by Peter Tonkin
*
Supper came and went in a series of removes which Poley ate but hardly tasted and had he been asked later what he actually consumed, he would have had almost no idea. Conversation swirled around him but he heard little and spoke less. He had acquaintances who indulged in new-fangled ideas from Italy, such as forks. But Poley was staunchly traditional in this as in much else. Dagger and digits were good enough as mealtime tools for him, with sauces and gravies sopped up by the trenchers of bread on which the courses were served; finger bowls and napkins as required to keep hands, faces, beards and clothing clean. Such was his preoccupation, however, that he was lucky he didn’t find himself consuming morsels of his own fingers. Especially as the dagger, borrowed from Cuffe, had a blade as sharp as a razor.
Called out of his brown study by the noise of bagpipes, he looked up to see that the evening’s entertainment had begun. Two of St Lawrence’s Irish followers were performing a sword dance with crossed blades unsheathed and gleaming wickedly on the floor while their flashing feet were bare and their toes at serious risk. It was the sound, however, more than the vision which recalled him to himself.
To discover that the companion on his left hand was deep in an earnest conversation he could not remember starting or participating in. ‘Therefore I owe Master Cuffe almost as much in goodwill as Master Cuffe vows that he owes to you…’ The conversant’s voice just rose above the tortured-cat screaming of the Irish pipes.
‘Master Cuffe is too kind,’ said Poley automatically. ‘He owes me nothing.’
‘I believe he would beg to differ…’
‘Well, well, let it rest.’ Poley abruptly realised he was probably talking to a member of the Secretariat that he planned on joining. The man was wearing Essex’s crest and was clearly a friend of Cuffe’s. His interest stirred. ‘Tell me, what is your function within the household?’
‘Why, I am one of the Earl’s secretaries,’ his companion confirmed.
Poley’s neighbour was younger than Cuffe by a couple years and seemed almost equally as innocent, judging by his wide eyes and open expression. ‘So you work for Sir Henry Wotton? Or is it Sir Anthony Bacon? Or, perhaps, both?’
‘Each, I would say. Both might lead one to infer that they share their responsibilities. But in fact, each is fiercely independent of the other and there is, as they say, no love lost between them.’
‘But they each make similar demands, Master… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name amongst the skirling of the pipes.’
‘I am Thomas Legge. As I was saying, I was at one time a student of Master Cuffe’s at Oxford, and he has done me the good office of recommending me to the Earl for employment here, even though our ways have been parted for ten years and more. So, to answer your question straight: we members of the Secretariat each have our particular areas of expertise.’
‘I see. And are you all the Earl’s men – as your badges would suggest – or might someone from the Leicester household gain employment alongside you?’
‘That would require some negotiation, I suppose. But I believe, if the speciality was seen as sufficiently vital, exceptions could be made. We are all on the same side, after all.’
‘So, Master Legge, may one enquire, what is your speciality? I would guess an Oxford man and student of Master Cuffe’s must be involved in communications written in Latin or Greek.’
‘Not so! I handle much of the communications with Denmark. I have visited Copenhagen, Aarhus, Skanedebourg; and Elsinore, the court of the late King Frederick who died in Armada Year.’
‘An unusual experience.’ Poley was genuinely surprised. He had taken messages to Elsinore and Copenhagen himself and supposed his involvements there must be rare, perhaps unique. ‘May one ask how you achieved it?’
‘I am related to George Bryan, Groom to the Chamber,’ Legge explained, ‘who was at one time a player with the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.’
‘He did well to leave them. Acting is a corrupt and sinful profession. But I do not see the relevance…’
‘It has its uses, I believe. It plays games with truth and reality, does it not? Such games can be of vital moment given the right situation. However, my cousin George Bryan and I accompanied Will Kempe the famous clown soon after I came down from Oxford. We two, Will Kempe and Thomas Pope who has remained an actor, all travelled together when Kempe toured the Low Countries and Denmark in the two years before Armada Year. I was little more than travelling companion and auditor; holding the prompt book as occasion dictated. But I became fluent in the Danish tongue and…’ Legge’s voice tailed off, as though he was suddenly worried that he might be giving too much away.
‘… and conversant with the Danish court perhaps,’ Poley prompted. ‘At Elsinore. In the year before the princess, Anne of Denmark, became wife to King James and thus the Queen of Scotland.’ He lowered his voice although well aware that the bagpipes made it near inaudible in any case. ‘And, some might wish, Queen of England in reality and in due course.’
*
‘Indeed.’ Legge blinked rapidly as though Poley had slapped his face. He paused for a moment, frowning. Then he continued, ‘I was fortunate in getting to know Prince Christian who was a lad of some ten years old in those days. And by chance also I came to know Jorgen Rozenkrantz who was among the Regent Council that held power on the Prince’s behalf, after his father King Frederick died, until he was old enough to assume the throne himself.’
‘An almost miraculous turn of fortune, friend Legge. To know old King Frederick, father to the Scottish Queen, and her young brother, now King Christian - as well as the most important member of the Regency Council - who remains, I believe, a power in the land! But still, I have heard of this man Kempe and his mission to the court at Elsinore. There are those who believe he was employed by Sir Francis Walsingham as a spy, which might explain the breadth and depth of your own acquaintance amongst such important personages.’
‘Cousin George and I knew nothing about such things…’ Legge’s frown deepened.
‘However you came by the knowledge, you learned the language and the names of men and women at the court,’ Poley persisted smoothly. ‘Yes. I can see how such acquaintance would prove useful to the Earl; perhaps even vital under some circumstances. No-matter how innocently it was obtained.’
The pipes fell silent and the men who had performed the sword-dance retired to count their toes amid generous applause loud enough to stop Legge giving any reply. Gelly Meyrick rose. He signalled to Thomas Gerrard who also rose. Both men walked round to the clear space in front of the tables that had just been vacated by the sword-dancers. The manner in which they were easing their shoulders warned Poley that they were about to fight an exhibition bout. Their doublets were removed. Four line-judges took up positions at the corners of the makeshift piste. The director of the bout brought their rapiers in. Each man took his weapon and extended the loosening of his shoulders by wielding the lengthy blades. They each started stepping forward and back to ease the muscles of their thighs and calves. Then, at a word from the director they stopped.
Both men formally saluted each other. They turned to the three ladies and bowed once to each. They turned back and fell into their preferred positions as the director called ‘En garde!’ All conversation stilled and an atmosphere of tension settled on the room. As had been the case with the swords for dancing, both of these blades were naked. The director called ‘Engage!’
At the first bell-like ringing as the blades crossed each other, Poley sat back, frowning. Meyrick had bowed to Lady Frances, Lady Lettice and Lady Janet. But his threatening gaze had been unwaveringly fixed on him.
This was not an exhibition bout at all. It was a threat.
Although the fire had burned low, Poley’s room was still hot when he reached it an hour later. Even so, his preparations for the night involved only the removal of his doublet, but not his belt or shoes. When he pulled the curtains surrounding his bed back, he was still holding his borrowed dagger
and regretting the disappearance of his sword. Only when he was satisfied that he was alone and slid the bolt securing the door home did he wash his face and hands in the ewer of water by the bed, make use of the chamber pot, snuff the candles and the lamps – all except one which he left burning on his bedside table beside his naked dagger. Then he made sure that the bed-curtains were tied back as tightly as possible, lay down on the coverlet and stayed awake for a while, watching the red shadows begin to gather like congealing blood as the light from the fire died, all his attention focussed on the door.
It was the gentle tapping that awoke him. Gentle tapping rather than the full-scale assault from Gelly Meyrick and his cohorts he had been expecting. Nevertheless, as he swung his legs off the bed, he caught up his dagger as well as the low-burning candle. He crossed to the door as swiftly and silently as creaking floorboards allowed, still half convinced this was some kind of trick. ‘Yes?’
‘Master Poley?’ A woman’s voice. To set him at ease before Meyrick’s trap was sprung?
‘Yes. And you are?’ He whispered in return.
‘Agnes Alnwick. My mistress wishes conference with you.’
‘Your mistress?’
‘Lady Janet Percy.’
*
Poley’s door was secured by a simple bolt which he slid back without difficulty using his dagger-hand. The door whispered open an inch or two and there, standing alone in the corridor outside was a young woman. The candle she was holding showed an anxious expression. So, thought Poley, maybe I’m not the only one at risk here. He pulled the door wider with his foot, stepped out, glancing up and down the corridor to satisfy himself that it was empty, slipped the dagger into his belt and pulled the door to. ‘Lead on, Agnes,’ he whispered.
The route between the two rooms was lengthy, the corridors and stairwells dark and silent except for their shielded candle-flames and hushed footsteps. It was also direct and easy to remember. At last Agnes stopped at a door and tapped it just as she had tapped at his. ‘Come!’ came a quiet order. Agnes pushed the door and the pair of them stepped in.
Poley found himself in a room that was at once larger and warmer than his but was a reception room rather than a bedchamber. There were candles on every surface. The fire had not been allowed to die down. Lady Janet sat at the outer edge of the flickering light and stultifying heat. She was ready for bed, dressed in modest night attire, several layers deep. Which was a relief to Poley who had, for a moment imagined he might discover her as Essex had discovered the Queen; or – worse – in the state in which he had last seen Joan Yeomans in private. In which state she had filled his imagination more than once of late.
Another case of self-delusion, he thought as he paused inside the door and made his bow, holding the candle well clear. Nevertheless, his heart was pounding and his mouth was dry.
‘May I entertain you, sir?’ Lady Janet asked, nodding towards a table that contained a bottle and two glasses as he straightened.’
‘If you please, Lady Janet.’
Lady Janet gestured to Agnes who put down her candle and poured two substantial measures from the bottle. She passed one glass to Poley who also put his candle down and took it. She passed the other to her mistress, who sipped appreciatively at once.
Poley did the same and was lucky not to choke.
‘It is a particularly potent uskebeagh from Scotland, a little north of my own home on the Borders,’ Lady Janet explained, amused at the sight of his streaming eyes. ‘You had best be seated before the full impact hits you.’ As Poley obeyed, she continued, ‘Leave us, Agnes.’
‘You wished to see me, Lady Janet,’ said Poley as Agnes hurried obediently out of the room and he regained the power of speech.
‘That I do, Master Poley. But we had better not linger, I think. My reputation is likely suffering more damage that it can readily bear every second that you remain in my private chamber. You a notable swordsmith, according to Master Yeomans at least. And myself unchaperoned.’ Lady Janet sounded not in the least worried by her position or Poley’s reputation. She appeared to be amused, if anything, he thought. She sipped once more.
‘You have a message for me, My Lady?’
‘Not a message. Not as such.’
‘Then what?’ Poley snapped; only to realise as he spoke that it was he, not she, who was feeling the pressure here. And the impact of the uskebeagh. So he modified the rudeness of his sharp riposte by adding, ‘By your leave…’
Lady Janet inclined her head in mute forgiveness of the solecism.
‘What is your purpose in calling me here?’ he continued. ‘Damage to your reputation or no. Have you a message to give me?’ He sipped the fiery liquid again as she considered her reply.
‘You stand in no need of any obvious intercourse from me, Master Poley. And in truth, I have little to give you that is clear.’
‘Then what, my Lady?’
‘A moment’s reflection must show you that I have knowledge which could only have come from one source…’
‘Master Yeomans’ testimony before the Star Chamber…’
‘And that fact alone should make plain to you that my presence here is not without purpose. That what is happening has been caused to happen. And if that is so, then it has been caused in the expectation of an outcome. One dictated by the originator of the circumstances in which you currently find yourself. But then, by extension, the possibility that this originator must at all costs remain demonstrably unattached and innocent of any outcomes which might follow any action you might choose to take.’
Poley remained silent. His mind turned Lady Janet’s wilfully obscure statements over and over. She might suppose that what she said and how she said it went some way to ensuring secrecy but in truth everything seemed as light as day. Poley was caught in a web of Master Secretary’s weaving. On the one hand, Cecil required Essex be destroyed. On the other, Poley had to engineer matters in such a way that Cecil was demonstrably innocent of any involvement whatsoever. And the word ‘engineer’ was the right one. For on the battlefield it was the engineers’ duty to tunnel in secret beneath the enemy’s lines and plant there petards that would blow their foemen all to atomies.
*
Poley stayed with Lady Janet until they had both finished their drinks but their conversation did not get any clearer. He had been on the point of telling her what he planned as his next step but even that simple revelation felt almost like a betrayal and so he revealed nothing. Not even when she asked him about the young man he had been in such animated conversation with over supper. Telling her a little about Master Legge’s adventures with Kempe the clown and the Danish court at Elsinore came as something of a relief. At least it had no obvious hidden meanings and did not tax his wits with a kind of spoken cypher. Especially as the Lady’s Scottish liquor was having an increasingly potent effect. And so, indeed, was her presence.
Not, he thought, as he returned towards his room later, his way lit by one of Lady Janet’s brightest candles, that he was left in any doubt as to her message for him. The two central points of the mission he was apparently embarked upon were simple. Master Secretary wished him to hasten Essex’s downfall and now more than ever. But at the same time Cecil must remain so far distanced from the outcome that no shadow of suspicion could ever touch him. To such an extent, indeed, that his messenger Lady Janet Percy, was only allowed to speak in riddles so torturous they might almost pass for code. And with good reason. The Queen remained as changeable as ever. There was no saying whether or when she would forgive Essex everything and destroy anyone who she could prove had been working against him. Eight doctors sent to tend his illness and a ninth bearing her special soup did not bode well for his continued disgrace, nomatter what it seemed to promise for his speedy recovery.
Further, even if the Queen refused to relent, it was only a question of time before Nature took its course and she was succeeded on the throne. Cecil knew all too well that her most likely heir was James of Scotland and it was rumou
red that Essex kept in a securely locked box, letters from James thanking the Earl for his support in the matter of the English throne and promising that he would do well under his rule when he succeeded. Inevitably, therefore, anyone His Majesty King James the First believed to have been working against such a valued ally would, again, face destruction. Hence the lack of disguise, the lack of cover, the lack of detailed briefing or organised support. If anything at all went wrong, he was most definitely on his own; eminently deniable.
And yet, despite the secrecy and prevarication - the simple bloody obfuscation – Poley felt as though he was a central cog at the heart of a vast machine being turned like some massive waterwheel by the unstoppable flood of events. Cecil needed to be able to deny him if he failed. But he also wanted to give him the tools he needed to succeed.
Poley had reached this point in his reasoning when he was stopped by sounds up ahead. Shielding the candle flame even more carefully, he crept forward. The sinister sounds were augmented almost at once by flickering light. Poley tip-toed silently up the last staircase separating him from the corridor that led to his room. Crouching down so that nothing more than his head would be visible, and that only to someone looking down at the passage floor, he peeped round the corner. He saw at a glance that his bedroom door was wide. Men were coming and going through it, their whispers echoing with near-hysterical excitement. The excitement he was used to hearing at the Bull-baiting, the Bear-baiting and the Cockpit. Men lusting to see blood spilled by the bucketful. He did not need to see more than their outlines and their shadows to know them. Gelly Meyrick and his acolytes, come to question the interloper. Making up in enthusiasm any finesse or technique of Rackmaster Topcliffe that they lacked.