The South Lawn Plot (6 page)

P
ENDER WIGGLED HIS TOES
, flexed his fingers and tensed his back. The flight was number two for takeoff. The hop from Dublin to London would take about an hour. He thought of trying to sleep, but that would now be impossible. The Irish air had been a relief because Pender usually had difficulty staying more than four or five hours in a bed. He hadn't slept as well in years as he had the past few nights.

But the present atmosphere was not the sharp and saturated stuff he had spent the past few days drawing gratefully into his lungs. This was the aircraft cabin recycled variety. Pender had traveled to every corner of the globe and was a connoisseur of air much in the same way that some were experts on wine. Ireland's air, he decided, was to be highly commended despite the tension evident in it as Manning bade final farewell to his father's lair.

His host's obvious distraction had allowed Pender to observe without drawing too much attention. Manning did not appear to suspect a thing. He had clearly been simply doing his superior, the ambassador's, bidding.

It had been clear that the Irishman was uncomfortable having the Englishman around, but he had done his best to disguise the fact. He would be equally reluctant but ultimately cooperative when Pender turned up in Washington.

The aircraft turned at the end of the taxiway and faced down the runway. Somewhere in the distance there was a roar as the plane ahead lifted off. The pilot told Pender and his fellow passengers that they were now next in line and that the cabin crew should prepare for takeoff.

Pender pressed his eyes shut. This he could never quite fathom. He was as cold as ice when required to assassinate a target. Yet he was a nervous flyer.

The aircraft thundered down the runway and took off into a steep climb. It banked to its port side, and Pender pressed his eyes even more tightly shut. He concentrated his thoughts on Africa and the nights crouched around the rickety table with the hurricane lamp that was just about keeping at bay the pitch darkness inches beyond the rotting verandah.

John, the dissonant priest, and Pender had spent many hours by the lamp discussing all manner of things. Sleep was impossible unaided. The dead air conditioner was a casualty of three civil wars. So they had sipped Johnny Walker from chipped china cups and matched the alcohol intake with an equally significant consumption of nicotine.

John, whose priestly calling had been revealed to Pender after about a week spent at the old mission, had a taste for a strong French brand. He had laid responsibility for his habit on an old Belgian priest, a Father Jules. The man was a seer who had claimed that his chain smoking was merely a last ditch effort to counteract the legions of night insects. After forty years of defending himself, with a fair degree of success, Fr. Jules had succumbed to emphysema.

“It was a fair enough deal,” said Father John. “Four decades of not being bitten to death for a few rather uncomfortable months at the end.”

Pender, sucking on his American brand, had nodded in agreement at this weighing of relative agony.

“Right now, I'm all for the ciggies,” he said and blew a smoke ring in the general direction of the ceiling fan which had quit, again.

Pender had been wary of the priest when he had first answered the question as to his calling in life. Father John, whose surname he had never discovered, had evidently detected this because he had quickly qualified his answer with claims of coercion by his mother. Priests, he acknowledged, were not generally known for stating they had taken Holy Orders simply because they had been betrayed by a lover.

Pender had replied that he had initially thought Father John was a civilian aid worker. He admitted to being unaware that his lodging, set up for him by a contact in the capital, had once been a mission. It bore none of the usual trappings, people being the most noticeable absence. But other things had been missing too: crucifixes, pictures of the pope, a saint or two; even Jesus.

The civil war had been to blame, Father John explained. A priest was precious little protection against an assault rifle, especially an English priest with a less than convincing command of French and absolutely no words in the local tongue.

The school and the clinic had been mothballed after customers had fled to the capital 150 miles away. Lacking any clear instruction from his order in England, Father John had decided to hang on in the hope of better times. An elderly local man, with some unpronounceable biblical name, who had lived at
the mission since an orphan childhood, was the only other inhabitant. Pender's arrival, naturally, had been an event.

And so the two men had settled into the routine of staying as cool as possible in the heat of the day and as sane as possible during the heat of the night.

Pender's assignment had been to get to meet and photograph Jonas Sem, a rebel leader who had been steadily gaining ground against government troops. Because of this, he had been arousing a degree of western media interest, not least on the grounds that he had once attended the Sorbonne and had appeared to have a remote idea how a shell-shocked nation such as his might somehow settle down enough to give its children a chance of reaching twenty.

But time had passed, and different stories had started to filter out of the bush where Sem was holed up with an army estimated at five to as many as ten thousand fighters.

Nobody had paid too much attention to the first reports of Sem's praise for some of Africa's more dubious national leaders. Sem was known for having a good sense of humor, so comparing himself to the likes of Idi Amin was taken with a pinch of salt.

But there were soon other stories, reports of torture and of so-called war games in which Sem pitched one unit of his force, often boys not much older than twelve or thirteen, against each other in deadly pursuit of the honor of leading him in triumph into the country's capital.

The stories were never quite confirmed, so his advocates and allies in Paris and London had argued that the reports were lies being spread by the unarguably discredited government in the capital. But smoke begat fire, at least in the news media. So a few journalists had arrived in the supposedly democratic republic in search of the “true Jonas Sem.” All had failed to get near to the man, and one reporter had died in a small plane crash, fifty miles downriver from the mission.

As was his habit, Pender had watched and waited for the fuss to die down a bit. He knew that photos of African carnage were dime a dozen. Only the man himself would suffice and that would take some patience and luck. Both had landed him in the mission and at the table with the apologetic priest and a seemingly bottomless bottle of Scotch.

“Where did you get all this?” Pender had asked one evening, nodding towards the half empty bottle. “No, don't say it,” he quickly added. “The lord always provides.”

“Oh no,”
the priest had answered. “Jonas Sem is your friend on that account. He keeps me up to my halo in the stuff.”

“You know Sem well?”

“Just in a passing sense,” the priest replied. “I baptized him.”

Pender's crystal clear memory of the absolute indifference on the priest's face as he revealed his formative role in the rebel leader's life was washed away by a sudden shower of steamy rain.

“Would you be able to take me to him?”

The priest fidgeted with his glass.

“Not easy,” he said. “You don't make any direct approaches. They would shoot you down before you got within a mile of the man.”

“So how does he get the booze to you?” Pender asked.

“It simply arrives,” the priest replied.

“And what do you give him in return?”

“Absolution, forgiveness, albeit from a distance. I write down his penance on a piece of paper, leave it under a rock, and one of his boy soldiers takes it to him.”

“You're not bloody serious,” said Pender.

“If I was not bloody serious, Mr. Pender, I wouldn't be living in a place like this. I take all things seriously because here there is very little room to let emotions other than serious ones in. I may laugh, but I don't enjoy the luxury of easy mirth. You would understand if you lived here for more than a few weeks.”

Pender could find no easy reply. He lifted his glass and took a slug of the lukewarm whisky. He savored the liquid as it burned his throat and tumbled into a stomach that was already a tropical cauldron all of its own.

“You could send him a message for me, write one and leave it under the stone,” said Pender.

“I suppose I could,” replied the priest. “But the message I want to ultimately deliver to Joseph Sem will not rest well on paper. I will have to deliver it myself. Perhaps you could accompany me.”

The priest shook his head and as he did so he informed his guest that he would soon be leaving the mission. He had to return to England to address urgent business pertaining to his order.

To this, Pender had frowned, and still had a frown on his face as the flight attendant nudged him on the shoulder. He had snoozed after all. She was pointing at his seat belt which was unbuckled. Pender nodded, forced a
smile and looked out the window. The plane was turning and side slipping as it made its descent into Heathrow.

Pender had ignored the woman sitting beside him. She had buried herself in a laptop the moment she had sat down in her seat. The computer was now stowed and she was flicking through the airline's inflight magazine.

Pender turned his head and looked out the cabin window. The sky was clear and the London suburbs stretched away to the horizon. Pender recognized the Twickenham rugby ground as the plane straightened for its final approach. Behind it and beyond it the row of houses signaled the march of the great capital into its hinterland.

He had grown up in one of those houses with its neat garden and potting shed. His father had commuted to his government job on the trains. He had early on picked his soccer team and his chums on the road, and life seemed to be as predictable in its future as the present flight path.

How, he wondered, could something so volatile take form out of something so solid, so stable and seemingly fixed in the heavens?

He was conscious suddenly of the woman speaking.

“Nervous flyer are you?” she asked. By her accent she was English, from somewhere in the London area.

Why the hell she had waited until the end of the flight to ask the obvious was a mystery to Pender.

He folded his arms and smiled at her. “Not in the least,” he said.

London, 1606

Moving swiftly, Falsham pulled his broad-brimmed hat lower over his forehead. He walked along Watling Street and into Candlewick Street, occasionally making small diversions down alleyways before returning to his intended route.

His progress appeared random, but he maintained an easterly direction towards London Bridge. Every so often he would stop and cast a glance backwards. The London he remembered was a nest of spies. Robert Cecil, the Earl of Salisbury, whose agents provided eyes and ears for the king, was never a man to be underestimated.

But no one was following, as best as Falsham could judge.

Falsham's progress took him past stalls and stables, over puddles of slop, some with straw strewn across to spare the walker sudden calamity. Though it was spring, it was still thankfully cool; the street stench had not yet risen to the height of a tall man's nose.

Falsham walked on, his stride lengthening despite the crowds that made passage through the narrower streets slow and frustrating. The city was more crowded than he remembered. But he had been absent from England for seven years, away in Flanders, France and Spain. And nothing remained the same in a fast changing world. The virgin queen was dead, and the new king very much alive, despite the efforts of good and honorable men.

Falsham reached the bridge without incident. London Bridge was both a bridge and tunnel, a marvel he had always admired despite his preference for open countryside. Its stone road rested on a series of wooden piers atop which lay a run of high houses. Each house had a passageway underneath through which people, carts and animals could move back and forth across the Thames.

Falsham entered through the north gate, his eyes given sudden relief in the
dim light under the first house. He walked quickly, into the daylight, out of it again, beneath another arch and onwards until he reached the south gate.

On this day, there was but a pair of severed heads perched above the gate, a damnable construction, he thought, and one that was reserved for those done in for treason, whether real or concocted.

Falsham took comfort. The priest was unlikely to join these unfortunates. Spiking a priest's head would be too much a provocation to those ambassadors in the city who spoke for the Catholic courts of Europe, even those lately eager to soothe England's temper.

When he reached the south bank, Falsham turned westward, past the Bishop of Winchester's palace and the mournful dungeon known as the Clink. He felt no fatigue. Indeed, his stride lengthened as he neared his destination. Falsham was fired by little more than anger. But that was more than enough.

He had not eaten since the previous day, and that had been a fitful meal of barley bread and oysters washed down with a jug of sour ale. His night's rest in Nine Elms had been nothing of the sort. The inn had been astir with all manner of activity and Falsham slept on the floor, certain that his bed was a home to all the fleas in England.

Had passersby come close and listened as Falsham approached his final destination, they would have heard a low, growling, voice muttering words in a foreign tongue. Had they an education to boast of, they might have recognized the tongue as Spanish. “Un Deseo Por Tranquilidad,” Falsham said as he turned down an alleyway towards the riverbank. He said it again, a snarling tone rising in his voice. “Un Deseo Por Tranquilidad. All of you to hell.”

William Beacon rubbed the grime from the window and stared out into the street. There was not much to be seen between the mullions and thick panes blown into a series of interwoven spirals. Beacon's face betrayed anxiety and impatience. Where was he?

He soon had his answer. The heavy oak door to the Fox and Badger Tavern opened with a creaking sound. The tall figure blocking out the light hesitated for only a second before taking the single step down to the near- black wooden floor.

Beacon stepped away from the window and walked to the corner of the room. It was early in the day and only a few lay-a-bouts were availing of the tavern's reputation for a cup of sac better than most others in this dingy corner
of the city, a spit as it was from the Bankside brothels and gathering places just a tad more meritorious, the Globe and the Bear Pit.

The room reeked of ale. It was a stale odor that no amount of scrubbing by the landlord's serving girls would banish. Beacon found it a comforting, uncomplicated smell. Perfume on a man always made him suspicious. Ale, by contrast, had an honest stink. It made a man transparent.

Beacon was his real name though he rarely used it. His life was one of many names, many houses and many journeys, mostly by night and by stealth in the expanses to the north of the city.

Beacon lifted a latch on the corner door and stepped into a passageway. A single candle in a metal holder nailed to the wall provided the only light. He knew Falsham would follow and did not turn back to look. At the end of the passage was another door.

Opening it, Beacon almost tiptoed into a room about twenty feet square. Against one wall was a long bench. A dozen men were sitting on it and in separate chairs drawn up to a rectangular table atop which lay an opened map held down by drinking jugs at each end.

The embers of a fire from the night before glowed faintly in the fireplace, cut into the wall to the right of the entry door. There was one small window at the opposite end of the room through which could be seen an enclosed yard at the rear of the tavern.

Falsham had followed Beacon and now he stood just inside the door. His eyes fell on a stack of swords leaning against one of the walls. An arquebus lay on the floor, nuzzling against the sword tips. Falsham could see that the men in the room were wary, their weapons already drawn and within easy reach. He nodded in silent approval.

Beacon interrupted his thoughts.

“John is here and I fear with news of a great mischief,” he announced.

Falsham stared over Beacon to the seated men.

“Yes, my friends, I do bring news of the mischief you so rightly feared. The priest is dead. But death is no longer without purpose. We have much work to do.”

Falsham stepped across the room to a chair left vacant in anticipation of his arrival. His movement now was that of a man at the end of a long, arduous journey. He seemed to pause a moment, eyeing the chair with some suspicion, before pulling it back and seating himself. He sagged. The days on horseback,
the sea passage, the constant need to be alert and suspicious of all manner of even normal incident had taken its toll. He was exhausted.

His weariness, however, did not impede him for more than a few seconds. Pulling himself upright in the chair, he placed both his gloveless hands upon the table. He said nothing for about a minute then slammed his clenched fists into the wood, stained dark from countless nights of drinking, gambling and plotting.

Falsham spoke softly, but his voice filled the room. He reached inside his clothing and removed his prayer beads. Holding before his eyes the gold crucifix attached to one end of the chain he ran his eyes over and through the seated men before and beside him.

“By this we live, for this we die,” he said. The men around the table nodded, some gently, some vigorously. One or two crossed themselves. Beacon, who was still standing, smiled, but said nothing.

This was the right man, he thought.

Beacon, a priest behind his secular garb, spread his arms wide. “Dominus vobiscum,” he said. To a man, the gathering felt that God was with them in the room, the newcomer his earthly instrument.

Beyond the closed door, down the dark passage, outside the inn and beyond the reach of its stale odors, London was a city flexing its growing financial and trading muscle. The forty-four year rule of Elizabeth was not yet seen as an era. But there was a widespread sense that England had come of age under her stern gaze.

James, the sixth of Scotland, son of Elizabeth's ill-fated cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, had inherited a kingdom that had not just survived religious upheaval, an attempted invasion by Spain, and constant threat from Catholic Europe, but more lately a satanic plot to blow up king and parliament.

Now, a few months after the foiled Powder Treason, James the first of England, was leading his kingdom into the new century with élan and enthusiasm, at least during his numerous stag hunts, to which he devoted much of his energy. He would be the first monarch to style himself King of Great Britain. And Britain would indeed be great for more reasons than trade and military prowess.

Culture, too, was flourishing. This very year would see publication of Ben Jonson's
Volpone
while Shakespeare's
Macbeth
would be a worthy distraction
from the shocking, treasonous acts of November 1605. There was, indeed, much to celebrate in the city that had grown along the banks of the Thames since Roman times.

Back again down the dingy corridor and into the back room of the Fox and Badger, celebration of a sort was also taking place. It was a celebration of survival. Falsham's return from the continent was a boost to both prospects and hearts.

Sitting at the table were men who viewed the course of recent events with alarm and disdain. England's ability to trade with the world was contingent on the ability to protect trading routes and shipping. That ability, they all fervently believed, would be better served if England was realigned with the Catholic powers of Europe, most especially Spain.

Such a change in the order of things would require intervention. The king's mother had died for her Catholic faith but the king himself had long accepted the teachings of the church sprung from the loins, literally, of Elizabeth's father, Henry.

The conspiracy taking form in the Fox and Badger was a collision of faith and finance, a potent mix. And now it had its sword arm in John Falsham.

One of the men stood. Sir Robert Cummings was at odds with the room in one respect. He was not a Catholic, though his wife was of that faith. Cummings considered himself a practical man, not much given to religious fervor at all. He, too, saw great danger in an isolated England and had designs on making his second fortune in the New World. Enemies could easily get in the way of such plans.

“You are welcome among us, John. I know I speak for all. We are truly comforted by your safe return and feel that our work can only now benefit.”

Cummings, as was his habit, chose his words carefully. It was he who had called together the present company. It was he who now placed a sword on the table.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “a sword is a perfect instrument. It both reminds us of Christ's cross and strikes down those who would still have him on that cross. We would do well to swear an oath on this holy instrument because we all carry one about our persons. It will be a reminder to all that on this day we pledge our lives to the restoration of England to a single common purpose under one mother church within which all men can find their individual destinies.

All the men stood, and hands reached across the table. One or two were amused at how Cummings had managed to insert a reformist idea into his
vision of a single religious body at least nominally under Rome. But they were impressed by his choice of a sword as an instrument of holy oath. Better by far than beads. To a man, they were inclined towards a pragmatic means to an end. Religion had its place, but worldly actions were required to assure its survival and prosperity.

The Powder Treason plotters had been dreamers, and they had paid for their foolishness with their lives. It would not be the fate of the individuals in this room. Their task would take time, perhaps a long time.

“A holy sword.” Beacon was smiling. “Clavius Sanctus.”

Falsham, who had remained seated, now stood and faced Beacon.

“I must not linger long in London; there is too much danger here,” he said.

Beacon nodded. “Yes, of course, you must leave the city, but after you have rested. Ayvebury will be ready for you. Our friend there is expecting your arrival even now.”

Falsham's brow furrowed. What would it be like meeting with his old friend, a man who he had thought to be in heaven?

“I sold my horse upon arrival in London. It was broken down,” he said to no one in particular.

Cummings put his hand on Falsham's shoulder.

“I have many horses, John, and you will have the pick of them.” Falsham smiled. He rarely smiled anymore.

“A holy sword. Yes, by God, that is a worthy idea to march behind,” he said.

“March, yes, but first rest,” said Beacon. “All depends on you now, John. You are the hunter in our midst, and you must be more than a match for that royal stag of ours.”