Shakespeare's Rebel (46 page)

One young man was speaking, his lank blonde hair reaching to a plain white collar spread over a black suit. His hands were out and open-palmed at his sides, his eyes lifted to the sky, where all men stared. ‘Remember ye!’ he cried. ‘’Tis not enough to fight against God’s enemies. Ye, his warriors, must first be cleansed of sin. Remember the words of Moses as we set out upon our holy work: “When thou goest out with the host against thine enemies, keep thee then from all wickedness.” ‘

‘Amen,’ cried St Lawrence, along with every man in the circle.

John looked up at him. ‘I did not take you for a Puritan, Captain. In sooth, I seem to recall two maids at Nonsuch . . .’

‘Shh!’ The man glanced at Ned, swallowed. ‘I was a sinner, ’tis true, and a grand one too. But men like these’ – he nodded towards the black-dressed circle before him, who had all joined hands and were now murmuring prayers, eyes shut, faces lifted into the snow that had begun to gently fall again – ‘they have convinced me of my errors. God bless them and hallelujah!’ Ned called ‘amen’, though John did not. The Irishman smiled and patted his arm. ‘Ah, I understand, John. You have not seen the light yet. It will come to you as it does to all men. And yet.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Being a Cornishman, you are probably of the Catholic persuasion, are you not?’ Before John could attempt to correct Essex’s misapprehension as to his origins, St Lawrence went on, ‘Yet do not concern yourself on that score. Though our glorious leader is himself the exemplar of the Reformed Church and its most strident defender, he is also tolerant of others’ errors. He trusts that they, like him, will find the true faith.’ He beamed. ‘We have many like you here, John. You will be protected until you see the light of God.’

Whip me, thought John, but did not speak. He would not dim the fervent glow in the big Irishman’s eyes. And he knew it all shone from ‘the leader’, as St Lawrence kept calling him. It was not surprising that Essex’s twin idols – drunkenness and religiosity – had a near equal rule in his garden.

‘Stay and listen to the word of God, John,’ St Lawrence continued. ‘Or claim a patch of ground before the playgoers return. ’Twill get crowded soon. I must return to my post.’

With a bow, he was gone. Father and son stayed in the garden for a short time longer, as it rapidly filled and swiftly assumed its former aspect – revel, riot, prayer meeting. When their wanderings had left the boy wide-eyed enough, John said, ‘All forms of madness that can take men are here, are they not? Yet to further aid you in your study, let us to the beating heart of Bedlam.’ He took Ned’s arm. ‘’Tis time you met the Earl of Essex.’

He led his son to the rear of the house, where, recognised by the same guards, they were allowed through. The garden’s din was part sealed off by the closed door, a different sound taking over – a hum that grew as they proceeded down the corridor, between a row of waiting servants, to the main hall. ‘Here we go,’ said John, hand on doorknob. He turned it, pushed in.

There was a circle of some dozen men in the centre of the hall. They were kneeling, their hands joined, their eyes shut. John saw immediately that the noblemen had made near as good time from the Globe as any low-born conspirator. Southampton was there, along with Blount, Mounteagle, Sandys; while a brace of earls – Rutland and Sussex – braced a third: Essex himself. Like them all he had his eyes shut. Like everyone he clutched the hands of the man to either side. And everyone was humming, save for one, the only man standing and that upon a chair. Gelli Meyrick, the earl’s factotum, held a huge Bible in his hand. His clear, accented voice rang out, each utterance producing a corresponding surge of hums and repeated words in answer.

‘Who made thee a prince and judge over us?’

‘Who?’ came the hum. Followed by someone calling, ‘Not thee, Cecil!’

‘And the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of cloud, to lead them the way.’

‘Lead us, Lord!’ came the response, with a different voice adding, ‘Lord Robert!’

Then all the hands were lifted, a circle rising to the ceiling, and thence, John supposed, to heaven. It must have been something Essex’s party had done before, as all men now followed Meyrick and chanted together:

Life for life.
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,
Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.

John looked at his son. Ned’s eyes had been wide in the garden. They were wider now. He felt his father’s gaze, looked up. ‘Yes, my boy. Random quotes from Genesis.’

For once, Ned was too stunned to look scornful. ‘Exodus, Father. And one of the few they have left out is . . .’

Ned stopped as the missing quote came, the men shouting it as one, ‘The Lord is a man of war.’ And this time it was not a single voice that said it, but all. ‘Our lord,’ came the universal cry, all adding, ‘Our lord of Essex!’

It was a signal. Men unclasped, only to clasp again in hugs, helping each other to rise. ‘Is this it, sir?’ said Ned, awe in his voice. ‘Will they march now on the palace?’

‘No.’ John looked at the flushed faces before him – not quite flushed enough for that. There were other ways to bolster courage to be taken first.

‘And the people sat down to eat and to drink . . . but they rose up to play,’ Robert Devereux shouted. ‘Is that not so, Gelli?’

‘Aye, my lord.’

‘Then we shall do the same as the other children of Israel,’ Essex cried. ‘Eat, drink . . . and then play a set shall . . . shall strike a crown into a hazard, mayhap?’ His roving eyes fell on the two figures at the door. They brightened. ‘Was that it, John Lawley? Was that not one of your friend’s phrases in the play he wrote for me,
Henry the Fifth
?’ He turned away. ‘God’s truth, maybe we should have had the Chamberlain’s Men play that one tonight instead of unhappy Richard.’ He looked now at Ned. ‘Then all the youth of England will be aflame, do I not have it?’

John felt his son stir beside him. He had been in the play, knew the misquote. The boy was set to reply, and to correct, as was youth’s way. John jerked him by the sleeve, shook his head.

Essex’s butterfly attention had alighted elsewhere anyway, for Southampton cried, ‘You would not say so, Robin, if you had been there. Three thousand fellows and their dames shouting: “Essex! Bolingbroke! Essex!” Christ’s tears, if we’d had the pikes to hand we could have issued them to the audience and marched straight on Whitehall.’

Gelli Meyrick rang a bell. Poised servants poured in and John used the furore, as nobles fought for pieces of fowl and jugs of sack, to draw his son into the shadows of the hall. He was not so foolish as to think he would be invited to partake of the feast. The earl had obviously forgotten about his drunken knighting in Dublin Castle. Just as well, John thought. ‘Be silent and make your final studies, for you will leave soon,’ he whispered to Ned. When a servant passed close, John reached out, snagged a tankard of ale then settled, back to wall.

The play was not long in commencing. The preliminary was the feasting and drinking, with many pledges to the earl’s health and cause, and damnation to his enemies at the court. The Queen was toasted, but with less enthusiasm than usually shown. John watched courage being gained by the bumper full – and wondered what might push it beyond liquored boast into action.

Then it came, as so often in a play, with an entrance. And John thought that if the nobleman entering had been upon the scaffold at the Globe, the groundlings would have hissed him. For he was from the group already being damned and liberally cursed.

Secretary Herbert was a member of the Privy Council and sat at Cecil’s left hand. He was one of those men who appeared as wide as he was tall, a trick that his flounced mauve doublet, billowing pantaloons and serving platter of a ruff only emphasised. His air of self-importance puffed him still further, reminding John of a fish he’d seen in the Pacific Ocean that could inflate itself to thrice its size when confronting danger.

Herbert seemed unaware of the peril he was in. Essex House was a cockpit that night and Herbert a prime if outsized cock, with the odds seriously against him. ‘My lord of Essex,’ he declared, waddling to the centre of the room and planting himself, ‘I bring you the Privy Council’s warmest greetings . . .’ He was surprised by a loud hiss, blinked, carried on. ‘I also bring again the request made earlier when a mere messenger was sent. That is why they have sent me.’ He contrived to puff up still further. ‘So you should take most seriously their
request
to attend them forthwith.’

Silence followed the summons, long enough to feel uncomfortable. If Herbert had had neck feathers instead of a ruff, they would have now been rising. As it was, he looked uneasily down the line of blank faces raised to him, until one of them spoke.

‘Shall I prick this bladder with my dagger and see if it pops?’ ventured Rutland.

The hilarity that followed this remark was beyond the span of the joke, yet continued for some time and only subsided when Robert Devereux spoke. ‘You may bear back to the Council,’ he declared, ‘the same answer the previous lackey must have failed to convey.’ He drew himself up. ‘I am not well,’ he bellowed lustily. ‘I will not stir forth. If I do, I fear mischief upon my person, and the harming of my followers, such as befell my dear Lord Henry only last month. And where is that accursed traitor Grey, who cut off our page’s hand in that skirmish?’ He glared. ‘Free, and no doubt advising that same Council who commands me to appear before them now. No!’ He stood, leaned down, still shouting. ‘There are plots laid against me, sir. The Queen is bewitched by false advisers – and assassins lurk on every corner. And unlike someone here whose flesh would scarce notice the intrusion of a blade, I am not so well armoured.’ Patting his own flux-shrunk shank, he laughed loudly, his cohorts joining in.

Herbert drew himself up to his full height – and girth. ‘I will convey your . . . sentiments, sir. Yet let me warn you – ’Twill be ill taken, I warrant you. Look for a different sort of summons, and soon.’ Then, with a dignity impressive for a capon, the secretary turned heel and walked from the room.

Laughter died on the door’s closing. ‘God’s body,’ spluttered Southampton. ‘Did you hear? The whoreson dog threatened us!’

‘’Twas not the dog that barked, Henry,’ corrected Mounteagle, ‘but his master.’

‘The Toad!’

‘Aye, that accursed Cecil.’

‘Aye, Cecil! Cecil!’

Fury broke out at the name, vengeance summoned to fall upon that misshapen back. Daggers were drawn, fists slammed down upon the table that made the pewter jump. Eventually one voice pierced the tumult. ‘But will the summons be to the Council . . . or to the Tower? Next time will they seek my presence – or my head?’

All fell silent, looked to the speaker, Essex. Whispers came.

‘Truly, they seek your life.’

‘The Toad will spit his venom.’

‘Then what shall I do?’ said Essex. ‘Advise me, friends.’

‘Flee!’ shouted Christopher Blount. ‘Downriver to Gravesend and a fast packet to the Continent.’

‘For shame!’ cried Southampton.

‘Nay, stepfather,’ answered Essex. ‘I do not fancy the exile’s road. Not when I have a sword half drawn.’ He looked down the length of the table. ‘What say you, Lord Sandys?’

‘Draw it all the way, sir,’ shouted the older lord. ‘By God, you have three hundred men out there, all armed and sworn to your cause. The Queen in her palace cannot muster half that number. Let us send this answer.’ On that he drew his dagger and drove it into the table before him.

Argument became general, a chorus of competing voices. Ned looked up at his father. John gestured with his eyes to the door. His son had seen more than enough madness this night to feed his forthcoming role. The result of it he could miss. John could sense now what had been absent before – that taper at last hovering over the fuse. Well, he was ready for the blast himself. But he would see his son well clear of the explosion.

They were at the door, his hand upon the knob, when one voice rose above all others. ‘And what says my most loyal of retainers? What thinks an ordinary man from London’s streets? What advice would John Lawley give?’

I was afraid of that, John thought, turning slowly to a room of suddenly silent men, all staring at him. They were, in the main, not a crew he would care to follow into battle. His lord, however? He saw him as he had seen him standing in the prow of the boat that bore them on to the sands of Cadiz. Poised. Ready. And old Lord Sandys was right – there were three hundred men outside made of hard stuff. Also he remembered what he’d promised himself – however strong his misgivings, for good or ill he was Essex’s man, would be through the triumph or the disaster that was to come. He had promised himself that he would act. It began now.

‘I think you should forgo all doubt, my lord,’ he said. He thought of that same play that Essex had misquoted earlier. He knew it better than the earl. ‘Follow your spirit, good my lord, and upon this charge cry, “God for Essex, England and St George.” ’

He felt Ned gape up at him. But it was on Essex that he fixed his gaze. ‘By that saint, by all of them, you are right!’ cried the earl, springing up. ‘Tomorrow is the day. But what is the event?’

Cries came.

‘Storm the palace.’

‘Rouse the city.’

‘Seize the Tower.’

Once again, a babel of voices. Definitely time for Ned to leave, John thought, grabbing the doorknob, opening the door. Halberdiers, their weapons at port, peered in at the shouting nobility. John began to push through them.

A cry from behind, louder than the rest. ‘Before we decide anything, we must secure our own doors so no one is forewarned.’ John glanced back. Lord Sandys had left the table and was approaching the door. ‘Bar all the gates,’ he shouted. ‘No man is to come or go without our express leave.’

‘Fast,’ John said, shoving his son ahead. And fast they moved – but not as swift as shouted commands. By the time they reached the garden’s side wicket, five stout pikemen stood before it. Their officer, a large Welshman, put his hand in John’s chest when he tried to pass. ‘You heard the order,’ he growled, ‘no man in or out.’