The liveried guards at the gatehouse are calling out those with appointments, from a list the clerks prepared the previous evening. Just because your name is on the list doesn’t mean you will actually get to see Sir Robert, or his father, Lord Burghley. They may not even be in residence. But if you’re called, at least you can wait in the long gallery, out of the cold.
One man to have his name called early is Reynard Gault.
In stature, Gault is commanding. He has in his eyes the hawk’s eagerness for a kill. He is a merchant venturer, a rising star of the Exchange. He invests: in Baltic timber, in Muscovy furs, in fish from the seas off New-Found Land. But he invests wisely. He has no time for argosies that sink when they meet the first big wave, or captains without a sound record of success. Speculative adventures to the Indies in search for fabled cities of gold he leaves to fools, and to his Spanish competitors.
And it has made him a rich man. Not yet forty, he has a fine house on Giltspur Street by Smithfield, where he shows visitors a whale’s horn that he tells the gullible was taken from a unicorn. He is a leading light in the Worshipful Company of Grocers, having made his original fortune in spices. And being a forward-looking fellow he has recently accepted a prominent position in the Barbary Company. After all, as he likes to tell those who come to him in search of the next big opportunity, the future lies not with princes – Christian or infidel – but with mercantile men.
Once admitted, Gault is delivered into the care of a silent individual with the Cecils’ ermine-tail emblem on his coat. To his surprise, Gault is not conveyed to the long gallery where the favoured wait, with varying success, for admittance to the presence chamber, but to an open terrace at the rear of the great house.
Robert Cecil is standing with his back towards a neatly clipped hedge. Dressed in a black gown that hides his twisted trunk, he is attended by a quartet of clerks, all busily taking down notes on wax or slate. He is the smallest man in the group, and for a moment Gault has the impression of a student reciting his thesis to a group of gowned professors. But then Cecil peremptorily waves them away.
‘God give you good morrow, Sir Robert,’ says Gault, making a low bow.
‘And in return, Gault, I shall give you pepper,’ Cecil says with a smile of congratulation.
‘Pepper, Sir Robert? I had presumed you wished to speak to me about the passage you asked me to secure aboard the Righteous.’
‘It is arranged, I trust?’
‘Yes, Sir Robert. But your passenger must be ready before the month is out,’ Gault says hurriedly. ‘Vessels tied to a wharf longer than necessary are a great burden on the investor.’
‘Oh, he’ll be aboard, one way or the other. Tell your captain to count on it.’
‘And the pepper? You wish me to arrange burden-space? I could offload a part of the Marion’s cargo.’
‘I don’t desire to ship it, Master Gault. I wish to sell it. Three hundred tons, to be exact. In chests. Value – ninety thousand pounds, according to the assessment that I and my father, the Lord Treasurer, have made of it.’
Gault whistles at the astonishing figure. He gives a slow, conspiratorial nod, meant to show a fellow venturer that he can read between the lines. ‘Spanish pepper, I take it.’
‘Portuguese, to be precise – aboard the galleon Madre de Deus, seized off the Azores by the fleet of our gallant Sir Walter Raleigh. Currently under guard at Dartmouth.’
Gault knows the story well. Save for the pestilence, tavern talk has been about little else since September last, when – after a bloody battle off Flores Island – the great ship was brought into the Devonshire harbour, her holds bulging.
‘I put the guard in place myself,’ Cecil continues, ‘else the thieving rogues who live in those parts would likely have carried all away in their galligaskins. The queen wishes the cargo sold, to the general benefit of the Treasury. I thought an eminent member of the Grocers’ Guild would know the best course for disposing of the pepper.’
Gault makes a little bow to show how grateful he is to have been considered.
‘To sell such a tonnage at once would glut the market, Sir Robert. The value would plunge before a man might make a profit.’
‘Which is why we intend to release it in manageable quantities over a period of years.’
‘Very wise, if I may say so.’
‘We will need someone to administer the sale, of course,’ Cecil says, his brow lifting a little, as if the thought has only just occurred to him. ‘Over the years we Cecils have learned many skills. Sadly, grocery is not counted amongst them.’
‘Would that person be free to use the monopoly as he saw fit, Sir Robert?’
‘I doubt very much the right man could be found to take it, otherwise.’
‘Did you have anyone in mind?’ Gault asks archly.
‘Well, seeing as how you’re here… I mean, you’re not too pressed with other enterprises at the present time, are you? You could find the time?’
‘I’m honoured, Sir Robert,’ Gault says a little too quickly, and with the smile of a man who’s eaten too much sugar. ‘I can think of no better duty for an honest merchant to perform than to assist our sovereign majesty’s Treasury in this present time of danger.’
‘What a shame more of our gentlemen don’t see things so clearly. They seem to think ships and cannon build themselves out of patriotic duty.’
Gault waits patiently for the addendum. When the Cecils make a generous offer, there is always an addendum.
‘The Worshipful Company of Grocers, Sir Reynard – prospering, I take it?’
‘Very much so, Sir Robert. We are but second amongst all the liveried companies in the city.’ Gault gives Cecil a look of immense hurt. ‘Of course we’d be first, if the Mercers hadn’t cheated.’
‘Something about a camel, was it not?’ says Cecil, with a sly tilt of his head. ‘An incident at the queen’s coronation? I seem to recall my father mentioning it. He thought it most amusing.’
Gault’s face sours. ‘The beast was part of our procession. We thought Her Grace would marvel at it. But we believe the Mercers fed it something that caused it to emit noxious fumes from its fundament. Unfortunately, Her Grace’s carriage was directly behind the beast. It was a vile trick.’
‘On the camel, the grocers or Her Majesty?’ asks Robert Cecil with a twitch of mischief on his lips. He doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘Let that be a warning, Gault: never trust fellows with an overly vain interest in silks.’
Assuming the audience is over, Gault makes a sweeping bow. But Cecil hasn’t finished with him.
‘The Grocers’ Company licenses the apothecaries in our city, does it not?’
‘Indeed it does, Sir Robert. And we are the better for it. Trade does not prosper if charlatans are allowed to devalue the merchandise.’
‘And if I were to bring to your attention an apothecary whom I felt was one such charlatan, you would exercise your influence with the Guild to shut them down?’
‘Without question, Sir Robert. You have only to tell me his name.’