by Sam Burnell
Richard didn’t look up, his eyes already unfocused and his attention on the ground between his feet.
Jack tried again. “So you did actually complete a course at University then, even if it wasn’t in your name.”
“Mathematics. Neephouse was studying Mathematics,” Richard supplied, and then he added, “I was studying Philosophy.”
“And you passed Mathematics?” Jack did sound impressed.
“Philosophy and mathematics have a lot in common,” was the last Richard said before his attention was gone, and nothing Jack tried could draw him back into the conversation.
†
Sleeping on the streets in the Doge’s narrow city was not permissible. Being found on the streets after the curfew bell rang for the night would likely lead to relocation to one of the city’s many prisons, which supplied a labour force for maintenance work. Jack was thankful he had kept coins in reserve and knew they had enough to pay for a room, even if it would be a poor one. He was relying heavily on Richard’s plan to find Chester Neephouse.
They paid for the passage into the citadel on one of the flat bottomed, pontoon-like boats that moved people, animals and commodities between the mainland and the city. Richard found a seat in the middle of the pontoon next to piles of stinking baled furs. Lizbet objecting to the stench, stood next to Jack as far from the smell as possible watching Venice rise before them as they crossed the lagoon towards the vibrant city.
Little did they know they were watched by Thomas Gent. Diligently following orders, he was watching, as he had done for weeks, those entering the city. His attention was drawn by the sound of Lizbet’s voice, incongruous and clashing with the local Italian lilt, and his narrow brown eyes had found her standing on an approaching boat. As Gent had watched, Lizbet raised an arm and pointed towards something on the shore. The man stood to her left inclined his head towards her and seemed to supply the answer to a question. Gent’s eyes widened.
The man Lizbet was talking to wore clothes more suited to a peasant. But when Gent looked a little closer, the messy hair, unshaven face and the blue unforgiving eyes were those of Jack Fitzwarren. Gent quickly scanned the rest of the boat but Richard, sat on the other side of the fur bales, was out of sight. As the boat neared the quay, Richard stood. Gent saw the man with the dark hair, and knew then that the brothers were still together.
Gent, moving as quickly as he could, headed down the steep steps from his vantage point. But the exit onto the narrow street was blocked by two carts bearing fresh bread. By the time he was close enough to observe the quay and the boat they had arrived on, it was empty. He methodically checked the surrounding streets but could find no trace of any of them.
Chapter 6
A Legality
The preliminary hearing had passed quickly, and as far as Robert was concerned with a most unsatisfactory outcome. He had presented Ronan’s eldest daughter as the de Bernay girl and had expected to leave the Court with a writ of guardianship. Robert had supposed that the hearing would produce what he wanted: control over the woodlands appended to the manor at Assingham. So sure had Robert been, he had already dispatched men to gauge the full size of the holding, and draw up a detailed document outlining the extent and quality of the tract of land. There were several interested parties already and Robert wanted a quick sale. He was, if nothing else, an opportunistic man, recognising that any delay could jeopardise the sale – especially as he had lost the actual heir.
The preliminary hearing took place in the presence of a minor court official seated at a desk in a crowded hall. He had been interested only in checking the identities of the parties involved. When it was over, it was Clement who found himself once again on the receiving end of the Fitzwarren temper.
Robert, the colour rising to his face, contained his temper only so far as the Chancery gates. Turning on the stooped form of Clement who stepped quickly and nervously behind him, the lawyer was well aware that the day’s proceedings were not going at all the way his client had planned.
“You told me there was to be a Chancery hearing?” Robert almost screamed at Clement.
Clement took a quick pace back, standing on the feet of Marcus Drover who was directly behind him, clasping the case file to his chest. “There was, this was a preliminary hearing. This will be the first one and then a date will be set for the full proceedings,” Clement said defensively. He had no intention of leaving the relatively safe precincts of the Court. There were armed men here employed to keep the peace within the Court and he could rely on them to intervene if Fitzwarren’s threats became physical. If he took too many more steps down the street then he was not so sure his safety would be assured.
Robert had a firm hold on the girl’s upper arm, gripping so tightly she let out an involuntary yelp as he propelled her into the arms of her father. “Get her away from me.” Then, turning back to Clement, his face inches from the small lawyers, he added, “Do not fetch me for your errands again, master lawyer. Next time I hear from you, it had better be to tell me I have the writ and control of the lands.”
Clement’s mouth was opening and closing but nothing coherent emerged. His hands held the summary signed by the Chancery clerk. As Robert shouted at him, his trembling fingers released their hold on the folded sheet and it was only Marcus Drover’s intervention that saved it from ending in the street.
Robert, followed by his steward, his steward’s weeping daughter, and three of his men, left the Court confines. Clement was rooted to the spot. It took a tug from Marcus on his elbow to revive his attention.
“Sir, please, we cannot stop here. We are drawing the attention of the crowd,” Marcus said, his head close to Clement’s.
Clement, looking about him, saw that Marcus spoke the truth. The harsh loud words from Robert along with his aggressive departure, pushing through the assembled crowd, had brought the stares of those waiting onto Clement and Marcus.
Clement cursed under his breath and shuffled from the yard. Marcus, laden with his files, followed closely behind. Why, Clement grumbled, had the Lord saddled him with such an insufferable client?
†
Catherine had not been aware that there were eyes following her around Durham Place and even if she had, she could never have guessed the reason why. It would never have crossed her mind that Robert would drag the most presentable looking of his steward’s daughters to Chancery to impersonate her. Clement had been stunned by Robert’s audacity as well.
After the arrest and internment of Kate Ashley in the Fleet gaol, Durham Place itself became a prison. Guards from the Queen’s own household appeared, the rooms allotted for daily use by Elizabeth were reduced to just three on the second floor, and the large arched entrance now housed a constant guard day and night. The gates, which had previously stood open, were now closed. Morley was satisfied with the new security arrangements. He was sure that there could be little contact between those inside Durham Place and London beyond her walls.
Elizabeth was less than pleased with the new security, but at present, there was no one to complain to. After her beloved Kate had been removed, no provision had been made to replace her. The princess was left with only a minimal serving staff and two waiting ladies, both of whom she despised. Elizabeth had been completely isolated from the politics of Court. She had no idea what was happening, and it gnawed at her. Finally, she resolved that she would rather be at Court, despite the dangers of the place, than a prisoner in her own home.
An ivory comb, inlaid with mother of pearl and bearing a gold handle, was still just a comb, and it snagged in the princess’s hair just as easily as a bone one. Fiery auburn hair came with a price. The hair at her temples was fine, short and delicate, and presented daily a tangle of threads for the comb to snare in.
“Will you be careful!” Elizabeth blazed and turned on the girl still holding the comb. The sudden movement dragged the hair tight in the teeth, jarring the comb from the girl’s hands. Elizabeth lashed out, the back of her hand impacting
with a resonating neat slap on the side of the girl’s face. Yelping, the servant backed away, a hand to her face.
“Get out!” Elizabeth shouted. She tried to prevent the comb from tangling further in her hair, but when the maid had let it fall, it had wrapped itself firmly in her unruly auburn locks.
By the time Elizabeth had extracted the comb there were more than a few strands of hair that had been pulled painfully from her temple. The final hairs were wrapped so tightly around the teeth that she had to use both hands to tear them from the comb.
Elizabeth was not in a good mood. Denied any outside contact, and with no idea of what was happening at Court, she was pining for news as if she had lost a lover. Weeks ago she had thought of an idea, but it had been so abhorrent that she had pushed it to the back of her mind. However, during her lonely isolation, she had begun to dwell upon it more and more. Now it was becoming not just an idea, but a course of action, that Elizabeth, characteristically, was putting rapidly into place. There were few servants who entered her apartments, but there was one she wanted very much in her company.
After a raging argument, of which her father would have been proud, Elizabeth was left alone with another furious woman. Catherine de Bernay had now been selected to wait upon the petulant princess. Catherine took up both the comb and the task reluctantly. Elizabeth’s hair was brushed, pinned and shining like a wet autumn chestnut leaf. Her task complete, Catherine quietly placed the comb back in the box containing the matching brush and mirror. Treading quietly, she turned her foot towards the door, murmuring under her breath, “Will that be all, my Lady?”
“No, it isn’t. Bring me pen and paper. Tell Travers I wish to write a letter to our sister, her most Gracious Majesty.”
Had Travers seen the look on Elizabeth’s face he would have denied her access to anything to write with.
Catherine returned soon after with all that Elizabeth needed, and under her direction, laid it out for her on the writing desk.
“Now wait,” commanded Elizabeth, “you can take this to Travers when I am finished. I am sure he will want to read it before sending it to my dear sister.”
Elizabeth had been right. Travers did want to review it and he was shocked by the contents. Sealing the letter inside another of his own, he dispatched it under guard, wondering what reaction it was going to produce.
†
“Marry! She says here…” Mary paused while finding the line in the letter she wanted to quote from, “she writes - That after careful consideration, I feel I am of such an age that marriage must be my utmost consideration. A husband would be a great aid to steer and direct me.” Mary’s narrowed eyes met those of Cecil. “And she says here, that Philip’s offer to aid her with the issue of her marriage is a cause she would wish to consider again. Apparently, she has had many months to ponder the issue, since she spoke of it with my gracious husband, and is now well disposed to becoming a wedded woman.”
“Marriage is every woman’s final condition. Should it not be the lady’s wish to be so?” Cecil replied carefully.
Mary’s cold assessing gaze met Cecil’s. “I am not sure I can believe it.”
Elizabeth married was a very pleasing idea. There were many, she knew, that thought of her sister still as a prospect for the throne. However, suitably wedded and filed away, that threat could be reduced. Philip had counselled Mary to consider a Spanish match for her sister, one that would tie the princess firmly to both Catholicism and Spain, two alliances that her supporters would baulk at! That thought twitched a smile to the corner of Mary’s mouth. A Catholic match would be another slap in the face for Protestants; they could hardly still cleave to her as a figurehead then. If the match was made to one of Philip’s courtiers, as he had urged, then her new husband might very well take the irksome woman to Spain, away from Mary and the political stage. That thought appealed so much that the reply summoning her sister to Court to discuss the matter quickly made its way back to Durham Place.
Philip had left his wife, and England, in August. Mary was distraught. Her Prince, her consort, some eleven years younger than her, had persuaded her he would return. Mary was left only with promises. As time dragged on, the daily letters she sent to him were returned in an increasingly smaller ratio. Her ladies assured her endlessly that Philip was occupied with the war with France, with securing her Kingdom and above all else with retaining Calais. Publicly Mary took heart from their words, but in private, she grieved for her love with an intensity that she found sometimes shameful. Was it wrong to want her husband this badly? Why did her love for Philip fill her with more meaning that her love for the Lord and the lady for whom she was named?
That was when her ladies began to worry. Mary would leave them frequently to turn back to her faith, the faith that had been her rock for her whole life. Between appearances in her presence chamber and meetings with her councillors and advisors, Mary had little enough time for herself, let alone for sleep, yet still she still spent hours on her knees in devotion to the Lord, her ladies joining her in uncomfortable obedience.
Mary became convinced that the cause of her own problems was her leniency towards the Protestants. They were set to undermine the Catholic faith, worming their way through every level of London society like maggots. This rotten and rank infection had incurred the Lord’s displeasure, and it was only she, as Mary I, her most gracious majesty, who had the power to exorcise this Protestant heresy from England. Because she had not, Mary became convinced, the Lord had punished her, first by taking her child and then her husband.
Her actions became those of a deranged and lonely women, seeking the approval of two masters, and gaining neither.
In London there were several burnings, well publicised and well attended events. Her Councillors, leading nobles and key figures from her religious institutions, were forced to attend to watch their Queen’s physical assault on the Protestant blight.
†
Robert Cecil, flanked by Morley, waited at Smithfield. Both had worked to bring about the morning’s executions, and neither could be absent. Cecil was a man who preferred to tread a middle path, and he was well aware that the recent orders were not popular. At first the prisons had supplied sufficient victims for the piles of blazing faggots, but Mary’s redemption needed more. The low-ranking, illiterate peasants that were sent to the hereafter in smoke did little to ease Mary’s troubled soul. These offerings did not strike at the root of the Protestant threat; they did not issue the warning to England that she wanted them to. So today’s spectacle sent a worrying tremor through the ranks. Those who were to burn were people of rank, they had powerful friends, they were well liked and their passing would be mourned.
Cecil’s schooled face was impassive. His eyes, which were turned on the unfortunate, were unfocused. His mind was dealing with a particularly difficult property dispute between Lord Rochester and the Earl of Essex, both of whom claimed they had rights to the same parcel of monastic land. Henry, it seemed, had sold the same land twice, both had receipts and both had good title, it seemed. The problem was not who the land should vest in but rather ending the matter with both parties, if at least not happy with the situation, accepting of it. Both had seats on the Privy Council and it was in no-one’s interest to have two of its members at each other’s throats over a petty land dispute. The dispute was providing a welcome distraction and adequately distracting him from what was about to happen at Smithfield.
So Cecil did not really see the men and woman arrive, wearing only linen shifts. They were led from the wagons to the platforms, raised high to give everyone assembled a good view of the wrath of a vengeful God and Mary his loyal and obedient servant. It was Morley’s words, pitched so only his master could hear, that caught his attention.
“Could you have not found someone else to attend you today?” Morley’s tone was abrupt, and at odds with his usual soft and amenable voice.
Cecil glanced round at him, annoyed, his attention instantly drawn back to the events bef
ore him. “Surely this does not irk you?”
Morley’s mouth, clamped in thin line, regarded his master levelly. If he had been about to reply he obviously thought better of it and remained silent.
“That’s Mistress Harrington.” Cecil pointed towards a middle-aged woman making a poor attempt to clamber up a ladder in bare feet to the staging. “Were you not instrumental in her internment in the Tower in the first place?”
Morley looked carefully about him before replying. There were none close enough to hear his words. “You know I was. These exhibitions, they serve no other purpose than to make a man wonder if he will be next.”
Cecil’s horse moved beneath him, and for a moment he moved closer to Morley. “I hope very much that this will be a finale. Mary needs to ease her conscience, and if this will bring that about then it has served a good purpose. Do you not agree?”
“If it will be an end…” Morley’s words trailed off as the first of the screams reached his ears. Seated on horseback, his view was far too good for his liking, and he could see across the heads of the gathered Londoners to where Mistress Harrington’s humble prayers had given way to screams of abject terror. The lady, a grandmother, with a ready wit and a quick turn of phrase that Morley had found enjoyable, was now screaming for help and begging for her own mother to save her. If the crowd had been gathered for an entertainment, this was one that they no longer wanted. Morley, casting his eyes over the assembled, saw many of them looking away, faces twisted in disgust. Some wore pitying looks and some even had tears on their cheeks.
Her hair caught fire then and her screams turned to shrieks. Mary had forbidden the mercy of the gunpowder bags around their necks, so there was not going to be a quick end for the poor old lady. As the smoke cleared for a moment, both men were afforded a good view of the blood coursing down what had once been her legs to hiss and spit in the flames.