by Peter Tonkin
‘Waiting for word from Scotland, perhaps.’ Cuffe took a long swig of ale.
‘Perhaps. Or perhaps he is hesitant to act because everything he has done since his return from Ireland has just made his situation worse. The latest setback in the matter of the wine tax has been the most dangerous so far. The next misstep could be fatal. And so he is fearful of taking it.’
That was as far as the conversation got before a familiar figure filled the doorway.
‘Robert Poley,’ sneered Wolfall, his voice carrying easily over the hubbub. ‘Did you really think you could come this close to Fetter Lane without word coming down to me at the Fleet? And I see you have your light o’ love Henry Cuffe with you. Hoping to rekindle your romance in the debtors’ cells are we?’
‘I have the change from a silver crown here, Wolfall. More than enough to satisfy the matter between us.’ Poley stood, reaching down to the table top with his right hand, his left apparently casually on the hilt of his rapier.
Wolfall stepped forward and was succeeded in the doorway by the bulk of Ingram Frizer, Thomas Walsingham’s man; enemy to Essex and everyone who worked for him. ‘That might settle things for you, Poley,’ said Frizer. ‘But Cuffe there is another matter entirely. There’s a good few bailiffs on the lookout for him. Willing to pay for information as to his whereabouts. It’ll take more than Francis Bacon to get him out next time.’
‘Debtor!’ Blustered Cuffe, rising angrily. ‘Do you take me for a man of no account that you threaten me with bailiffs?’
‘I take you for nothing but a broken-down bankrupt who’s wandered too far from the safety of Essex House,’ answered Wolfall. ‘And friend Frizer here will take you straight to whichever bailiff has promised the most coin for your worthless head.’
*
Poley understood the force of Wolfall and Frizer’s threats all too well. But Cuffe was his key back into Essex House and the tight-closed chambers of the Earl’s trust, guarded by Gelly Meyrick and Sir Anthony Bacon though they were. He could not allow this to proceed. ‘Come, Henry,’ he said. ‘While there are only two ranged against us. Be quick!’
As Poley spoke, he was in motion, striding towards the door as the crowd of customers parted in front of him. They parted faster and wider after he slid his Solingen blade out of its scabbard. The loud bully Wolfall stepped back into the safety of Frizer’s shadow. But Frizer himself hesitated, knowing Poley and his prowess with the sword. He stepped back and the doorway was clear. Poley strode into Fetter Lane. Such bustle as there had been here also fell back at the sight of his naked blade. ‘Get him!’ Wolfall snarled at Frizer and the big man reluctantly stepped forward, pulling out his own short sword. A student of Silver rather than Capo Ferro, thought Poley with some satisfaction. But then which weapon and which master Frizer favoured became irrelevant. Cuffe’s pewter flagon, weighted with a good half measure of ale, smashed into the middle of Frizer’s face with all the power of a professional pugilist’s fist and he went flat on his back in the gutter.
‘I’m sorry Master Poley,’ said Fitzherbert half an hour later. ‘There is nowhere for Master Cuffe to be housed. My Lord of Essex insisted that his room be given to two other knights the day after his departure and the Percy brothers Charles and Jocelyn are in there now. Things have only worsened since they arrived.’
Poley paused for a moment, examining the alternatives. One of which was obvious. ‘My room can accommodate more than one. Can you arrange things so that Master Cuffe could be comfortable there?’
‘I can try, sir. But I make no promises.’
‘Do the best that you can,’ commanded Poley. Fitzherbert went off to try and find some bedding. He turned to his friend. ‘Now, Henry, getting a place for you to bed down is only the beginning. Sir Francis told me you had been forced to sell almost everything you owned. Therefore at the very least we must find a way to replace your clothing so that what you are wearing now can be washed. What other necessaries do you need?’
Fortunately for Cuffe, the bath was due to be filled that evening and he took pride of place in its use. Mistress Fitzherbert searched the laundry for breechclouts and hose that had no obvious owners. The guilt-ridden Earl himself instituted a search for more clothing but there was very little to be had, and none of it either new or fashionable. When Cuffe, wrapped in a blanket, finally made his way up to Poley’s bedroom, he discovered that young Tom Fitzherbert had delivered a threadbare ruff that had seen better days waiting for his throat, a patched shirt, a peascod doublet of the Earl’s that had been fashionable a decade since, a codpiece that might have been used by a clown in a bawdy farce and various other bits and pieces. Poley himself supplied the rest. And Tom returned with a tabard bearing the Essex coat of arms to match all the others in the house.
But at least Cuffe was able to dress and descend to supper without feeling himself to be an outright figure of fun. Or so he told Poley, who frankly did not believe him. And the spy suspected acutely that such rage and humiliation as the secretary felt was laid squarely at the door of his aristocratic master. Poley sat beside his angry friend but was soon distracted – not by the baked sturgeon, the mess of whiting or the eel pie which were the centrepiece of the supper but by the fact that sometime during his adventures at Gray’s Inn and the tavern, Sir Charles Davers had arrived back from Edinburgh. He sat now beside the Earl, leaning sideways towards him almost constantly sharing a whispered conversation.
There was no entertainment after supper, even though Christmas was fast approaching, so Poley joined the diminished and leaderless Secretariat while Cuffe, exhausted and not a little embarrassed by his codpiece, went up to bed. Poley would have sought to join his old comrades in any case, for Sir Anthony was too busy to be visited and if anyone else in Essex House was likely to have information to impart about Davers’s mission to Scotland and what had resulted from it, it was these men. Sure enough: Davers was the subject of their gossip. And, at long last, Wotton’s absence and the Earl’s new attitude towards Poley meant that he was trusted to share in the information.
‘He brought a letter south with him,’ Wotton’s replacement Robert Prentiss was saying. ‘It’s in code, so Sir Anthony is to work upon it. But we might reason that the message is positive at least, for Sir Charles Davers has the bearing of a man who brings good news and whatever he is imparting to the Earl is making him cheerful rather than the opposite.’
*
It was all speculation, thought Poley. But if Prentiss was correct, it certainly explained the change in the Earl’s mood. But what could King James promise under the circumstances? Or, indeed, do? Was there a suggestion of some sort of embassy from one court to the other? What else could James actually set in motion? The only alternative was yet more airy commitments– and the Earl had had a bellyful of those. These thoughts occupied his mind as he wearily climbed to his bedroom, holding a lamp high as he laboured up the stairs. The door to his room was ajar and he felt a shiver of apprehension that Gelly Meyrick and his cohorts might be up to their brutal tricks once more. He pushed the door gently and gingerly, then stepped in to find Henry Cuffe contentedly asleep on a makeshift bed on the floor. With a smile at his own foolishness, Poley closed the door silently, used the chamber pot, washed, stripped and climbed into bed. He blew out the lamp and was asleep almost instantly.
He awoke some time later from a dream about Lady Janet to find arms wrapped gently around him and a naked body pressed urgently against his. After a moment, he rolled over and returned Henry Cuffe’s ardent embrace.
It was different to his affair with young Anthony Babbington. It was more measured; more occasional. Much more private – because circumstances had forced them to share one bedroom in any case. But it served the same ends. Poley was standing higher than ever in the Earl’s trust and regard. And now he had achieved a powerful hold over the man who was currently positioned to be one of his most influential advisors. Nor was that all. Because of his recent experiences and new responsibilities Cuffe n
ever left Essex House and because of his maturity he was never jealous when Poley did so, usually as a courier for one or other of the inmates who dared not stir abroad for fear of bailiffs and bellicose members of Cecil’s or Raleigh’s households, their friends and allies. Though Cuffe might have been less accepting had he known who Poley was meeting alongside the recipients of the messages he was carrying. Despite – or perhaps even because of – his lingering anger and resentment, Cuffe no longer feared to advise Essex of the situation as he saw it and to suggest the most extreme remedies. Principal amongst them remained his idea of raising the City in revolt against the Toad and his lapdogs on the Council.
But, thought Poley, there were several elements that made the Earl hesitate to follow Cuffe’s advice just at the moment, and he passed these thoughts to Lady Janet when they met – usually apparently by chance in her carriage now that midwinter seemed to be lingering and the weather was snow-filled and icy. Principal amongst these was the letter from King James. ‘Precisely what it says, only the Earl, to whom it was addressed, Sir Anthony who deciphered it, and a very few of Essex’s closest associates including Sir Charles Davers who carried it, know,’ Poley explained, his breath smoking on the chilly air even in the carriage. ‘But it’s easy enough to guess what it contains. Its importance to the Earl is attested by the fact that he wears it in a black leather bag around his neck. It likely speaks of traitorous things, therefore, because the bag and its position, waking or sleeping, ensures it does not fall into the wrong hands. Though it is also a kind of talisman. A supernatural assurance that all will be well in the end. Almost, I suppose, a kind of witchcraft.’
‘An apt thought,’ said Lady Janet, ‘as it comes from James, the witchfinder king.’
‘But,’ he continued, ‘it clearly holds some great hope for the Earl – therefore King James must have promised to take some action at last. All I can think is that it must be the embassy to Queen Elizabeth that has been discussed more than once in the past. Certainly, that is the subject of speculation by the Secretariat now. But if we are correct, the king’s promise may have an unexpected consequence. For the Earl to take any sort of action before King James’s promises could bear fruit would indeed be utter madness.’
‘I see. I would never have thought of that. You are indeed a wonder, Robert Poley.’
Poley actually blushed. He lowered his gaze to the carriage floor, looking at Agnes the chaperone’s shoe-toes peeping out from beneath her dress. Fearful of meeting Lady Janet’s ardent gaze. ‘And for me to make any serious move to retrieve King James’s letter to Essex, as I retrieved the fatal letter from his mother the Queen of Scots to young Anthony Babbington, would not guarantee a certain outcome. It likely proves the Earl has taken good long step down the primrose path of treason but it does not speak of any truly treasonous action. And in any case, it might well be open to interpretation and challenge. It is in code after all and codes can be tricky things.’
Lady Janet nodded and Agnes, privy to every word nodded also. Poley wondered for a moment whether both the women reported to the same spymaster; and, if not, whether each one of them knew who the other owed their true allegiance to. Which turned out to be his last waking thought about Lady Janet that year.
Because it was Christmas. London was choked with ice and snow – hardly conducive to raising an army of citizens, no matter what their objective might be or how passionately they wished to follow their leader. Moreover, the fact that it was Christmas meant that the Queen was at her palace at Richmond once more and the Council would be in attendance except for those who were scattered to their own estates and the bosoms of their families. Unless Essex wished to march his citizen army down the ice-bound River Thames, there was no point in raising them at all.
And so the seasons rolled round. There was precious little celebrating in Essex House and the hours spent in St Clement Danes over the holiest of days were bone-chillingly cold and deeply unsatisfactory because the vicar chose a Christmas homily that could not be twisted or interpreted into any kind of support for the Earl or his pretensions. And, thought Poley, if the Earl had lost St Clement Danes, then the other London Churches would be following suit – if they weren’t already leading the way. After services on Christmas night, the Earl vanished into Sir Anthony’s room. Poley observed this coldly and calculatingly. Another letter to King James, he suspected. Urging speedier action to fulfil any promises made in the letter the Earl wore round his neck.
*
The New Year was no better. As the Queen feasted and danced her way into 1601 with entertainments, masques and plays, there was lean fare in Essex House and no celebration of any sort. The only hope for the immediate future was brought by the visiting noblemen and there was very little of that. The Earl of Southampton, faithful as ever though almost as deep in debt as his friend was a constant visitor. Francis Manners, the Earl of Rutland, who was Lady Frances’ son-in-law was there as well. The Earls of Worcester and Sussex were among the more regular visitors. As was Lord Monteagle, who at least could afford the presents he brought. Any of them who brought joy or provisions like Monteagle, thought Poley, also brought some faint hope of a brighter future. They brought hope through their numbers and their standing if through nothing else. But of course, the greater Essex’s hope, the more dangerous his enemies became. The more dissatisfied nobles flocked to him, the more desperate his rivals became to ensure his downfall before he engineered theirs as the Queen still refused to stir against him in any meaningful way.
Sir Francis was near despair. ‘The people still hate me because they believe I am against My Lord of Essex,’ he said to Poley as the pair of them hurried towards Gray’s Inn through the slush and mud of late January. ‘And so I must rely on your good sword to guard me out here on the streets. But the Queen has ceased to love me because she knows how strongly I have been arguing for him!’
‘And that is why you are forbidden to talk to her about him, even when she consults you on other matters?’
‘Even so. And of course no-one else at court dare be seen with me for fear that will arouse her suspicions and anger her further.’
‘Perhaps it is time I consulted Lady Janet,’ said Poley. ‘I will put the matter in hand.’
Rain thundered onto the roof of Lady Janet’s carriage, making her raise her voice – though Poley suspected acutely that she would rather have been whispering. ‘It is a combination of things,’ she said. ‘Everyone at court can see how desperate and dangerous his situation has become – and therefore how dangerous the Earl himself has become. On top of that, there is the matter of King James’s letter that we discussed at our last meeting. Its actual contents are irrelevant – the fact that it exists is a sufficient danger-signal to those who stand against Essex. And then there is the great and growing number of men who are flocking to him. Everyone, it seems, from Earls to common soldiers knighted by him in Ireland. Essex House has become a well-guarded fortress, from which may issue an army large enough to invade the City and overwhelm Her Majesty’s court. Or so they fear.’
‘And what do they plan to do about it?’
‘Master Secretary urges caution and diplomacy. Sir Thomas Walsingham is sending Lady Audrey back north as soon as the roads are clear.’
‘Well and good. And Raleigh?’
‘Raleigh wants him dead. He is, indeed, looking at ways to kill him as soon as possible. Once the Earl is under ground, he says, the poison is drawn and the wound will no longer fester.’
‘Dead?’ asked Poley. ‘Not imprisoned? Not banished?’
‘He sees all too clearly how imprisoning the Queen of Scots only led to one deadly plot after another. As you of all people should know. No. He is for the direct approach and as soon as it can be done.’
‘But Master Secretary…’ Poley’s voice trailed off. ‘Were we Raleigh’s followers, Lady Janet, you might well be passing me a vial of poison even now. But we are Cecil’s and Cecil counsels caution. Or so you say and so I hope and pray.’
>
‘Master Secretary is content for Raleigh to go his own way, for the risks of such an action might be very dangerous indeed. Her dreams, I think, of killing two birds with one stone as the saying goes…’
‘That Raleigh might contrive Essex’s murder and in so doing somehow cause his own downfall.’
‘Even so, though he knows that this is little more than a dream. But more realistically, he is still hopeful that the Earl himself might follow the advice he seems to be getting most constantly and undertake some action himself that can only end in his death.’
‘And he relies on me for that?’ asked Poley. Though he knew the answer well enough.
‘He does. Wait until you see your moment, and then…’
‘So you do not need to pass me poison. I am the poison,’ he said.
‘You always have been and you know it,’ she replied gently.
*
Poley was not the only source of information coming into Essex House and while he was mulling over the best way to warn Essex that Raleigh was seriously considering direct action against him, rumours to that effect started to circulate. The deadly threat came not only from Raleigh, of course, but from every man of the faction he commanded. And, the nervous gossips said, this was something much more organised and ruthless than the almost casual duels that might arise when men from each faction confronted each-other in the street. The duel that had brought calamity down on all of them was only the start, they whispered. Any one of them, out alone or even in a small group, had a great deal more than bailiffs to fear. Now Poley’s reputation as a swordsman became an even more important asset. Sir Francis might have been the first to use him as a bodyguard but he was by no means the last. And the fact that both Francis Bacon and Henry Cuffe talked enthusiastically about Poley’s prowess with a blade made him not just first choice for carrying messages but also for escorting anyone who had business outside the walls of Essex House.