The Ringed Castle (88 page)

And on the desk before Ascham was a battered wooden box, nailed all over with yellow nails and barred strongly with iron, which had been splintered open, one would guess, with a chisel; and beside it some thirty papers in an irregular bundle; some rolled, some folded; none of them very neatly or efficiently kept. One or two were small notes, of the kind which might accompany a parcel. Some were letters running clearly to many pages, in thick dog-eared sheaves. The private papers of the late Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devonshire, with all the damning evidence they must contain of conspiracies and those engaged in them, on the lady Elizabeth’s behalf.

Peter Vannes seated himself and, without preamble, the Earl of Arundel began.

‘I do not mean to spend long over this matter. You are here to explain three attempts to steal or interfere with the coffer you now see before you. The three men concerned are in this room, and from none of them have we been able to discover their reasons, or on whose behalf they have been acting. We have not so far used force, since it seemed that the answer might quite simply lie in the contents of the coffer itself.

‘We have now read these papers. As I have said, we have not so far used force. I shall not hesitate to use it now, if I do not receive the
answers I require. So I now ask you again. Master Tait, on whose instructions did you attempt to prevent these documents from reaching their proper destination?’

And Hercules Tait, man of taste and garrulous correspondent, drew breath to answer and was spared the necessity by Lymond, who had played chess with better men than Henry Fitzalan, 10th Earl of Arundel.

‘Master Tait acted under my instructions,’ Lymond said.

Everyone turned. Beside him, Adam heard Guthrie swear; and across the room Danny Hislop’s empty stomach gave a croak of despair. Philippa, allowing her head to drop back, stared at the ceiling inhaling and reviewed, speechlessly, a number of telling ejaculations in Turkish. The Earl of Arundel said slowly, ‘Indeed? And the attacks by the men Hislop and d’Harcourt were made on your orders as well? May I ask why, Mr Crawford?’

Her husband’s manner, thought Philippa approvingly, was quite perfect: deferential without being obsequious; serene without being flippant. Lymond said, ‘The severity of these attacks I regret. They were made under my orders and I in turn have been acting, Lord Arundel, on behalf of my employer the Tsar.’

He paused. Philippa, keeping her gaze on the ceiling, heard someone near her swallow, quite audibly. ‘Go on, sir,’ Arundel said.

And Lymond went on in the same, undisturbed voice. ‘As you know, important trade agreements were in project between your country and Russia. My Tsar was about to cast aside the long-standing connections he already possessed through the Hanseatic ports and other parts of the Baltic, and rely instead on a new route and a new agreement with England. The stability of England, her prospects and the hazards which might threaten her woollen trade, her finances and her shipping, were therefore of great importance to us. For this reason, since I spoke the language and had many connections in Europe, I was asked to find out what I could about the present condition of England.

‘It was not, naturally, something I wished widely known. It is however a mode of insurance which we thought essential, in view of the many rumours of disturbances reaching us.’

‘I see,’ said Arundel. He did not look surprised.

Sir William Petre, glancing at him, added a question. ‘We are to understand therefore that you wished to study the Earl of Devonshire’s papers to find out what plots might be afoot which threatened the security, as you thought, of this throne? The man is dead; the plots, if there were any, long abandoned. Why then go to such trouble, Mr Crawford?’

‘Because I, too, had corresponded with Edward Courtenay,’ Lymond replied. ‘I sought information about England, which on
occasion he gave me. I was not anxious that this traffic should be made public. You will have seen the letters, no doubt, in the casket.’

There was a long pause, during which the eyes of Arundel and Pembroke met and parted. It was Pembroke who finally spoke. ‘There were no such letters here in the casket,’ he said. ‘There were no letters, notes or reports of any consequence whatever. You have had your trouble and these men have died, Mr Crawford, for nothing at all. For less than nothing, since your interest in our domestic affairs was already known to us. Your correspondence over the years with Master Lychpole has been no secret. As you say, nations must make their own safeguards. I am surprised that you underrated ours so seriously.’

‘You astonish me,’ Lymond said. ‘May I know what directed your attention to Master Lychpole?’

The Earl of Pembroke smiled. ‘You have taken us, under duress, into your confidence, Mr Crawford,’ he said. ‘I do not think we need take you into ours. Especially as it will be our melancholy duty to regard what you have told us as a matter for prosecution. The Attorney General cannot lightly overlook espionage, nor yet violence and murder in our quiet English lanes.’

Adam Blacklock stared at the man.
Quiet English lanes
. There was a smugness in Pembroke’s voice, not only triumph. And if you looked closely at the others, you sensed the same thing: an air of satisfaction; of superiority. It came to Adam suddenly that these men had been concerned with the casket not only to seek evidence against the lady Elizabeth; against Dee and his friends; against all those conspirators paid by the King of France who had entangled Edward Courtenay so foolishly, so often in their tortuous intrigues. They had been afraid, each of them, for himself.

And it was then that Lymond said, ‘You had better then cultivate Venice, whom the Pontiff is wooing so heartily to his cause. For I have Master Tait’s word that you were not the first to open the box there, since the Bailiff of Padua sealed it. The papers you found inside were harmless because all the rest of Edward Courtenay’s documents have been extracted and kept by the Doge and Senate of Venice.’

No one spoke. Prowling like fire, comprehension, vibrating and hideous, ran through the judicial chamber.

Venice. Venice, seduced by the Pope and publishing abroad those very secrets the Council had dreaded to meet with in these papers. Not the plots and counterplots between France and Elizabeth—those would be destroyed or suppressed. But the rest.… The polite, probing exchanges between Edward Courtenay and the men now in high office who had not been so certain of high office when the death of one young king led to such drastic changes in religion and government.

Men who made their availability known and who perhaps went even further, in the early days, before the Queen took her throne with all King Harry’s courage and pride at the start of her realm:
What I am, ye right well know. I am your Queen, to whom at my coronation you promised your allegiance. I cannot tell how naturally the mother loveth a child, for I was never the mother of any, but certainly if a prince and governor may as naturally and earnestly love her subjects as the mother doth love her child, then assure yourselves that I do as earnestly and tenderly love and favour you.…

She had overthrown the rebels and begun her reign on that blaze of splendour and success, and those who had hesitated became, warmly, her men. They did not wish to be reminded, now, of what had gone before.

Then the Earl of Arundel, rallying, said, ‘I do not believe his serene highness the Doge would stoop to confiscate an Englishman’s papers.’

And a Spanish voice; a dry, accented voice which had not spoken in that conclave before said, ‘But it is true.’ And opening the leather box on the floor at his side, Don Juan de Figueroa, representative of his Majesty King Philip drew out a thick bundle of pages tied with tape and placed them on the table beside those other, innocent papers from Vannes’s splintered box.

‘It is true, my lords,’ said the Spaniard; and, lifting his sharp eyes, met Lymond’s unreadable blue stare and then, switching, the brown, owl-like gaze of Philippa Somerville. ‘The Doge is our friend: he was anxious that none of the effects of this important Englishman should fall into unauthorized hands and prove an embarrassment to us. A selection of papers was therefore withdrawn from the casket at Venice, and the box resealed and sent on to Padua. I have the missing papers here. The Venetian Ambassador, of his great generosity, has made them available to King Philip and myself. Do you wish to see them?’

There was another, ragged moment of silence. Then the Earl of Arundel said, speaking as if to a deaf man, ‘We were not made aware of these facts. Are we to take it that King Philip has already perused these documents?’

‘He has,’ said the Spaniard.

‘And,’ said Pembroke, ‘perhaps Don Juan de Figueroa would tell us whether His Majesty considers them a subject for action?’

Gazing, one by one at each of these avaricious, important Englishmen, Don Juan pursed his pale, bearded lips. ‘His most serene Majesty,’ de Figueroa said, ‘is of the opinion that these papers are of no importance, and may well be destroyed without further action. He also recommends that, under the circumstances, the case against these men should be dropped, provided they leave the country immediately, and provided that Mr Crawford agrees that his talents
and his destiny will be best fulfilled by a speedy return to his master in Russia. Confronted with a man of such ability, we cannot believe that the Tsar will deal harshly with him.’ And he raised his eyebrows, halting.

There was a short silence. Beside Adam, Guthrie moved sharply and then was still. Tait and Danny were grinning; Ludo looked, thought Adam, aghast. Lady Lennox, who had shut her lips, opened them again and said, ‘And Mr Crawford’s wife?’

The Spaniard turned and looked at Philippa Somerville, who recalled the sophisticated maxims of Don Alfonso Derronda and favoured him with a long, cool and haughty regard.

‘It seems to us,’ said de Figueroa, ‘that Mistress Somerville has not been implicated in anything detrimental to her country, and that it will suffice if she withdraws from the Queen’s Court.’

Philippa inclined her head. Out of the shattered silence along the ranks of the eminent, the Earl of Arundel said, ‘Mr Crawford. You have heard what has just been said. Are you prepared to sail back to Russia with the fleet presently leaving from Gravesend?’

‘I shall be happy to do so,’ said Lymond. He had, Adam noted in the midst of his own voiceless consternation, a faint colour under his skin. He added, ‘I shall leave, if you wish, straight from this place. My baggage can follow me.’

‘Then,’ said the Earl of Arundel, moving his eyes slowly along the faces on either side of him, ‘I think we are in accord with you, Don Juan. The papers burn; the prisoners are freed; the matter is ended. Mr Crawford——’

‘It will give me pleasure,’ said Don Juan de Figueroa, rising, ‘to assist Mr Crawford to fulfill his generous undertaking to board ship immediately. My lord president, have I your leave?’

Arundel, half rising, nodded. Vannes, wisely reticent, stood up, but could not refrain from saying, ‘And the prisoners, my lords? When are Master Tait and the others to leave the country?’

It was Pembroke who answered. ‘They are mercenaries. They will have no trouble in finding employment, or a ship to carry them wherever they wish to go. Some, I take it, may wish to return with Mr Crawford to Russia. The rest have three days in which to leave this island. Meanwhile Sir Henry Jerningham, I am sure, will continue to see to their comfort.’

Guthrie said, ‘We wish to go back to Russia.’ Adam looked at him.

‘All of you?’

Adam opened his mouth. ‘All of us,’ said Fergie Hoddim.

‘Except me,’ said Hercules Tait. ‘I am no longer, alas, a man of the sword.’

‘All of you, except Master Tait?’ said Arundel once more. Philippa’s face was expressionless: Lymond’s was not.

Ludo d’Harcourt said flatly, ‘If Mr Crawford goes, I will go.’

‘Then it seems,’ said Lord Arundel, ‘that we shall require river transport for six people. Don Juan?’

‘It can be arranged,’ said the Spaniard, and, completing his walk over the floor, called for his captain and secretary, and spoke to them. Sir William Petre, gathering his robes, walked round the table to Lymond.

‘Provided you wished indeed to return to your Tsar, I must congratulate you, sir, on this outcome. And on possessing a master so alert to the value of information. I doubt if any western nation could command such a distinguished espionage service.’ He smiled, his eyes unsmiling. ‘When did you have your audience with King Philip, Mr Crawford?’

‘I cannot quite recall, my lord,’ Lymond said. ‘But I think shortly after we concluded the agreement concerning the munitions of war. It was a pleasure to revive my rusting Spanish.’

‘Ah. You speak Spanish,’ said Petre. ‘It is a gift some on the Council would envy you.… You exercised care, I take it, in stowing the pewter?’

‘Master Dimmock,’ said Lymond, ‘was most generous with advice concerning the pewter. I trust the lion and lioness will prove no more dangerous. It is my conviction that, in matters of trade, the English and Muscovites will deal well together.’

And Sir William Petre, bowing with something close to a genuine smile, straightened and said, ‘You are indeed serious about returning to Russia. I see that. Do you expect to recover the ground you have lost? May we look to see you stand friend to our merchants in Moscow?’

‘So far as I am able,’ Lymond said. ‘My first duty is to the realm and its ruler.’

‘And Scotland?’ said the voice of Lady Lennox beside him; and as he turned, the black eyes looked into his with bitterness and with anger and with something else too well hidden to identify.’ Scotland may slide at France’s petticoat tails, losing her men, her pride and her nationhood, and you no longer care for it?’

Lymond returned the challenge standing at ease, self possessed from the sheen of his hair to the fall of his exquisite robe. ‘Would she have fared better, do you suppose, at England’s petticoat tails, which seem to be sliding with equal haste in a different direction? Or do you mean that Scotland should rise and overthrow her French rulers and appoint a King of her own, with Stewart blood in his veins as strong as that of the little Queen Mary? But would such a king not constitute a threat in himself to your monarchy? And where, besides, could one find such a paragon?’