by Peter Tonkin
Of course, Poley knew all too well that he was not the only swordsman amongst them. After all, Sir Gelly Meyrick led a contingent of battle-hardened soldiers. But they had gained their experience on the hills, valleys and bogs of Ireland or on the wide battlefields of the Low Countries. And, as often as not, on horseback. There the preferred weapons were short swords or broad swords; here the rapier ruled supreme both as fashion accessory and weapon of choice. Furthermore, they soon discovered that skirmishing on foot in the streets of London was a very different proposition to anything they had trained for or experienced.
Hardly surprisingly, therefore, Poley not only came to know all the alternative routes from Essex House to Gray’s Inn very well indeed but also those from Essex House to Drury House, where the Earl of Southampton currently held court. The distance between these two was nowhere near as great as that between Essex House and Gray’s Inn. The quickest way was to go across the Strand to St Clement Danes and then up Wych Street which was one of the thoroughfares that opened at the front of the ancient church. But the roads were crowded unless they were walked at night – in spite of the City’s curfew. And in any case Wych Street was notoriously narrow, the overhanging buildings that lined it almost leaning against each-other at their highest points. If anywhere was designed for an ambuscade, then Wych Street certainly was. And yet, as winter began to ease its grip on London, increasing numbers of men went hurrying nervously from one great house to the other. The situation was becoming more desperate with each passing day. The Earl had given up all hope that the Queen would relent or that James would undertake whatever action he had promised in the secret letter he wore in the bag around his neck and was listening to wilder and wilder suggestions as he waited in growing despair to hear something positive from Scotland.
But each day brought disappointment and increasing desperation. Poley observed the situation dispassionately. Because all the talk in Essex House was of violent action, who it should be taken against and how soon, there was a general assumption that an equal measure of violence was being prepared against them. That Raleigh was gathering some sort of army to face the hundred and more desperate knights who had put themselves under the Earl’s command. That there would soon be a kind of warfare on London’s streets was almost taken for granted. The smithy near the stables in the courtyard was put to work almost day and night, mending armour, sharpening swords. Powder was smuggled in by boat. Barrels of it carried up from Essex House steps through the gardens and in past Sir Anthony’s sick-room to prime both pistols and muskets. The groups of Essex men who ventured out began to carry guns as well as swords. It was the sort of situation, Poley told Lady Janet, that could be compared to a powder keg. It would only take one spark to set the whole thing off.
Gelly Meyrick caught up with Poley mid-morning one Tuesday early in February, an apparently casual encounter which in fact was nothing of the sort. ‘My Lord wishes you to take this message to Drury House,’ he said, holding up a carefully folded and heavily sealed letter. ‘It’s for the Earl of Southampton eyes alone. Do not surrender it into any hand but his.’
‘Of course, Sir Gelly. I will go at once.’
As sparks went, it seemed little enough to have caused what followed.
*
Poley set out for Drury House with Sir Francis and Cuffe at either shoulder. They were each bound for a different destination, but their paths ran side by side to begin with. Although it was still winter, it was one of those days that sometimes appear in January and early February which give a foretaste of spring. The Strand was thick with slush and, at this, the narrower end, almost blocked with crowds of people. St Clement Danes was all agleam with drops and runnels of meltwater and many of the people out and about were heading there to hear early Evensong, the sacrament’s approach proclaimed by all the church bells in the city. Wych Street seemed strangely clear of snow – the worst of it, thought Poley as he pulled his cloak tighter against the chill of the shadows – had been kept away by the closeness of the roofs whose eaves all-but touched high above them. This also added a strange element to the sounds coming from the street. They echoed, overlapped, grew louder and softer without apparent reason, as though this place was a cavern full of ghostly whispers. Even the church bells sounded strange.
‘Make way there!’ snarled an impatient voice immediately behind the three men. Poley looked back and up. There were several men on horseback trying to force their way along the busy road. They were wearing hats pulled low and cloaks muffled high towards their chins. But their leader’s face was easy enough to recognise.
‘Sir Thomas Grey,’ mumbled Cuffe as Poley pulled him aside. ‘The Toad’s man. And an arrogant swine, I remember he pushed his way past us when we were on the way to Nonsuch on the day the Earl went into Her Majesty’s chamber unannounced. Sir Christopher St Lawrence was all for striking him dead on the spot, as I recall.’
As if to emphasise Cuffe’s bitter words, Grey’s horse raised its tail and deposited a pile of steaming dung in the roadway immediately in front of them. Poley stepped aside, and as he did so, he got a clear view along the house-fronts towards his destination. He was just in time to see the great gate of Drury House open and a small group of horsemen come trotting out. They turned away, and started easing their passage through the crowds, heading down towards The Strand, Charing Cross, Whitehall Palace and the Council, the Court or the Queen. Whither, no doubt, Sir Thomas Grey was also heading. Poley recognised their leader at a glance. It was the man he had been ordered to give Essex’s message to: the Earl of Southampton.
Avoiding the horse dung, Poley eased in close behind Thomas Grey and his escort, calculating that the horsemen would be moving through the crowd of people faster than a man on foot would be able to – especially given the riders’ ruthless arrogance. Indeed, he thought, if he stuck close to Grey he would probably catch up to Southampton pretty quickly. The far end of Wych Street opened into Little Drury Lane, which ran down to The Strand not far from Sir Walter Raleigh’s current home, Durham House. With the movement of the two groups of horsemen speeding up and slowing down as the density of the crowds dictated, Poley followed as close behind the horses as he could. Sir Francis and Cuffe stayed with him, each no doubt, intrigued to see what was going to happen next.
Although The Strand was even more crowded than Wych Street – explaining Sir Thomas’s choice of the route - nevertheless, most of the traffic on this, the wider section of the thoroughfare as it led down to Charing Cross was horses and wagons. So Grey at last managed to draw level with Southampton while Poley was so close behind them that he witnessed in some detail what happened next. The clamour in the street – augmented not only by the bells but also by the action of the horsemen themselves - made it impossible for him to hear exactly what was said, but with breath-taking suddenness, Grey pulled out a broadsword that had been hanging from his saddle beneath his left thigh while the Southampton pulled out the rapier he carried at his left hip. Steel clashed against steel as Poley leaped back from the melee to avoid being trampled by the horses. Grey had the upper hand at once. Both he and Southampton were cavalrymen, indeed their enmity had arisen over Southampton’s leadership of Grey in Ireland as Essex’s Master of Horse. Their control of their mounts was good. They fought with their horses shoulder to shoulder, each facing the other. Their companions jostled around them, uncertain whether to part the combatants or join the battle. But, thought Poley grimly, Southampton would be lucky to survive this. His rapier was being wielded by a practised hand, almost as well-schooled as Poley’s own. But Grey had the broadsword, which was designed to be an efficient mankiller in situations just like this. The double-edged blade flashed down. Southampton was lucky to turn it aside without damage to himself or his mount. He riposted, but Grey leaned sideways so the rapier’s point passed harmlessly along his ribs.
‘That’s it,’ said Poley, though his voice was lost in the hubbub. ‘Southampton’s dead.’
Grey swung his blade round and
down with all the power of a headsman’s axe. But just as he did so, one of Southampton’s companions crashed his horse into the Earl’s, knocking man and mount aside. It was too late for Grey to stop the blow or turn the blade. The power of it nearly toppled him out of his saddle and he pulled back so hard his horse reared. The group broke up, the combatants wrenching their horses away from one another. All except for Southampton’s companion who sat stock-still in the saddle, stricken with disbelief, staring at his arm. Which now ended at the elbow. Except for the fountain of blood that was pumping out of it, spraying away across the road in great steaming arcs of red as bright as holly-berries. While the agitated horses trampled his severed hand and forearm into the gutter.
9
‘He meant to kill you, My Lord,’ said Poley. ‘There can be no doubt.’
The Earl of Southampton looked at him, the long face pale, eyes wide, full of horror; not yet rage. That would come later, thought the spy. After all, Southampton had been a soldier in Ireland. Violent death was nothing new to him; though he would have been hard-put to rival the butchery enacted by his enemy Sir Walter Raleigh there. Working under orders of Sir Thomas Grey’s father Baron Arthur Grey, Raleigh and Macworth were the captains who oversaw the brutal execution of more than six hundred prisoners after the castle at Smerwick surrendered to them. Still, to come so near death, so suddenly, at the hand of someone he knew so well. And in the middle of The Strand…
‘If your page hadn’t intervened…’ added Cuffe, dragging Poley back to the present. He shook his head in horror that seemed almost as great as the Earl’s; but there was growing outrage there too. Even though Cuffe had seen much less of the battlefields in Ireland than Southampton or Essex had – or Grey or Raleigh.
Southampton nodded vacantly. ‘Poor Ben,’ he whispered. He had plainly liked the boy, thought Poley. And the regard must have been mutual for the lad to give his life for his master’s like that.
‘Who drew his weapon first?’ wondered Sir Francis, ever the lawyer. ‘I was in no position to see. But it may be a crucial question, My Lord. You know The Queen has strictly forbidden you and Sir Thomas Grey to fight under any circumstances. She will be outraged when word reaches her...’
‘Grey,’ answered Poley at once. ‘I’d lay my life on it. Grey drew that mankilling broadsword he had hanging down by his left stirrup.’
‘Left over no doubt from his time in Ireland,’ observed Gelly Meyrick, joining in the discussion for the first time.
‘A fearsome weapon to be carrying around the streets of London,’ emphasised Cuffe. ‘Did he think the Irish were about to attack the City?’
‘No,’ grated Sir Gelly. ‘He thought he might come across some friends of the Earl of Essex. The very fact that he has been allowed to go about the streets armed, and with such a weapon to hand, is sinister in itself!’
Southampton nodded, face white, his eyes wide. ‘As you say,’ he said to Poley as though the Welshman hadn’t even spoken. ‘Grey drew first. I only drew in order to defend myself.’
‘And what passed between you?’ pursued Sir Francis. ‘What did you say to so enrage him?’ Sir Gelly glared at him icily and drew in breath to speak. ‘The Queen will want to know,’ added Sir Francis hurriedly cutting Essex’s steward off.
‘I? I said nothing!’ Southampton was stirred to righteous anger. ‘It was him! He sneered at our Irish campaign and noted how much more successfully it was progressing now that I am here in London instead of serving as General of Horse and Lord Mountjoy has replaced My Lord of Essex…’ He paused and looked round the room, finally locking his angry gaze with that of his friend and sometime general.
Essex sat behind a sizeable table, almost as pale as Southampton. His hands had closed to fists as they rested on the board, however. They at least spoke of Essex’s outrage at the attack and the near-death of his closest friend. Gelly Meyrick stood at his left shoulder with Christopher Blount at his left beside William Parker, Lord Monteagle. Ironically, apart from Poley the only man in the room not yet buried under mountains of debt. The Percy brothers Charles and Jocelyn recently arrived from the North and sharing the room that had once been Cuffe’s, stood behind the Welshman, their broad, ruddy faces, like his, folded into thunderous frowns. It was hard to see them as being related to Lady Janet, Poley thought. Fernando Gorges and Sir John Davis stood on either side of them, making the little chamber seem crowded.
*
In fact they were a random selection of Essex’s supporters who had been nearby when Southampton on foot staggered in off the Strand with his naked rapier in one hand and his reins in the other. And with Poley close behind, leading a horse that carried the dead boy draped over it. Too late even for the attentions of Dr Wendy in whose chamber beside Sir Anthony’s sickroom he was currently lying awaiting post mortem and funeral preparations. The immediate furore their entrance had crerated was quieter now, but the shock and concern it caused were, if anything, deeper. Silence settled on the room. And lingered. The entirety of Essex House seemed to be holding its breath.
‘Grey is Master Secretary’s man,’ said Poley into the cavernous stillness. ‘It seems that it is not only Sir Walter Raleigh who is keen to catch the nearest way of defeating you, My Lord. Though it could hardly be called coincidence that the attempt on the Earl’s life was actually made outside Raleigh’s London dwelling.’
‘It is clearly inviting a violent death at the hands of one faction or the other for you or any of your friends to walk in the streets unguarded,’ said Cuffe.
‘I cannot believe that Master Secretary would countenance such bold-faced murder,’ observed Sir Francis more calmly, in the face of the gathering outrage.
Everyone else in the room looked at him as though he was fit for Bedlam.
‘I will go to Whitehall via Gray’s Inn and look more deeply into this matter,’ he said as their growing hostility registered with him. He hurried out of the door, their gazes following him. Like so many daggers in his back, thought Poley.
‘He’ll need to go further afield than that if he wants to find the court,’ said Sir Ferdinando. ‘The Queen is still at Richmond.’
‘Well,’ observed Gelly Meyrick grimly, ‘he’s certainly the only one of us who can walk the streets in absolute safety, no matter whose blades are thirsty for our blood.’
‘It is clearly a matter of life and death now,’ said Sir John Davis later still as they continued to chew over the implications of Grey’s attack on Southampton over a supper of lamb and umble pie, eels in calves’ foot jelly and a pig’s head.
‘What we must do,’ said Fernando Gorges, ‘is to formulate a plan of action. Something we can prepare and then enact flawlessly, all as agreed, when the moment is right. We are soldiers after all. It should be planned like a campaign.’
‘Which cannot be undertaken immediately,’ observed Poley, admitted to the top table now. ‘Not if it involves The Queen, as you all must see that it will. For, no matter what else we plan, Her Majesty must be removed to a protective custody where she is incapable of taking action, or you may lay your lives that she will take action.’
‘Whatever we do, it must involve The Queen’s person,’ emphasised Cuffe. ‘But surely we are no Jesuitical murderers about some kind of regicide. She must be held for a time while whatever we agree on is enacted. She must be held apart. Inviolate. But, as Master Poley says, powerless to intervene. But if she comes to any harm then we are all lost.’’
Lady Frances, Lady Lettice and Lady Rich all nodded, wide-eyed at the seriousness of the discussion, finding it hard to finish their meals. The combination of desperation, tension and shock at the young page’s death robbing them of appetite. Not to mention the stark reality of what was being discussed. Though, thought Poley, Lady Lettice and Lady Rich would not be too greatly saddened to see the Queen taken down a peg or two. Not would Lady Walsingham were she here rather than in Barn Elms. All three had cause to be out of love with their irascible monarch.
‘I se
e that,’ said Essex, but he did not sound particularly sure of himself. He pushed his platter away, piled though it was with untouched food. The enormity of what Cuffe was discussing so calmly and logically seemed also to have winded him like a fist in the belly. The possibility – no matter how remote – that having survived so many years of plots to murder her in any manner that could be devised by her enemies abroad or their secret representatives in England, Elizabeth might finally face death at the hands of someone who had once been her closest and most loving friend and favourite.
But then again, thought the intelligencer, this entire situation had originated with Essex himself demonstrating the inconceivable truth: that it was possible for a determined individual, though armed and covered in mud, to access The Queen’s person, even in her most private chambers, unguarded, unprepared and helpless.
It had been done once, almost by accident. It could be done again.
*
But the words, the thought, the memory and the possibility, calculated Poley, were what made the Earl’s eyes dart all around the bustle of the great hall as servants and diners came and went. Looking as though Essex feared that Captain of the Queen’s Guard Raleigh and all the equally ruthless soldiers at his command could come sweeping in through the walls themselves. Clearly Essex House was no place to be discussing such matters or making such plans if they wanted their leader to remain in firm command of his faculties.
‘So, we can plot and we can plan,’ said Poley. ‘But we can take no actual action until the Queen returns from Richmond.’
‘And when will that be?’ wondered Cuffe round a mouthful of the savoury pie.
‘Later in the month,’ said Sir Christopher Blount, signalling for a further helping of pig’s cheek.
‘Then,’ said Sir John Davis, ‘that is how long we have to formulate and agree a plan; to realise what elements we will need to address to ensure success, then to assign every man a part in it and prepare to put it into action.’