Watch the Lady (54 page)

Popham releases an angry laugh. “Inconvenienced!”

When they have left the room, Penelope watches from the gallery window as they emerge into the courtyard. She can see a consignment of mounted guards from the palace in the Queen's livery, moving along the Strand towards them. Her heart sits high in her throat, making it difficult to breathe. From the south-side windows she can see the delegation take the steps down to the pier with Gorges behind them. He helps them, one by one, into the waiting boat, which tips and bucks under their weight. The oarsman casts off and they move away into the river, circling round to travel upstream in the direction of Whitehall. Penelope feels her insides shrink. Meyrick comes to stand beside her. They don't look at each other.

“I am uneasy about that,” she says, nodding her head in the direction of the boat that is moving at a fair pace now.

“How so, my lady?”

“Is Gorges loyal?”

She realizes she has asked Meyrick this before, but this time his answer is less certain. “I hope so.”

On the Strand the troops are nearing, the thrum of hooves becoming louder. There is a drummer with them, matching the beat of her heart.

“You should leave, my lady, there is not much time.” Meyrick still doesn't look at her. “With Lady Essex. Take one of the boats, before it is too late. I fear things will become . . .” He stops, wiping a hand through his hair. “I fear for your safety.”

“Meyrick, what do you take me for?” She keeps her voice light as if she is jesting. “You have known me for years. I am a Devereux.” He looks at her then and she beams at him. “Don't worry about me, and Lady Essex has more nerve than you think.”

The troops have begun to surround the house, posting sentries at all the gates.

“Look!” he says, pointing towards the east where the river bends. “I think it is your brother with Southampton. Do you see it?” He opens the window and leans out. “Do you see his scarlet cape?” He is indicating a flotilla of small boats; the kind of mean craft that ferry folks across to the Southwark bear pits.

“But where is his barge?”

“I'm sure it is them. Yes, it is.”

She is thinking that if he is not in his own barge, and has been reduced to cadging a wherry the size of a beer barrel, then something is amiss. But Meyrick is right. Her brother
is
aboard one of the boats, she can see him quite clearly now, and Southampton in his red cape. They are all pumping urgently at the oars, even the earls.

“Something is wrong, they are retreating,” Meyrick says.

She glances west towards Whitehall, and sees, inevitably, a number of barges bearing the royal colors headed their way too. They are farther away but are upstream with the current behind them. She wills the odd little armada on, as it bobs towards them at an excruciatingly slow pace. The fleet from Whitehall is bearing down. They hear an ominous thud and, turning towards the Strand entrance, see that while they have been watching the water a battering ram has been prepared to break down the gates. It meets its mark once more with another almighty thud but the gates hold.

A terrible female screaming starts up from somewhere and Penelope imagines the effect it must have on the troops out there, knowing there are women within. Perhaps that will give them a soupçon of bargaining power; God knows they need it. The men in the yard are preparing to fight. There are precious few of them and one is that young lad who came into the chapel earlier. An agonizing pang strikes her as she realizes that her own children may well lose their mother on this day.

Leaning from the window, she orders the men inside. “Get all the furniture, anything heavy you can lay your hands on. Barricade the house.” It is only a matter of minutes before the gates will give way and those few in the yard are no match for the troops without. She turns to Meyrick. “You go and take charge down there. Make sure Essex can gain entry, then, once they are in, seal the place.” She is silently urging her brother on. “Find out what we have in the way of weapons and make sure each entrance is well guarded with as many armed men as possible.”

Meyrick has already charged the distance of the long gallery and is at the head of the stairs. “Ensure all the female servants are sent up to me.” She refuses to entertain the fact that Essex in his upturned barrel might not reach them, but takes a last look out to gauge their progress, willing them to find some hidden current that will speed them upstream before the looming barges, with six oarsmen apiece—she can see them quite clearly now—find their rhythm.

She can already hear the scrape of furniture being dragged across the flagstones downstairs, with Meyrick barking out orders. Tearing herself away from the window, she rushes to the chapel, dragging Frances from her prayers.

“Gather all his papers, everything there is, letters, documents, books—anything that might incriminate him. We must burn every last scrap. You take the bedchamber and I shall deal with the study. Bring it all there, for the fire is lit.” She is trying to keep calm, her mind focused on what she must do right now, and not on what might happen in the near future. But she can feel a flush of fear crawling up her body.

Frances nods, making for the door. “He has the Scottish letters on his person.”

Penelope looks at her sister-in-law, wondering: if he has told his wife about those letters, then who else? “You are sure of that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Let's hope to God he has the good sense to get rid of them if he's captured.”

“It will not come to that.”

Penelope doesn't mention the collection of boats out there and the royal barges bearing down on them. There is no point in bursting Frances's optimism at this stage; it will all unfold soon enough.

As she enters the study she realizes the enormity of the task in hand, more than a decade's worth of secret diplomacy—heaven knows what might be written there that could be turned against them. Aside from the two chests filled to bursting, one with correspondence and the other with legal papers, there is a wall of books. Many of them have notes and pieces of paper between their pages, any of which could be incriminating. She starts with the chests, pulling out bundles of letters and throwing them into the fire, waiting until they have caught before adding more.

Four servant girls arrive from downstairs. One is a buxom, practical lass who seems unperturbed by the situation, one is older, thin as a wraith, and wears her dread in a pair of startled eyes, the other two are very young, and are clinging tightly to each other. She sends two of them to help Frances search every cranny of the house and sets the other two to work on the trunks, while she pulls the books down from the shelves, flipping through the pages of each one to see what might be hidden there. It is slow work, for some of the vellum documents do not burn easily and they have to take the utmost care that no fragments are left.

Frances returns, brandishing a fistful of letters, and begins to feed them into the fire. “God only knows what they are,” she says, her mouth set in a thin line. “Letters from his mistress in the main part, from what I can tell.”

“Best be rid of everything,” says Penelope.

Glancing from the window, she can see the fleet from Whitehall has drawn up beside the river steps, forming a line, so they are surrounded entirely. To her relief, though, she spots a few of the small wherries drifting off back down the river unmanned. She doesn't say anything in case she is mistaken and asks Frances to continue with the books so she can investigate. Out in the gallery she runs, calling for Essex, finding him eventually in the great chamber with a wild-eyed Southampton and a desultory group of men. She can hear Meyrick by the main entrance, keeping things in order.

“Oh God, thank God,” she says, rushing towards her brother, who seems, despite being filthy and dripping in sweat, surprisingly assured. “What happened to all the rest?”

“Half of them fled at the first sign of trouble,” says Southampton. “Your stepfather is wounded badly. Some stayed to treat him.”

“Will he live?” she asks, thinking, with a hollow in the pit of her stomach, of their mother widowed for a third time.

“Hard to say,” Essex replies. “We couldn't get everyone back here.” She can see his eyes flare in anger as he adds, “Others are seeking Smyth and his thousand men. We couldn't find him. Something must have happened. But once the force is mustered they have orders to make haste and join us here.”

“Then we will have a real battle on our hands.” It is Southampton who says this, causing a general exclamation of agreement in the chamber. But Penelope is thinking about all the men who used to turn out in support of Essex, lining the streets thirty deep in places, waving his colors, boys brandishing wooden swords and hanging from parapets to get a better look at their hero. Where are they all now? They were gone for hours in the city and returned with fewer men than they left with. She supposes that Essex is operating under a delusion. Time has moved on without his noticing.

She is about to ask if he has a contingency plan when Essex says, “How are our
guests
?”

Time stops as the realization dawns on her: he believes the delegation is still safely ensconced in his study. So that is why he seems so full of bluster.

She girds herself. “They are gone.”

He looks at her as if he doesn't understand what she means. “Gone?”

“Gorges came. He said you had charged him to accompany them to the Privy Council and plead your cause.”

Essex expels a cry, a bestial sound.

Southampton winces loudly with an expletive, as he smashes his fist on the wall. “He had no such order.”

The chamber falls silent and Penelope supposes they are all coming to the understanding, as she is, that Gorges has betrayed them, not only by releasing the delegation, but also with the fiction of the thousand men. Without such a lure Essex would have marched on the court, not into London, and the cankered future spread out before them might have looked entirely different.

“It can't be helped now,” she says, taking charge. “We have set to burning all your papers. Give me the Scottish letters.” Essex is standing as if in a trance now, dead eyes staring straight ahead. “Robin!” she says with force, but gets no response. “For God's sake, Robin.”

Without thinking she slaps him sharply across the face. Someone amongst the company gasps. Essex looks at her in shock. “The Scottish letters.” She holds out her hand and, like an obedient boy, he lifts the thong over his head, handing over the pouch without a word. “Now pull yourself together, take charge. Your men need ordering.” The whole room is suspended in silence, watching. “What are you all gawping for?” She is shouting now. “Ensure the house is secured. We must prepare for a siege, at least until all the papers have been destroyed.” She throws the black pouch into the hearth: fifteen years of careful negotiating up in flames. But the allegiances are tied fast now between the Devereuxs and King James, written proof or not. The acrid smell of burning leather fills the room.

A violent crash sounds outside. It must be the breaching of the gate, and the dreadful female screeching starts up once more. Only then does Essex seem to come to his senses and make for the window, saying with a bitter laugh, “She has sent them all, I see,” and begins listing: “Nottingham, Cumberland, Lincoln, Howard, what great numbers they have rallied, and look”—he slaps Southampton on the shoulder—“it is your dear friend Grey.” His voice is seething with sarcasm. “See all my old comrades—there is Robert Sidney . . .” His voice trails off.

The screaming woman will not desist.

Penelope watches Robert Sidney. He is walking towards the house alone, unguarded, and she is reminded of his long-dead brother, who had exactly the same way of holding himself—the straight posture, the long stride, the upward tilt of the chin that was so often misconceived as arrogance. She only then notices two great cannon on the Strand, a pair of chilling black eyes, trained directly on the house. There are men scurrying about them—loading them, she supposes.

The screaming goes on.

“Someone find that woman and shut her up,” snaps Essex.

“Leave her,” says Penelope. “That woman's screams will prick the conscience of the army without. If they have any sense of what is right, they will not want to bombard a house full of women.”

“I beg of you, Essex, give yourself up!” shouts Robert Sidney, from beneath the window.

“I'm going out to talk to him,” says Southampton.

“It's too dangerous; you will be shot sooner than listened to,” says Essex, who seems to have found his resolve. “Get on to the roof; from there you will be out of range.” He grips his friend's upper arm, speaking quietly and insistently. “Buy me time. Penelope is right; the papers must be disposed of. I have some hidden that I must deal with.” His expression is flint hard. He rattles off orders for the others in the chamber and then plants a hasty kiss on his sister's cheek with a murmured “Thank you,” then leaves the room with the others, their weapons clanking.

Only moments later she can hear Southampton shouting down to Robert Sidney from the roof directly above.

“For pity's sake,” Robert Sidney is saying, his hands on either side of his head in a gesture of despair. “Give yourselves up. Nottingham will not hold back. Those cannon will demolish the place with all in it.” He points towards the twin black beams that hold Essex House in their deadly gaze through the gloaming, and she is assaulted by a fragment of memory. She can feel the rough kiss of parchment beneath her fingers as if time has collapsed and she is that young woman once more. She runs her eyes over the remembered inky lines. The words are engraved on her soul:
When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes, / In color black why wrapped she beams so bright?
She can sense the warmth of Philip Sidney's body beside her.