The Point of Death (23 page)

'He
is my... He is my...'

'Yes,
your grace?' asked Tom, his quiet voice like doom.

'He
is my page.
My
page
-
'
Essex's voice broke. It was the cry of a defeated man.

'No,
your grace,' said Tom with the last of his courtesy and strength. 'He is Lord Outremer. I have Lady Margaret his mother, and Master Poley has his grandfather's will.'

But
Poley for once was pushed aside as well. A slight, stooped figure, pale of face and black of dress, stepped into the light like a spider come into the heart of its web at last. 'No, Master Musgrave,' said Sir Robert Cecil, Master Secretary, son to Lord Burghley, successor to Sir Francis Walsingham and head of the intelligence service. 'I have Lord Outremer's will and I hold it for the Council, the Court of Star Chamber and the Queen. I will have the boy, my Lord of Essex, unless you wish to publish any prior claim upon him. And, as I see you have nothing more to say, I must warn you that you and My Lord of Southampton are no longer welcome in his castle of Elfinstone.' The golden boy came forward then, wideeyed to be the centre of so much violent attention. But even as he did so he saw the golden woman standing in the shadows, framed in the great doorway beneath his golden coat of arms. 'Mamma!' cried Lord Outremer as he ran towards his silent mother. 'O Mamma!'

Chapter Twenty-Four - Silence

The room was dark, as befitted the thoughts within it, and silent. A single candle burned in the centre of a small table illuminating the circle of faces around it but leaving the walls beyond - at whatever distance they stood - lost in velvet blackness. Away at some unplumbed distance a shape made of lighter darkness showed they were in a room with a window wide. The wind that breathed in through it was also silent and hardly strong enough to make the candle flame dance.

Elfinstone
was noiseless; dead still after so much sound and fury. The young Lord Outremer and Lady Margaret his mother were finally safe at rest, watched over by the chamberlain, his wife and daughters. The earls and all their hangers-on were long gone. The actors, staff and servants were bedded down at last. Constanza lay at death's door in Tom's chamber aloft and Diego Villalar was holding watch beside her, keeping her last spark of life alight. Julius Morton lay in the cellar just below, awaiting his final placement among the lordly dead in the magnificent tomb outside - without the living Kate chained to his side. Without Tom Musgrave to keep him company.

Both
of them sat, stunned into stillness, at the table in the silent room, with Will, Ugo, Poley and Sir Robert Cecil. The iron bell of the castle clock chimed midnight and the Master of Logic looked up. A combination of pallor, poison and shadow made his eyes seem huge and supernatural, able to see more than a normal man might. His voice when he spoke was weary, as though his knowledge came from far beyond the bounds of earth; as though he were the soul of the blind prophet Tiresias summoned back from the dead by Ulysses to guide him on his odyssey.

'Essex
is caught in his own trap now. I see no way forward for him in the plans he has been following,' said Tom. 'He already has a son and heir, some two years old. He cannot acknowledge the boy upstairs as anything more than his page. We have seen that. You made us doubly sure of it, Sir Robert. He might father bastards the length of the land, but the ravishing of Lady Margaret Outremer would do him too much damage with the Queen. He stands high. All the world, except we few, knows he did well in Holland. He has done well since, boy and man. But like all of the moths that fly close to Her Majesty, he pays for his position with mounting debts. He owes her a fortune already and she pays but a pittance to her Master of Horse, as she did to her Lord Chamberlain. How many thousands did my Lord of Leicester owe her at the end?'

Cecil
shrugged. 'More than he could ever have paid. He owed her all.' He was thin-lipped. They all knew he was doing the work of the late Sir Francis Walsingham with none of his pay at all.’

'As
does Essex, with a long life still to live and a place at Court to hold while parting with more and more of his money to finance his adventures overseas - which he must continue to undertake if he wishes to remain high in her esteem. Unless he beggars himself and his heirs in perpetuity, he stands no chance of holding the power that he really seeks. And if he does not establish himself at the Queen's side, on the Council and in such courts as the Star Chamber within the next few years he will be too late. It will all be gone. With Her Majesty.'

'Is
that the heart of it?' asked Kate quietly. 'Money and power?'

'Yes,'
said Tom. 'And a little revenge.'

He
stirred himself. His voice gained strength; rose above a whisper. 'Consider. We begin at Nijmagen seven years ago. Robert Devereux and Hugh Outram, Essex and Cotehel, become friends. They are little more than boys, though they carry responsibilities because of their positions. In those days Cotehel will rise to some little wealth - but nothing compared to that enjoyed by his cousins Lady Margaret and Lord Henry. Margaret, wilfully and unthinkingly, puts herself in harm's way and Outram tempts Devereux into an attack on her because she has the riches and beauty Outram will never possess, and so he wishes to despoil them. He is that sort of man. They are caught. Outram, unsatisfied, is scarred and humiliated. Then both are whipped. In person by the Earl of Leicester, Devereux's guardian.

'While
they recover and plot further revenges, comes news that Lord Henry is dead, slain while heroically bringing the vital message from the Captain of Engineers to the Earl of Leicester himself. While the nation mourns Sir Phillip Sidney and Lord Henry together, suddenly Hugh Outram finds that he is a large step closer to the inheritance of Outremer. Fabled riches of such magnitude even the Earl of Essex is overawed. He sees a way to augment his own great wealth and avoid the grinding debts he knows await his guardian. Cotehel is well worth cultivating, therefore. His plans are well worth nurturing, no matter how murderous they become.

'For
five years the friendship persists. Essex rises slowly at Court and Outram stays in his circle while Margaret runs mad and is locked away. Only two younger children remain to Lord Outremer for no one knows of the birth of Margaret's boy. But Essex is impatient. He has great plans and still he stands in the shadow of Leicester, his guardian. He reaches his majority but his power and riches do not measure up to his plans. At last he is free to take action. Leicester is old and ill. He is dying slowly, but too slowly for Robert Devereux. And there is the matter of a whipping to be revenged - the Earl of Essex does not like to be chastised.

'Se
ñor Perez is to hand, apparently at Essex House as an advisor on conditions in Spain, of vital importance to all in Armada year. He makes a potion to Essex's specification. Baines the messenger substitutes it for the Queen's medicine. Leicester dies. Essex at once is revenged and made to advance most spectacularly. But being Master of the Horse is only the start. He does not sit on the Council as he wishes. He holds no position at the Star Chamber.

'But
His Grace of Essex is a cunning man. He understands that if he wants to hold real and lasting power but cannot get it by sitting on these councils, then he must hold information on the men that wield it. Like many scholars, spies or not, he has read his Machiavelli and knows that knowledge can in itself be power. He and Perez go to work upon the only man who holds the sort of information that he needs. Mister Secretary Walsingham. But the Queen is never likely to send Sir Francis Walsingham a potion. So who is? His adopted son Tom, of course. But wait; Tom Walsingham would never use a man like Baines and this messenger must meet Sir Francis face to face. So who?'

'It
was Kit Marlowe,' admitted Will quietly at last. 'My Lord Henry told me one night at Southampton House, full of Essex's cleverness in the matter.'

Cecil
leaned forward, frowning. 'So the Earl of Southampton knew about it. Had he been a part of it?'

'No,'
said Will. 'He told me later, in high summer, after Kit was dead. He was drunk and we were sporting. I think he forgot he ever spoke the words.'

'But
it had to be Marlowe,' persisted Tom. 'He was the perfect messenger. And only that act, that one act of passing the poison to Sir Francis, would have called together Sir Francis's man, Tom Walsingham's man and the Earl of Essex's own man to settle things in Deptford last spring. To wit, Robert Poley, Ingram Frizer and Nicholas Skeres. Do you know why Marlowe did it?' Tom's eyes rested on Poley now.

'Money.
He was desperate - and remained desperate. He was arrested for counterfeiting soon after. But I think he did not realise what was in the package. I think he did not know it was poison - until he had collected his thirty pieces of silver and Sir Francis was dead and it was too late to do anything but write
Faustus
about bargains with the Devil and to die.'

'But
he told someone,' said Tom, looking back at Will. 'He told someone at the Rose what he had done, while they were rehearsing
Faustus
there, before they took it out of town to open it in the country, with the theatres here all closed. Before too many devils turned up on stage and poor Ned Alleyn got so frightened. Was it you, Will?'

'It
was Morton,' said Will. 'Marlowe and Morton were lovers for a while. Morton told me, for the weight of the knowledge was great. We thought of taking it all to Master Poley here, but while we hesitated Kit was killed and Poley was there with the blood on his hands. So we wrote to Lord Strange.'

'And
Strange died within the week. How did word leak out?'

'I
could never find that out,' said Will. 'Nor could I,' said Poley. 'And I tried with all my might, for I was employed by the Council and the Court of Star Chamber to investigate.'

'There
was a situation must have challenged your invention, Will,' said Tom, deadpan. 'The very man you trusted least was thrust into the heart of the matter when both Council and Star Chamber called on him to investigate Lord Strange's death. Suddenly Master Poley was demanding that you and Morton help with the investigation for you had all worked together in the past. He introduced elements into the equation that you could not control or trust. Suddenly Gil Brown was hanging around; and My Lady Determination here.' He looked across at Kate. 'But still you fought to control the game - and Morton fought to stay alive.

'And
then Salgado arrived. He warned you to stay clear with the word "Mercutio" and the thrust to your ribs. I did not turn the point - I just got in the way of the thrust. But the message was delivered, was it not? Only someone sent from the Earl of Southampton would know the name Mercutio - for you had written the play at his house and discussed with him how the one new character you added to the drama was a portrait of your dead friend. Well warned, therefore, you stood as far back as you could. Even after Morton's murder demanded that you help us more, and Master Henslowe's voice was added to Master Poley's. And it all came back to money again.

'And
money and power stayed at the heart of it. Like Southampton, Baron Cotehel heard what had been done by Marlowe - but he did not let the matter rest there. He added the dreadful knowledge to his own dark plans. As plague gripped the city and Salgado and Perez came and went to Essex House, Baron Cotehel hatched his own plan and took it to Essex, his friend and the Spaniards' master. Salgado went to Bridewell to consult with Villalar. What poison might destroy a household as easily as the tinctures that had snuffed out Leicester and Walsingham? What poison could capture for Cotehel – and his friends- the untold wealth of Outremer? Salgado got his answer and the household of Wormwood met its end. Or most of it did. For when he came to sniff around his new possessions before the Court of Chancery could award them to the nearest surviving heir, Cotehel heard of a chamberlain keeping the household open. And a little careful digging uncovered the continued existence of his cousin Margaret, the lady he had failed to rape in Nijmagen before. In went Salgado to find the lady and any documents referring to her. Instead, he found word of Margaret's son. And neither Cotehel nor Essex had to strain their mathematics to the limit to calculate who the father of the boy must be.

'And
so my lord of Essex found himself trapped within his own toils. After all the death and the deception, neither he nor his acolyte Cotehel could lay their hands upon the wealth of Outremer, for it belongs to the son he dare not acknowledge in public. The bastard issue of an ignoble rape on the daughter of a noble house.'

'They
had the boy,' said Kate. 'Why not kill him?'

'The
Earl's own son? No. You do not yet understand the way they think. Why not keep the pretty boy - and his pretty mother to sport with for a while - and kill everyone else who knew? Everyone they could no longer trust? Me; you, Kate; Poley if they could; Villalar, Hagar Kinch the Searcher. You, Will.'

'Me?
Even before I stood with you tonight I was marked for death was I?' Will's voice was dry, his tone cynical and unsurprised. 'For death, tonight. For you were associated with Poley now, in their minds at least, and they began to wonder, were you Poley's spy last summer listening to guilty whispers in Southampton House? And you sent us into Wormwood, did you not? You, and only you did that.'

'I
merely explained the secrets behind Morton's words as he died on the Rose's stage. 'Worm 's meat ...'

'A
fine code, and well expounded. And there are mice, rats and cats on Outremer's coat of arms. But so much weight - to hang two great houses on a pair of unconsidered words.' Tom paused, watching Will.

After
a moment's silent thought he decided to push the matter of Will's personal involvement no further. 'But perhaps you were right. Perhaps he thought swiftly enough, with his life ebbing, to marry Wormwood and Highmeet both within one curse. Or perhaps the houses he cursed are those of Southampton and Essex after all. Or those of Poley and Phellippes.' Tom turned to Poley once again, then glanced past him at the long pale face of Robert Cecil. 'For a deal of the blood-letting and strife here has come from Sir Francis Walsingham's legacy has it not? You have here civil matters of rape and murder, be they never so horribly and cunningly contrived. You have here great names and high ambitions, certainly; but base and lowly crimes. And you deal with these things using the two opposing halves of the old secret service as spies and counter-spies, secret agents and intelligencers. You fight deception not with honest plain dealing but with more deception of your own. You do this until everyone that stands between you is swept into the gutter, alive or dead. It is as though the whole world were Hanging Sword Court where Morton lived. On one side stand Phellippes and Baines and all the rest at Essex's beck. At the other stand Poley, Kate, Will and all the others, alive and dead, puppets worked by you, Sir Robert, through the Council, the Star Chamber and Lord Hunsdon. Behaving, all of you, as if there was no way forward but down the kennel with the filth, on to the great putrid rubbish pile where Gil Brown ended up.