John vaulted the balustrade, crossed fast to the barrier he’d caused to be erected, St Lawrence at his elbow. Men with the very few muskets and pistols the defenders possessed were readying themselves. ‘Captain,’ he cried, ‘books or no, this will not hold! Back to the terrace. Rally there.’
The Irishman did not hesitate. ‘Back!’ he cried, dragging the men closest to him away from the wagon. And indeed no one seemed reluctant to leave, running pell-mell backwards. John sent one lingering lad on his way, just as he heard the shouted command beyond, and the immediate sound of iron-rimmed wheels clattering over cobbles. Halfway to the terrace, he glanced back . . . and saw that one man had remained behind, indeed had scrambled over the barrier and was now tugging at the gate bolts
‘Despair!’ John cried, taking a step. Just the one, before the gates exploded.
The barrel-laden wagon smashed through the flimsy doors, destroying them in a moment and overturning the book-filled one beyond. Through shrieking wood and flying books, John sought . . . and saw Sir Samuel, or at least his neck and shoulders, sticking out from the wreckage. When momentum stopped, he ran forward, pulled smashed timbers aside . . .
He had seen enough dead men to know one instantly. D’Esparr’s neck was twisted over at an impossible angle, and blood gouted from the chest, where a snapped spar had driven through. There was nothing to be done, and no way of extricating the corpse from the carnage. John rose, and walked back to the men mustered on the terrace.
‘Did you know him?’ St Lawrence jerked his head towards the destruction.
‘Not really,’ John muttered, and turned his attention to the enemy.
Their objective had been achieved; the gates were broken in. However, the combined smash of vehicles had erected an obstacle more impenetrable than John had managed to create. Still, soldiers were rushing to drag the wreckage back and the few shots were not dissuading them. Indeed, a far greater number of bullets were flying over the wall, striking the house, ricochets whining off stone. Glass smashed, allowing out a burst of female shrieking.
‘Hold! For Christ’s mercy, hold!’
Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, had regained the lower register of his voice – and mustered what courage he had left. He stood at a cabinet that gave on to the roof, waving the white flag of parley. He ducked as a tile exploded near him. Then a countering voice bellowed on the other side, echoed by many, gunfire eventually ceased and there came a near silence. Into it, the earl shouted again. ‘Who is there who speaks for Cecil’s party?’
John climbed on to a window ledge beside one of the shattered windows. A glance back showed him the hall – women and some men weeping, others still frantically feeding the flames with paper, though Essex himself was not one of them. Before him, over the wall, he had clear sight of a man stepping forward from the ranks. He was dressed in black armour, wore a Spanish-style helm upon his head. ‘I speak for no party, sir. I am the Lord High Admiral, and I speak for the Queen. You are traitors all, and I demand your immediate surrender.’
Southampton did not have to answer – for Essex did. John saw that he had changed his suit, was no longer wearing smirched black but a dove-grey doublet with matching hose. He leaned out of the window beside his friend, his appearance cheered by the large number of spectators crammed into every space not occupied by soldiers. He acknowledged it with a wave before shouting, ‘No traitors here, my lord, but only the most loyal and God-fearing of her majesty’s subjects – unlike the atheists and caterpillars who have dispatched you on your mission. However’ – he swept his arm grandly over the enemy forces – ‘if you will but leave us some hostages here, a deputation that will include myself will happily go before my sweet Queen and make our case to her in person.’
‘Hostages?’ roared the Lord Admiral. ‘Saucy knave! Your only choice is whether to surrender forthwith or be blown to pieces. We have cannon being brought up from the Tower e’en now for that purpose.’ A man came forward and pulled at the Lord Admiral’s sleeve. He argued sotto voce, shaking his head vigorously until finally he gave a brief nod. ‘Listen, ye dogs. Though I am all for the fight, yet here’s Sir Robert Sidney, an avowed friend of yours, who would talk of peace. He is willing to enter into the house and discuss terms. Will you admit him?’
‘We will. The brother of the nation’s hero and our good friend Sir Philip Sidney, whose sword I have here’ – with some difficulty Essex drew his sword and waved it above his head, to more cheers – ‘is more than welcome in my house.’
It sounded like an invitation to supper. Nevertheless, it was accepted, and the late poet’s brother was allowed to scramble over the higgle of wrecked wagons and books that blocked the gates. He was escorted into the house and the earls descended from the roof to parley.
John sat upon the window ledge to listen through the smashed glass. Decisions were to be taken that would concern him. So he heard everything that was not conducted in whispers. There were many oaths, much vowing, as he suspected, to die fighting today rather than be butchered in a fortnight. Sir Robert Sidney left, conferred, returned.
St Lawrence joined him on the window ledge. He had somehow managed to scrounge a half-loaf of stale maslin and a flagon of sourish wine. John happily shared both with him and told him the news.
‘It’s surrender, then?’ the Irishman enquired, drawing his cloak tighter around himself.
‘Certain. The lords to be taken to some better-appointed prison, the soldiers to . . .’ John shrugged.
‘To the Clink, the Fleet . . . or worse, to Newgate.’ The captain shuddered. ‘Still, I doubt we’ll remain there long. It’ll be “whoops” and the Tyburn jig within the week, I warrant.’
‘Perhaps not. The law comes hardest on those who lead not those who follow. It may cost you a hefty fine, though. Have you the money to pay it?’
The Irishman had half a grin. ‘Do you think I’d be here on this fool’s escapade if I did? Sure, all the boys from across the sea are here because it’s the earl’s larder or starvation.’
‘Well, we can but await the outcome. Though I would not be him for all his red hair.’ John was pointing at Gelli Meyrick, who had been in the negotiations and was just now accompanying Sir Robert Sidney back through the smashed gates
They watched the two men reach the huddle of officers stamping feet against the cold across the road. Words were spoken . . . and Gelli Meyrick returned alone. ‘This is it then,’ said John, descending from the ledge, stretching his cramped limbs. ‘Will the earls be blown to the sky and us with them? Or is it prison for us all?’
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!’