our ranks. Doughty fighters sure.’ Essex’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yet can they not be sent for? I would want you warding my back as ever from the muster.’
A small confidence sometimes helped. ‘There are some . . . troubles that I must settle first, my lord. A, um, private matter.’
‘Oh, I have heard.’ Essex instantly changed. He grinned. ‘Tess has grown weary of your drunkenness, has she not? When will you heed the warning in Ecclesiastes: “For wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging.” ’
‘Proverbs, I venture, my lord, chapter twenty, verse—’
‘And she has settled instead on a certain fat knight to give her what you could not?’
John shook his head. This was not a conversation he wished to be having. ‘My lord, she was gently born . . . as you know, your own lady’s gentlewoman . . . and aspires to a title other than . . . than mistress of the tavern that your lady wife so kindly advanced sums for. Um . . .’
He trailed off. But the gleam had not left Essex’s eye. ‘I tell you this, my good servant. When I raise my standard, all my followers must rally straightway to it – and all private matters must be put aside. That same Sir Samuel D’Esparr wears my colours, while his estate is mortgaged . . . to me!’ The grin widened. ‘Thus he cannot marry without my permission. And I will not let any man marry when the coming chance may make his bride his widow. War and its hazards will perhaps leave Tess with . . . different choices, hmm?’ He nodded, a touch of grimness to it. ‘Many a man’s fate awaits in Ireland. Mine. Tyrone’s. Yours. Despair’s.’
John could only nod, speech a faculty now lost to him. Essex had a way of surprising him – as now, proposing that Death choose between Tess’s two suitors. He needed to think. By all the saints, he needed to drink! Surely one tot of aqua vitae, to aid in discovering a path through this thicket, would not go amiss?
And then he was spared the need for answer or argument.
Yells came from the stable yard. One of them he knew instantly, as a father goose always will recognise its young. ‘Unhand me,’ Ned Lawley cried. ‘I will not go. Help, ho! Kidnap!’
Sketching the minimum of bows, John was already on his way to the stable door. ‘My lord, my son calls. I must go to him.’
‘Stay!’
John turned on the shouted command – to witness Essex draw his sword. ‘As you to Ireland next week, so I with you now,’ the earl cried, waving steel. ‘Lead, comrade, and I will follow.’
‘My lord, I do not think . . .’ He broke off as more shouts came, the players involved now. Wondering briefly at the wisdom of appearing with a drawn Earl of Essex in the yard of Whitehall Palace, John rushed through the stable and out the other side.
VIII
Tug Before War
The scene had changed.
It was still lit by a brazier. Yet instead of this being surrounded by imbibing players celebrating a season’s end, two armed gangs now faced each other across the flames. On one side stood the Chamberlain’s Men, some with cudgels hefted. On the other stood Sir Samuel D’Esparr’s three louts, rapiers drawn, with the knight himself in their midst holding a writhing Ned by the collar. A screen of the palace guard was between John and the confrontation, the men leaning on their pikes. No doubt they considered it like the recently performed play their betters had watched above.
John hesitated. To draw himself would lead almost inevitably to a fight and some stabbings. And then he realised that course was not open to him – he’d forgotten his sword in the garden. So how to extricate Ned, whose eyes beseeched him, without bloodshed?
However, there was another man with steel already out, one who rarely hesitated. ‘What is this outrage?’ cried the Earl of Essex, bursting through the guards. ‘Men with blades bared – in the Queen’s yard?’ He turned to the corporal in charge of the guard and slapped his shoulder plate. ‘This is treason!
A small confidence sometimes helped. ‘There are some . . . troubles that I must settle first, my lord. A, um, private matter.’
‘Oh, I have heard.’ Essex instantly changed. He grinned. ‘Tess has grown weary of your drunkenness, has she not? When will you heed the warning in Ecclesiastes: “For wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging.” ’
‘Proverbs, I venture, my lord, chapter twenty, verse—’
‘And she has settled instead on a certain fat knight to give her what you could not?’
John shook his head. This was not a conversation he wished to be having. ‘My lord, she was gently born . . . as you know, your own lady’s gentlewoman . . . and aspires to a title other than . . . than mistress of the tavern that your lady wife so kindly advanced sums for. Um . . .’
He trailed off. But the gleam had not left Essex’s eye. ‘I tell you this, my good servant. When I raise my standard, all my followers must rally straightway to it – and all private matters must be put aside. That same Sir Samuel D’Esparr wears my colours, while his estate is mortgaged . . . to me!’ The grin widened. ‘Thus he cannot marry without my permission. And I will not let any man marry when the coming chance may make his bride his widow. War and its hazards will perhaps leave Tess with . . . different choices, hmm?’ He nodded, a touch of grimness to it. ‘Many a man’s fate awaits in Ireland. Mine. Tyrone’s. Yours. Despair’s.’
John could only nod, speech a faculty now lost to him. Essex had a way of surprising him – as now, proposing that Death choose between Tess’s two suitors. He needed to think. By all the saints, he needed to drink! Surely one tot of aqua vitae, to aid in discovering a path through this thicket, would not go amiss?
And then he was spared the need for answer or argument.
Yells came from the stable yard. One of them he knew instantly, as a father goose always will recognise its young. ‘Unhand me,’ Ned Lawley cried. ‘I will not go. Help, ho! Kidnap!’
Sketching the minimum of bows, John was already on his way to the stable door. ‘My lord, my son calls. I must go to him.’
‘Stay!’
John turned on the shouted command – to witness Essex draw his sword. ‘As you to Ireland next week, so I with you now,’ the earl cried, waving steel. ‘Lead, comrade, and I will follow.’
‘My lord, I do not think . . .’ He broke off as more shouts came, the players involved now. Wondering briefly at the wisdom of appearing with a drawn Earl of Essex in the yard of Whitehall Palace, John rushed through the stable and out the other side.
VIII
Tug Before War
The scene had changed.
It was still lit by a brazier. Yet instead of this being surrounded by imbibing players celebrating a season’s end, two armed gangs now faced each other across the flames. On one side stood the Chamberlain’s Men, some with cudgels hefted. On the other stood Sir Samuel D’Esparr’s three louts, rapiers drawn, with the knight himself in their midst holding a writhing Ned by the collar. A screen of the palace guard was between John and the confrontation, the men leaning on their pikes. No doubt they considered it like the recently performed play their betters had watched above.
John hesitated. To draw himself would lead almost inevitably to a fight and some stabbings. And then he realised that course was not open to him – he’d forgotten his sword in the garden. So how to extricate Ned, whose eyes beseeched him, without bloodshed?
However, there was another man with steel already out, one who rarely hesitated. ‘What is this outrage?’ cried the Earl of Essex, bursting through the guards. ‘Men with blades bared – in the Queen’s yard?’ He turned to the corporal in charge of the guard and slapped his shoulder plate. ‘This is treason!
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