Shakespeare's Rebel (49 page)

‘My lord! My lord!’ implored Gelli Meyrick. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Betrayal!’ moaned Essex. ‘The City did not rise for me. Sheriff Smyth cozened me. There were no thousand pikemen. There were no men at all.’ He threw out a hand. ‘Something warming, for mercy’s sake!’ He was handed a flagon, and between great gulps of sack he blurted out the story. ‘We waited an age, drinking Smyth’s execrable ale. But no one came, no messengers from the Mayor, no militia. We decided to return – but found Lud Gate chained against us and a force of pikemen holding it.’

He swigged, choked, a huge burst of wet coughing coming. Southampton took up the tale. ‘We fought, of course. Sir Christopher Blount charged and we were preparing to follow him when . . . when . . .’ he sobbed, ‘when that gallant knight was gored in the face and fell senseless to the cobbles. What could we do . . . but take to the river?’

‘And Sir Christopher?’ someone called.

Southampton looked up, tears spilling. ‘We had to leave him!’ Over the gasps that came, the man’s voice rose to a whine. ‘We had no choice! We had to get back here. We had to reach . . . sanctuary.’

John turned away in disgust. He did not need to have been there to know what had happened. A milling of half-drunk, full-panicked lords abandoning the knight – the Earl of Essex’s stepfather, God’s wounds! – and heading pell-mell for the river, and a gate less guarded, to steal some boats, with Mounteagle in the confusion falling in. Of all the follies I have witnessed in his company, John thought, this exceeds anything.

There was further clamouring at the gate. It was opened and more fleers stumbled in – one of whom was Sir Samuel D’Esparr. ‘God a mercy,’ he cried when Ned went to him. ‘What make you here, boy? What make I?’ His voice rose to a wail and he sank slowly to the ground. ‘We are all doomed! Disaster has befallen the earl and his cause!’

‘No talk like that, you traitorous dog!’ snarled a lean, much-scarred man. ‘I’ll gut you if you cry such treason.’

He had a dagger half drawn and was moving towards the fallen knight. John stepped between them. ‘Easy, friend,’ he murmured low, his palm on the other man’s wrist. ‘There’s plenty out there to fight and your chance is coming soon.’

With another snarl the man sheathed, turned away, while John bent low over Sir Samuel. ‘And you, man, keep your plaints to yourself.’

The knight subsided into private moans. Not so Captain St Lawrence. ‘They are coming, begod,’ he screamed, and as his shout faded, all there heard drums, fifes and the striking of metal-shod pikestaffs on the cobbles.

Cecil and his council, having failed to act before, were clearly acting now.

‘To the walls!’ Lord Sandys cried. ‘And you!’ He pointed to St Lawrence. ‘No man else to come in unless you know them personally. And no man to leave, no matter how piteous their plea. We must secure the house! With me!’

He ran off, most of the bedraggled crew rushing for the front of the house and the courtyard. Sir Samuel lurched up and followed. But John stepped the other way, grabbing Ned by the arm, shoving him towards the gate where a few last stragglers were squeezing through despite the Irishman’s efforts to push it shut. By the time he was five paces away, it was slammed, locked and bolted. Cursing, he looked down – and realised that the man lying still upon the ground was Robert Devereux. He was near enough to see the earl grab Meyrick by the collar, hear him hiss, ‘My papers, Gelli. I must burn my papers.’ His gaze left his steward’s, found John. ‘Lawley!’ he gasped. ‘Ever and absolutely faithful! Help me up.’

Once on his feet, some life returned to him. ‘With me,’ he cried, and with Gelli beside him, he ran for the house.

Ned, caught up in the event, looked to follow. But John held him back. ‘Wait, lad,’ he whispered, turning again to the gate. But there was no hope of getting out there now, not with soldiers standing before it, and St Lawrence with two pistols drawn. The garden ran a little further back towards the river, about thirty paces worth, and they walked halfway down it. But in organising the defence – and seeking a possible last avenue of retreat as any experienced soldier must – John had noted that the walls were twice as tall as a tall man, smooth and nigh impossible to scale; while even if Ned managed to do it, unnoticed, he would drop the other side into the company of the desperate men recently shut out or, just as likely, become a prisoner of the enemy’s advance guard. A father could not send his son into either danger alone; and he could not go with him. For all his fury at the debacle Essex had once more engineered, he would not desert him, even now.

They halted in the last of the light spilling from the torches further up the garden. ‘What are we to do, Father?’ Ned asked. He was making an effort to keep his voice calm. Only the note of it, higher than he had lately used, gave him away.

John took his arm. ‘I do not know . . . yet. War throws up chances, boy. We must be ready to act on one.’

They were about to go he knew not where when they heard the hiss from behind them. It was low enough not to carry to the gate but reached the two of them. ‘Psssss!’

‘What make you there, Lawley?’

He froze. St Lawrence was staring at him from twenty paces away. ‘Checking the walls, Captain,’ he replied, making sure Ned did not turn either. ‘All seems secure here.’

‘Good. Then . . .’ A burst of hammering upon the gate interrupted, turned the Irishman back to the grille in it. ‘Slowly,’ John whispered, and he and Ned stepped back, one measured pace after another, until the shadows at the garden’s end swallowed them quite. Then they moved more quickly until they could put fingers to stone.

‘At last,’ came the soft voice.

They recognised it. Actually, they had both recognised it from the hiss. The way one does if one is a son. Or a lover.

‘Tess.’

XXXVI

Escape

Now he was looking hard, he could see the uneven darker shadow atop the wall. ‘Tess!’ he called again, softly. ‘By my holidame! What make you there?’

‘I have been waiting here these two hours hoping you would come. Now help me down, will you?’

‘How did you get up there?’ John knew the walls were as high the other side.

‘There are fruit trees in the gardens here. I found an orchard ladder.’

John’s heart beat a little quicker. ‘Can you contrive to lift it, love, and pass it over this side?’

‘I cannot.’ A grunt of annoyance came. ‘’Twas my plan, but I kicked the cursed thing in climbing on to the wall. It fell and lies in a ditch below. Can you not help me? I am frozen here.’

Muttering a curse, John peered into the deeper darkness at the wall’s base. But it was Ned who toed it. ‘What of this?’ he asked.

John joined him. In the corner, a gardener must have piled grass cuttings from the bowling lawn and leaves from the several elms. They were soggy after the winter’s deluges but were waist height and softer than the ground. ‘Edge along, Tess, to this corner. There’s a shorter drop here.’

They heard her mutter, then her slide. Soon she was above. ‘Try to lower yourself from your hands,’ John called, ‘then stretch till you . . .’

She did not wait, nor listen. She was above and then she was down, landing on her feet, tipping straight off the rakings, falling into his arms. He caught, held. ‘Are you well?’ he gasped, clenching her tight, her face an inch from his.

She swayed, steadied, stood. ‘Aye, I think I . . . I am.’ She left his embrace, stepped off the green pile. ‘I am stiff, it is certain. Cold, but’ – she shivered – ‘hale for all that.’

John drew back to look at her. The shock came that the action had delayed. ‘Why have you come, Tess?’ he asked, incredulous.

‘Why? You dolt! I have come for my son.’ She grasped Ned to her, hugging him hard. ‘Are you well? You are not hurt?’

‘No, Mother, I am fine. My father has kept me safe.’

‘Your father . . .’ She turned back to John. ‘What did you mean, sir, by bringing him here? Here, of all places? Have you lost the few wits you still retained?’

John flinched. ‘I did not think . . .’

‘Nay, that’s certain. The one house in London where—’

A loud sound interrupted her. The bark of shot, followed by a shattering of glass. Someone screamed. All looked to it, then John laid a hand upon her arm. ‘Tess, I am at fault, I know. I will answer for it hereafter in any way you see fit. For now, though, all I can do is try to keep you both safe.’

The shot had quieted her. ‘Can we not climb back up?’ she said.

He shook his head. ‘If we could, Ned would have been over the wall ere now. The only way out is through the doors, and it is commanded that no man may leave by them.’

She looked back at him sharply. ‘Did you say “no . . .
man
”?’

Her emphasis hung between them. John spoke to it. ‘Aye, I suppose we could persuade yon Irishman to let you out. He might do it as a favour to me. But your son he will not allow.’

She turned her stare on Ned. ‘Well then,’ she whispered, ‘how about my daughter?’

‘Daughter?’

‘Aye.’ The slightest smile came. ‘Perhaps some use can come of all your playing.’

Ned saw it – and blushed. ‘Nay, Mother, I cannot.’

‘Aye, son, you can and will.’ She turned. ‘Tell him.’

‘I cannot see the way of it, but . . . Ned, if we can contrive an exit for you, then you must take it.’

‘No, Father. I wish to stay here with you.’

John stepped close, put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Ned, if I could keep you with me, I would. But this escapade is going to end two ways – in battle or in surrender. Gaol or death are the only options here. If I am to survive either, I will need’ – he glanced at Tess – ‘the poor remnants of my few wits. They may suffice to keep me alive. They have done so before. Yet ’tis certain they are not enough to manage for us both.’

Ned stared at him a long moment. Then, to John’s surprise, his arms came up and he pulled his father into an embrace. ‘Do so then, Father. Live. And come back to us soon in Southwark.’

They parted. John looked at Tess. ‘Yet I still do not see how this is to be arranged.’

‘Leave that to me,’ she replied, and reached to a button at her neck. He noted now that she was wearing the simple dress she wore to run the inn. As more buttons undid, he glimpsed her neck. Something more. Her fingers paused. ‘Turn, sirs,’ she commanded.

They obeyed. It did not take too long. She was wearing a long shift under her dress that could be buttoned high. She and Ned were near of a height now. It came to his ankles, though his boots poked out from beneath it. With his long hair loosened, her bonnet atop it, and John’s cloak to cover all, he looked the part. But while the garb changed the look, his profession filled it. He was transformed.

John kept them on the dark side of the shadows until the mob around the postern thinned. Men were being vetted, some allowed in, none out. Those who were admitted were dispatched about the grounds. After a while, there was a lull. No hammering upon the door. Yet from beyond it other sounds came. Bugles called to muster. Drums beat. St Lawrence stood there, gazing towards the house, briefly alone save for his sentinel atop the wall.

It was the moment. ‘Gently now,’ said John, and the three advanced.

They were nearly by him before he heard their approach. He started. ‘Lawley,’ he said. ‘What’s this?’

‘My wife and daughter, Captain.’ The Irishman recovered enough to bow, and both Tess and Ned curtseyed. ‘Maidservants in the house. Can you let them pass?’

‘Alas, I cannot. You know my charge: no one to leave.’

‘I heard the command: no
man
may do so. And I do not seek it.’ As St Lawrence made to speak again – to deny, John could see it in his eyes – he stepped closer, took the man by the elbow, led him slightly apart. ‘You know that if it comes to a fight, we have but small chance. I am willing to die for my lord, as I know you are. But women are always threatened with a worse fate.’ He let the words sink in. ‘If I am to fight, let me not do so with half my care behind me.’

St Lawrence stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded. He looked up to the guard on the wall. ‘How is it, Drummond?’

‘Same, Captain.’ The man peered left and right. ‘They are not yet in the river gardens, only upon the Strand. No one near.’

‘Good, then.’ The Irishman stepped to the gate, shot the bolts, opened it halfway. ‘Swiftly now.’

John put his arms around both Tess and Ned, guided them through the entranceway. On the other side, another house’s wall and a narrow lane between.

‘Thomas waits on the water with a borrowed skiff,’ Tess said. ‘We’ll take that way.’

‘’Tis safest. Go.’ John clapped Ned’s shoulder. ‘Look after your mother, boy.’

‘I will, Father.’

Then Tess pressed close, startling him. ‘Come with us, John. I can run as fast as Ned in this skirt. There’s no one to stop us.’

She was right. St Lawrence had stepped back to give them the moment. It was so tempting. And yet . . . ‘I cannot, sweetheart,’ he said softly. ‘While my lord lives, I owe him my service.’

‘Robert Devereux? After all he has done to you? After all you have already suffered for him?’ She stamped her foot. ‘Out upon him, I say. He does not deserve such loyalty.’

John shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But I made a vow: to stay this one last assay at his side. To see his triumph or witness his fall. I cannot break it.’ He pushed her gently away. ‘Now go.’

Still she did not obey. ‘Have you seen Samuel?’ she asked.

‘Aye. He is within.’ He sighed. ‘And I will see him safe if it is in my power.’

The look she fixed him with was one he knew well. ‘Really, sir,’ she said, one eyebrow raised. ‘Loyalty can be taken too far. Sir Samuel can fend for himself as well as any man.’

And with that, she turned sharply and made for the river.

He watched them till the darkness took them. Few torches moved in the gardens and orchards there. The Queen’s forces would yet be mustering and, with God’s good grace, they would make their waiting boat safely.

He stepped back inside. The bolts were shot immediately. ‘A fine-looking wife you have there, Master Lawley,’ St Lawrence said, turning back from his task. ‘And a pretty daughter. Strange how you never mentioned her before. The twin of your boy, is she?’