by Peter Tonkin
‘Keep it to use against the Toad should circumstances…’ wondered Lawson.
‘No. We are too late. See the date: it was written years ago. All the world nowadays knows he has a pension from the Spanish court. He says he takes it so the Dons suppose he is in their pocket while in fact the opposite is true. It’s useless. Into the fire with it. But, in spite of the work we still have to do with my letters, I want you to go to Barn Elms tomorrow and ask Sir Henry to send over Henry Cuffe with any correspondence he wishes me to assess – and perhaps get rid of…’
Next afternoon, Poley was waiting as though by chance as Lawson returned from his mission with Cuffe in tow. Both men were laden with old correspondence for the spymaster to assess. Cuffe was enormously pleased to see that Poley was healing so well and, once the letters were delivered, he gossiped about doings at Barn Elms and Wanstead with that open-hearted innocence which made him such a valuable asset to the secret agent. As Cuffe settled into a routine of couriering Henry Wotton’s archives over to Twickenham section by section, so he and Poley fell into a routine of sharing a glass of sack and an apparently inconsequential conversation before his return to Barn Elms and Lady Frances.
It was as though Poley’s acuity returned in full strength as knowledge of the Lodge’s secrets grew and information about the doings in Barn Elms and Wanstead came in one drip at a time with Cuffe. His shoulders began to ease and his orbit began to move outside Twickenham; but never in company with Lawson or Petit. Never with messages from Sir Anthony, though that was less of a frustration now. At first he accompanied Sir Francis or was accompanied by one of his most trusted attendants – by the river and then by horseback to Barn Elms, where he was careful to wait outside, avoiding the all-too familiar household as much as possible. But he was never sent to Wanstead. That was a blessing. He did not mind being a shade in the background of conversations with Lady Frances or Sir Henry Wotton or even Sir Gelly Meyrick – and there was always Henry Cuffe, buoyantly pleased to see him at Barn Elms. But he would have found it hard to stand ready during conversations with Lady Lettice or his cousin Sir Christopher Blount, to whose household in Wanstead he really ought to have returned. But of course, whatever he could have learned at Wanstead was as nothing compared to what he could discover by remaining at the Lodge.
This was especially true as, like Poley’s shoulders, Essex’s strictures began to ease. With the spring came freedom for the Earl to walk in the gardens or on the leads around the roof of Essex House. Lady Frances was permitted more visits, and longer ones. He was strong enough in body to play at tennis; something Poley particularly envied. He was strong enough in mind to read plays and poetry, to discuss art, philosophy and politics. Poley wondered whether he was alone in seeing the possibility of danger here. The caged sparrow – and a sickly one at that – had returned to his accustomed form of an eagle. The cage that would hold the former would by no means hold the latter for any length of time. In due course, also - perhaps because the improvement in Essex’s situation made his supporters less wary of potential enemies - Poley was trusted by Sir Francis to carry letters and messages alone. But only as far as Gray’s Inn and with communications so anodyne they might well have been filed alongside his earlier correspondence with Denmark. Or, like so much else passing through Sir Anthony’s hands, thrown into the fire.
*
Then, as chance would have it, Gray’s Inn was where the gossip circulating amongst all the lawyers there, every man agog with it, pushed Poley towards the next step. It was something he found out about on one of his unaccompanied journeys. He was actually carrying a message to Sir Francis’s friend and colleague Nicholas Trott to be passed on to the men working on the Inn’s gardens, which were in a notably better state than those at Twickenham Lodge. But what he overheard led Poley to see the inevitability of the next phase of Essex’s destiny as it hurled towards the desperate Earl like some sort of massive wave towards a doomed ship. Sending Davers west to Mountjoy in Ireland had clearly been a step too far; particularly now that the Earl was fully recovered and fecund. It may even have been, speculated Poley, that his ability to do so had been yet another trap. Into which the Earl’s restored vigour and mounting frustration led him with a kind of inevitability. His action had clearly been reported to the Queen along with commentary detailing precisely what Essex had sent Davers to ask of the reluctant Mountjoy. His action begat a reaction as surely as his lying with Lady Frances begat another child.
The news that Gray’s Inn was bursting with was that the Earl was to face a Special Commission of seventeen judges in front of two hundred specially selected witnesses at York House in a hearing to be conducted by four Prosecutors. And this time Sir Francis would be major amongst them, friend to the Earl or not. At the Queen’s direct order. Whether he was willing or not. He protested loudly that he was forced into it against his will.
Poley was not so sure.
‘I must,’ whispered Sir Francis.
‘Because she orders it…’ Sir Antony’s tone verged on a sneer.
Someone tutted at the danger of the tone: Lawson, no doubt.
Poley stirred, moving a little closer to the window. This was the first time he had heard the brothers at odds like this. Perhaps these nocturnal visits to the garden and the trellis were an even better investment than he had supposed. Especially now that summer was drawing near and the nights were both dry and clement, allowing the casement to stand wide whether the fire was smoking or not.
‘Because she believes you are a part of all that she wishes hurled at Essex’s head!’ snapped Sir Francis. ‘You did have a hand in the Aoplogia that the Earl wrote and Cuffe passed to you in the year ’96 for polishing, editing and publishing. Which has been so recently and mysteriously republished and now begins to look like an argument for his own succession. Or so it does according to Master Secretary, Sir Walter Raleigh and their factions. But she also suspects you of knowing more than is safe about the banned book of Henry IV and the play of Richard II which she supposes are designed to show her as a weak monarch ripe to be replaced by a strong and decisive war-leader.’
‘We lodged for a while amongst scribblers and actors in Bishopsgate,’ Lawson reminded Sir Anthony.
‘You did, did you not?’ emphasised Sir Francis. ‘Even that is turned against you, innocent coincidence though it might have been. And over everything hang two fatal phrases which seem to have sprung to a life of their own – a life she supposes you have helped to animate: May not a monarch err? And Her conditions are as crooked as her carcase.’
‘And the upshot?’ Sir Anthony’s tone had changed.
‘The upshot is a simple one. Either I go to York House tomorrow or you go to the Tower. Tomorrow.’
Poley knew as well as Lawson and Sir Francis that a move to the Tower would bring death as swiftly and surely as Tom Derrick the headsman’s axe.
The next day dawned, bright and clear; the weather at striking odds with the increasingly thunderous atmosphere in Twickenham Lodge. Sir Francis rose before dawn and was gone before sunrise. But soon after he had departed, others concerned in the situation began to arrive – seeking news that no-one as yet possessed. First Dorothy, Countess of Northumberland and the elder of Essex’s sisters appeared, closely followed by Lady Lettice his mother. Both, of course, well attended. Lady Frances arrived soon after midday and Lady Penelope early in the afternoon, with Lady Janet Percy; also attended by members of the Rich household but thankfully a less threatening group than those who normally attended her.
*
It was, thought Poley, just as well that the common rooms, unlike the gardens, were still as they had been when the Queen herself visited Sir Francis late last year. His intelligence, shared with Cecil at the time, suggested that the Queen had come with a purpose to meet Sir Anthony – were he in residence – and to discuss John Hayward’s book of Henry IV, the reason the Earl had allowed Hayward to dedicate it to him, whether Sir Francis agreed that she was presented as Richard II th
erein with Essex as Bolingbroke – soon to become Henry IV – and how much longer the unfortunate author should languish in the Tower for having written such sedition in the first place.
Such a gathering of great ladies was a sight normally encountered only at court. But of course, today, the court was the last place on earth that the Earl’s female relatives wished to visit. In any case, thought Poley, remembering the last piece of gossip Henry Cuffe had passed on over a glass of sack, most of the ladies here present stood at various stages of Her Majesty’s sharp displeasure and were therefore banned from her presence.
Sir Anthony had no news to give them and directed that they be entertained with the best of food, drink and company that the Lodge could supply in the meantime. Lawson and Petit took over the running of the household – for a little while at least. It was not long before the bored and anxious women took over in turn and arranged things for themselves, tutting at a household run to ruin by having nothing but men in charge. The Devereux sisters snapped and bullied, treating everyone with thoughtless disdain. Lady Frances at least was courteous and Lady Lettice sought Poley out, expressed relief and satisfaction that he was so nearly whole again and promised to carry the happy news to Sir Christopher. But it was Lady Janet who sought and found an opportunity to be alone with him.
‘Her Majesty is set upon his destruction; for the moment at least?’ he asked as soon as he was certain they could not be overheard at the far end of the garden, down by the river bank. ‘Does she give with one hand and take away with the other, permitting him a little more freedom only for that freedom to lead him straight into court?’
‘Her current mood is that he still flies too high and she will bring him down to clip his wings.’ Janet answered. ‘So Master Secretary Cecil believes. And he also believes Sir Francis, while protesting his duty to the Earl, is actually serving himself and playing one side against the other. A dangerous game if so – he is as unpopular in London as is Cecil himself. But the commission at York House is not a court. It may censure the Earl of Essex but it may not condemn him as the Star Chamber could have done. As you have found out all too clearly yourself,’ she answered.
‘How so?’
‘It is very much the construct we might expect from a gifted lawyer; a trial that is not a trial before a court that is not a court, which may issue any punishment except a criminal sentence. Master Secretary will take part, of course, as he is directed, but it is not the outcome he hopes for in the fullness of time. At best it is but another step along the road.’
‘And yet, Sir Anthony at least is worried about where the road will lead to and how soon the end will be reached. When Her Majesty will make up her mind on the matter and settle to one unchangeable course. He is methodically winnowing both his own correspondence and the Earl’s – and burning any chaff that might prove dangerous should Essex and his associates actually face a full investigation and a real trial with their lives as well as their liberty at stake.’
‘Burning his letters? That is interesting and perhaps instructive. I will pass that information directly to Master Secretary himself.’
‘I believe that would be a wise move. Has he any specific instructions for me?’
Instead of answering, she changed the subject unexpectedly – prompted, Poley supposed, by earlier thoughts of Icarus and his waxen wings. ‘Are your hurts healed yet, Master Poley?’ Apparently without thought, she reached out to touch his shoulder. Both of them jumped. It was as though a tiny bolt of lightning had passed between them, flesh to fingertip, skin to skin, though the thickness of his clothes.
Lady Janet frowned. She had jerked her hand back from the intense sensation. Now she advanced it once more. Poley stood still, somehow robbed of breath and motion alike. This time her touch was firm, purposeful. The sensation was repeated but muted; almost a memory of the original. ‘There is something between us, Master Poley,’ she said, looking him full in the face from disturbingly close at hand. Her breath smelt sweetly of cloves, her person of a perfume he could not name. There were freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were moss green and the lashes framing them were thick and curling. Red, to match her hair which was styled after the queen’s. But, thought Poley, Lady Janet’s hair was all her own.
*
‘I do not think she seeks to destroy him but she feels that she still must rein him in. She has been constant in that at least and it continues to be something he brings on himself through more and more desperate actions – even caged as he is. And as I say, there seems little doubt, certainly in Master Secretary’s mind, that Sir Francis is advising Her Majesty to follow this path. They meet so often and talk for so long and all in private – what other explanation could there be?’ Lady Janet continued after a moment, her voice low and throaty, as though her touch had made them lovers and they were now discussing country matters rather than courtly ones. ‘Master Secretary is constant in his warnings against the Earl. But he hesitates to push matters further. Just like Sir Walter Raleigh. But Her Majesty is still unsettlingly skittish…’ she glanced around, well aware that her words were very dangerous. But there were only the swans to hear them, Poley observed. And mute swans at that. ‘They both fear that one wrong move will do them damage rather than him and prefer, therefore, to be as inactive as possible in the matter.’
‘Other than bearing warnings and awaiting events,’ mused Poley. ‘If inaction can be called an activity, then that is probably the best action they can take. As they wait in hopes that the Earl will somehow destroy himself.’
‘Indeed. And if there are any instructions for you, they will be much the same. Stay where you are and continue to do what you are doing. Events may conspire to give you good reason to act. When they do so, then you might act; perhaps then you must act. But in the mean time we all must watch and wait.’ She drew in a thoughtful breath. ‘I don’t know how much credence Her Majesty actually puts in the stories of the Irish army coming to his aid, or the mayor and citizens of London rising against her at his command, or that he is in constant communication with Scotland promising to secure the succession for King James in return for assurances that he and his friends will stand forever above Master Secretary and all the rest. But she sees that his current behaviour, even shackled as he is, could be a potent threat to peace at the very heart of her realm.’
‘And so she has him dragged to York House and made to stand against a panel of his enemies so that everyone can see what dangers he presents?’ growled Poley, his voice rough with desire.
‘Not so,’ she answered softly. ‘Or rather not quite so. Hence Her Majesty’s insistence that Sir Francis stand amongst the prosecutors, for Sir Francis is his friend. Or so he presents himself, though the people of London seem to doubt the truth of it. I reason that, rather, she wishes to make my Lord of Essex see as clearly as possible the wrongs he has done and the mistakes he has made no-matter how good his intentions. And the inevitable outcomes should the wrongs persist or be repeated. He is the beloved but wilful child in her eyes. And this day is the well-applied corrective birch.’
‘Then surely Master Secretary Cecil reads him right and Her Majesty is wrong,’ whispered Poley, well aware of how close to treason such thoughts were. As close, indeed, as his bearded cheek was to her red-freckled one. ‘He is no spoilt brat but a man full grown and he sees no loving mother but an old crone set on thwarting him and ruining him. It is a race between his failing power and weakening finances and her failing health and withering body.’
‘Her conditions are as twisted as her carcase? Did he not say as much? What woman – let alone a queen – could forgive such an insult?’
‘And that is maybe the heart of the matter. Of her skittishness as you put it. There is a part of her, the spirit of her father, perhaps, which seeks full restitution for his insults, failures and disobediences. But another part, the spirit of her gentle mother you might say, which hesitates to rush upon his destruction. I have heard it said that she still on occasion weep
s for Mary of Scots – who was at least seeking her dethronement and death as well as the return of her realms to the Catholic Church. Whatever Essex has done, it presents no danger comparable to this.’
‘And, as we have discussed, perhaps that is what Master Secretary is waiting for, then,’ she whispered.
‘For him to take some action comparable with those of Mary of Scots.’
‘If that is so, then he has chosen his watcher well has he not? For it was you who spied out that last and greatest of the Scottish Queen Mary’s plots.’
They both fell silent. He was thinking, not about Babbington but about the nature of womanhood. How a queen might react to her favourite subject seeing her not for the eternally youthful faery she wished to appear but as the withered old witch she had become. And how that injured Monarch might be led into seeing the man who insulted her as a potent and immediate threat to her throne, her religion and her life. At least, these considerations were where his thoughts began but they somehow ended with a lingering consideration of how full, warm and bonny the body so close beside him must be.
‘And what does Master Secretary himself say to all this…?’ he asked hoarsely before he said something utterly irrelevant to the real reason that they found themselves alone out here like a courting couple of lovers just escaped from their chaperones.
‘Well,’ she answered softly, ‘further to what we have said of him so far…’
*
Poley and Lady Janet were still walking out in the garden, discussing secret and treasonous matters under the eyes of the silent swans, when the first of the messengers arrived. Each of the women, wise in the ways of both legal and royal courts, had left word that she should be informed as soon as the proceedings at York House were concluded. And by late evening all the messengers were in; each bearing nothing more than that one fact: the hearing was over and the Earl returned to Essex House under escort and incommunicado. It was only as the night drew on that the impatient visitors began to realise that their errant and unwilling host had no intention of returning home while they were there to greet him – and put him to the question every bit as brutally as Topcliffe might have done. So, one after another, starting with Lady Lettice who had farthest to travel, they assembled their retainers and departed. Lady Janet of course went with them, leaving Poley lingering pensively in the benighted garden.