Shakespeare's Rebel (41 page)

It was ever thus with Robert Devereux. Before him you were his sole concern. When you left his sight you left his perception – unless he needed you. Inwardly John sighed. Outwardly he spoke. ‘I have been in the Tower these fifteen months, my lord.’

‘By my troth, have you? On what cause?’

This time John could not help the audible sigh. ‘On yours, my lord.’

Gelli Meyrick leaned in, whispering urgently in his master’s ear. The earl nodded and his eyes cleared a little. ‘Of course I knew that, John. Mind’s too full of . . .’ He gestured vaguely about. ‘We did add it to a list of grievances sent to her majesty and it was as ignored as the rest, alas!’ He leaned forward, smiling. ‘But did you get the pheasants?’

‘The pheasants, my lord?’

‘Aye. Gelli tells me I sent you a brace of them for your Christmas cheer.’

‘Well, no doubt they heartily cheered the warder who intercepted them.’

Perhaps he spoke a little more sharply than he intended. There was a stir, and Lord Sandys, a man John had always marked out as the worst kind of bitter acolyte, suddenly spoke. ‘Has this man been searched? Shows up on the eve of our great enterprise, released suddenly from the Tower. Damn’d suspicious. Has he been searched?’ he repeated.

There was a movement both away from John by some, and towards him by others – Gelli’s Welshmen reaching beneath their cloaks. But a single voice stopped them.

‘Search John Lawley? Search the man who has saved my life a half-dozen times, suspect him of wanting to . . . assassinate it?’ That laugh came again, the hint of mania in it, as the earl continued. ‘Master Lawley will have no weapon about him that means us harm but only one to use unswervingly in our cause. He is here as ever to serve only me. And he has come most happily upon the hour to do so.’ He beamed. ‘Is that not right, Johnnie?’

There was a promise he’d made. Not to Robert Cecil. To himself. Now was the time he acted upon it. This was the moment his life changed. The interim that had held him was over. No phantasm sat before him. The spectre was real. ‘No, my lord,’ he said, reaching back between his shoulder blades. ‘For I do have a weapon here intended to do you harm.’ And on the word, he drew the dagger from its sheath, kept it by his head, arm bent back for the throw, spoke again, quietly, clearly. ‘No one move. The earl would be dead before you reached me. Tell them, my lord, the truth of that. For you will remember the Jesuit who tried to kill you in Flanders and his fate to die in your lap.’

All was stillness. Everyone stared at the man with the knife, who stared only at the nobleman three paces before him, who stared back and, after a moment, replied, ‘It is true. And what is also true is that if John Lawley wanted me dead, then e’en now I would be greeting St Peter at the gates. So do as he says.’

They had been like this, the two of them, on several occasions over the years, one or both of them facing death. And for all his faults, there was one Robert Devereux did not possess, and that was cowardice. ‘You know this, my lord. Your friends do not. So convince them to leave. You and I must have a private conversation.’

‘I do not need to convince. I only need to command.’ Essex did not take his eyes from John’s. But his voice rose. ‘Go. All of you.’

A murmur of protest, headed by the rising Welsh notes of Gelli Meyrick. ‘My lord, we cannot leave you at a rascal’s mercy . . .’

‘No rascal. And no Brutus either. Leave us. Leave us now!’

He ended on a roar that sent the men scurrying. None came near John, arm raised and unwavering. And only when he heard the door shut behind him, and the shouted summons begin beyond it, did he guide the dagger back into his shoulder sheath. He went to the door, turned the key in the lock, returned to lean upon the table, so Essex did not see him shake.

‘Well, John?’ The quaver in his voice was the only sign that Essex was disturbed.

‘Well, my lord. This first.’ He shook his head. ‘Trust no one. Not even those you think are closest.’

‘Like yourself?’

‘Even like me. For I have a new employer. He gave me this dagger. He gave me a bottle of an apothecary. And he gave me a bag of silver. Not quite thirty pieces, but not far short.’

The quaver had left the voice. ‘So for whose service have you forsaken mine?’

‘I think you can guess. Your most bitter foe. Master Secretary Cecil.’

The only change in Essex’s face was a narrowing of the eyes. ‘And yet I think, Johnnie, if that were true, you would not so readily declare it. You would use the knife, or the contents of your bottle, and then you would disappear. I can think of perhaps three men in the realm who could succeed in both. You are one.’

‘Believe me, I considered it. My service to you over the years has cost me much. Liberty. Choice. A family. However.’ He raised a hand against the earl’s interruption. ‘However, the chances of my life ending with yours would be great. The chances of me returning to the life I desire after such an act would be’ – he shook his head – ‘precisely none. So I have decided upon another course. It is a vow I made myself. One not taken lightly. I have had . . . much time to think upon it.’

Essex slowly leaned forward, till he too could rest his hands on the table. ‘And what course is that?’

‘I have vowed to see you triumph’ – John tipped his head to the map before him – ‘in whatever hazards you have planned.’

‘And in return?’

‘In return, good my lord, only this: that even were God himself to descend from heaven and beseech you to the contrary, you make this vow: to leave me completely, entirely and forever
alone
.’

The earl stared back, the mania in his eyes displaced by a watery sadness. ‘I am sorry you find me such poor company, John,’ he said at last, his voice mournful as a boy’s. ‘But I understand. I understand! It is hard for ordinary men to stand too long next to the fire of greatness!’ Eyes that had briefly gazed above him on to posterity now returned. ‘And to reward you for the offer of your sword in my great enterprise, this I vow – it will be the last time I call upon you. If I succeed, haply I will not need to. If I fail’ – a shadow darkened the bright eyes – ‘why then, I will not have the power – for my head will be spiked upon London Bridge.’ The shadow passed and he beamed, continued, ‘However, let us not consider that, John Lawley. Let us only think on triumph, all the more likely since you have returned to camp. Here,’ he said, spinning the map around, ‘let me show you what we have planned.’

‘My lord, do not so!’ John’s shout was louder than he intended and he heard it echoed in rumblings beyond the door. He continued more quietly, ‘I said before you should put your trust in very few – and tell even those few as little as possible. I have been a spy in my time and this is the rule: what your agents do not know cannot hurt you, no matter how tall they are stretched nor how compacted by the scavenger’s daughter.’ He shuddered as he thought of the many times his cell door in Martin Tower had opened and he thought he was being taken off to torment. ‘So tell me only this: how soon do I muster, and where?’

‘The where is here,’ the earl replied. ‘How soon?’ He scratched his beard, then continued. ‘I do not hesitate because I am taking your good counsel, John, but because I do not know the hour. Our plans are not firm set, our forces still mustering. For when we rise, we must rise swiftly and with firm intent.’ He nodded. ‘I can tell you this. It will be within days.’ He lifted a different piece of parchment. John saw Greek letters, triangles, pentagrams inked upon it. ‘Master Forman has drawn up a horoscope that clearly shows all the stars aligning in my favour.’ He tapped a conjunction. ‘Indeed, the next two days are filled with a power scarce seen since . . .’ He smiled. ‘Well, Johnnie, since the day we took Cadiz.’ He laid the paper down. ‘And my dear Henry is about some business now that may make a final difference.’ He chuckled. ‘Now I consider it, it is something that will appeal to you most particularly.’

‘I wondered where the Earl of Southampton was, since he is ever at your side.’

‘He is not far, man, not far.’ Essex circled his wrist. ‘He and several of our men have gone to the Globe.’

‘Indeed.’ It seemed an odd time to be seeing a play. John frowned. ‘What business takes him there?’

‘The rousing business. Three thousand lusty Englishmen and women gathered in one place to hear a tale to inspire them. Why, it’s better than having one of my favourite divines preach a sermon for me at St Paul’s Cross.’ Essex’s smile widened. ‘For they will witness a very special play. And they will go forth and think of that, and talk on it, and perhaps, when the game’s afoot, cry the name “Bolingbroke” upon the city streets.’

John flushed cold. ‘Boling . . .’

‘Aye.’ Essex gave a huge laugh. ‘On the morrow, if Henry has persuaded them, which I doubt not, the Chamberlain’s Men will give a special performance of an old play.’ He spread his arms wide and declaimed, ‘ “The most lamentable tragedy of King Richard the Second and the rise of that great monarch, Henry the Fourth.” ’ He clapped his hands together. ‘God’s wounds, man, it will be like the day we marched for Ireland and Will Shakespeare unveiled
Henry the Fifth
!’

God’s teeth, man, thought John, I hope not. Yet he did not speak this, nor anything else, for he was already headed to the door.

‘Where do you go, John?’

‘To catch this play, my lord.’

‘No hurry,’ Essex called. ‘Stay and dine with us. It plays on the morrow, not today.’

Not if I can help it, John thought. His dream of being left alone involved being left alone with the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. And if they were linked to this treason? He shook his head. He could risk his paltry all in Essex’s cause. He could not let Will do so.

The door opened to his tug. Two Welshmen fell through it. One was Gelli Meyrick. ‘My lord,’ he cried, ‘are you safe?’

John did not hear the earl’s reply, for he was halfway down the corridor. And it was only when he was standing again upon the water stairs of Essex House, buckling on his weapons and scanning the river for a wherry, that he realised something: his heart was beating at a normal pace. He was no longer cold. He had acted, as he had planned. His life was in motion again. But one action now led to another and that one required speedy transit across the Thames.

Richard the Second
, Will? he thought. Bolingbroke? The death of kings? Are you quite mad?

XXXI

Eve of Destruction

Quite mad, it appeared. Or so Dick Burbage vouchsafed, when John found him at the Globe.

It had taken too long to reach it. He’d set forth when the theatres were about to give out, so there was not a wherry to be had as oarsmen all sought fares on the Surrey side. He had hotfooted it to the bridge, over which he made the usual halting progress, ducking and weaving through the mob, looking only ahead and not glancing up at Nonsuch House where he had been arrested, nor at the gatehouse where his head might soon be spiked. Progress had been only a little swifter along Southwark’s back avenues, Clink Street and Rose Alley, for the crowds were exiting the playhouses and jamming these narrow ways.

When he finally reached the Globe, he ran through unattended front gates and passed the attendants in the pit, some of whom were sweeping the detritus of the groundlings into great piles of apple cores, nut shells and pie crust rims, while others scattered juniper to alleviate the stench of piss voided by spectators too idle or too enraptured to reach the jakes.

Though someone shouted at him when he mounted the stage, John paid no heed, passing across the boards and through the curtain into the tiring house. There he found at least one of those he sought.

Burbage sat at a table, his feet upon it, one hand around a tankard of ale, the other holding a roll at which he peered through spectacles. All were slammed down when John entered. ‘Beshrew me,’ he bellowed, ‘if it ain’t Clarence’s ghost!’ He rose and pulled John into a hug. ‘Lad, we were sure that this time you were dead, drowned in a butt of malmsey. Or on a bender of such epic features that it had taken you round the world again.’ He pulled back and stared hard. ‘And yet you bear few traces of debauch. Where have you been these many months?’

‘At her majesty’s pleasure.’ John frowned. ‘Did Will not inform you? Nor Ned?’

‘Nothing of that, no. I am sorry to hear of it now.’

John nodded, and fended off the player’s further questions for a few minutes while he considered. He supposed his son would not talk of his latest incarceration. Innocent or not, a father in the Tower was not something to boast of. Finally, when Burbage drew breath, he asked, ‘Is he about?’

‘Aye.’ The player sat again, took off his spectacles, rubbed his eyes. ‘I meant to speak to you of something, when next we met. Your boy . . .’ He tipped his head. ‘Your boy does not seem to have the fire he once did.’

John frowned. ‘What mean you? In his playing?’

‘Aye. His comedy is fair enough – though he has found a way to conjure the lesser laugh. Did he watch Kemp much?’ A slight smile came, faded. ‘But we tried him in some things more serious. Lady Anne to my Richard Three, for example. He . . .’ He hesitated. ‘He could not grasp it. There was no threat, no . . . vulnerability beneath. He spoke the lines credibly, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘It may be his age. Not quite fourteen, is he? A time for changes, sure. And perhaps worry for you, since you tell me your news . . .’ He let the thought hang. ‘Yet you know as well as any, John, in a company it is difficult to keep putting opportunity in the way that is not seized upon. There are others below him, rising fast, hungry.’ Burbage shook his head. ‘I am not saying he has not the stuff, mind. It is just . . .’

‘. . . it may have been mislaid? Well, it
has
been a hard time of late . . .’ John cut himself off. What could he speak of? His incarceration? The threat that Sir Samuel’s return created? All true. Burbage would understand it too, nod in sympathy – yet in the end, all that mattered to him was the two-hour traffic of the stage. Players always had problems, perhaps more than other men, they went with the life. They had to leave them before they entered the tiring house. Nay, they had to leave them at home, howsoever disrupted. The life Ned sought was under threat here. On his behalf, John was being warned. ‘I will talk to him,’ he said.