Word arrived that an official announcement was to be made about the Queen in one of the larger chambers. Every room, corridor and staircase in the Palace emptied its occupants and they converged on a moment of history. Lord Westfield looked around at the distinguished gathering. All the royal favourites were there with their retinues of hopeful supporters. Essex posed, Oxford twitched, Raleigh was pensive, Mountjoy was sad and the others composed their features into what they felt was the appropriate face for such a solemn occasion. A staff was banged once on the floor to command immediate silence then a door opened and two rather decrepit old gentlemen came in.
Their laboured gait and their sense of effort was reminiscent of Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather but these were no tired watchmen. They were trusted servants of the state who were bowed down with grief. Lord Burghley hobbled along with the aid of a walking stick and Dr John Mordrake looked in need of some similar assistance as well. They climbed awkwardly up onto the dais and turned to face the whole court. It should have fallen to the Lord Treasurer to make the grim announcement but he deferred to the old astrologer who was now bent double by the weight of his medallion. Dr John Mordrake cleared his throat.
‘She is gone,’ he said.
A wave of pain hit even the most cynical listeners and a loud murmur started up. Mordrake quelled it at once with a skeletal hand. Having been in at the death, he wanted the privilege of describing it.
‘I was called in too late,’ he continued. ‘Had they let me see her earlier, I might have prolonged a life that was a joy to all who came into contact with her. I count myself lucky to have been her friend and her adviser for many a year and her memory is engraved on my old heart. When I made my examination of her, I knew the worst. She had less than forty-eight hours to live. And so it proved.’ Tears welled. ‘Forgive these moist eyes of mine but we shared a special bond. She was godmother to my only son. Moreover …’
The silence which had fallen on the chamber was charged with mild hysteria. Dr John Mordrake was not talking about Queen Elizabeth at all. As he burbled on about a dear lady with high principles and a love of duty, it was evident that the deceased was Blanche Parry. The astonishing woman who had been at Her Majesty’s side for over three decades as her closest friend had finally passed away, taking with her the scholarly enthusiasm and the love for ostentation which she had shared with the Queen. In the circumstances, it was not surprising that the sovereign had retired into seclusion to watch over her beloved gentlewoman during her last days and the presence of the astrologer now made more sense. Dr John Mordrake had been introduced to the Queen by none other than Blanche Parry herself. The bottle he had borne away from the Palace had contained the specimen from a blind old lady.
Muttering broke out as relieved courtiers heard that their sinecures would continue and fraught politicians realised that all their machinations had come to nothing. Lord Burghley came forward to make a crisp announcement to the effect that Her Majesty would hold court later that morning. Those closest to him caught the whisper of a smile on the face of the old fox. His gout improved.
Lord Westfield was amongst the first to recover. His own support of King James of Scotland as the next monarch had foundered but it could be revived at a later date. The campaign of the Earls of Chichester and Banbury had run aground permanently and there would be corrosive letters from Hardwick Hall to endure. Others, too, had showed their hand in a way that they now regretted and the heavy murmur was largely produced by earnest disclaimers from embarrassed nobles. Saturday at Whitehall was yielding rich rewards for Lord Westfield. Not only did he find a Queen whom he loved alive and well, not only could he watch loathed enemies wince and squirm, he could take real pleasure from the element of intrigue. It was all deliberate.
Blanche Parry was dying and the Queen wished to be with her but she turned the occasion to full political advantage. By retiring to her apartments and maintaining a steadfast silence, she knew that she would create alarm and spread false hope. The question of the succession would bring all the swirling enmities out into the open as the courtiers who had been dearest to her wooed other possible claimants with undue haste and zeal. Long days in hiding had acquainted Queen Elizabeth with the darker truths of her position. She would henceforth reign with an even firmer grip.
Lord Westfield turned to his companions.
‘Can you not see it, sirs?’ he said jovially. ‘Blanche Parry was but the excuse to make examination of her court. Her Majesty wanted to see which way her royal favourites would scatter if she died. She was toying with them.’
‘Why?’ asked a crony.
‘For sport and for education.’
‘She took pleasure from all this?’
‘Yes,’ said Westfield. ‘It softened the pain of Blanche Parry’s death. The Queen has been playing her favourites against each other. She may be the greatest sovereign in Christendom but she is also a mad old courtesan!’
They drifted out of the chamber and along a corridor.
‘Will you go to court, my lord?’ said the crony.
‘Most assuredly. Then on to Gracechurch Street to watch a play. Love’s Sacrifice is an apter choice than ever now. It will celebrate the reign of an adorable Queen. I’ll have special lines written by Edmund Hoode to be worked into the speeches of King Gondar.’
‘What of The Spanish Jew?’
‘Who will wish to see that now?’ said Westfield. ‘Her Majesty was not poisoned by Dr Lopez and the worst usurer in London is no Jew but that damnable Clerk of Ordnance.’
The entourage laughed appreciatively. Lord Westfield saw only one cloud on the horizon. Banbury’s Men had been vanquished but his own company was haunted by a disaster.
‘Lawrence Firethorn must be there!’ he said.
‘And if he is not …?’
Night was an unrelieved torment. Lawrence Firethorn twisted and turned in his empty bed as ugly thoughts skewered his brain. Love for Beatrice Capaldi intensified with each passing hour but so did his respect for Nicholas Bracewell. Though he galloped away from the book holder, he was soon overtaken by the horror of the information which Nicholas imparted. Beatrice unfaithful? Her invitation a device to separate him from his company? Their whole relationship a contrivance by Giles Randolph? He could accept none of the propositions and yet he could not deny them either. It was unlike Nicholas to make false accusations but this was a special case. Anxious to secure the actor-manager’s presence on Saturday afternoon, even a normally truthful man might bend the facts, especially if he were prompted by such a self-willed patron as Lord Westfield. There was salvation in sight yet. Firethorn was on the rack but only one person could release him and that was Beatrice Capaldi herself. Only if he honoured the tryst would he learn the truth.
He left Shoreditch early to ride into the city and stable his horse near the wharf where he was due to meet her barge. Hours stretched before him and he spent them in tense meandering along the river. As a nearby clock struck the hour, his guilt was stirred by the reminder that Westfield’s Men were now rehearsing Love’s Sacrifice without him. Some balm did soothe him. The news from Whitehall Palace ran through the city to make it crackle with joy. Firethorn was not betraying his patron at a critical time in a dispute over the succession and that reduced the severity of his guilt. He tried to concentrate on Beatrice and the magic of their love but the face of Giles Randolph kept leering over her shoulder. Italian passion was blighted by a Spanish Jew.
Lurching up into the narrow streets, he found himself part of an excited crowd that converged on St Paul’s. His mind might be obsessed with a dark lady but it was a black stallion which drew spectators to the cathedral. Firethorn was soon staring up at the roof with the thousands of others who had come to witness a miracle of biblical stature. The actor in him was outraged. A play with Lawrence Firethorn in it would never draw such a throng. Why had the whole city turned out? Resentment and envy made him bristle.