by Peter Tonkin
Sir Francis arrived after midnight, his presence announced by a stirring that ran right through the Lodge. Put on their mettle by the ladies, the Bacon brothers’ household sprang into action with food, drink, welcome and attention, but Lawson of course remained at Sir Anthony’s bedside. It was well after one in the morning before everything began to settle. Sir Francis crept through to see Sir Anthony and Poley found himself crouching in his fragrant hiding place outside the sickroom window.
‘The bare bones,’ said Sir Anthony. ‘I have been exhausted all day…’
‘And the women haven’t helped,’ added Lawson.
‘I’m sure they haven’t. But the bare bones then, as you say. The whole procedure was held in the Great Hall at York House. Two hundred witnesses, seventeen judges including Cecil, of course. Three, perhaps four, favourable to the Earl. Four prosecutors including myself. Lord Keeper Edgerton in charge. All of us seated at one end of the great table there with the witnesses all around us. Sergeant at Law Yelverton led the Earl in and stood him at the far end of the table opposite us. He may be recovered but he did not look well. Archbishop Whitgift called for a stool so he could sit. Which was fortunate. Yelverton led him in at eight this morning and matters were not concluded until nearly ten tonight.’
‘The bare bones,’ begged Sir Anthony. ‘This is too much flesh for my stomach.’
‘Edgerton called for proceedings to begin and gave the opening address,’ said Sir Francis. ‘Then that foul creature Coke took over. If there is a murder done within the next few days it will be myself ridding the world of the bloated bag of spite.’ Sir Francis paused.
Poley gave a wry smile. Coke had not only beaten the younger man to the coveted post of Attorney General, he had also stolen the beautiful young heiress Lady Elizabeth Hatton from under Sir Francis’s nose. No love lost there, he thought.
‘But he put the bones of the case,’ Sir Francis hurried on as his brother stirred impatiently. ‘These were that the Earl’s actions showed disloyalty to the Queen as well as disobedience which verged on treason, especially his movement into Munster. That he disregarded the state of the army while knighting too many of his friends. And, most heinously, he treated with the enemy and made a treaty with O’Neil which gave great succour to the Papists and did great hurt to the Queen and the realm. Then Solicitor General Fleming spoke, repeating many of the accusations but in more moderate terms – this was not the Star Chamber after all. But he added the charges that the Earl had promoted the Earl of Southampton without permission and had been far too prodigal in his awarding of knighthoods to his friends. Then I spoke, and said that Her Majesty showed great wisdom and mercy in framing the proceedings as she had done. I quoted the letter My Lord of Essex wrote to Edgerton in the early days of his confinement saying the Queen’s heart was obdurate against him – which I suggested the current proceedings proved to be untrue. Then, as instructed, I raised the question of Hayward’s book of Henry IV and said that, although this was an ancient matter bearing no relevance to the current case, the Earl was at fault in allowing it to be dedicated to him and that he should have suppressed it at once in stead of referring it to Archbishop Whitgift as he did. Then the Earl, kneeling on a stool, gave a lengthy and detailed speech accepting guilt and responsibility…’
‘As he might well do in a non-court capable of delivering only limited judgements, mostly non-custodial and none of them capital,’ grunted Sir Anthony.
‘… and begging that Her Majesty at last show him some mercy. Even so, the judgement passed down was that he be removed at once from the Council and that he be immediately dismissed from the post of Earl Marshal. And, although technically not a custodial sentence in that it simply reinstated the status quo ante, he was to be returned to Essex house, to languish there at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’
Sir Francis straightened wearily and turned away from his bed-ridden brother. ‘And, talking of Her Majesty’s pleasure,’ he said as he departed, ‘I’m bound for Gray’s Inn to begin preparing a full and detailed report of the entire event for the Queen’s immediate attention.’
Poley sat silently, his mind racing. The Commission might have been a carefully constructed way to prove Essex’s shortcomings and errors, but it also had the effect – purposed or not – of turning an anxious man into a despairing one. Whatever it was designed to do, it was simply likely to prove yet another step along the road leading the Earl to doing something desperate.
Something fatally desperate.
7
By the end of the month, Poley’s responsibilities were extended. However, it seemed plain enough that Sir Anthony, having taken the measure of him anew, desired to keep him close-by. So there was never any talk of him returning to Lady Lettice’s household currently at Wanstead. The spymaster wanted him where an eye could be kept on him, even though the situation did put the elder Bacon brother’s doings and secrets at risk.
Poley saw the situation as something like a game of chess: Sir Anthony had his suspicions which he was making move after move towards proving. Poley’s counter moves were working towards finding out whatever about Essex the Bacon brothers were trying to hide. And to do so before they discovered enough about him to move him on - either out of their house or out of this world. And then, of course, to use Essex’s secrets against him in a manner that would ensure his destruction.
Sir Anthony’s strategy seemed to the intelligencer to be one whose wisdom outweighed any risks it posed. If a man suspected he had an enemy keen to do him or his master harm, then it did not require the cunning of a Machiavelli to see that it was better to keep him close enough to watch rather than to let him wander away at will. And, of course, Sir Anthony could trust Poley to reappear after any unaccompanied mission because if Poley was the spy that Sir Anthony suspected, he could be relied upon to return like a bee to a flower-patch, always in the hope of more honey. An apt enough comparison he thought, considering his close association with the flower-laden trellis. But, he wondered with a shiver of apprehension, how did Sir Anthony keep watch on who he might contact as he was coming or going by river or horseback? Were even the watermen and the grooms in the Bacons’ pockets? Could Lady Janet even be at risk?
In the meantime, Poley was moved out of his grotto beside Sir Anthony’s window, not by any enemy action, but by the sudden arrival of a nest of particularly bellicose hornets. He had stayed away from the honeysuckle-sweet hiding place for the better part of a week as there was nothing to observe except for Lawson and Petit burning letters on an unseasonably large fire. Then, when he returned, there were the insects, nest and all – and the fact that they had taken up residence ensured that Sir Anthony’s window was now firmly shut against them. Of course Poley considered demanding that the gardener remove them. But that would mean his hiding place would be exposed. He briefly considered trying to move them himself, but the initial attempt was painful enough to deter him, especially as the marks of their stings became a brief topic of conversation as Dr Wendy added them to his list of ailments needing medical attention. Sir Francis made a vague promise to deal with the situation but, as with so many of his dealings with the gardens here as opposed to those at Gray’s Inn, nothing was done in the end. Coincidentally, however, Poley’s banishment from the trellis happened at much the same time as the awarding of his new responsibilities as courier. It was at about this time too, he noticed, that a new destination was added to the rounds worked by the Bacon brothers’ regular couriers. Drury House, on Wych Street, where the Earl of Southampton had taken to holding almost all of his clandestine meetings.
So it happened that Poley was at Barn Elms soon after midsummer when the next step toward the Earl of Essex’s fate occurred, like lightning out of a clear blue sky. Cuffe had taken to reciprocating the glasses of sack Poley arranged for him during his visits to Twickenham with equal amounts from Lady Frances’ cellar, or rather the cellar belonging to her mother Lady Walsingham in whose house she was living for the time-being. Barn Elms belo
nged to the Walsinghams, not the Devereuxs, which was why it was familiar to Poley and Poley was all-too familiar to the household there from his years as Walsingham’s spy.
The two men were seated in a sunny spot of the stable yard, glass in hand, when Sir Francis arrived in such a hurry that he had winded his horse in getting here, though he had only ridden up from the stables by the Barnes landing place. ‘Where’s Sir Gelly,’ gasped Sir Francis, almost as breathless as his horse. ‘Is he here?’
‘He was in the stables here a moment ago,’ answered a groom.
‘Find him. Bring him to me.’
Poley pulled himself to his feet. ‘This sounds important,’ he said. Cuffe nodded. ‘Let’s see what’s toward,’ decided Poley and the pair of them walked over to the stables. They arrived at the same moment as Sir Gelly appeared, stripping off his riding gauntlets as he came. The three of them closed on Sir Francis.
*
‘What?’ demanded the Welsh knight, a man of few words in a crisis.
‘Do you have a list of the men the Earl knighted in Ireland?’ demanded Sir Francis, clearly too concerned to be bothered that Cuffe and Poley were also here.
‘I have. Why?’
‘The Earl’s right to award their knighthoods was questioned last month at the Commission in York House. Now it seems that Her Majesty has it in mind to strip them of the honours altogether.’
Sir Gelly stood for a moment, clearly fighting to come to terms with the news. Then, ‘Strip them of their knighthoods? What will she gain by that?’ he demanded.
‘Two things,’ answered Sir Francis. ‘The first is that it will rob the Earl of the army of men beholden to him who continue to reside here and elsewhere in London, fomenting restlessness and putting the peace of the capital’s streets at risk.’
‘More likely she fears they will rise with him should he command them to,’ snarled Sir Gelly. ‘Or not so much Her Majesty as Cecil the Toad, yet again dropping his poison in her ear.’
‘That’s as it may be,’ answered Sir Francis. ‘But Her Majesty’s second objective is to address that very problem. She believes that the knights, once stripped of rank and standing, will turn upon the man who gave them the honours that have now been taken away by her higher authority.’
‘And why in God’s name would they do that?’
‘Because it will be plain that he had no right to award the honours in the first place.’
‘And men who believe themselves so injured are more likely to turn on the Earl than to follow him in any schemes he had formulated during his imprisonment.’ Sir Gelly’s tone made the statement into a question.
‘And she further believes, or has been led to believe,’ continued Sir Francis, ‘that the outrage of their wives, who will at the same time of course, lose their position as Ladies, will turn on their husbands and strengthen their motivation to turn upon the Earl.’
Poley could not contain himself. ‘And has it occurred to no-one on the Council or in the court that the opposite may very likely result? That these men, already loyal to the Earl but wavering because they are staring starvation in the face as their fortunes fall away with his, will turn on him because they can no longer call themselves knights? When in fact he still represents their only hope of solvency, diminished though that hope may be? Surely, a fate such as destitution would be far more likely to disturb their wives and children than the threat of social disgrace. So the broken knights may simply find their faith and loyalty reaffirmed by the unfairness of such an action and the added desperation it would cause as debts would be called in and further loans refused. Butchers, bakers and vintners all closed against them. So that instead of blaming the Earl who raised them up, they will simply blame the Council and the Queen who have cast them down. A belief likely to lead to a great deal more disturbance and danger than simple graffiti on the walls of Salisbury House and Whitehall Palace?’
Sir Francis gaped at him. ‘I don’t believe anyone has put that interpretation to the Council or to the Queen. It is a potent danger that must be addressed. I will mention it myself when I hand over the list of names Sir Gelly will help me to compile. I thank you for your quick-thinking in this matter Master Poley.’
Sir Gelly grunted and nodded ungraciously. But there was no doubting that he too was thanking Poley for his quick-thinking.
‘You have clear sight into matters such as these, friend Poley,’ said Cuffe, punching Poley on the shoulder affectionately as the pair of them returned to their seats and the bottle of sack. ‘I would never have dreamed that such a reversal of the Queen’s logic could be discovered so swiftly. You have done Her Majesty and the Council great service there. But, I am pleased to observe, you have also done great service to the Earl and the men who have stood by him in Ireland and since his return. If Sir Francis carries your thoughts to the Council as forcefully as you expressed them, you will surely have saved the reputation of the Earl and his supporters at the same time as you have stopped the Council and Her Majesty from doing a great deal of damage to their own cause.’
He looked Poley straight in the eye and the intelligencer got a glimpse of the intellect that lay beneath the open-hearted bonhomie. It disturbed him a little, even as he gave an amenable smile and a nod of agreement. And it flashed into his mind that this is what Sir Anthony must have felt all those months ago when he reassessed Poley part way through the conversation just after they arrived at Twickenham Lodge. It was an unsettling feeling that made him wonder for an instant whether he needed to reassess his place in Essex’s household, dispersed though it currently was. And whether, rather than the one doing the manipulating as he had believed, he was actually the one being manipulated.
*
‘I wish,’ continued Cuffe, ‘that I had half your quickness of eye and mind. Instead I find I seek the ataraxia of Pyrro, the state of inner peace, as you may recall, where my efforts are bent upon understanding that neither our senses nor our beliefs can be trusted to tell us the truth. Any more than the lips and tongues of the men and women with whom we find ourselves surrounded. So we certainly should not rely on them. Rather, we should be without views, disinclined toward one side or the other in any situation and unwavering in our refusal to make a final choice.’
‘This is surely a political or social dogma, if what I remember of it is true,’ answered Poley. ‘It cannot encompass religion.’ But even as he said the words he felt an uneasy suspicion that the ancient philosopher had somehow defined his own relationship with the Church. Perhaps even with Heaven and Hell. It was deeply disquieting. He found himself wondering once again whether the man he thought he had been manipulating since their time in the Fleet together had really been manipulating him.
They finished the bottle of sack, then walked in silence down to the Barnes landing where Poley hailed a wherry and had himself sculled back to the Twickenham landing. Then, still wrapped in thought he strolled up to the Lodge. Sir Francis had beaten him home even though he had lingered until Sir Gelly completed the list of Essex’s Irish knights. The place was buzzing with speculation, though its occupants except for the Brothers were a little way removed from the heart of the problem. ‘So,’ said Sir Anthony when Poley arrived in the sick-room for yet another treatment to ease his shoulders into full health. ‘Sir Francis tells me you have out-thought Her Majesty and her Toad. The Earl will be beholden to you almost as much as I am myself if you have made this latest madness stop.’
‘I had no thought who would be beholden or to whom. I spoke without any thought at all, in fact. The danger seemed so plain to me that it had to be stated.’
‘And you are right. Sir Francis has gone back to Westminster and is even now detailing the dangers that you saw to the Council and – for all I know – to the Queen herself.’
‘But,’ said Dr Wendy, looking up from Sir Anthony’s torso into which he was rubbing a particularly foul-smelling unguent, ‘if the objective of the plan was to further unsettle the Earl, surely that task has been done, whether
the men are stripped of their rank or not. The threat to do so was real and potent. The Earl must see that. It is just another way by which Her Majesty can emphasise her power and his helplessness. Many of the doctors attending him with whom I have regular contact, are increasingly worried that, as his body heals, his mind is beginning to lose its grip. He has no clear idea what to believe or who to trust. He sees enemies conspiring against him at every turn.’
‘Her Majesty,’ said Poley, ‘and her Toad?’
‘If not the one then certainly the other. Master Secretary Cecil, Sir Walter Raleigh and the rest.’ The doctor turned back to his work and the room fell silent.
The wherry dropped Poley at the Middle Temple stairs one threatening afternoon a few weeks later and he ran up them into Middle Temple, then on up through the gateway, past the Temple Bar and into Chancery Lane. Here the press of people and the sticky heat they generated slowed his steps at once to little more than a snail’s pace. He was headed for Gray’s Inn with yet another message for the gardeners and Chancery Lane would lead him all the way up to Holborn which he would cross into Gray’s Inn Lane which in turn would lead him directly to the Inn itself. It was a walk that should take no more than half an hour but he reckoned it would take at least twice that today; and he was by no means looking forward to the sweaty journey there or back.
Sir Francis’ care with the Gray’s Inn gardens so far exceeded his care for his own at the Lodge that Poley found some humour in it despite the hornets. But there was no denying that even this late in a disappointing Summer, Gray’s Inn gardens still made a magnificent show, while most of the other public spaces around the city were overblown and beginning to wilt as August drew towards September and another sodden autumn threatened. But all the city sent thanks to Heaven that at least 1600 had not been yet another plague year.