‘This is very welcome on a cold night, eh, Mr Newman?’
These were the first words he had spoken. His voice, like his manner, was easy, confident. Nick examined his glass, as if to savour the mere sight of the warmed wine. But his mind was elsewhere, working furiously. The man had addressed him as Newman, hadn’t he? Not as Revill. Which meant that he was unaware of his real identity. As if to confirm the mistake, the man now added in a tone that was more of a statement than a question: ‘You are Richard Newman of Prince Henry’s Men.’
‘That’s right, although we still refer to ourselves as the Admiral’s Men,’ said Nicholas Revill in a tone that he hoped would convey slight surprise at how well-informed the speaker was. For an instant, it occurred to him to put the man right, to give his real name and to declare he was a member of the King’s Men. But some instinct told him to stick with the assumed name. And, even as he decided this, he struggled to remember the limited number of people who knew him as Richard Newman.
Meanwhile, it seemed that the man wanted to test Nick’s claims for he now said: ‘So, if you are with Prince Henry’s or the Admiral’s, you must be acquainted with Thomas Downton and Richard Jones of that company?’
‘Of course I know them, and I also know…’ And here Nick reeled off half a dozen names of players with the Admiral’s Men. He did know some of them personally, while the rest he had heard of. It was unlikely the man would detect the pretence, or at least it would take him a bit of time to do so. The big names in any group of players were familiar but there was quite a bit of coming-and-going between the London companies and no outsider would be able to keep track of all the latest arrivals and departures. For once, Nick was glad of his relatively junior status in Shakespeare’s company. He decided to take the initiative.
‘Since you know who I am, you ought to return the courtesy,’ he said, pleased at the steadiness in his voice.
‘You can call me Henry Ashe,’ said the man, staring at Nick as if daring him to dispute the name. Nick’s hold on his glass tightened. When he next spoke, it was harder to keep his voice even.
‘Henry Ashe, the author of The English Brothers?’
‘That’s a seditious and satirical piece, so it is not likely that I would be the author.’
‘Why is it unlikely you’d be the author, Mr Ashe? Who are you? Why am I here?’
Nick did not meant to ask so many questions but they came tumbling out. Be careful, he told himself.
‘I said that you can call me Henry Ashe, Mr Newman. Let’s be satisfied with that, as I am satisfied for the moment that you are who you say you are. As for the reason I keep sedition at arm’s length – why, that is what any true-born Englishman should do. But, more precisely, it is because I work for… because I am a Messenger of the Chamber.’ This title was uttered with a little flourish, like the hat-removing.
Nick nodded. It confirmed his fears. The harmless sounding ‘Messenger of the Chamber’ was a title sometimes used by agents of the Privy Council. From the number and efficiency of the group that had apprehended him on the Bridge, as well as the opulence of the chamber in Nonesuch House, Nick already knew he could be at the mercy of only one particular arm of the state. This was the Council, operating under the direct control of its secretary, Robert Cecil. Diminutive Cecil, now the Earl of Salisbury. Cecil, the man with the crooked back, who had his finger in more pies than you could count and who ran a network of spies and informants in the name of national security. Nick had encountered Robert Cecil once at the end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign. It was not a happy memory.
Nick’s only weapon was that, for the time being, the man calling himself Henry Ashe thought he was someone else.
‘If you are what you say you are,’ he said to Ashe, ‘then of course you cannot be the author of The English Brothers.’
‘That was Christopher Dole. I hear he is dead – by his own hand.’
‘And I heard,’ said Nick, the blood thudding in his ears as he spoke, ‘that Mr Dole was visited before his death by a gentleman who bore a great resemblance to you. He even gave your name.’
Ashe didn’t reply straight away. He got up and refilled his glass, then came over to refill Nick’s. It was if they were two old friends chatting in comfort. When he sat down again, he said: ‘Yes, it’s true, I did call on Dole. I gave the name of Ashe because it amused me to do so. I heard the name bandied about in a tavern called The Ram.’
Nick barely suppressed a start of surprise at the mention of the place where he’d gone in search of George Bruton. Ashe noticed Nick’s reaction.
‘You are probably thinking that The Ram is rather a low place for someone more used to Nonesuch House. But I tell you, Mr Newman, all kinds of information can be garnered there. People are less careful what they say in such places. It is a regular resort of ours. And of yours, I believe. Your voice sounds familiar.’
Nick remembered the recent occasion when he’d seen Bruton in the tavern. He had given his name as Newman, had claimed to be from the Admirals’. He remembered too that there was a group of drinkers in another corner of The Ram. Was Ashe one of them? He must have been. Perhaps it was not de Worde that the group was after but himself, under the assumed name of Newman. Perhaps they had been tracking de Worde but only in the hope that he would lead them to more valuable prey.
The man from the Privy Council continued: ‘I went to visit Christopher Dole because I was looking into some… careless comments that had been written about our sovereign. When I left him, he was still alive.’
Nick said nothing. Ashe’s words agreed with what Hans de Worde had said. It looked as though Dole had not been murdered, after all.
‘It may be,’ said Ashe, ‘that something I said caused Mr Dole to reflect on the continued worth of his existence. He was not in good health, poor fellow. On the contrary he was thin and shaking and in a very low mood. Perhaps he feared further investigation. Not every conversation can take place in such pleasant surroundings as this, Mr Newman.’
Henry Ashe gestured at the room where they were sitting. His meaning was plain enough: we have other spaces to talk in, other means by which we might interest you in talking to us.
Ashe suddenly said: ‘What do you know about the Oseney text?’
Nick had heard of the Oseney text from Alan Dole, but it meant nothing to him. His look of confused ignorance must have been convincing to Ashe since, for the first time in their encounter, the other man appeared uncertain.
‘It is the reason we have been keeping an eye on various people – one of the reasons. The other is Mr Dole’s unwise mockery of the monarch. But it is the Oseney text we are after. It is the old manuscript of a play reputed to have unusual powers. Some phrases from the Oseney text were used in that play called The English Brothers. The phrases were recognised by… those who are knowledgeable in such things. It followed that whoever penned The English Brothers must also be in possession of the Oseney text or know its whereabouts.’
‘What do you mean by “unusual powers”?’ said Nick, genuinely curious.
‘The Oseney text is reputed to be cursed.’
As a theatre man, Nick was familiar with stories about those dangerous phrases and spells that ought not to be uttered on stage. Hadn’t an extra demon, one not accounted for in the list of players, appeared from nowhere during a performance of Doctor Faustus? And the thought of the devil suddenly explained why Secretary Cecil’s man was concerned about a text with a curse on it.