King James has once more proved himself the most generous and thoughtful of monarchs. This very night - realising my loneliness, no doubt, and my lack of opportunity for discourse with honourable men of my own high rank and station - he has sent no less a personage than Sir Thomas Wilson, Keeper of the State Papers, to occupy the cell on my other side. Not as a prisoner, of course. Just to provide me with a little fellowship. An amiable, intelligent man. A man of the most acute intelligence. His wit and his bearing afford me the keenest delight.
We were able to swap news for many hours. He was kind enough to tell me that much evidence has been collected already by their Lordships of his Majesty’s Privy Council -enough to hang me twice, as he wittily remarked - but that despite all this, his most Excellent Majesty might still be prepared to grant me some partial pardon in return for a full confession of my crimes.
The King’s munificent goodness touched me to the quick.
I was quite overcome with emotion.
It pained me to have to tell Sir Thomas Wilson that I could never repay his most Excellent Majesty’s generosity, being poor, being wretched, being miserable, and having nothing whatsoever to ‘confess’.
*
Sir Thomas Wilson tells me that my wife has been confined to Broad Street. I am grateful indeed that King James takes such kind thought for her safety. God knows, King James has no more loyal subjects than Bess and myself. It pleases me to learn that his Majesty knows what God knows. (I am not surprised by their affinity, of course.) God save the King!
God save England from England’s enemies! God save Sir Walter Ralegh, Englishman!
52
19 September
Yesterday, Sir Thomas Wilson, Keeper of the State Papers, good companion to me here in my misery in the Tower, took pity on my several earnest entreaties and most graciously permitted me to scribble a few lines to be delivered to Bess. It was raining.
But he bore the note to Broad Street himself.
O damp compassionate knight!
*
I wrote as follows:
Dear Wife—
I am sick and weak. This honest gentleman Sir Thomas Wilson is my keeper and takes much pain with me. My swollen side keeps me in perpetual pain and unrest. God comfort us.
Yours,
W.R.
*
This morning the same kind attentive Sir Thomas has brought me back her letter in reply.
That letter reads:
Dear Hosban—
I am sorry to hear amongst many discomforts that yor health is so ill. It is meerly sorrow and greaf that with wind has gathered intoyor side. I hope yor health and comforts will mend and mend us for God. I am gladd to heer you have the company and comfort of so good a Keeper. I was something dismayed at the first that you had no servant ofyor own left you, but I hear this honest Kn
ight is very necessary. God requite his courtesies and God in mercy look on us.
Yours,
E. Ralegh
*
This is absolute Bess. One cold eye, one warm. And she never could spell. And she never would take my pains seriously. I swear my swollen liver is real enough. Why, I have not been able to open my bowels for 22 days without benefit of clysters Yet here is my dear wife dismissing my ailment as imaginary, saying that it can all be put down to ‘wind’ and mere ‘sorrow and grief
I revere her for her coolness.
At the same time, she infuriates me.
*
I wept when I read what Bess had written. Then I said to Wilson: ‘My wife sent me no medicines?’ He shook his head. Then he said:
‘To be honest, if she had, I could not have permitted you to drink them.’ ‘Why ever not?’
‘Sir Walter, in case Lady Ralegh sent you something to poison yourself!’ I smiled.
‘Sir Thomas, if I wished to kill myself I would not need poisons. If I had a mind to commit suicide, I should dash my head a dozen times against that wall over there, until I stood and watched my brains run down! Do you think I couldn’t do it?’
The Keeper of the State Papers (and me) began to look frightened.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I trust in God’s mercy. And the
King’s.’
He nodded with relief.
‘Suicide is a very great sin,’ he said piously. ‘A mortal sin against the fifth commandment.’
I remembered poor Keymis. I said nothing.
Wilson was clearing his throat. ‘Sir Walter, your lady wife did send something else by me. I suppose I can give it to you. To be honest—’
‘Yes, yes, you are invariably honest—’
‘Thank you. Well, I have had an apothecary test the substance. It seems harmless enough.’ He held out a plain box. I opened it.
The box contained a little dish filled to the brim with fresh green gooseberry creams.
*
I dip in my fingers and pick out a gooseberry to savour as I write.
God bless you, Bess Throgmorton. God keep you, Elizabeth Ralegh.