Shakespeare's Rebel (33 page)

‘More generous. He is far more – for he loves a lovely woman.’

‘Oh sir,’ she said coyly, lowering her eyes. Then she lifted her head and gave an imitation of his slow nod. ‘A deal, then. On your honour?’

He remembered the deal he’d made with the Queen over Essex, the delight she’d taken in the word and the handshake. Something else was required here. ‘A deal made,’ he said, ‘and sealed.’ And saying it, he kissed her.

She let him, for a moment; even responded. Then she pushed him away, turned and was gone. He stared at the door she’d left ajar, listened to the voices raised beyond it, tasted the lead in the paint she’d left on his lips. He heard his lord cry out, in that accent with the trace of the Welsh borders he’d never quite lost at court, ‘Your majesty, I have returned!’ John stepped out into the corridor and into the hubbub.

There was a crowd there now. Not only Essex’s fifteen, but many from the house, gathered to behold the marvel of his return. These pressed in, asking their wonder. The nobles ignored them, talking amongst themselves. The unknighted, precious few, held forth. The tall Irishman, St Lawrence, had gathered a gaggle of maidservants, all staring up his mud-spattered frontage in awe.

At the head of them all, directly before the door, stood the earl. And before him was Sarah, standing between the two guards. John heard her say, ‘I will discover if her majesty is ready for you, my lord,’ before she slipped inside, closing the door behind her.

Essex turned. He had cleaned up, a little. The mud was largely gone from his face, though John noticed a darkening still in one ear. He’d borrowed a cloak – and a doublet, too small for him, and short of the lace with which he covered everything of his own. But it was clean, unlike the breeches beneath to which it was barely laced, whilst his riding boots were still thick with road dust. Wedged into one of them, John glimpsed white – a corner of the handkerchief.

In the end, John thought, it isn’t a poor combination. The worst of the dirt removed so as not to grossly offend; some remaining to remind of the effort he had made to reach his sweet Bess’s side.

Which he did not do immediately. Despite his pacing, the muttered oaths becoming increasingly audible, the door remained closed. There was time enough for three flagons of Rhenish to be brought and consumed by the party, some bread and sausage to be chewed and swallowed. John consumed his share sitting down. It took him out of the eyesight of his lordship and gave much relief to his legs.

After a while – John reckoned a good half-hour – there were noises from the front, a general shifting. He rose, and being taller than most there saw above the heads to the door opening, another lady-in-waiting – not Sarah – standing there. ‘Will my lord – and only my lord – care to enter?’ she asked, curtseying.

Essex looked back at his silent followers, swelled by gawkers. He took a deep breath, reached down and unbuckled his sword belt. Handing it to the Earl of Southampton at his side he said, ‘Wish me fortune, friends.’ To their cries of ‘Fortune’ and ‘God’s love’, Robert Devereux marched into the Queen’s chamber and to his fate.

For a while, men moved before the door, as if their yearning could open it again to the earl and triumph. But minutes passed, many of them, the bell in the courtyard beyond tolling the quarter, the half, and then the ten strokes of ten. One by one, the men of Essex’s party joined John upon the chairs in an order of precedence stretching from the door, the earls Southampton and Rutland closest to it, the noble lords Mountjoy and Rich next, down through the knights like Gerard to mere captains like Danvers . . . and St Lawrence, who dropped heavily on to the chair next to John’s, making it creak.

‘What think you?’ he said. ‘Will our lord thrive in there?’

John shrugged. ‘With God’s help. I am sure you know as well as I.’

‘Ah, but there was I thinking you might know a little more,’ replied St Lawrence. ‘After your private consultation with her majesty’s maid, that is.’

John looked up. ‘For an Irishman, you don’t miss much.’

The man ran his tongue over his lips. ‘Now there’s the mistake you English always make about us. You think us stupid, when we are far from it. As the Earl of Tyrone has recently proved.’

‘You speak of him with pride?’

‘I may despise his loyalties and his Roman faith, but I do not underestimate his intelligence – unlike most of you.’ He smiled. ‘Though I suspect, John, that you are one Englishman who does not. Just as I suspect that you know a little more than most after your tryst in yon dressing room.’

‘Tryst?’ It was John’s turn to smile. ‘Hardly that. The maid and I have some . . . former acquaintance.’

‘Sure, I wouldn’t mind some such acquaintance with her. A saucy minx indeed, you can see it in her hell-black eyes. Look now, I’ll swap those two for your one in a heartbeat – for I am sure these come as a pair.’ He winked at two housemaids, hovering on the edge of the crowd of servants, who giggled and blushed. ‘Did she tell you aught?’

John thought, then spoke softly, carefully. ‘Only that the earl still throws for the hazard – and that he may or may not yet achieve it.’

‘In the balance, then? Good enough for me.’ St Lawrence slapped John’s thigh, then rose. ‘I think I’ll just be over to those two plump partridges there. I’ll make certain they are snared – in case you are mindful of that swap.’

He winked, then crossed to the two maids. John took another small sip of wine. He did not want too much, for he was sleepy enough. He had to stay awake to see the result of Essex’s roll. He had to . . .

He jerked up . . . on bells tolling the half-hour – which one he could not know – and the louder, nearer sound of a door being flung wide. ‘Her Majesty has been most kind!’ bellowed Essex, his hand upon the wood. ‘She has listened to our plaints, acknowledged their validity, asked that she be given some time now for prayer and contemplation. Praise God! Praise the sovereign!
His
vice-regent on earth!’ Amens and shouts of praise echoed him. As they faded, he continued, ‘And the Queen takes such care for us, she asks that we rest a little, eat and drink well and return in two hours. Then we shall further discuss’ – he beamed – ‘everything. Come!’ he cried, striding off. ‘Let us pledge this happy reunion. God save the Queen!’

A cheering crowd echoed him, then followed him down the corridor. Only John did not. Standing before his seat, he watched them go, before swivelling back to the door of the Queen’s apartments, yet ajar. His heart was beating fast. Essex appeared so sure. Perhaps he
had
thrown his hazard. Perhaps all his daring and his gallantry
had
won the greatest pot of all. And thus, perhaps, to be Sir John Lawley, his newest knight, would not be too bad a thing.

He stared at the empty doorway, waiting, hoping; even – rare for him – praying. It was a habit from his youth and only used now when the need was great, usually before battle. Yet he could remember no fight when the result had been more important than this one.

His lady of cloves appeared in the entrance. Her eyes found his, held for a moment. And then she moved her head, slowly, clearly.

Side to side.

His prayer, the prayers and all the hopes of his lord of Essex were ungranted. The earl had not hit the hazard, had rolled some failing number, leaving the dice to Cecil to roll and hit and snatch up the stake. John did not see the door close behind him, for he was already moving swiftly along the corridor, down the stairs. From the dining hall came sounds of joyful carousing. He ignored them, despite thirst and hunger, continued out to the courtyard and the stables beyond.

While he waited for his horse to be saddled, he leaned against a railing, forcing himself to stay on his feet despite the alluring proximity of heaped straw. If he lay down, he would be lost.

There was no question – he must flee before Robert Devereux’s fall pulled him under. If the earl’s actions were proven to be treasonous – something the lawyer Cecil would, even now, be working hard to do – then those nearest him would be labelled traitors too. That path led only to one place: the scaffold. And he doubted his recent knighthood would guarantee him the noble’s swifter death of an axe – he would be hung, drawn and quartered. Yet even if Essex’s course was deemed merely foolish, and his enemies were contented with his fall from all power, his financial ruin, John was certain that he himself would not be allowed to just slink away. For he had been the Queen’s messenger, charged with a duty to her. And he had reappeared with the man whose return he’d been sent to prevent – and then burst into her bedroom to see her naked!

John shook his head, as if shaking could dispel the hatred in the look she’d given him. But even if she could hate and not act upon it, what then? Cecil would never leave him be. Not when he already had him marked as a spy, a Papist and even – God’s teeth! – one of that breed he most despised, a player! Men had vanished from London’s streets with far, far gentler reputations.

No. The rest of those who’d ridden with Essex from Ireland would be arrested right there at Nonsuch, while he . . . ? He would flee. South for Southampton and a fast packet to the Continent, beating the Master Secretary’s instructions to detain him on sight. He still had friends in France, in Italy. What he should not, must not do was go to Southwark. It would be one more foolish act in a lifetime of them.

Which he would do. He could not help it. He had to see Tess and Ned. He knew he had no hope of making amends, nor of getting them to believe the truth of what had happened to him. But he had to try. His exile might be long, and he could not live it with them thinking the very worst of him.

He yawned widely, as the groom made the final cinches, and mounted. Yes, he thought, for finally all I know is this: that things always become clearer in Tess’s green eyes.

Swinging out of the palace gates, he turned the mare’s head towards London.

XXV

Southward Regained

He was trying to get into the theatre. The trumpet had sounded, the last of the spectators admitted. Yet every door was closed to him. He went to the rear, to the players’ entrance, forced it. He could hear voices declaiming above. What play was this?
The Spanish Tragedy
? He had played it, but long ago. They were approaching his entrance. What lines must he speak? He grabbed a roll from a table. It was his part . . . but someone had spilled whisky upon the ink, blurring all. Throwing it aside, he stumbled towards the stage, trying to remember anything. But the stairs led down, not up. He tripped. Someone shouted at him . . .

Any one of three things could have awoken him. The first was the terror of the actor’s nightmare, which they all got. The second were the voices nearby. But what probably did was the third thing – the sudden thrust of sharp metal an inch from his face.

He dreamed like a player . . . but he woke like a soldier, one hand on the attacker’s weapon, the other reaching for his own dagger, rolling on to his knees even as he twisted the pole he held and shoved hard back. A yelp came, and he followed the sound as his eyes cleared, followed the jerk as whoever held the weapon fell backwards but clung on. In a moment John was on to him, pressing his assailant down with the pole across his chest, his knife out, point poised above the startled eyes . . .

. . . of a farmer! A wide sunburned face, a hedge of sun-bleached hair, terror babbled from thick lips. ‘Zur! Zur! I did not know. I would not have . . . Pleaze, don’t hurt us!’

John kept his knife where it was, looked about. There were others there, all clutching the same type of implements John saw he was pressing against the farmer’s chest – a hay fork. All were dressed similarly, men in aprons, women in bibs above kirtles. ‘What make you here?’ he growled, his voice indistinct with sleep.

Someone understood him. A large man stepped forward. ‘Zur. We come for the hay, see. No one knowz you was sleeping under it.’

John rose, sheathing the dagger in one hand, pulling his victim to his feet by the pole both still clutched. ‘I apologise. I was . . . surprised.’ He looked at the hay pile. Vague memories came – of tying his horse to a tree, lying down for the briefest of rests. He looked up, squinting over the peasants’ heads at the sun. It seemed lower in the sky than it should be. And in the wrong place. ‘What hour is it?’ he mumbled.

The man he’d lately put down replied, ‘’Tis an hour after dawn, zur.’

‘An hour after . . .’ He lurched forward and everyone gave back a pace. ‘You jest with me!’

‘No indeed, zur,’ replied the large man who’d first spoken. ‘No jest.’

John looked behind them, to what passed for the road. He saw the one tree nearby, to which he must have tied his mount. No mount was there. ‘My horse,’ he exclaimed. ‘Where is it?’

‘We ain’t seen no horse, zur,’ the same man replied. ‘Jus’ you.’

It was impossible to tell if the man was lying. And no point in trying to find out. After their initial shock, the peasants seemed have remembered that there were many of them and all clutched weapons of a kind. While his situation was clear, even in his befuddlement: he had slept a day and a night through. His horse was gone. And a long walk lay ahead of him. ‘Tell me, friends. Is there an inn nearby? On the London road?’ he asked in his pleasantest voice.

‘Nearest north would be the White Hart, close to Wimbledon.’ The man pointed. ‘About two hour thataway.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But if it’s a thirst you have, Oi’ve some zider here can slake that.’

John indeed had a thirst and paid too much for some swigs from one of their stone jars. Before drinking it, he made room for it beneath the ash where he’d tied his missing horse and voided while he cussed. The reverberations of Essex’s tumble would certainly have already reached London. If he had been proclaimed a traitor, there would be a round-up of all his followers. Even if he had been detained for future decision, Cecil’s men would still especially be seeking the recent Queen’s messenger, who had failed so spectacularly in his mission. That it was hardly his fault Cecil would not care a jot. He would want to interview him personally and probably with various methods. And his officers would seek him first in Bankside.