Shakespeare's Rebel (39 page)

Yes, it seemed. He felt his guts churn, his legs weaken.

They left the Martin Tower, his prison within the prison. Yet they did not make along the ramparts in the direction of the Hill, its scaffold shrouded in the swirling snow. Instead they swivelled towards the looming shape that stood as the still centre of the whole fortress. And when he realised it was there that they were bound, John finally pushed his arms out against his guards, dragged his feet, a weak rebellion, swiftly suppressed.

The White Tower, he thought. Jesu save me.

All knew what occurred within its grey and ivy-clad walls. Even though they were reputed six feet thick, and the dungeons far below ground, some days he had still believed he heard, like the faintest bat’s squeak, the shrieks of a prisoner undergoing torment. Like every other unwilling resident, he had ignored them. Like every other resident would now ignore his.

Yet when they’d manoeuvred him up the slick steps and through the main doors, they did not descend the dank, dark stairwell. Instead they went up, into an area for administration. Through half-open doors he glimpsed clerks plying quills at desks. Then he was before a door at a corridor’s end. A sharp knock brought a cry from within. ‘Come!’

Waller opened the door. Behind a desk overflowing with parchment stood Sir Robert Cecil. ‘So, knave,’ he said, waving them into the room, ‘have you a bow for your better?’

The Master Secretary had only just arrived, by the snow clumps encrusted upon his cloak. He also had bags beneath his eyes that had not been there before, and a face thinned by care, John suspected, rather than winter’s leanness. His appraisal was returned. When the guards stepped back an arm’s length, he made the bow required, as far as his chained state allowed.

When he rose, the other man was still staring. ‘You look . . . well, Lawley,’ he said, as if this peeved him. ‘Fifteen months in a cell is meant to diminish a man.’ As John shrugged, the officer, Waller, came past the group and placed the play script on the desk. ‘What’s this?’

‘I found it in his cell, sir.’

The Master Secretary picked up spectacles from the desk, held them up to his eyes – which widened beneath the thick lenses. ‘ “
The Tragedy of King Richard the Second
”,’ he read aloud, then looked up. ‘What are you doing with this?’

‘I . . . found it. The former occupant of my cell must have . . .’ John shrugged. ‘You know.’

‘I know a fable when I hear one. And I know that this’ – he raised the quarto – ‘is a treasonous text.’

‘It is merely a play, sir.’

‘Merely? Oh indeed! One that
merely
speaks on the overthrow of God’s anointed king. On mere regicide. On a paltry insurrection. In times such as these, dangerous times, this’ – he waved the paper in the air – ‘is incitement. Performed by your old friends, of course, the Chamberlain’s Men.’

‘Not for many years, sir. ’Tis an old work.’

‘It matters not. The mob has a long memory. And a text like this reminds them.’ He waved the paper in the air, threw it down, then picked up a leather-bound volume. ‘As does this, the recently published
History of Henry the Fourth
. By one Dr John Hayward.’ He peered over his glasses. ‘Do you know him?’

‘I do not.’

‘No. I do not suppose that prisoners mix much within the Tower.’ Cecil’s smile was as mirthless as ever. ‘For he is also here, some three floors below where you are now. Under
examination
.’ He let the word stand a moment before continuing. ‘And can you guess why? No, it is not really a question, Master Lawley. I will tell you.’ He leaned forward. ‘As if it is not effrontery enough to write about this subject at this time, he has the gall to dedicate the book to none other than the Earl of Essex.’ He nodded. ‘Oh yes. Dr Hayward not only tells the story of Bolingbroke’s armed rebellion and his seizing of the throne; he offers it to the man being hailed as his reincarnation. For that is what the people that daily pass Essex House call out. “Bolingbroke!” ’ Cecil shouted the name. ‘And the earl must hear them, since he is again in residence.’ Cecil glared. ‘Yes, sirrah, the mob calls upon the usurper.’

John thought of speaking what he, the unfortunate Dr Hayward and many in England knew: that the said Bolingbroke may have been a usurper but he became King Henry the Fourth, father of the victor at Agin Court and one of the Queen’s illustrious forebears in the House of Lancaster. But he doubted the other man required such a history lesson, nor was it for him to speak it if he did. The snow on the man’s cloak showed that he had come hastily, through nasty weather, for this meeting. That he had not even taken it off before summoning him showed that John was there to listen . . . and then perhaps be required, in some way, to act.

As he considered, Cecil continued. ‘Only last week the Queen declared: “Know you not I am Richard the Second?” ’ He nodded. ‘Yes. She has ever feared rebellion, and with good reason. Some of these so called noble men still live as if it were one hundred and fifty years ago, and it is their prerogative, nay, more, their chivalrous duty to muster their retainers and march.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘I, and my father before me, have spent too much of our energies defeating plot after plot. And yet I will tell you this, sirrah – never have we faced such a perilous time as now. For never was there such a threat.’ He nodded. ‘Never. And we both know who that threat comes from: your particular friend, the Earl of Essex.’

John thought of denying all allegiance. But he knew he must not . . . yet. Not until he knew more. For rumour had reached inside the Tower and spoken of an earl who had survived his violation of the Queen’s sanctuary and the desertion of his command with a reprimand; but he had been stripped of his offices and thus the income by which he fended off his myriad creditors. It spoke also of his followers, back from the Irish debacle, an impoverished and reckless crew gathering in low taverns around Essex’s house on the Strand. And of his noble friends, a faction whose wagons were hitched securely to the falling earl’s star, failing with him. But rumour, as ever, was short on details.

Carefully, John thought. ‘What threat is it you speak of, sir? I do not know much of what happens beyond these walls.’

Cecil, who had left his desk to pace behind it, stopped to consider him. ‘I suspect you know near as much as I. Which is not enough. For until most recently I was receiving regular, alarming reports. Of plots, and schemes, and secret meetings. If these did not actually take place within Essex House, they were decided upon there. With my lord of Essex’s approval.’

‘Then, good sir,’ John asked softly, ‘if all this is certain, why do you not move against him?’

‘Do you think I would be standing here, talking with you, if I could?’ Cecil snapped, glaring. ‘For as you pointed out before, in this very fortress, even a court of his peers would, tiresomely, require actual proof of treason. It would be different, of course, if the Queen willed it . . .’

He broke off, looking at the other three men, silent as statuary. John finished for him. ‘I take it that the Queen does not?’

Cecil stepped closer. ‘The Queen, sirrah . . . the Queen . . .’ He hesitated, then turned abruptly to those other men. ‘Leave us,’ he commanded. ‘Wait close at hand.’

‘Master Secretary.’ If Waller was concerned for his master’s safety, he did not show it, just bowed and, with a flick of his head, ordered his guards from the room.

Cecil waited till the men had pulled the door to before continuing as if he’d not interrupted himself. ‘The Queen is not well. She has not been entirely well for a while now. In her body she is still horse-strong. But in her mind . . .’ He glared again. ‘You understand I will have your tongue cut out if you repeat a word of what I tell you now.’ At John’s acquiescent nod, he continued, ‘In her mind she conjures a different Robert Devereux. Her “sweet Robin”.’ He snorted. ‘She sends him broths and poultices for his never-ending illnesses. She receives his execrable verse as if newly plucked from the reopened grave of Philip Sidney. She has even been convinced that his act of bursting into her bedroom was the most romantic gesture imaginable. God defend me!’ he shouted at the ceiling. ‘She will not see him . . . but neither will she condemn him. Not without proof.’

He came from behind his desk now, stopped before John, stared up at him hard, as if seeking within his eyes. After a long pause he said, ‘You had the gall to once ask me in this place what my desire was. Well, Master Lawley, now I ask you yours.’

John took a breath to calm his accelerating heart. Only when he was quite ready did he speak. ‘My whole desire? It is only this – to have my life back again.’

‘Is it?’ Cecil studied him, sucking on his lower lip. ‘And do you understand that the fulfilment of that is entirely in my gift?’

‘I do so understand.’

It was obviously said humbly enough to satisfy both the man’s need to subject . . . and another need John saw in his eyes, their faces being so close. ‘Well then, Master Lawley,’ Cecil continued, as quietly, ‘in order for you to receive that gift, you must earn it.’ He nodded. ‘And the first thing you must do is rejoin the household of the Earl of Essex.’

Ah ha, thought John, but said, ‘May I ask, sir . . . why me? Surely you have men within it already?’

‘I did. Several.’ He paused, to rub at his eyes, ‘One by one my sources have fallen silent. The last of them only last week. The silence is permanent.’ He looked up. ‘For men who swim in the Thames in February lose the ability to speak.’

Not always, thought John, but said, ‘You wish me to spy upon my lord of Essex.’

For once there was no equivocation, no threat or bluster. ‘Yes,’ was the simple reply. Again it came with that flash of desperation in the dark eyes.

Though his heart was beating fast once more, John had spent a lifetime giving people what they wanted, to gain what he wanted. Matthew, the gaoler, was only the most recent. So now he breathed, shrugged, and spoke softly. ‘Then I will do so.’

Cecil’s eyes narrowed. ‘You forsake a lifetime’s loyalty in a breath? I warn you, sir, I will not be juggled with.’

John raised his hands. ‘Good sir, you asked me before we last parted to
brood
on loyalty. I obeyed – and I began with a tally. Not the usual calendar that prisoners carve on walls. Here.’ He tapped his head, his chains jangling. ‘This, then, is what Robert Devereux has done for me.’ He looked above Cecil’s head. ‘He has caused me, an innocent man, to spend time in gaols such as this – and worse – for long periods of my life. He has contrived to have me killed by various of his enemies – Englishmen, Irishmen, and too many Spaniards to count. He has stolen my life more often than any other man, with the exception, possibly, of Sir Francis Drake. But at least with him, no matter how much I hated him, I always knew I was fighting for my Queen and for my country.’ He paused. ‘But if the name of Lawley has ever been linked to treason, it is only because it was yoked to the name of Essex first.’

‘You sound as if you . . . as if you almost hate him now?’

They were so close John could see it there again in the other man’s eyes, hear it in his halting voice. Hope allied with need. If he had just expressed his whole wish, he now knew Cecil’s too. His heart slowed – because he knew that he could grant it. ‘Almost?’ He shook his head. ‘Nay, Master Secretary. Do not qualify my hate with such a word.’

Cecil stared for a long moment. ‘I have always wondered about you, John Lawley,’ he finally said. ‘That
savagery
in the blood we talked about, the night we first met at Whitehall.’ His lips scarcely shaped the words. ‘How far could you go in it? What are you capable of doing?’

‘Capable?’ The man had leaned so close that John could have bitten off his ear. Or wrapped the manacles around his neck and snapped it before the guards had got the door open. Both things he was
capable
of. Neither would satisfy either man’s desire. So instead he whispered, ‘If I could ’scape all consequence? On earth at least?’

The slightest of nods led him on.

‘Well then,’ he breathed, ‘I would cut his throat in the church.’

The stare held for another extended moment of scrutiny before Cecil turned and moved back to his desk. When he reached it, he spoke again, without looking up. ‘And what would be your price, John Lawley, for such an act? I am not so foolish to think you will switch allegiances for love of me, Queen or country. Men act, at the last, for themselves.’

‘They do.’ John raised his chained hands. ‘You spoke before of your power to end my life entirely. You also have the same power to set me entirely free.’

‘Agree to serve only me, you will be free this hour.’

‘Leaving here would only be the first freedom. “Entirely” was the word. To never again have my life placed at someone else’s command.’ He swallowed. ‘Master Secretary, for what I must do in your service . . . which may require something in the end that you can guess at . . . I will need something in return.’

Cecil still did not raise his eyes. ‘Name it.’

‘Absolution.’ The man looked up at that, startled by the term. ‘I know it is a word from the old faith. It is not a concept your Puritan one admits. And I will not seek it from God, or any of his intermediaries, at least not yet. But I seek it from you, here, now.’

‘What . . . absolution could I grant?’

John paused. In all the nights of dreaming for a moment when he could again take action for himself, this was one course he had considered. But the other man need not know that. ‘I . . . I would require a document. A pass. One that will relieve me of the consequence of any crime that I commit on your behalf. It will free me also on the instant from arrest. Any crime,’ he added more forcefully, in case the point had been missed.

The look in Cecil’s eyes showed that it had not. ‘What you ask of me is nearly impossible.’

John kept his voice steady. ‘Then that makes two of us.’

The other man’s head jerked up. The two of them stared at each other. At last Cecil moved behind his desk. ‘How do I know you would not use such a document against me? I could sign this . . . carte blanche here, you could stab me the next moment and then walk free.’