by Peter Tonkin
*
The afternoon was hot and heavy. The clouds were low and thunder snarled occasionally in the distance. Chancery Lane was almost frantically busy, the jostling crowds forced ever-closer by the carts, wagons and carriages moving up and down the middle of the road. Poley kept an eye out even though he could not imagine any vehicle being able to force its way through the press of bodies with enough speed to threaten anyone. But the conveyance that stopped him in his tracks did so without posing any threat to his life at all. A private carriage moving north towards Holborn like him, slowed at his shoulder and a leather curtain was pulled back. ‘Why, Master Poley,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Whither away?’
Poley looked up and found Lady Janet looking down at him with a quizzical smile. If he suspected anything beyond a fortunate coincidence in her arrival, the effect that smile had upon him distracted him from any misgivings he might have harboured. He stood gaping, like a hayseed up from the country. Almost as though he had been struck by one of the lightning bolts the lowering clouds threatened to unleash. ‘Give you good day, Lady Janet,’ he said breathlessly as soon as he found his voice. ‘I’m bound for Gray’s Inn. I have a message from Sir Francis for the gardeners there.’
The smile broadened. ‘I fear Sir Francis does not value you according to your true worth,’ she said softly. ‘A boy could have carried such a message. Men like yourself should be freighted with much more weighty matters.’
‘Perhaps he has nothing more weighty to send,’ suggested Poley foolishly.
‘Oh, I doubt that!’ Lady Janet was silent for a pensive heartbeat. ‘I am bound most of the way to Gray’s Inn and would be happy to carry you thither.’ She reached out and opened the door. ‘Climb aboard if you would care to share the journey with me.’
Poley climbed into the carriage which was in motion once more as soon as he was seated. Women of Lady Janet’s consequence did not stir abroad alone, so Poley was not surprised to find Agnes Alnwick, her servant and chaperone, seated opposite her. Agnes was wearing the badges familiar from his time as a member of Lady Lettice’s household. ‘I had thought you were associated with Lady Rich, if with anyone, Lady Janet,’ he said.
‘Oh. Have you not heard?’ wondered Lady Janet. ‘Lady Rich approached Her Majesty on her brother’s behalf late last week. Unfortunately she did so with such force, and used such intemperate language, that Her Majesty not only banished her from the court again but also placed her under what we might call ‘house arrest’ similar to her brother’s. She is incarcerated with her entire household in her Holborn house whither I am bound at the moment, with a carefully-measured dram of sympathy.’
Poley stared at Lady Janet, his face a mask of surprise. ‘She has done this to Lady Rich?’ he asked at last. ‘What has the Earl her brother to say to that, I wonder.’
‘I fear he has little enough to say in the matter,’ said Lady Janet. ‘He is in like case himself and helpless even to plead for her as the Queen will not receive his letters. Lady Frances is likewise banned at the moment and her mother Lady Walsingham dare not tempt the Queen’s anger. Even Lady Lettice is being circumspect and quiet, which speaks much of her wisdom. Though I have to say her husband Sir Christopher does not agree with her cautious approach which he insists is womanish and craven.’
‘Lady Lettice is a woman,’ said Poley. ‘How could her actions be otherwise than womanish? Besides, the Queen has long held Lady Lettice in disapproval, ever since the Perrot affair. However, she is by no means craven, but rather she is extremely wise to stay away from this situation now, despite what her headstrong husband says.’
‘So I believe also. But Sir Christopher compares her unfavourably with Lady Rich, Lady Frances and my cousin by marriage Lady Percy, Countess of Northumberland, who has managed to win her way back into the Queen’s favour of late. But seeing Lady Rich’s fate, even Lady Percy dare not go too far in begging for her brother’s freedom.’
Poley shook his head. ‘Every element,’ he began. He paused. He met Lady Janet’s green gaze with his most intense stare. His mind filled with the words Dr Wendy had spoken so recently. It was not the Earl’s body that was at risk; it was his mind. He found himself speaking as though the chaperone was not there. ‘Every element of this situation as it moves forward simply must add to the Earl’s feelings of helplessness and frustration. It is bad enough that he is punished, continually punished, for his own misdeeds. This even after they have been freely admitted and with mercy and forgiveness begged by both spoken word and letter. Not only from himself but also from others on his behalf. But now his sisters are punished for putting his case. As are his mother and her husband. It is as though he was once a great statue, like a colossus, but little by little, lesser men are chipping away at him and he is helpless to stop them because they have the ear of the Queen and have made her heart obdurate against him.’
‘You see his position and state it movingly,’ said Lady Janet. ‘Colossus: it is a fancy worthy of a poem or a play. But you must also remember, must you not, that this colossus stands accused of plotting to use his Irish army to seize the throne, to put Her Majesty away – perhaps forever as she herself put away the Queen of Scots. Even to consider these things is high treason. To plot, plan and try to do them is to stand in the shadow of the headsman’s axe.’
*
Lady Janet leaned forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘And he is still planning to act, if the rumours about messages running between Essex House and Drury House are true. Why, now that you have convinced Her Majesty to leave his knights alone, even though your message was sent via Sir Francis directly to her private audience chamber, the city is still full of desperate men whose only chance of avoiding ruin lies with him. Who will, therefore, do anything he might order them to do. Even rise up, if matters come to a sufficiently desperate pass. Rise up and join the army of citizens led by the men who scrawl their threats on the walls of Salisbury House and Whitehall Palace. And it would behove you also to remember that John Garrard the Mayor and the other leaders of the City like Sheriff Smythe are Essex supporters as well.’
‘Not to mention a goodly number of the clerics hereabouts,’ he nodded. ‘Who preach his cause a’Sundays. Remember how the church bells rang out at the news of his near-fatal illness. And again at news of his recovery, peal after peal. But Her Majesty is refusing even to see his letters, you say?’
‘Any addressed to her, certainly. Though I hear that on occasion she deigns to read a paragraph or two of letters he has written to other men and women around the court; or letters written by one courtier to another that say something of him as well.’
‘Is that so?’ Poley sat in silence for a moment, his mind racing. Then he said, ‘If someone were able to construct such a letter in the hope that Her Majesty might read it, a case could be made on the Earl’s behalf without seeming to address her directly at all.’
‘Now that,’ said Lady Janet, ‘betrays in you, sirrah, a cunning that might out-Machiavel Machiavelli himself.’
As Lady Janet said this, the coach turned into the broad thoroughfare of Holborn and paused. Poley looked across toward the north-facing window. The breeze was strong enough to make the curtain flap and reveal the mouth of Gray’s Inn Lane. ‘I thank you for the ride,’ he said formally and reached for the door beside him.
‘Just before you leave us, Master Poley, you should know that my Agnes who is seated beside you is faithful to me, despite the livery that she is wearing at the moment. Faithful to death if need-be. If I need you, I will send her. If you need me, send a message to her at Wanstead and she will warn me of your need.’
On his return, Poley found Sir Francis in the study at the Lodge – a room which he hardly ever used. And he was writing a letter – something he hardly ever did here. ‘You wished to see me?’ snapped the Queen’s Counsel with unaccustomed ill-humour. ‘Be quick with whatever it is you wish to say. I am hard at work here composing a missive to the Earl.’
�
��Perhaps I should return at a more appropriate…’
‘No. Now that you are here I will make use of you.’ Sir Francis gestured to a nearby chair and Poley sat. ‘Sir Anthony and I cannot agree on this course of action,’ Sir Francis continued. ‘So he and his familiars are of no use to me and I need to talk through what I wish to say to the Earl by way of apology, and the best way to frame it.’
‘Apology, Sir Francis?’
‘Indeed. Although I did my best to be supportive during the affair at York House nevertheless I was constrained to speak against him and that is something for which I am sorry. I have no wish to take a firm stand on one side or on the other in this affair. I can see nothing in it but sadness and ruin; perhaps even death. One death certain and close at hand through the inescapable workings of nature. The other all-too possible and brought about by impatience, frustration and the edge of the headsman’s axe.’
‘And you wish to achieve ataraxia, perhaps?’
‘Hah!’ Sir Francis looked up as he laughed. ‘You have been talking to Cuffe about Pyrro and his philosophy, I see. Yes indeed, I had not thought of it in those terms but I do indeed find myself unwilling to believe much of what I see or hear and unwilling, therefore, to decide on one side or the other. It would be of great benefit to me if all this could bring me inner peace, but I fear it brings only confusion and concern.’
‘But you are at the centre of things are you not, Sir Francis? How can you be distrustful of the events that are occurring so close beside you?’
*
‘Well, well, Master Poley; simply have faith that it is so,’ said Sir Francis, nimbly changing the subject. ‘Now, as to the contents of my letter to the Earl. I plan roundly to state that I owe love and duty to Her Majesty above all, which he must allow, having said as much of himself in York House in front of judges and witnesses almost without number.’
‘I understand that. It seems well enough,’ nodded Poley. ‘And should the letter through any ill-chance fall into Her Majesty’s hands, or those of Master Secretary…’
‘No great harm would be done!’ Sir Francis smiled. ‘But then, taking the other side as it were and applying ataraxia if such a thing can be done, I must stress that I am sorry to have been forced into the position of prosecutor. I owe the Earl my service and my friendship, which I am ever keen to exercise. He must be aware that he has risen like Icarus on waxen wings, and if I could supply better and more reliable wings I would do so, but circumstances conspire against me.’
‘And so the two sides would be balanced. I can see no flaws in your plans and have no doubt that you will exercise them perfectly when you come to put pen to paper,’ said Poley.
‘Even so – or at least that is my hope.’ Sir Francis paused for a moment, thinking. ‘I would conclude by asking his forgiveness and hoping for his continued good will.’
‘You could do no better. And this letter will be smuggled into Essex House?’
‘Not smuggled so much as simply carried. Just as the Earl is allowed a little more freedom of action and association, so of course he has a little more freedom of communication.’
‘With everyone except Her Majesty, I understand,’ said Poley easily. But he remembered what Lady Janet had said about messages between Essex House and Drury House – between the Earl and his bosom friend Southampton. ‘My lord of Essex has written Her Majesty letters such as your proposed letter to the Earl himself but she refuses even to read them. So I have been told.’
‘Aye. There’s the rub. It is the old adage about taking a horse to water. He can write, but who can force Her Majesty to read?’ Sir Francis sighed, then he asked, ‘But you wished to consult me. What about?’
‘About something that continues our conversation,’ answered Poley. ‘I believe Her Majesty in fact has read parts of letters that have not been written to her but which mention the Earl even though they were written from one courtier to another, and about matters apparently irrelevant to the Earl’s situation.’
‘I had heard the same.’ Sir Francis sat up straight and focused on his guest frowning thoughtfully. ‘What of it?’
‘As I understand matters, such letters so far have been genuine missives from one person to another simply commenting upon the Earl in passing…’
‘Ah,’ said Sir Francis. ‘I think I follow your drift. What if a letter could be written in such a manner that the news going from writer to recipient is just there in passing and the true purpose of the thing was a carefully presented case constructed in support of the Earl?’
‘Her Majesty might well read such a letter just as she has read other, similar, ones. And, if so, then that might do My Lord of Essex a great deal more good than any damage that has been done by, let us say, offering an enforced speech of prosecution at York House.’
‘It would be the act of a true friend, and all the while unsuspected by her Majesty! If such a letter could be constructed…’ Sir Francis fell silent. ‘But who would write such a letter? And to whom?’
‘Someone constantly in attendance on Her Majesty, perhaps; and direct it to an ailing relative. A sickly brother, let us say…’
‘You give me much to think on, Master Poley. And, perhaps, two letters to write…’
The conversation ended there and soon enough whether Sir Francis had in fact written such a letter and contrived to bring it to the Queen’s attention was forced into the background by events. First, the Earl replied to the letter Sir Francis had sent him having completed it along the lines he had discussed with Poley. The Earl’s reply was courteous but non-committal. But Sir Francis was by no means downhearted by the cool response. He continued putting the Earl’s case to the Queen, weathering the storms of her irritation as well as the calms of her approval. And, so far as Poley knew, he might even have shown her the carefully crafted letter Sir Francis pretended that someone had written to his brother.
*
The Earl at last was released from his incarceration. Before the month was out it seemed that Her Majesty was relenting towards him. He was no longer held under guard. He was released - free to go anywhere. Anywhere except where he most desired to go – to the court. He had had enough of Essex House for the time-being because it had been his prison for so long. And so rather than bringing his Secretariat and household back from Barn Elms, he joined them there. The Bacon brothers consequently remained at Twickenham and Poley continued to shuttle between the two establishments, eyes wide and ear to the ground, certain that there was more – and worse – to come.
And so there was; for although he was domiciled in Barn Elms, the Earl was free to go where he liked. And one of the places he most regularly visited was Drury House. Poley knew it and suspected that there was a good deal of plotting and planning undertaken there, but he could never contrive to be part of the privileged band who came and went between the two great houses.
But then even that frustration was forced into the background.
Barn Elms was all a feverish bustle. It was just after Michaelmas, two years almost to the day since the Earl had returned from Ireland to invade the Queen’s bedroom and, stirred by the anniversary perhaps, Essex had decided he was moving himself, his family, his household and his hangers-on all back to Essex House after all. There was hope hanging faintly in the air. Essex’s one steady source of income, the tax on sweet wines, had not been stopped as many close to the Earl had feared it might be, when the agreement ran out at Michaelmas, on Saturday, 30th September.
‘It is a sign of great hope,’ Henry Cuffe told Poley as they observed the preparations. ‘The Earl is certain that it is Her Majesty’s way of telling him he is forgiven. We will return to Essex House and the Earl will live there quietly, keeping the great gate shut and seeing no-one. If he cannot go to court he will demonstrate his continuing penance by refusing to hold court himself. Only the oldest and most respected of his friends and supporters will be welcome. Modesty and rectitude will be the watch-words.’
Poley was careful not to look as
kance at his naive friend. The Earl might well plan to live quietly when he was in Essex House, but there were still those visits to Drury House to be taken into account. And the burgeoning number of desperate men finding shelter in one house or the other.
Poley and Sir Francis stepped up from the Essex House landing steps shoulder by shoulder as the wherry pulled away into mid-stream. The gardens stretched away in front of them, hardly better tended than those at Twickenham Lodge. Beyond the untended wilderness, the rear of the House itself was a blaze of light, quite dazzling even in the early evening at the end of a sunny October day. Even down here by the River it was possible to hear the din being made by the inmates.
‘Modesty and rectitude…’ said Sir Francis bitterly.
‘I’m assured that the gates out onto the Strand are closed against all-comers, just as the Earl promised and Cuffe reported,’ Poley told him. ‘It may be that the Earl and his family are indeed living quietly in their wing of the house…’
‘… while the knights who follow him celebrate the retention of their honours and their return to his house and his bounty with a raucousness that is near-riot.’ Sir Francis completed Poley’s wry observation. ‘Both here and in Drury House so I’m told.’
‘And in many of the streets in between, to the despair of citizens who live or seek to do business in them. If I was the Earl I would have Sir Gelly Meyrick clear them all out,’ said Poley, raising his voice as they neared the House and the clamour that issued from it.
‘Perhaps,’ said Sir Francis, ‘The Earl and Sir Gelly feel that it would be safer to keep such troublesome friends close at hand under some control rather than allow them to go rioting into the city any more than they do at present.’