Queen & Country Page 10

  One of William’s Flemish friends was at the house that day, the weaver Josef van Helst. Van Helst had brought samples of the lighter kinds of cloths his colleagues were producing, in which William had expressed an interest to invest, new draperies of bayes, broadcloth and fine wool. He stayed on to supper, of bacon collops, manchet, and a yellow cheese.

  ‘A great terror is averted in this land today, but tomorrow, there will be a greater one. You must be prepared for it, vigilant. As to the perpetrators, no pain must be spared to them in exacting punishment. You people are too soft, womanish and faint. Your penalties are paltry, and do not go far enough. An eye for an eye, you will say. Pah. What for a man, who would bring down the state, dismember limb from limb, all that you believe in? No punishment on earth is too severe for that, whatever kind of recompense a brave man can devise. This bacon is good, is it not?’

  He drank to the queen, in a fierce draught of ale, that left the Phillips family feeling they were somehow left behind, in their show of loyalty, faith and national pride. Josef was a shrewd, pugnacious little man, with a sharp glint in his eye. He had walked from Antwerp with his loom upon his back, when his business had been broken by the closing of the Scheldt. And no doubt he had suffered in the course of his displacement; but Josef had the force to set aside that life, and build himself a better one. To rise above the crowd, he climbed on other men. Not everyone who suffered, who was dispossessed, might in other circumstances have deserved respect. The self-appointed master of the Flemish refugees, Josef was a bully who had battled his way forth.

  Bells were rung to mark the traitors’ executions. On the day that they began, Hew discovered Frances sitting on her own. ‘Is it very wrong?’ she asked, ‘not to watch them die?’

  ‘Why should that be wrong?’ he answered, touched that she should turn to him.

  ‘It might seem ungracious to our lady queen.’

  ‘It cannot be wrong, to pity someone young and foolish such a savage death. Frances, if you do not go, you will not be missed. There will be thousands there. Nor will their supporters, those who share their faith, choose to stay away. They will look to see them in the crowd, and die as martyrs, in their eyes. Absence does not mean your loyalty lies with them, if that is what you fear.’

  She was troubled still. ‘They are not martyrs, though. And they will go to Hell for what they did.’

  ‘Perhaps. Most probably.’

  ‘Then if they are condemned to Hell, why must their living deaths be made so cruel?’

  ‘I do not know. Revenge. Or to put off the rest. Which it does not do. As a philosophy, in truth, it does not seem exact. But you need not go. You should stay with Mary. She is far from well enough to see the traitors hang.’

  Frances nodded. ‘You are right. Then I shall stay home. I thank you. For I was afraid you would think it weak, as Master Josef did.’

  Joan and William Phillips went to see the executions, in the spirit that their Flemish neighbour had inspired in them. They returned with mixed reports. Since Tom had a house near St Giles-in-the-Fields, where the traitors were hanged, they had hoped for the advantage of a clearer view, which had been denied them by the pressing crowds. The speeches had varied in interest and in length; the most affecting was a poet, tender still in years, who fitting to his words, took the longest time to die. The worst was from a man who did not in the least join in the spirit of the day; he had made no speech, saying he had come there not to argue but to die, and that had done ungraciously, coming to his God with the surliest of faces, departing very stubbornly, before his bowels were ripped. The whole day had been marred, when Joan had lost her pocket to a cutpurse in the crowd. It had not held very much – she had already bought a pie – but she had hoped to have a little tract of verses set down by the poet on the day before he died, which William, disapproving of it, had refused to buy for her. It did not seem worthwhile attending on the second day, so thick were the crowds. And since the queen, in her mercy, had remit the disembowelling, there was less to see.

  Hew had left the house, in the full intention of following the crowd. But when he saw the feeling and the force with which it flowed, he did not have the heart for it. He found himself, instead, standing by the water of the brackish Thames, staring at its depths. At the close of day, he went to Laurence Tomson, and asked what was provided for the queen of Scots, when she came to trial. ‘For she did ask once, if I might be of service of her, as her man of law. I would I might be offered to her, now, as counsel.’

  Laurence stared at him. ‘Have you lost your mind? She is indicted for treason.’

  ‘In Scotland, all men have the right to counsel in the court, whatever is the crime.’

  ‘This is not Scotland.’

  ‘Yet, she is a Scot, and the mother of the king. The king will think it strange enough if no one comes to speak for her. I do not ask, you understand, from any preconception of her guilt or innocence, but because, in a case of this sort, it seems to be imperative that justice shall be done. Your queen Elizabeth would doubtless think the same, that no question could be put about the proper process, or about the evidence that comes before the court. It cannot be opaque.’

  ‘Our laws,’ Laurence said, ‘are not the same as yours. As for evidence, you may be assured it will be fairly judged. It is sworn to, moreover, by Anthony Babington, and by her own secretaries, Claude Nau and Gilbert Curle.’

  ‘Nau?’ Hew shook his head. ‘I do not believe that he would condemn her, unless it were under duress.’

  ‘There you have your answer. For, I can promise you, he was treated with the utmost of kindness and courtesy. He is not under duress. Nor has he condemned her. That is for the court. You may be quite sure, that Nau has told the truth. Hew, you are my friend. And for the love of you, we have not had this conversation. It will take you to the Tower, if you mention it again.’

  There was nothing more to say. As he left that place, Hew chanced to glance from the window, at Walsingham’s garden of sallats and herbs. And there, by the bower of a rose, he saw Claude Nau himself, taking the air in the last of the sun.

  That queen came to trial, where she was condemned. Elizabeth showed a great reluctance to sign the death warrant, taking time to confer with her own conscience, and with foreign princes, on what might be the consequence if she put to death a late anointed queen. She did not want that blood on her hands, or to set so close and discomfiting a precedent. She hinted that, should Mary’s life be taken by one of those who had committed to that bond to protect and save her own life, that was not only lawful, but would be quite welcome. If Mary’s life were snuffed out in hot blood, in defence of hers, no one would be blamed. Sir Amias Paulet, who had still the keeping of that queen, could not admit such a stain on his conscience, and he kept her with an honest rigour, more careful than before. Ambassadors were sent from Scotland, some more warm than others in their treating for that queen; her son’s responses lagged, lukewarm and ambivalent. In those months, while Elizabeth hesitated, her own life was placed in a more urgent danger, more imminent, according to her councillors, than ever was before. Each day that the Scottish queen breathed, under sentence of death, brought further risk. A terror watch was placed at every port, and guards patrolled the streets. London was on edge, nervous and alert, and foreigners were subject to a searching inquisition, irksome and uncomfortable. Rumours crept like fog, that Spanish troops had landed at the coast, that the stronghold had been stormed, and that the Scottish queen was freed, even that Elizabeth was murdered in the Tower. The council did their best to put down their source, but as quickly as they quelled them, other rumours spread. In midst of this, not long after Christmas, Hew received a letter in his office at the custom house, from the Scottish court. The king had called him home, and made claim upon his service there, in light, the letter said, ‘of these strange events’. It was not the invitation Hew had had before, extending his good will, but a clear note of command.

  He took the letter straight to Seething Lane. Wa
lsingham by then was lying sick abed. He had done what he could, to ensure the Scots queen’s downfall, and could do no more. His son-in-law, Sir Philip Sidney, had lately lost his life in service in the Netherlands, and he was burdened with the task of preparing for the funeral, and a raft of debts, which he had undersigned. In all this, he had no thanks, no word of help nor comfort from his queen. ‘What? Still here?’ he might have said, had he encountered Hew. But nothing, at that moment, could concern him less, had it been a flea he snuffed out with his fingertip or in a rare benignancy, brushed off from his cloak.

  ‘Not before time,’ Laurence said. ‘This is no place for you now. If you can find in it your conscience, to send a letter here to tell us how things lie with your king in Scotland, Walsingham will thank you for it. And, if not . . .’. He shrugged. ‘No matter. You have been repaid for your service in the Netherlands. I will arrange for your passport to Berwick. May I suggest that you take Robert Lachlan with you? He has drunk away what portion he was given by the Crown, and for idleness or want or sheer force of his stubbornness is likely now to find himself incarcerate again, in Newgate or the Fleet, procuring no one’s downfall but his own. This is no time for a Scotsman to cry havoc in the streets.’

  ‘Willingly,’ said Hew. ‘He shall come as my servant, or, if not, my friend. In truth, I do not blame him that he rages and reviles these filthsome streets, this air that grows thick with suspicion and hatred. This place, where I have stayed – for all I had the solace of your own sustaining friendship – never felt so fraught and bloody nor so strange to me, as it does now. I cannot for the world explain what force it was that kept me here, nor why I stayed so long.’

  Laurence raised an eyebrow, sceptical and humorous. ‘Can you not?’ he said.

  What Laurence had known now for several months came finally to Hew on the way to Leadenhall, as he realised that the time had come to say his last goodbyes. It was Frances that he looked for, first and last of all, and he found her on her own, sitting in the garden.

  ‘It is cold here, to be sitting, at this time of year.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her eyes were bright with tears, small shards of winter frost. He thought it was the chillness of the biting wind, that brought them there. It was not the wind. He thought perhaps that Phelippes had been there before him, had passed on the news of the letter at the custom house, and cursed himself at once, for his stupidity and arrogance. For why should he suppose that she should weep for him, or clearly see a loss that he had only dimly groped upon himself? The tears were not for him. The bitterest of winds had not yet blown that news.

  ‘My uncle has sold me,’ she said.

  This was so unexpected he could make no sense of it. ‘How can that be? You are not a black ewe, or a roll of blue cloth.’

  ‘He has entered into a business arrangement, with Josef the Fleming. Josef will work in partnership with him, in return for my hand in marriage, for which he has solicited, over these past months. You may be assured, that I have not encouraged him. My uncle has agreed.’

  ‘He cannot force you to marry,’ Hew contended fiercely.

  ‘I know that he cannot. But, if I do not consent to it, he will no longer keep me in his house. I have no other friend, and will be destitute. I have told him Josef is a man that I can never love. Yet he remains unmoved. My aunt says, that in time I may feel love. And that, in any case, I should not expect it. That many such a marriage was contracted out of honour, and among those was her own. That the match is a good one, and will keep us close and prosperous, that nothing I hold dear could possibly be lost to it, with everything to gain. And Tom says, tis a pity that I am not reconciled to it, but it cannot be helped.’

  The tears were flowing freely now, for Frances, in her passion could not keep them in. And all that she saw blurred, was clear as day to Hew. He took her hands in his. ‘You do not have to marry him. There is another way.’

  Part II

  Chapter 9

  The Opened Bud

  En ma fin git ma commencement

  [In my end is my beginning]

  MR

  St Andrews, February 1587

  ‘When will mine uncle come?’ the small boy asked, again.

  Meg Cullan sighed. ‘We not do know. It may not be today.’ She sympathised, in spirit, with her small son’s restlessness. Three long years had passed, with no hope of Hew. A life could not be lived in constant agitation, for sickness was distilled in such a state of flux. Giles Locke warned against it: passion was a scourge upon the infant faculty, though Matthew was in temperament a solid, sanguine child. Martha was the kittil one, fickle as a fish.

  ‘If you are done here,’ Meg said, ‘run out and play. The time will pass more quickly then.’

  Matthew Locke considered. ‘How will it do that?’

  The children were making marchpanes, as a gift for Hew. Unless his tastes had changed, he did not care for sweetmeats, but the children did. An uncle from abroad was hard enough to grasp. Meg had baked crisp wafers, stippled from the iron, the cook had pounded almonds to a pestle paste, with sugar for the glaze; the children rolled it out, and cut it into shapes. Matthew had scored his, into a plaque of lozenges. In the centre of each one, he had placed a currant or a sugared seed, measured and methodical, like a feathered quilt, or the diamond patterned doublet of a gentleman at court, padded and puffed out. Martha had gathered hers up in a ball, and was poking the almond nibs in through a hole. Her fingers were sticky and fragrant with rose, from the flask she had spilled. Meg wiped her hands. Martha said, ‘Nuncle’, her mouth full of currant and wafery crumbs.

  Meg said, ‘Uncle Hew. When the marchpane is baked, you can colour it gold. It will be fit for a queen.’

  ‘Fit for a king,’ Matthew corrected.

  Matthew Locke was four years old. A quisitive, pedantic bairn. It was not like him, Meg reflected, to be clinging to his mother. When he was not at his books – he had already learned to read – he was pestering the pigs, or tickling up the sticklebacks in the Kenly Burn, with the miller’s boy, John Kintor. Now, he jumped up and ran from the kitchen, his steps light and purposeful on the stone stair. He returned with the hourglass from his uncle’s library, heavy in its frame.

  ‘Be careful with that.’

  The boy set the glass on the board. ‘Will mine uncle want to live with us?’ he asked.

  ‘Well,’ reflected Meg, ‘Kenly Green is his. We have only kept it for him, while he was away. And we have our new house, in the town; we shall move there presently, when the work is done.’ She found that she was looking forward to that time. The new house on the South Street brought the gift of land, in the College of St Leonard near her father’s grave. She would miss the gardens here, but could begin again. She would have her old life there, and more important still, the time to spend with Giles, who left before the sun was up and did not leave till late his college in the town, to start the long walk home. Meg had felt his absence in the year of plague.

  ‘Will John Kintor come to the new house with us?’ Matthew asked her now.

  ‘By no means. John Kintor belongs at the mill.’

  ‘Then I shall stay here. For, it is my mill, and my John Kintor. My uncle gave them to me.’

  His mother sighed, again. ‘He did not give you John. People do not belong to other people.’

  Hew had gifted the mill, and the land on which it stood by the Kenly Water, to his little godson as a christening present. The land was in feu to the Kintor family; when the miller died, the working of the mill passed on to his eldest son, who was married with a child. Matthew was devoted to his brother John. John Kintor was thirteen years old, and close to leaving home, to begin an apprenticeship in another town. Meg did not know how to break the news to Matthew.

  Matthew said kindly, misreading the signs, ‘Do not be sad, Minnie. You can come and visit.’

  He watched the sand a moment, running through the glass. ‘I can hear horses.’

  Meg wiped her hands on a cloth. ‘Y
ou imagine it, my love. And watching the sand will not make time pass. It makes it run slow.’

  ‘How can that be? Anyway, I can.’

  And he did not imagine it. For Meg heard horses too, and voices at the door, and lifting Martha in her arms she ran out from the house, quickening in her heart, to see her brother coming, dusty from the road, his sweet, bewildered face breaking to a smile. She threw herself upon him, squeezing him so tightly that the infant Martha fluttered like a bird and beat upon his breast with small and flustered fists. Laughing, Hew stepped back. ‘And who is this small fury? She has your temper, Meg.’

  Matthew answered for her, solemn and important at his mother’s side. ‘She is Martha Locke. And she is my sister. She is not very big, and she does not ken much. I am Matthew Locke. You are my Uncle Hew, who gave to me the mill and my friend, John Kintor. We made you marchpanes.’

  Hew said, ‘How clever of you. I did not know it was March.’

  ‘My Minnie says, English folk like them,’ Matthew said, faintly reproachful. ‘Who are those people behind?’

  Hew’s answer, meant for Meg, was filtered through the boy. ‘I also have some friends. And ye must excuse it that I have not mentioned them. This is Robert Lachlan, who is an old friend your mother kens well. And this is a new friend, close to my heart. Her name is Frances. And she is my wife.’

  Giles Locke left his rooms as the light began to fail, and crossed the college courtyard to the dinner hall. The place was quiet now, dark and unfamiliar as he stepped inside. A voice spoke from the gloom. ‘The painter went home with the light. And you will, I can fetch him.’ The speaker was a graduand, aged seventeen, in a slate-coloured gown and a soiled yellow shirt, frayed at the cuffs. Doctor Locke frowned. ‘No. Indeed. What do you do here? Supper will be set out in the common school.’