Death of Kings (24 page)

For the second time within a few days I made my way along the Strand early in the morning. The pocky street was less populous than previously, but then it was a Sunday and all
good citizens ought to have been preparing for their devotions at church. I wondered whether, if I was ever called up and fined for non-attendance myself, I’d be able to plead affairs of
state. A wintry sun threw my shadow ahead of me. As I approached Essex House a rumbling noise grew louder. It was like water rushing over a weir. If it seemed to be drawing me on, it was doing the
same for a few other fellows. They were trickling through the little postern gate. I noticed that they were armed.

I hoped to make an entrance in their wake for it was apparent that there was a greater crowd than ever in the courtyard; it was they who were responsible for the continual rumbling, a sound
which had a curiously even and insistent quality to it. I fell in behind a gigantic, heavily bearded man who was waiting his turn to slip through the narrow entrance. He turned to me.

“We are summoned,” he said in a surprisingly slight voice.

“Yes,” I said.

“Our hour has come.”

“As you say,” I said.

“At last.”

Fortunately, I was saved from any more of these unsatisfactory utterances by his passing through the door from where he was immediately absorbed into the throng on the other side. On the other
side also was Signor Noti. But there was a change in him from my last encounter.

“Ah, Signor Revill, the
commediante.
”

“Signor Noti,” I said, almost relieved to see a familiar if unfriendly face. I might have offered him his handkerchief back if I’d had it on me. He cast a quick eye up and down
my form.

“You are not – how you say? – quipped?”

“Equipped?”

“Where is your weapon?
Vostro gladio
?”

“My weapon is well hidden,” I said, thinking of the little blade I kept concealed, more suited for peeling fruit than anything else. Indeed, I’d never used it for any more
life-threatening activity than nail-paring and cutting up food. “It is sharp and I am prepared,” I added, falling into the prevailing style of threat and ambiguity.

“Sharp.
Bene.
Is good,” said Noti, his moustache twitching and eyes already flicking to the next entrant through the gate. “
I grandissimi sono
arrivati.
”

“And our hour has come,” I said, thinking that – insofar as I could understand him and his foreigner’s tongue – he was wildly overestimating the importance of Nick
Revill if he identified him as one of the great ones.

“
Si finalmente
, ower hower,” said Noti in his Italian fashion.

I found myself pushed forward into the great yard. At first glance, it contained the same mixture of men as before, a confused rabble of superannuated soldiers and reckless ne’er-do-wells.
But whereas last time they’d looked smudged and dirty, as if newly landed from some foreign campaign or freshly scraped up from the streets, everyone now wore bright looks and clothes –
well, brightish and rather gaudy. It was as if they were indeed dressing for their Sunday devotions, but devotions of no very holy sort. The noise in the yard, which I’d first heard from a
distance, maintained its subdued but insistent note, seeming to come from nowhere in particular. Strangely, the sound was similar to the hopeful susurration of a playhouse congregation; whereas on
the previous afternoon those attending our performance of
Richard
had sounded (and behaved) much more like a mob. This audible steadiness, this even buzz, suggested a seriousness of purpose
which convinced me that I had walked into real danger, perhaps a trap.

Another feature reminiscent of the playhouse was the way in which most of the men in the yard were directing their attention at the raised area before the main entrance to the house. Unoccupied
at the moment, it had the expectant air of an empty stage just before a performance. And just as it can sometimes be in an audience, each man was disposed to pass the time of day with his neighbour
so it wasn’t long before I found out from those around me enough information to make me want to take to my heels.

Noti’s remark about ‘
i grandissimi
’ hadn’t been an ironic or flattering joke when I and one or two others passed through the postern. For there were genuine
grandees inside Essex House at this moment. Someone said that the Lord Chief Justice was of the party. Another that it included the Lord Keeper. These great titles were uttered in no great tones of
respect. Essex’s official visitors had been ushered through the main entrance of his mansion only minutes before. No wonder all eyes were fastened to the spot before the porch.

The ‘great ones’ were come hot-foot from the Court and the Council, and for why? . . . to proclaim the Earl of Essex heir to the English throne – to arrest him on a charge of
high treason – to restore him as his sovereign’s favourite – to kneel down at his feet – to make him kneel down at
their
feet – to have his head – to
follow his lead – and so on. Everybody knew why they were there and no one had the faintest idea.

So this wasn’t going to be just another regular day at Essex House, after all, a day of ultimately peaceful turmoil and wild but swallowed words. Most likely, there’d be a few fiery
adjectives thrown about before dark but there would also be an abundance of furious action. What I was witnessing here was the final throw of a desperate enterprise. It wasn’t surprising the
Essexites were dressed-up. If they were going to succeed they wanted to be well-scrubbed and attired for the occasion. But if it all went wrong, they planned to go to their deaths, as smug as
bridegrooms. The trouble was that they might drag me down with them.

Instinct told me to run. I turned round to look at the postern gate by which I’d entered. But escape that way was already blocked. The door was tight shut, barred and guarded. Signor Noti
had been joined by a couple of other exquisites, although whether they were stopping anyone else getting in or preventing them getting out was a question I didn’t want to put to the test.

The impressive main gates to the courtyard were guarded by a detachment of halberdiers. We were sealed in, cribbed, cabined and confined. More to the point, I was sealed in.

While I waited on the event, I reckoned it would be less dangerous if I seemed to know what I was doing there. Accordingly, I cast my eyes about with a quietly purposive air, nodding or shaking
my head with fervour when addressed and, in general, furrowing my brow while looking grim. There was not much play-acting involved in this pose. I estimated the numbers in the courtyard to be
around three hundred or so – as a player, you get used to assessing the size of audiences. And an audience is what we were at this moment, waiting on the main players. There was even a kind
of viewing gallery. Above the plumed or bonneted or helmeted or bare or bandaged heads in the courtyard, I saw faces, mostly women’s, crowded at all the windows on the front of the house.

Then a rippling movement passed across the crowd, like a breeze through a field of corn. At the same time the faces at the windows craned forward and downwards to see what was occurring under
their noses. There was a stir at the top of the steps which fronted onto the main entrance. A gentleman emerged, followed by a handful of others. They too were in their high-day finery but it was
the genuine article, rather than the trumpery items and gaudy apparel worn by most of the crowd below. Among the men on the steps I recognised Henry Wriothesley. But the principal player was Robert
Devereux, the Earl of Essex himself. Standing a little to his rear was a group of grey beards and white heads, whom I presumed to be the emissaries from Court and Council. For an instant I was
gripped by the extravagant hope that these noble individuals had come to an accommodation indoors, so that we might all go home again with swords undrawn and harsh words kept in their sheaths. But
a glance at their faces was enough to show that the parley which had taken place inside had, if anything, made the situation worse.

Even from a distance I could see that Essex’s visage was white and taut with strain. His head was thrust forward, with one ear cocked in the direction of a tall, dark man by his side and
his eyes scanning a piece of paper which he held in his hand. This was the third time I’d seen Robert Devereux and once again I had the impression of a man who was somehow part-abstracted
from his surroundings, for all the drama of the occasion. He reminded me of a player who is going through his motions and mouthing his lines but whose mind is elsewhere – with his wife or his
mistress, or distracted by debts and other dolours.

Essex handed the paper to the tall man and then raised his arms, half for quiet, half in acknowledgement. When he started to speak I was surprised by the moderate, almost mild tone of his voice.
His words carried to the corner of the yard where I stood but would not have travelled much further. I suppose I’d been expecting a firebrand, a ranter, like the Puritans to whom he gave
house room. Of course he’d been sick for much of the previous year, sick in body (and, I could not help thinking, perhaps in mind). Now he appealed to the crowd in the courtyard for help. He
said that they, his friends, had been summoned there that morning because he was in grave danger. At this there were murmurs of assent and sympathy, together with some deeper-throated
growlings.

Essex continued, more in sorrow than in anger as it seemed to me. “I have been sent for by the Council . . .” Here he paused, almost to encourage the cries of “Refuse
them!” and “They betray you!” which swelled up from the crowd. I saw how adeptly he was acting the persecuted man, with his moderate tone and injured words. I started to revise my
view of him; if he was a player, then he wasn’t such a bad one. “. . . sent for by the Council, I say. But I mean with the help of my friends to defend myself. It is no offence if a man
defend himself with the help of his friends.”

There were cries of “aye!” and “no offence, none”.

“But, my friends, it is only right that you should listen to Lord Keeper Egerton too. He has come with a message for me but I think it right to share it with you.”

There were loud murmurs at this, of which one made not far from me – “He can be the Lord Keeper of my arse” – seemed representative. Essex moved to the side of the little
platform at the top of the steps while one of the greybeards stepped forward. I had to remind myself that this individual was a very great man indeed, one of the most powerful in the kingdom. I had
to remind myself that this was no playhouse stage, and that these events were being enacted on the stage of the world, where the blood that may flow is real enough (and not the sheep’s blood
that we employ in the playhouse), where men’s wounds are often fatal and their words scarcely less dangerous.

When the Lord Keeper spoke, it was with one eye on the crowd. Doubtless he was tailoring his words for us almost as much as he was shaping them for Essex, Southampton and the other principals.
This perhaps made him more politic than he would have been in private. Certainly the short dialogue which followed had an almost ‘stagey’ rehearsed quality to it. These men were
speaking
at
each other and
to
an audience.

“My lord,” Egerton began graciously, “our gracious lady the Queen has sent us to know the causes of your discontents and why you have assembled these men here today.”

“My lord,” Essex replied, “you may tell our gracious lady the Queen that the causes of my discontents and the cause why my friends are assembled here today are so close
together that you might not put an hair between them. My discontents are theirs also – and these ‘discontents’, as you please to term them, I think you and the rest of the Council
know well.”

“Then you must also know that you have the promise of the Council for a full hearing and justice for any grievances.”

“I know only that my life has been sought by the Council and that I should have been murdered in my bed.”

Essex now spoke in a loud, unsteady voice that was at odds with his earlier more-in-sorrow-than anger speech to us. Lord Keeper Egerton seemed taken aback by the vehemence of the Earl’s
words. It was as if Devereux had departed from a play text. Now Egerton repeated the promise that the other’s grievances would be attended to. But Essex’s outburst had broken the
relative calm of the beginning of the encounter, and there was a general stirring on the stage at the top of the steps as well as renewed murmuring in the crowd. Another of the greybeards –
even more reverend than the Lord Keeper, if that was possible – now took centre stage in an attempt to restore order to the scene. Some wag identified him in my hearing as Popham, “the
Lord Chief Injustice”. I couldn’t hear what Popham said but his gesturing was sufficient to show that he meant for all the great ones to step inside the house once again and confer in
private. This was too much for many members of the crowd. They’d had enough talk; they craved action. There was some outright shouting, including some from my Italian gateman.

“They will abuse you!”

“They betray you!”

“
Cattivi! Cani!
”

“You will be undone, my lord!”

“You lose time.”

The Lord Keeper must have realised that the crowd was entirely hostile to him and the other Councillors, and that nothing was to be gained by reason or argument, for then he did a brave thing.
He turned to face us and placed his hat back on his head. This seemed to signify that he was no longer making way for little courtesies but was acting now with the full weight of his office. He
cried out:

“I command you all upon your allegiance to lay down your weapons and to depart.”

Speaking for myself, I was so willing to comply with the command that I would happily have burrowed in my clothing and laid my little knife at his feet, as if to say “Look at me, a loyal
subject of her majesty.” But my companions in the courtyard, after taking a moment to taste the seriousness of Egerton’s words and not liking their flavour, proceeded to spit them out
again. At the same time Essex replaced
his
hat on his head (as if this was a signal that hostilities were now to be resumed), spun round on his heel and marched back into his house. He was
followed by the others, both the emissaries of the Queen and his own group. From the yard came cries of “Kill them!” and “Throw them out the window!” Signor Noti was
particularly vocal in demanding instant death, as befitted his nation and his temperament.