Shakespeare's Rebel (48 page)

With a last swivel and slide, he was beside the earl’s horse. ‘My lord!’ he called up from the stirrup, to no response, for Essex was busy acknowledging his acclaim with slow circles of his wrist. ‘Robert!’ he finally bellowed, loud enough to be heard over gunfire.

It startled the earl’s horse, which baulked and skittered to the side. It startled the horseman who, gaining control again, looked down. ‘Eh?’ His frown at the familiarity cleared when he saw who had addressed him. ‘Johnnie!’ he cried. ‘Ever at the forefront, what? Good to be about them, eh?’

‘About whom, my lord? Where are you going?’

Essex gestured ahead. ‘To the City, of course,’ he replied.

‘Yes, my lord, but why?’ John’s footing slipped on horse turds, but he grabbed the earl’s stirrup, stayed upright, ran on. ‘It is the court you must seize. It lies at your mercy. By Christ’s wounds, turn about.’

‘By Christ’s blood, I cannot!’ The earl’s eyes went misty. ‘I burst once into my sweet Bess’s chamber, all armed and besmirched. I cannot do so again. However, when she sees me at the head of the host of England – and that host has swept aside Cecil’s puny defences – why then she will greet me as a warrior, worthy once more to kiss her neck!’

‘The host of . . .’ John gripped the stirrup again, lifted his legs, let the horse carry him over another brown pile. ‘What host?’

‘Sheriff Smyth has promised me a thousand men, with pike and arquebus. They will be assembling e’en now. We will meet them, turn about, and march on Whitehall.’

The crowds thickened as the way narrowed down the hill to Lud Gate. The stench of the Fleet river came clearly. John knew a foul smell when he scented one. ‘Sheriff Smyth? Who is he?’

‘I have not met him,’ replied the earl, a smile for a lady of ample bosom who leaned from a window and blew him a kiss. ‘Yet I’ve heard he is yeoman true, a stout fellow.’

‘You’ve . . . heard?’ John gasped. ‘Then who has met him?’

‘Oh, uh . . . Temple. No, Constable. I think. Anyway, he is vouched for, sure.’

John turned and spat. The vagueness of it all was typical of Essex. If a thousand men awaited ahead it would be useful to the cause. But it was uncertain – whereas a near-unguarded palace was not. ‘My lord, I implore you. If you have ever trusted me, turn about now, make for Whitehall. Seize the Queen’s person while it is unguarded.’

He said it with force and could see uncertainty at last enter the eyes. But as they crossed the Fleet and approached the City gate, another body of apprentices rushed through it and set up a halloo. ‘No, Lawley. I trust you with my life, as ever. But you are, for all your virtues, a mere soldier. Strategy must be left to generals, eh? Besides, ’tis all arranged. ’Twill work for the best, you shall see. We will be turned about and making for Whitehall in a trice.’ The brow furrowed. ‘Yet if something goes awry . . . nay, you are right to advise some caution. A good general takes care of his line of retreat, yes? We learned that in Flanders, did we not? Now I think me, my castle is not as well looked after as it may be.’ He looked down. ‘I do not need you to rally the crowds, Master Lawley. As you see, I can do that myself.’ He waved again to a further burst of cheering. ‘Do you go back to Essex House. Prepare it as an armed camp for us to strike from later. Secure the prisoners. Here, take this ring.’ He licked his finger, pulled off a thick gold band, a Tudor rose engraved upon it. ‘Her majesty gave me this, when she was fond. Gelli Meyrick will know it. Tell him you have my command to erect breastworks.’

‘Breastworks?’ John was so stunned some turds surprised him, and he lost his grip on the stirrups. He just kept his balance, took a step . . . but Essex had kicked his horse into a canter as he and his party rode under the arch of Lud Gate and into the City of London. He watched the marching swordsmen bunch and push to get through the narrow entrance and then burst out like a cork on over-cellared ale. Apprentices and Sunday strollers followed, cheering, and the whole cavalcade disappeared up towards St Paul’s Church.

John stood there, hand twisting on pommel. What could he do? Follow and see these pikemen? Try to persuade? That would be a hopeless task. Once Essex was finally set upon his course, John knew, from long experience, that he would not be steered from it. More often than not it led to disaster. Though once he had followed it and taken Cadiz.

Pray God this would be a time like that.

He turned about. There was nothing for him to do but obey his last command; and though the temptation to cross the bridge and seek refuge in Southwark was strong, he could not for two reasons: his son, still trapped at Essex House; and the earl’s cause. He was no deserter. He would see it through. Yet as he turned about and picked his way back through the nobles’ horse droppings, he could not shift the hollow feeling around his heart.

Essex House was strangely quiet after the previous furore. Some guards stopped him at the gates and an officer he did not know questioned him. Gelli Meyrick was summoned, recognised him, acknowledged the ring. ‘I’m glad to have you here, Master Lawley, and that’s a fact,’ the Welshman said. ‘I am more a warrior for the open field, do ye see? Never been in a siege, if it should come to that. Your advice will be most appreciated.’

‘It won’t come to it,’ replied John, though he was by no means sure of that. Still, he was sure of nothing. Cecil and his crew could mount some sort of counter-assault before the earl returned. The least John could do was protect his property, his ladies who were within . . . and his prisoners. He realised now that the earl had meant Egerton and his party who had been seized. ‘I will attend you,’ he said to Meyrick. ‘A moment.’

He went into the garden. It was near empty, its parterres smashed, its bowling lawn a mud field. A search revealed no Ned. He had been ordered to stay – but perhaps the lad had been smart enough to disobey and flee in the confusion. Perhaps he was already safe in Southwark.

Envying him if it were so, John set about organising some sort of defence. There was no question of the breastworks Essex had alluded to – no tools to dig them, no timber to be raised to line trenches. But he ordered wagons to be drawn up near the gates for a swift barricade, and the few arms and powder positioned near them and at the side wickets. The house was no castle, designed for long resistance. But with the forty assorted men and servants still within, John could contrive to hold it for a time, against a limited foray.

The first signs of which came within the hour. Gelli Meyrick called him to the gatehouse, and from there he observed a party of some twenty armed horsemen approaching from the west. ‘Stand to,’ he cried, and brought half his limited force to the walls with pike and musket. The horsemen reined in, gazed . . . then turned sharply about and rode back whence they’d come.

John stepped outside the gates, seeking along the Strand the opposite way, but saw only a town about its Sunday business, no Essex riding at the head of a thousand pikemen. He shrugged and went back to doing the little he could.

News came two hours later, borne by Captain St Lawrence. The man had run from the City and was sweating heavily despite the February chill. His story, blurted out between great gulps of air, made the sweat break upon John’s forehead too. ‘Let me be clear here, Captain,’ he interrupted when the Irishman took another pause for breath. ‘Are you saying that, instead of rousing the City to his cause then marching straight to take the palace, his noble Lordship sat down . . . to lunch?’

The Irishman flushed. ‘’Tis true. But I am sure the earl knows best. He is dining with Sheriff Smyth.’

‘With Sheriff Smyth and his one thousand pikemen?’

St Lawrence scratched his chin. ‘Aye, well . . . there were no pikemen, to be sure,’ he replied, ‘and no Sheriff Smyth neither for long. He was just leaving, he said . . .’

‘I’ll wager he was!’

‘. . . but he was off to the Lord Mayor, he swore. Bound to fetch help there, eh?’

John turned away and cursed under his breath in terms that would have made the abbess of a brothel blush. Essex had done it again. Yet most of his invective was reserved for himself – for who was madder, the fool who led or the fool who followed that fool?

A sentinel’s cry had him running up the stairs of the gatehouse, St Lawrence at his heels. They arrived in time to see a large party of armed horsemen gallop past, heading for the City. At a glance they could tell that these were not reinforcements for their cause. When their hoof falls had faded from the cobbles, other sounds could be clearly heard – a rallying bugle, a steady drum beat. ‘The best thing you can do, Captain,’ he said, turning to the Irishman, ‘is to hasten back to his lordship and tell him that this day can only be saved if he returns now and does what he should have done this morning – charge the palace with all the forces that remain to him.’

For the first and only time in their acquaintance, John watched the big Irishman quaver. ‘’Tis . . . ’tis not possible, Master Lawley. I am spent.’ He wheezed to emphasise his condition. ‘Begod, can you not send someone younger?’

John opened his mouth to curse again . . . and then didn’t. For down the timber-framed and cobbled canyons of Fleet Street and the Strand came, quite clearly, the sound of gunfire.

‘Pistols and musket,’ murmured St Lawrence. ‘They go to it now.’

‘Aye. Perhaps his lordship has at last discovered his only course by himself. Come.’ John grabbed the Irishman by the arm and pulled him to the stair. ‘Let us set about what further preparations we may.’

Yet there was little they could do. Few men, fewer weapons. Only in making a full reckoning of them did he see just how poor the preparations for the rebellion had been. What Essex had needed was a quartermaster and taskmaster, both. And the one man who may have been able to fulfil both those functions had been a prisoner in the Tower.

It was while walking the house a little later, hoping that he might stumble upon a cache of guns and powder that had been forethought – for the time for mere swords and bucklers had passed – that he heard someone singing along an upstairs corridor. It was a popular lament of Dekker’s ‘The plague full swift goes by’. There was something familiar to the voice. He followed it, disbelieving, and came to a door before which sat a half-dozen men with pikes. ‘Who’s here?’ he asked.

‘P-p-prisoners, my lord,’ stuttered a corporal. ‘And l-l-ladies too.’

‘Ladies?’ John exclaimed, then gestured. ‘Open this door.’

The uneasy soldier hastened to obey. The door swung wide – to reveal a bizarre scene even for a day of them.

Seated in a semicircle of chairs, as if at a reception, were the party of emissaries dispatched by the Privy Council that morning. In the middle, as guest of honour no doubt, sat Egerton, the Lord Keeper. Either side of him were the two ladies of the house, the earl’s wife, Lady Essex, and his sister, Lady Rich. All rose as John came in and halted, open-mouthed. ‘What news, sir, what news?’ cried Lady Essex.

But John could not answer for the moment, stunned as he was. For standing now behind those he’d just stood before was Ned. John had seen him act, but not heard him sing, so had not recognised the voice. Even in his surprise he realised that his son possessed a good tone which he himself did not.

Everyone emulated Lady Essex, shouting questions and, in Egerton’s case, issuing commands. ‘We demand our immediate freedom, sirrah!’ he said. ‘What means this rude treatment of her majesty’s emissary?’

‘Your pardon, my lord,’ John said, coming forward, ‘but until the earl commands it, I cannot release you.’ He raised his hand against the uproar that came. ‘I can tell you this. He is returning here forthwith and he will satisfy you all.’

From the corridor came the sound of boots. John turned to the door. Yet it was not their hoped-for leader who came through it but Sir Ferdinando Gorges, one of those new knights who hovered on the fringes of the Essex inner circle like a jackal seeking scraps. His thick curly hair was plastered on to his brow, his clothes in disarray. He had obviously been running hard.

‘Your pardon, ladies, for the intrusion,’ he blurted, heaving breaths, sketching a half-bow before turning to the men there. ‘My lords, I have orders from the earl to escort you back to the palace.’ Over the gasps that came at this, the knight stepped forward and actually seized the Lord Keeper by the arm. ‘But we must be swift!’

Egerton shook the grip off. ‘We will proceed as befits our station,’ he replied coolly, and stalked slowly from the room, his party and Gorges following. There was something strange about such a sudden command, and John was about to step forward to question it when his own arm was taken.

‘Father,’ said Ned.

He gripped his son in turn and, with a shadow of a bow to the ladies, pulled him out the door. When it was firmly closed behind them, he shook the boy. ‘What make you here? Did I not tell you to remain in the garden? And if you had to leave, why in the devil’s name did you not just go?’

‘I tried to, Father,’ Ned replied. ‘I was attempting the side gate when that red-haired Welshman recognised me from the playhouse and dragged me here to entertain the nobles.’ He bit at his lip. ‘’Twas the strangest performance I ever gave. I could not remember half the words . . . of anything.’

John saw his son’s shaking. His anger passed. He should not have caught his boy up in this. ‘Come with me. Perhaps I can command you out of here.’

They were just approaching the side wicket when Gelli Meyrick ran past him. ‘He comes! He returns to us! Open the gate.’

A crowd immediately prevented any exit – and then gave back before three men and their burden – a perspiring, prostrate Earl of Essex. ‘Sanctuary,’ he murmured as if in a fever and within the bounds of the abbey. ‘Oh, sanctuary.’

The crowd surged into the garden. John tried to push Ned through to the gate . . . but it was slammed and locked before he reached it. He turned back to see Essex being laid onto the ground, leaning against a servant. His clothes were all askew, the black velvet suit besmirched, the tangerine scarf vanished. Around him, equally ditch-dragged, were the party who’d set out with such a flourish – Southampton, Rutland, Sandys. All shivered, yet none so much as Mounteagle, whose clothes were soaking. Someone threw a blanket around him and he sank to the cold earth with a moan.