by Michael Ward
Typical of Edmund to buy a house with a secret passage. In some ways Edmund, his face lit with a beaming smile, was still a boy. Tom’s heart filled with affection for his old friend and, on impulse, threw his arms around him.
‘Tom, be careful! You will crush my new lace shirt. What an extraordinary fellow you are. Come, we cannot wait a minute longer. We must go.’
It was clear the fun had not finished when they arrived at the post masque entertainment at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The area, adjacent to the Lincoln Inn of Court, was one of a number licensed by the King for development and a number of grand residences had been built. Music and laughter spilt into the night air from one of the mansion houses. Tom’s pulse quickened at the thought of Elizabeth Seymour waiting inside and he strained for a glimpse of her through the glittering windows as he approached the front door.
They knocked and entered a fairytale. Men and women strode the hall in gold, silver, reds and blues, verdant green and yellow. Gathers, pleats and swags—slashing, pinking, stamping—collars, cuffs and exquisitely embroidered buttons. It was a feast of the dressmaker’s art. The cast from the earlier masque performance was still in costume, some in masks or exotic headdresses sparkling in the light of a thousand candles. Liveried servants, silent among the hubbub of the room’s chatter, moved among the guests with trays of food and wine. Tom had stumbled upon the cream of London society, out on the town and determined to enjoy itself. Even Edmund was impressed.
‘How on earth did you get an invitation to an evening such as this, young Thomas?’ Edmund shouted in Tom’s ear.
Before Tom could answer, Edmund had snatched a glass of wine from a tray and, with a wink, dived into the crowd in front of him. Edmund was in his element. That will be the last I see of him until the night is over and all the wine drunk.
How did I end up at an evening such as this? Tom thought, as he surveyed the room for Elizabeth, or any familiar face. He noticed his sister Ellen standing in a corner talking to a man he did not recognise.
Tom went to join them as a servant approached with a tray of drinks. Tom did a quick sum in his head and calculated the Venetian goblets on the tray were worth about twice Isaac’s annual wages. He chose a glass of red wine. Bordeaux; probably the best he had ever tasted. The owner of this house was accustomed to excellence, and extravagance.
‘Tom. There you are. I was beginning to wonder if you would ever arrive. Please allow me to introduce you to my new friend, Mr Henry Clark. Mr Clark is one of the King’s Players who have been performing today’s masque at Whitehall. Mr Clark, this is my brother, Thomas Tallant.’
Even such a distant link to royalty as Henry Clark made Ellen’s eyes sparkle. Ellen Tallant did not usually move in such vaunted circles, but she had friends who knew those who did. The royal court was an exotic foreign country, one she longed to visit.
Tom exchanged brief bows with Clark. He was of similar height to Tom, about ten years older with dark shoulder-length hair, greying at the temples. The brow above his dark eyes carried deep, permanent furrows, giving him a countenance of constant worry.
‘I hope the masque was a success, Mr Clark?’ he asked.
‘It is hard to know, Mr Tallant. It is not like the playhouse where you soon discover if your performance is to the audience’s taste. The masque is such a formal entertainment, and the audience is so refined, especially at court, that we have learned to trust in our own abilities rather than feed off any appreciation. In the final act, the audience become the players when they join in the dance, so it can be a little confusing for those of us more accustomed to treading the playhouse boards.’
‘It sounds like the masque is not much to your liking.’
‘No, no, please do not let me give you that impression, Mr Tallant.’ The furrows on Henry Clark’s face deepened.
‘Do not mind my brother and his direct manner,’ Ellen replied soothingly. She glared at Tom with mock annoyance.
‘Forgive me, Mr Tallant. A player’s life is a precarious one and we have come to rely increasingly on commissions from the court for our livelihood. In the past I was a member of the honoured company of Queen Henrietta’s Men and was grateful for it. I was a young actor building my repertoire, first female parts and then the men’s roles. But four years ago the plague shut our theatre and most of the others in the city for a year and a half. The company fell apart, and there I was, back where I started. So, no, we are honoured and pleased to perform this masque, particularly as their Royal Highnesses both took part.’
This news was too much for Ellen, who was hanging on Clark’s every word. King Charles and Queen Henrietta Maria? She could hardly contain herself.
‘They joined you in the masque today?’
Clark was beginning to enjoy his rapt audience. ‘Oh yes. Her Royal Highness has taken part in several productions at court. She enjoys it very much. But this is the first occasion I have seen His Majesty play a role. I believe this is the second time they have performed Salmacida Spolia as the first occasion at the beginning of the year was such a success.’ Here Clark lowered his voice. ‘However, I understand the reception was slightly less enthusiastic today.’
Ellen looked aghast. ‘Not because of their Majesties’ performances?’
Again the exaggerated concern from Clarke. ‘Oh no dear lady. Not at all. They were both… majestic, as you would expect. No, it was more because of… of the theme of the masque. Sir William D'Avenant wrote an elegant play, and the splendid costumes and settings were from Mr Inigo Jones who also, by the way, designed this magnificent building we are standing in—a most gifted gentleman. Personally I considered Sir William's theme to be particularly generous. It was approved by His Majesty and conceived, I understand, to set an emollient tone for the forthcoming Parliament. His Majesty played the part of the King Philogenes—the lover of the people. Philogenes is beset with disorder in his kingdom yet through his generosity and wisdom is able to restore harmony by the end.’
‘Well, who could take exception to that?’ Ellen asked.
‘Indeed, you may ask, but there was much muttering and murmuring after the performance. Some of the assembled crowd took exception to Sir William’s conclusion that disorder was caused by the willfulness and disrespect of the common people and only calmed by the King’s magnanimous kindness and patience. Indeed, when I spoke the line “the people’s giddy fury”, I heard muted hisses and a cry of “No!” from the back of the room.’
Ellen turned. ‘Tom, what is happening? First, that trouble in the church, and now this—dissent shown to their Royal Highnesses in their very presence!’
Tom told Ellen not to worry. Privately he recalled Isaac’s warning about the changing mood in the city and the beating given to Andrew by the Apprentice toughs: King or Parliament? King or Parliament? It’s time to choose. Kings were accustomed to people venting their discontent on the streets but this unrest was taking root more widely. More worrying was Charles’s belief that it was the people’s fault, and the best way to respond was through the allegory of a court masque. For the first time Tom realised the King was dangerously out of touch with the public mood.
As he pondered, he scanned the room, looking for Elizabeth. The tension rose in his chest. She must be here, but he didn’t want to ask Ellen and reveal his interest.
‘But there I go again, speaking out of turn,’ Clark continued. ‘It really will not do, particularly in this house.’
He looked around the room with theatrical furtiveness.
‘Why, what is the significance of this building?’ Ellen asked in an innocent tone.
‘You do not know who lives here? This is the home of the gentleman who generously provided the extensive funds for today’s performance. If you had seen Mr Jones’s ingenious sets, the clouds, the chariot descending from the heavens and the light, my Lord, the light—I have seen nothing so brilliant—you will appreciate the masque incurred considerable expense to stage. To finance this was generous indeed but to offer also t
his marvellous refreshment to the players at the masque’s conclusion is truly bountiful.’
Tom was becoming irritated by Henry Clark’s obsequiousness and concerned by Elizabeth’s absence. The evening was not turning out as he had hoped. His voice betrayed his increasingly sour mood.
‘So who is this paragon of patronage, Mr Clark?’
Clark did not notice Tom’s tone, or chose to ignore it. ‘Why, Sir Hugh Swofford, of course. You know of him?’
The hairs on the back of Tom’s neck rose. Was this the hand of fate, or persecution? He makes a rare excursion into London society to forget his worries only to visit the business partner of the man he is accused of murdering! Tom desperately dredged his memory for the face of Sir Hugh. He must avoid meeting him at all costs. Tom would tour the other rooms and, if there was no sign of Elizabeth, make his excuses and leave. He was about to move into the salon when a group of men approached, at their head an imposing figure—tall with broad shoulders, a confident face framed by thick, auburn hair with a goatee beard and moustache.
‘Oh my word, we are honoured,’ Clark said. ‘Henry Jermyn is approaching.’
‘Henry Jermyn, the Queen’s Master of the Horse?’
‘Yes, and the Queen’s privado,’ Clark whispered. ‘Jermyn’s star is very much in the ascendancy. They say that if you want the ear of His Majesty you must speak to the Queen, and if you want the ear of Queen Henrietta you must speak to Jermyn. It is said Jermyn and Her Majesty are inseparable, and he is master of more than her stables, if you get my meaning.’
Clark’s gossip died in his throat as he noticed Jermyn heading straight for him. A look of fear flashed across Clark’s face as Jermyn stopped in front of them. He was beautifully clothed in dark blue velvet and lace but Tom hardly noticed as he was trying hard not to stare at the man standing next to Jermyn. Tom had seen the effects of syphilis on too many of his crew to mistake the signs. The man had lost the bridge of his nose to the pox and the attempts to cure it, leaving him with a snout like a dog, which did little to enhance his long chin and protruding eyes.
Jermyn spoke. ‘You, sir,’ pointing his silver tipped cane at Henry Clark, ‘you were one of the players at today’s entertainment, am I right?’
Clark scraped the floor with a bow. ‘Yes, my lord, I had that good fortune.’
‘Sir William D’Avenant,’ and here Jermyn nodded to the ruined face next to him, ‘has been told the most damnable thing—that members of the audience were hissing at his excellent libretto, in particular when he expressed our mutual gratitude for the wisdom and generosity of their Majesties… which, if I may say, Sir William, you phrased most elegantly.’
Sir William acknowledged Henry Jermyn with a slight bow.
‘Of course, this cannot be true, and I told Sir William so. However, rather than hear it from me, why not talk to those in the heat of the action, so to speak, the players. I saw you across the room. So here we are.’
There was a pause. This could be tricky for Clark. Does he lie to the Queen’s privado?
‘Well, speak up man,’ Jermyn prompted brusquely.
The thespian in Clark came to his rescue.
‘Sire, forgive me. I was momentarily rendered speechless by the absurdity of such a claim. I can assure both you and Sir William’—prompting another ostentatious bow towards the librettist—‘that I heard little during the performance as I was so entranced by the whole effect of the masque and the honour of playing my small part in it. But what I did hear from the assembled crowd was universal expressions of praise and wonder.’
Remind me never to trust an actor, Tom thought, as he marvelled at Clark’s ability to deliver this instantaneous fiction without missing a beat.
‘Hah, there, told you so, William,’ Jermyn beamed. ‘Just as I said, the people love your masques almost as much as they love their Majesties.’
Sir William nodded in acknowledgement, but looked unconvinced.
Jermyn swivelled to his right to look at Tom.
‘And you, sir, what did you think of the entertainment?’
‘I very much regret I did not have the pleasure of seeing it. I am here by invitation. Allow me to introduce myself: Thomas Tallant, member of the East India Merchant Company of the City of London.’
Sir William’s disfigured face became animated and he spoke for the first time.
‘East India Company, you say. You are a spice trader?’
‘I am indeed, Sir William, working for my father, Sir Ralph Tallant.’
‘You must have visited Madagascar. That most blessed isle, the land of milk and honey.’
Tom was puzzled. He had sailed along the east coast of the island on his way to Goa but could not recognise it from Sir William’s colourful description. He saw Jermyn too was beaming at Sir William’s description.
‘I have sailed past it, Sir William, on a number of occasions.’
Jermyn cut in. ‘You have actually seen the land that inspired Sir William’s greatest poetic work? But you say you sailed past it. Why in God’s name did you not land there? Such a land of strong magic. I have seen many wonders from Madagascar such as dragon’s blood and stones made of iron. Did you see the rukhs flying? Huge birds strong enough to carry off an elephant.’
Tom was familiar with fanciful accounts of foreign lands but was surprised to hear them from educated men.
‘Gentlemen, unfortunately I am ignorant of such wonders but I do know that both the Portuguese and the Dutch tried to settle the island. Both came to grief at the hands of the local tribe, the Sakalava.’
‘Where is your resolve, the English sea-dog courage that destroyed the Armada?’ Jermyn retorted. ‘Surely that is more than a match for a tribe of savages?’
For the second time that evening Tom sensed his irritation rising, but his voice remained calm.
‘East India ships are equipped to trade and, to a limited extent, protect ourselves. We do not have the means to mount a war, even against savages. The charter given to the company by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth made it clear there is no requirement or expectation on the company to conquer other peoples on behalf of England. We are simply to trade with them for our country’s economic benefit.’
Jermyn frowned and glanced at Sir William who had started a new conversation with Ellen. Tom felt the pressure of Jermyn’s hand in the small of his back as the large man guided him away from the group towards a quiet corner of the room.
Jermyn leaned down and spoke into Tom’s ear.
‘I understand your position, Tallant, but I never lose an opportunity to press the case for a landing on Madagascar. Sir William is obsessed with the island and, as he is Poet Laureate… you didn’t know that? Oh yes, appointed last year to succeed Jonson… so, as he is Poet Laureate, I try to keep him happy. At times I think it is my job to keep everyone at court happy. So, let us forget Madagascar. However, there is a service you could perform for your King and Queen and, if you were to oblige, I would make it my business to ensure they knew of your loyalty.’
Tom’s pulse quickened. The prospect of royal favour was flattering but he had a sense of foreboding about this large and powerful man.
‘I assume you trade with Europe as well as the Indies?’
Tom nodded.
‘Excellent, so you will have ships regularly travelling between Europe and London?’
Tom nodded again.
‘So if I needed cargo or passengers to be transported confidentially, on his Majesty’s business, you could oblige?’
Tom looked at Jermyn closely. He’s talking about spies and coded information, Tom thought. For a second he was tempted by the thought of having an influential figure like Jermyn to help him in his current troubles. But Tom knew his father would find out and be furious and, looking into Henry Jermyn’s eyes, he was not convinced the Queen’s privado would put himself out to help him, no matter what services he performed. Tom would be only one of a network of couriers for his spying activities.
‘Sir, I tha
nk you for feeling I am worthy of your trust in such matters but I regret I cannot provide such a service.’
Jermyn’s body stiffened and he straightened, moving away from Tom.
‘It is my responsibility, both to my father and the East India Company, to be accountable for all cargo and passengers aboard our ships, which I could not be if I was carrying either in confidence for you.’
Jermyn gave Tom a withering look.
‘You bloody little upstart, Tallant. Who do you think you are, declaring your pathetic statements of honour to me, a member of the royal household. You should think it your duty to perform such a service, and be bloody glad of it. Do not think I will forget this slight in a hurry.’
Jermyn turned on his heel and strode away, summoning Sir William D’Avenant to follow. Within seconds he was smiling and talking to other guests as if nothing had happened. Tom was beginning to loathe the artifice of the whole event.
Ellen had not noticed anything amiss. She was too excited by her proximity to royalty and was still deep in conversation with Henry Clark. Tom resumed his search for Elizabeth in the large salon at the rear of the house. Here, if anything, the crush was greater and its tall decorated ceiling reverberated with the tumult of people meeting, greeting, gossiping, wooing and, occasionally, arguing.
He saw her, merely a glimpse through the crowd. She had her back to Tom and was engaged in animated conversation with two men, both much taller than her. He saw her put her hands to the back of her neck and then she was gone again, lost in a sea of faces. Tom edged forward, but by the time he reached the spot, Elizabeth had once again disappeared.
‘Damnation,’ he whispered under his breath. Tom was increasingly uncomfortable under Sir Hugh Swofford’s roof but, now he knew Elizabeth was there, he could not leave until he had spoken to her. He searched the room again but there was no sign of her. He entered the final chamber which was half full and quickly saw Elizabeth was not there either. Had he missed her leaving the salon? Perhaps she was departing the party.