By midnight the screams have turned to weeping. And flowing freely with the tears comes the information: information about Hugh O’Neill, Earl of Tyrone… information about a grey merchant who is, in reality, a spy for the rebels… information about a Spanish woman, survivor of an embassy to Ireland to aid Tyrone in his fight against the English queen… information about her Blackamoor servant… information about the English woman who was brought in to cure the Spanish maid when she fell ill… information about whatever subject his tormentor would care to hear about, no matter how important or how trivial. Just so long as he makes the pain stop.
40
Amore leisurely ride might have afforded Nicholas a better appreciation of an English autumn. But time is in Devereux’s gift now. The pace has been relentless. As the mud flies up from the country lanes and the late-September mist parts to the crashing progress of steaming horseflesh, there have been moments when even Nicholas could almost believe Essex might succeed in his wild attempt to regain the queen’s favour. It is hard not to get swept away by the mood of euphoria. The riders – save for Nicholas himself – encourage each other by shouting ever wilder fantasies over the drumming of their horses’ hooves. We’ll make His Grace Secretary of State… we’ll clean the Augean Stables until the flagstones shine like silver… we’ll hang the Privy Council from the arches of London Bridge… we’ll make a new Jerusalem in Whitehall, and our leader will sit as close to God’s right hand as Jesus will allow…
But in his more reflective moments, to Nicholas they sound like doomed men fortifying themselves for a last, hopeless charge against the enemy. Do they truly believe they can do this? he wonders. And how is he to avoid the almost inevitable end that must await them, if they try?
He is with them, but not one of them. When they notice his presence, they are friendly enough. But he is not from their world. He is no gallant. They know the sword he wears would be as much a danger to himself as to any opponent, were he to draw it. He is reminded of the gentlemen scholars at Cambridge, who treated the unmannered yeoman’s son as though he were one of their servants. Indeed, when they pause for rest, he is expected to look after the horses. He thinks of slipping away, warning Robert Cecil of the approaching fiery comet of sedition heading his way. But his horse would have to sprout wings and fly in order to outpace these driven men.
At dawn on the twenty-eighth day of September the small band clatters into the precincts of Whitehall, exhausted, muddy, throats parched and limbs aching. Imperiously Essex brushes aside the guard at the gatehouse at the end of King’s Street.
And then the whole airy edifice that his supporters have constructed threatens to collapse.
Whitehall seems almost deserted. A few bleary-eyed clerks and retainers go about their business in the cool morning air, but the usual bustle is absent. Nicholas is ordered to wait with the horses in the orchard between the King’s Street gatehouse and the Privy Gallery where the bedchambers are, while Essex and his gallants go in search of Her Majesty and the hated nest of vipers who deceive her.
Left alone, Nicholas prays that his assumption is correct, and that the court is not in residence. Perhaps that will take the wind out of Devereux’s sails. Perhaps reason may be restored. He throws his gaberdine cloak down over the wet grass and sits. The black outline of the buildings is stark against a sickly yellow dawn sky. He thinks that if he were to close his eyes now, he would sleep for a week.
‘Dr Shelby? Is that you? What in the name of Christ’s sweet wounds are you doing here?’
Startled out of his thoughts, Nicholas looks up to see a dark shape approaching. The stride is brisk and youthful, though the triangle of grey beard cutting the fur collar of his gown marks him as a man of some age and importance. As he draws closer, Nicholas recognizes him: Lord Grey, one of the Cecil faction, a man who has had more than his share of run-ins with Robert Devereux.
‘My lord, thank Jesu you are here,’ Nicholas says, jumping to his feet and almost crying out as the cramp burns the muscles in his legs and thighs.
‘I’ve just seen armed men near the queen’s chambers,’ Grey says in astonishment and no small alarm. ‘Whatever is this commotion? And at such an ungodly hour, too.’
‘Where is Her Majesty? Is she here?’
Grey looks puzzled, rather than alarmed. ‘Why, at Nonsuch, of course – with the court. But I had thought you to be in Ireland, sirrah.’
Nicholas almost laughs. ‘No longer, my lord.’ He points in the general direction of the privy chambers. ‘And nor is His Grace the Earl of Essex.’
‘Essex? But he was expressly ordered–’
‘His Grace has a wild scheme in his head. He intends to confront Her Majesty, to redress her grievances against him.’
‘With armed men?’
‘Southampton, Danvers, Blount…’
‘God’s nails! That’s treason.’ Grey puts a gloved hand to his mouth. ‘And you? You’re with him?’
‘Unwillingly, my lord. Very unwillingly. His Grace ordered it. He seems to think I may help his cause. But I fear for his health and his reason. Someone must ride at once to Nonsuch and warn Her Majesty.’
‘Delay them, Dr Shelby,’ Grey commands, as though it is an easy thing for one man to stand against the passions of twenty. ‘I will ride for Nonsuch with all speed.’
As Grey hurries away, Nicholas goes to the horse that Essex has been riding. He loosens the saddle-girth strap. He thinks of cutting it, but that would be obvious sabotage. But removing the saddle? He might convince the earl that he’d merely been resting a hard-ridden mount. He is about to unbuckle the strap when he hears loud voices coming from the direction of the river. Angry voices. Bitter voices. The voices of men who’ve been thwarted and are looking for someone upon whom to vent their frustration. Black shapes appear, moving through the orchard towards him.
The coldly languorous Southampton is the first to reach him. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks, seeing the loose-hanging girth strap.
‘Giving His Grace’s mount a little respite,’ Nicholas says.
Southampton pushes him aside and rebuckles the strap. ‘I could swear an oath I saw you talking to someone, sirrah. Who was it?’
‘Just a clerk, my lord,’ Nicholas says. ‘He wanted to know who we were.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I told him to mind his own business.’
It takes some fifteen minutes, according to the chapel bell, for everyone to muster in the orchard. Essex is the last to arrive, moving through the dawn with brisk, agitated strides.
‘Where are we going, Your Grace?’ Nicholas asks, wondering if he might contrive a delay by sending Essex on a wild goose chase.
But if Essex hasn’t found his queen, he’s discovered where she is.
‘Why, to Nonsuch, Dr Shelby,’ he says, as if his ambition was burning him up from the inside. ‘We’re going to Nonsuch.’
Essex has lost himself in a lover’s longing. In the strengthening light he stares fixedly ahead, as if to catch a glimpse of his paramour. Nicholas wonders if Devereux, in his mind, is now living in the days when he was the queen’s young favourite, remembering the nights they sat together at dice, or cards, or poetry, until the birds began to sing in the morning. Does he really believe he can turn back time? Does he truly think bravado will win her round?
Their mounts are on their last legs. A change of horses is needed for the last twelve miles of the journey or else they’ll be crawling to Nonsuch on their knees. Essex decrees it will take place when they cross the River Thames at the Lambeth horse-ferry. There will be fresh beasts to hire on the other side. In the meantime the pace must be maintained. There is only a short window – what the ferrymen call ‘dead low water’ – when the great wooden raft may be safely steered across the current. Miss it, and they must wait half a day for the next low tide. Nicholas prays they do. It will give Lord Grey all the time he needs, and more. It is a small rebellion, but all that he can think of at present.