Shakespeare's Rebel (51 page)

They did not have to wait long for the answer. There was a renewed burst of women’s wailing from beyond the shattered stained glass, followed by the sound of footsteps along the corridor. Then the lords emerged in much the same order they had that morning, if with distinctly less vigour. They did not form a gauntlet down which their leader marched. They formed a huddle, and first Southampton, then Essex strode into the middle of it. John heard a moment of murmured prayer, ending when Essex stepped from the group, stood at the head of the stair. He gazed at the ragged men in the courtyard for a moment and then, in a loud, clear voice, called out, ‘Gentlemen of England, it is over. We have struggled gloriously but the odds were too great. Follow me, lay down your swords at the victors’ feet. Trust in the Almighty and her majesty to look forgivingly upon us all. God save the Queen!’

With this last cry he descended the stairs. St Lawrence came to stand beside John, and together they watched as the noblemen left through the gates that had been immediately cleared for the purpose; then, as the remnants of Essex’s pitiful army mustered for the last time, they joined them. The wreckage might have been swept aside, but no one had bothered to extricate the body trapped in it.

By the time they passed under the arch, the head of the straggling column had reached the conquering nobility. They halted, and by the dancing light of torches saw their leaders kneel before the Lord Admiral and offer him their swords. Essex was the first to pass his over – Sir Philip Sidney’s sword, given on a field of honour all those years before from the dying warrior-poet’s own hand. Now it was passed to that poet’s brother. Sir Robert took it, kissed it, sheathed it.

The ragged band crossed the street. The nobility were done with their equals, and soldiers stood in their place to take soldiers’ swords. John drew his, laid it down, stepped back, raised his hands. All of them were shackled around the wrist. Through the mob, he managed to get a last glimpse of Essex being shepherded into a carriage. A young preacher was at his side and both men were praying fervently. The roaring was over. His noble lordship would now be as docile as any lamb. There were no chains for him – though John suspected it was less his noble blood than this: at last, and truly, Robert Devereux had no place left to go.

A voice called him back to his own situation. An officer was at the head of the column. There was something about the voice John recognised – and when the man turned back to command them on, he saw his face.

It was the same officer who’d dragged him from Sarah’s bed, the same who’d done a fellow soldier a kindness and brought him weak ale to his cell in Lollards’ Tower, the one he’d fought in Nonsuch House. Cecil’s man, Thomas Waller.

John smiled. It made what he had yet to do a little easier.

It was not a long walk to Newgate on a normal night. Down the Strand and Fleet Street, through the Lud Gate and left along the wall a little ways. But this night was far from normal. The city was as crowded as at midday, abuzz with the doings; and men and women who had praised Essex in his progress to the City now turned out in a mob to damn those who’d marched with him. The narrow streets were a gauntlet, and citizens stepped up to the shoulders of the guards that marched beside the prisoners to curse, to spit and to throw such vegetables as a February night could provide. Apprentices spilled out to block the way and display their ale-fuelled courage – for the taverns had reopened to profit from the event.

It was slow work, and despite the officer’s roaring and his men’s continual plying of their pike butts, it took half an hour, by the tolling of various church bells, to get across the bridge over the Fleet and to see Lud Gate beyond. The narrow entrance was blocked by a further shouting mob. Rather than force the gate, Waller decided on a less risky course – he ordered his men into the courtyard of a Ludgate Hill tavern, the Bel Savage. Strangely, John knew it, for its large yard often housed prize fights, organised by the Maisters of Defence to display their skills and attract students. He had fought there several times.

Waller commanded it cleared of revellers, pike points accomplished this swiftly and its gates were shut. ‘We will bide here for an hour,’ he told his corporal, ‘till the watch has dispersed these idlers. Then we will proceed.’

His men hailed the solution – and the beer flagons that were immediately produced. The prisoners were allowed to sit but were given nothing to drink. Most lay on their sides and went to sleep. John noted St Lawrence among them. They’d become separated in the surrender and chaining.

John bided, keeping his eye on the officer across the yard. There were two guards close, but when these two had quaffed a flagon each and their sight was hazier, he began to move, as if he were not moving, taking a long time to cover the short ground between him and his quarry. When at last he was behind the man’s chair, he spoke. ‘Good sir,’ he said softly.

Waller started, surprised that someone had got so close without him seeing; surprised more when he saw it was a prisoner; surprised most when he saw who that prisoner was. ‘John Lawley,’ he said, as quietly as he’d been spoken to.

‘I seek a private word with you, sir.’

‘I entertain no private words with traitors, sir.’

‘And will not when you speak with me.’ John rose up, leaned close, whispered, ‘For I would talk to you on the Master Secretary’s business.’

‘Indeed? And what might you have to do with that, except by opposing it?’

‘In private, sir.’ John nodded towards the inn door. ‘You will gain by it. On a soldier’s honour.’

The man looked at him, narrow-eyed. But then he grunted, rose, walked through the entrance. In the shadows just the other side he stopped. ‘Well? Tell me what business you have with the Master Secretary?’

‘This.’ With the difficulty of a manacled man, John reached to the edge of his doublet, broke and pulled loose some threads there. Eventually he was able to slide the folded parchment out. He held it up, and reluctantly Waller took it and went to sit at a nearby table where a candle flickered. He read by its light. His eyes went briefly wide, then hooded again.

‘How do I know this is not a forgery?’ he asked, lifting the scroll.

‘I believe you know the Master Secretary’s signature, sir, and his seal,’ John replied. ‘And perhaps also that of the Constable of the Tower?’

‘Yet your name is not on here? Perhaps you stole it?’

‘I did not. It was given me for . . . certain duties I was to perform for the Secretary.’

‘And did you perform them?’

John glanced out into the courtyard, at the prisoners there. ‘I think you can witness that I did.’

The officer stared at him for a long moment. ‘So, you are both a traitor – to everyone! – and a damned double spy.’ When John said nothing, Waller sighed, shook his head, then reached to the universal key at his waist. Leaning forward, he jerked the manacles off. ‘There’s the back door, Lawley. Take it.’

Rubbing his wrists, John took a step, then stopped. He looked at the carte blanche in the officer’s hand. ‘May I have that back?’

For the first time and only time, Waller smiled. ‘You truly are a rogue, Master Lawley. I shall be watching out for you.’ He shoved the paper down his doublet. ‘Now on your way, man, before I change my mind.’

John stepped into the night. Beyond the yard’s rear gate, he stopped in the narrow alley, leaned against a wall and, despite the reek, took several deep breaths. Only when he was steady did he move.

He was free. But he was not safe, that much he knew. Safety would require something else.

ACT FIVE

If it be now ’tis not to come. If it be not to come it will be now. If it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all.

Hamlet

XXXVIII

Another Scaffold

The Tower of London. Ash Wednesday 1601

‘Who’s there?’

‘’Tis I, my lord. John Lawley.’

‘John Lawley?’ His name was groaned like the answer to a prayer. ‘Come!’

Taking a breath, he pushed open the door.

It was not much of a prison cell compared to the many he had known. No instruments of torment lay about, no straw concealed the foul. The window was not even barred, but open to admit the chill March air. It was oak-panelled, a fire burned in the grate, and the furnishings were simple – a truckle bed, blankets piled upon it, some drawers upon which rested a jug and basin. The largest object was a table. It was completely covered in papers and ledgers. Behind that sat Robert Devereux.

‘John!’ he cried, rising. ‘Cry you mercy, I took you for the headsman, come before his hour. Enter in, pray.’

‘Good my lord.’

Essex came from around the table and enveloped him in a long hug. ‘Of all men else, I wanted you here. Here at . . . the end. At the just reward for all my follies.’ He pulled back but did not release, stared closely. ‘You do not mind?’

Here, now, he didn’t. The note had found him in Shropshire, Essex’s servant also bringing the news that the hue and cry was over and no one had sought him. The lowlier traitors had paid the price on Tower Hill the preceding week. The highest one faced it this day. Ash Wednesday.

He had thought to send some excuse, had words written and sealed. But he had come in their stead. He was already tainted with the Essex cause and every man knew it. And looking in the eyes that searched his so eagerly, he was glad he had. He saw in them all he ever had – the melancholic, the ecstatic, the schemer, the politician. But mostly he saw beyond the years of debauchery, illness and arrogance to the boy he’d met near two decades before with his three-hair beard, an accent raw from the borders, afire to conquer the world and totally unprepared for the price it would demand of him. Here was the boy still, unblemished. Here was the man, spoiled. And John now felt nothing but a great pity. ‘My lord,’ he said softly, ‘I will do you what service I can, as I have ever done, faithfully to the end.’

Essex gripped him hard again. ‘I know you will. And yours will be the last face I see in this world before, with His grace, I see God’s in the next.’ The earl gave a laugh, wiped a sleeve across his nose and eyes, moved back around the table. He gestured to the mess before him. ‘You see how my last hours are passed? With matters of estate so that my widow does not starve and my son has something to inherit. Trivial matters, when my mind should be focused on the redemption of my sins and God’s glory to come.’

John looked down. Amidst the debris of the old ledgers and cracked property deeds, he noted a new book by its gleaming embossed gold leaf, recognised the title. ‘And yet, my lord, not all your reading is duty.’

‘Eh?’ John lifted it clear. Essex squinted. Smiled. ‘Ah yes, it’s George Silver’s book. Do you remember him from Cadiz?’

‘I do indeed, my lord. He fought most gallantly beside us.’

‘Indeed, a singular gentleman. Though he did not venture with us last month. Wise fellow.’ His eyes clouded, then cleared again. ‘Do you recall how he always so defended the superiority of the true English backsword over the devilish foreign rapier?’

‘I do.’ John thought of the two of them taking on the Ludgate Boys on Fleet Street. ‘’Tis a mighty obsession with him.’

‘To the extent he has written a whole treatise on it. You hold his
Paradoxes of Defence
. And the intemperate fool had the bravado to dedicate it to me. To me!’ Essex smiled. ‘That should damn his sales!’

‘On the contrary, my lord – nothing sells like notoriety.’

‘Well, I am pleased my death will oblige someone.’ Both men laughed, perhaps more than the jest warranted. Eventually Essex coughed, went on more softly, ‘Have you read it?’ John nodded. ‘What think you of the system?’

Well, thought John, why not discuss swordplay? Why not? There will be axe play soon enough. ‘I think, my lord . . .’ He was about to give out his usual – that he had tried them all and that the system that worked best was the one that allowed a long sleep in an unholed skin. But then he recalled his latest times with sword in hand – in Nonsuch House. In the Irish ambuscado. Indeed, in the street with Silver and Shakespeare two years before, almost to this day. So instead he replied, ‘I think he is right. The backsword and the blow has the vantage over the rapier and the thrust . . . six times out of ten. Those are English odds.’ He shrugged. ‘Or perhaps it is that I am merely, like Silver, an old English dog myself, and cannot be about these new, foreign tricks.’

Essex nodded. ‘Well, I am of an older age too then, Master Lawley. It is what has put me within these walls, perhaps. Ushers me to what I go to now. The new men have it with their . . . new ways.’ He sighed, pushed fingers through his thinning hair, then bent to rest upon the desk. His hand fell atop a satchel. Straightway his eyes gleamed and he rose from his slouch clutching the bag. ‘And yet, why should the new men – Cecil and his crew – have everything their own way? Why should not old virtues be rewarded? I have secured one victory in the defeat anyway. Yours.’ He thrust out the satchel. ‘Contained within is the reward for a lifetime of loyalty, sir. Take it.’

Inwardly, John groaned. Rewards from this man had near killed him more than once. ‘My lord, with your favour, you owe me nothing.’

‘But I do.’ Essex pulled back the flap. There were two rolls inside, sealed in tangerine ribbons. ‘Open them. This one first.’

John placed the satchel under his arm, took out the scroll indicated, unrolled it. Placing it upon the desk, he weighted it down with small books at top and bottom and bent to study. It was a coat of arms, beautifully drawn and painted on fine vellum. One side of the shield was held by Essex’s own hunting hound, the other by a unicorn, the fierce beast that could never be conquered except by trickery. Above them the usual broadswords did not swing but a backsword rested on a round buckler. There were bars and blazons in many colours. John did not truly understand the heraldic devices. But he could read the Latin motto well enough. ‘
Absolute Fidelis
,’ he said aloud.