‘Your business?’
The officer who spoke had a cloak covered in snow and a hand upon his dagger. Three men moved behind him with pikes, their points levelled. Another held his over the boat.
John motioned for St Lawrence to remain seated. ‘A message for her majesty, sir.’
‘From whom?’
John did not hesitate. ‘From Robert, Earl of Essex.’
There was a sharp inhalation, the pike points wavered. There was not a man in the realm who did not know what was happening, had happened, that morning. The officer put out his hand. ‘Then deliver it to me and be on your way. We do not like men we do not know anywhere near the palace.’
‘The message is not written. I must see the Queen in person.’
‘She sees no one. Hasn’t’ – John saw concern on the man’s face, swiftly mastered – ‘for some time now.’
‘She may see me. If you give her this.’
Reaching into the purse at his waist, he drew out the ring. It was the one given to him by the earl as he rode towards the City. It had authorised John to organise the defence at Essex House. The Queen, in a fonder time, had given it to her sweet Robin.
The officer regarded it for a long moment, as if he would not accept it. Then he did so with a snatch and a brisk ‘Wait here’.
They waited. The pikes remained level with John’s waist. He peered through the snow, coming in flurries that hid and then revealed the palace. Cecil had indicated a year before that the Queen was not always in her right mind. Perhaps she would not recognise the ring. Perhaps she would, and shun its bearer as the messenger of death.
A footfall squeaked on the new snow. He looked up. The officer returned and John did not breathe. ‘You are to come with me,’ he said, turning about.
He was hedged in, the officer before, two pikemen tight either side, two left behind to watch the Irishman. He was taken to the kitchen door and, just inside, had a few moments to enjoy the warmth and the scent of cooking food – when had he last eaten? – while his sword and buckler were once more taken from him, and hands roamed his body, seeking . . . finding the knife as ever in its sheath between his shoulder blades. That too was taken, with a small grunt of surprise. Then, when every inch had been squeezed and patted, his hat and cloak were placed aside. A different officer, who had stood by during the search, now beckoned him to follow. Two new soldiers moved each side of him. Together the phalanx walked down corridors and, finally, up a long flight of stairs, halting before tall oaken doors. A knock produced a barely audible reply. The officer nodded at the two guards. Each now tightly gripped one of John’s arms. Without another word, the doors were pushed open, and he was shoved in.
The way, up corridor and stair, had been gloomy, an occasional gated lantern illuminating small parts of it. Yet that journey had been brightly lit compared to the room he entered now. He could not see to the walls, could not tell instantly if the space was large or cramped. Large, he decided, when light drew his eye, a flickering one, at a distance, doing nothing to relieve the dark.
They had halted five paces into the room. There was a deep silence, only man’s breath disturbing it. Until a voice came, weak, and as if from far away.
‘Bring him closer.’
John was moved forward again, halted five paces from the light. The candle was on a small table. There was a book upon it, open; a hand, palm up, atop it. On that, the ring.
‘What is your message?’ Elizabeth said.
He was there – and he did not know what to say. His plan had taken him so far, to the threshold. Now he had no idea how to step over it.
He could not speak. The other did, more sharply. ‘Come, sirrah. You said that you had words for me. From my Ro . . . from my lord of Essex. Were they his last words? Tell me them.’
‘Majesty,’ John began, ‘he spoke, at the end, most courteously . . .’
‘Chh!’ The sound was snapped out, halting him. The hand disappeared from the light spill. There came the creak of furniture. Then nothing for a few long seconds – until the voice came again, surprising because it was so near, just behind one of the arms the guards clutched now even tighter, preventing him turning.
‘John Lawley.’
It was not a question, yet he replied. ‘Aye, your majesty.’
‘Strange. I was thinking of you e’en now.’ The Queen moved as she spoke, crossing behind him to his other held arm. ‘You were with him? At the end?’
‘I was.’ The memory came, more shocking now, somehow, than when it had happened before him, when he’d realised what he must do and acted. The three strokes. The head off at last. The eyelids flickering open as it was lifted. ‘God help me, but I was.’
He could not help the slight sob in his voice. And the other voice, so soft before, changed also. ‘Out! All of you, out! Out now!’ Elizabeth screamed. He was wrenched back. Then her voice lowered. ‘Not you, John Lawley. You alone are to stay.’
His eyes were growing a little more accustomed to the scant light. He could see the officer’s face before him, the hesitation clear upon it. But a further screech came. ‘Out, I say! Leave us!’
The guards released him, moved back. The officer gave him a look, shook his head, then followed. The door opened, admitting a wedge of light. ‘Close it,’ the Queen barked, and they obeyed, taking the room again to the dark.
He did not move. The Queen did, footsteps shuffling once more till there was a creak of chair. The hand came again into the light, picked up the ring, twisting it this way and that. Now John could see her outline too, the wide sleeve of a dressing gown, a nightcap. The Queen was dressed for sleep or for rising, though it was the middle of the day.
‘Tell me,’ she croaked.
So he did. And when he was done, sparing only a few of the details that he would, in good conscience, not dwell upon himself, she sat in silence and with her eyes closed for so long he thought she might have fallen asleep. Until she spoke. ‘So his last words were for me.’
‘And for God, ma’am, yes. Though his thoughts in the end I believe were only of you.’
She looked up sharply at him. ‘Why do you say so?’
It was time. It was why he was there. ‘Because, ma’am, of the last thing he entrusted to me. He asked that I give it to you, if I got the chance. It is my last duty to him,’ he said, stepping forward, ‘so I decided I would discharge it straightway.’
With that, he held out the handkerchief. And he only remembered as he did the words she had spoken in Lollards’ Tower, when she had given it to him to bear to Essex in Ireland: that if the silk was returned to her stained with a traitor’s blood, so much the better.
This was not what she had meant. But it was too late now to take it back, for she had reached, grasped, gasped at the dampness, taken it into the light spill. And then she cried into the cloth, wetting it further, sounds wrenched from somewhere deep, a keening. And he stood where he had stepped to give it to her, did not move, did not turn away.
It continued for a while and then it stopped, suddenly, groans and tears wrenched back, judging by the steadiness of her voice. ‘The kerchief was his – and mine,’ she said. ‘But the blood . . . did he ask you to do that?’
‘No. I . . . I chose to.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought . . . I thought that perhaps, you would want something . . . of him. In the end.’
Another long silence – until she spoke. ‘And you were right.’ He was close enough, could see her well enough now, to note the tears among the folds of her skin, the light reflected and refracted through the water in her eyes. These pierced him. ‘Why did you stand by him, John Lawley? The last one, even to the end?’
‘Why? I am not entirely clear why, majesty. I had known him a long time, almost from his boyhood. I had known him sometimes at his best, though more usually at his worst. And yet,’ he sighed, ‘in the end there was no one else. Someone—’ He swallowed. ‘He needed someone there to bear witness. He did not want to die alone.’
‘’Tis true. None of us want that.’ She swallowed. ‘It is hard, is it not, to love someone who treats you so badly? Yet somehow we have both contrived to do so. I expected him to send me . . . to entreat . . . to beg . . . at the end . . .’ she sighed. ‘And yet he did not send any word before. Only this, afterwards.’ She lifted the kerchief. ‘Would I have tried to forgive him still? Would I have thrown the world into disarray again?’ A slight nod. ‘Perhaps I would. Perhaps that is why he did not send. Because he knew I might do so much, still. Do you not think it?’ When John stayed silent, she studied him for a long moment and then her expression changed. ‘Yet he did send you. Even though your duty ended when he died, still you are loyal even after death. But that is not the whole reason, is it? Are you not here also . . . for yourself?’
It was there, now, the opportunity. Essex may have asked for no last boon – but his servant might. ‘Majesty . . .’ he began.
Yet she interrupted him. ‘You know why I was thinking of you before, Master Lawley? It was not because of what your family and mine have been to each other. It was not because I sensed you there this morning, standing in that place where your grandfather and my mother stood on a day like this. It was because of your name upon a list. A long list of names that I was striking out, one after another. It lies there, upon the table.’ She lifted a hand to him. ‘Help me to it. Bring the light.’
He bent, lifted the candle. She fastened upon his forearm. Supporting her, they slowly crossed the room. A table was there, curling rolls of parchment upon it, some held open by stones. She pointed at one. ‘Here it is – the list of knights my viceroy made in Ireland. Scoundrels, rogues, toadies. I deprived them of the honour with pleasure. But this name’ – she tapped it – ‘this name I paused long over and only this morning. Your name.’
He could see it under her finger, the familiar swoops making ‘Lawley’. It had no line through it. ‘Majesty, I . . .’
Her raised hand halted him. ‘Pass me a quill, sir. Dip it first.’
He obeyed, then held his breath as she bent to the table. She quickly drew not a line, but a circle around his name. ‘There,’ she said. ‘There . . . Sir John.’
He let go the breath. ‘Good my lady,’ he said. ‘I thank you. You honour me. And yet . . .’
‘And yet? You are confirmed with your knighthood and still you question?’
‘Forgive me, ma’am. But this I know: the Master Secretary will not be pleased. His enmity will ever pursue me. And . . .’
The quill, raised, halted him. ‘And Sir Robert knows how to hate, does he not? Today yields the ultimate example of that.’ She licked her cracked lips. ‘Well, you may leave him to me. He thinks because my powers decline that he may rule me. But I rule here! I am not in my grave, and the King of Scotland, whom he so assiduously and brazenly courts, is not here to confirm my pygmy in his title. It is yet in my power to see his wane.’ She placed her gnarled fingers upon the table, forced herself up. ‘You are my knight now. No man may touch you, except by my command.’
There were sudden shouts from the corridor, a voice he recognised calling, loud and angry. ‘Ah,’ said Elizabeth, ‘as if summoned to enter by your friend the playwright’s pen, he arrives on his cue.’ Cecil’s voice continued to rail, and a knock now came upon the door. ‘Shall we admit him to hear of your confirmed ennoblement?’
‘I think, ma’am, I would prefer not to be a witness to his discomfiture. He hates me well enough already.’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘Indeed he does. And he also hates to be crossed. ’Tis one of my few delights left, doing so. Wait!’ she called loudly, to more insistent knocking. She pointed into the darkness at the rear of the room. ‘There is a back stair there, Master . . . Sir John. You may take it. Yet before you do, know this.’ She stepped closer to him, her head at his chest. ‘We made what you chose to call a deal, once. I propose another.’ She peered hard up at him. ‘That all debts between your family and mine are now discharged. Both ways. We will have no further call, each upon the other. We will never meet again. Is that agreed?’
He bowed. ‘It is agreed, your majesty.’
She held out her hand. This time he did not shake it on the bargain. Instead he bent, kissed. She stared a moment longer, nodded, turned away. ‘You may leave us.’
He went. Yet as he reached the back door, even as he turned the knob, her voice came again softly from the dark. ‘Do you love, John Lawley?’
‘I do, your majesty.’
‘And is your love requited?’
‘I . . . I am not certain.’
‘Then become so. Take a queen’s . . . nay, take a woman’s advice. Do not leave it . . . do not leave it until it is too late.’
The hammering had returned. Loud voices anxiously called. Yet as John took the stairs at speed, it was not those that echoed in his ear. A queen’s last words did. A woman’s.
He would be certain. That he knew as he hurried down the stairs and across the snowy gardens to the wharf. A question needed to be asked in Southwark, an answer given. When the tide turned.
XL
Proposals
The brewer, Matthew, told him that Tess was not at the Spoon but gone to the playhouse. Which seemed strange. The Lord Chamberlain’s Men would have played for the last time there that season the previous day, Shrove Tuesday, before the Lenten closure. Unless they’d played at the palace again, as they had two years before – a night John remembered all too well. But no, the Queen was at Greenwich. And he doubted that she would sport on the eve of a day that would commence in such sorrow.
The Globe was not empty; indeed, it was abuzz. Labourers swarmed everywhere – thatchers upon the roof, patching; plasterers filling and smoothing the daub; painters on scaffolding, revitalising the faux marble of the columns. Coming through the main doors, seeing it, John felt an ache in his stomach. They were preparing at season’s end for the next season. Wonders would be enacted there, men and women transported by words and actions. Tragedy would unfold, princes would fall, lovers would die. Comedy would make three thousand people laugh as one, buffeting the players with their raw breath. And he could have no part of it.
He looked from the gods to the pit – and there, standing in the very midst of it, hands on hips and staring up, was William Shakespeare.
John moved up beside him, settled, did not speak. The playwright’s lips were moving. Even without a quill in his hand, his friend was always writing and John would not disturb him.
After a moment, the man muttered something, looked down, then glanced to his side. When he saw who was there, his eyes went wide, filling with joy. ‘John!’ he cried, reaching, pulling him into his arms. ‘By Jesu, man! Ned told us that you were safe but then . . . you disappeared, as is your wont. When did you return?’
‘A few days since. I have been . . . engaged.’
‘Upon this other business?’ Will’s smile passed. ‘The one concluded this morning?’
‘E’en so.’
‘Ah.’ His friend’s hands upon his arms squeezed. ‘And all’s well?’
‘Well enough.’ John slapped the other’s arm. ‘But what make you here, William? Are you not taking your season’s triumphs on the road, to gull the dull and half-witted in the provinces from their silver?’
Will laughed. ‘The company – and your son with them – set out this morning for Northampton. Though most lay in the wagons and groaned after the closing revelries of yestere’en. I remain behind to supervise this’ – he gestured at the business around him – ‘and to finish my play.’
‘Which one?’
‘I think you know.’ He whistled between his teeth. ‘It is said that an Afric elephant takes twice as long to give birth as any woman. Well, I have been an elephant with this one, sure.’
‘’Tis your reworking of Hamlet still?’
‘Aye.’
‘And it is not yet done?’
‘Near. ’Twill be in time to open our new season next month.’
&nb
sp; John considered. ‘And do you play in it too?’
‘I think this time I will. I think I will play . . . the father.’
John frowned. ‘The ghost?’
‘Aye.’
‘I see. And your own father? You said he was ill.’
‘Still lives.’ Will looked away, up to the sky. ‘Not for much longer, by report.’
Darkness had replaced the light that the reunion had brought. It was John who now took his friend’s arm. ‘You have been careful, William?’ he asked softly.
‘Regarding what?’
‘This play. Its themes. The times are tender yet and it is only a month since you were called before the Privy Council to answer for Richard the Second.’ He lowered his voice still further. ‘They let you off with a warning, I heard. You do not want to test that now.’
‘This is different.’
‘Indeed? As I recall the piece, it still features regicide, rebellion, usurpation . . .’
‘All themes well established in Hamlet.’ Shakespeare looked at the activity around him. ‘I do but rework an old piece, truly.’
John looked into his friend’s eyes. ‘And ghosts, Will?’
‘They have always been in the story too.’
‘Not your own.’
The playwright looked sharply up. ‘I do not know what you mean.’
‘The night Ned and I found you . . . distraught. You spoke of fathers . . . of sons . . .’
‘My father is dying,’ Will said shortly.
‘I know,’ John replied, then lowered his voice. ‘Will you have a Mass said for his soul?’
Shakespeare stared at him for a long moment, then spoke, loudly. ‘Why would I do that, John Lawley? Our Church in England does not sanction it. And we are its loyal children, are we not?’
A workman, passing close with a timber upon his shoulder, glanced at them. John knew his friend spoke for other ears. He kept his own voice low. ‘And if not for your father, what of Hamnet’s soul?’