Nicholas struggles to keep the mirth out of his voice. ‘Her Grace has a higher appreciation of the artistic form than I do, my lord.’
And then the mastiff’s bite of a gaze bares its teeth again in Ormonde’s eyes. ‘Well, I fear Her Majesty’s pleasure will have to be denied for a while. The answer is “no”.’
‘My lord?’ Nicholas says, taken aback.
‘I fear that I cannot write a passport for you, Dr Shelby. Or for Master Spenser. Certainly not at this moment. For a start, Spenser is a prominent citizen who has held several important positions on this island. How will it look to the populace if they hear he has scuttled away to safety in England?’
‘But, my lord – you surely cannot intend to stand in the way of Her Grace’s wish.’
However, Ormonde is unmoved. ‘In the matter of verse, I most surely do,’ he says gruffly. ‘It may have escaped your notice, but part of our sovereign majesty’s realm is threatened by traitorous rebels. There are poor fellows amongst my army that have suffered grievous hurts from them. There will undoubtedly be more to come, when I close with Tyrone and defeat him. My men need a competent physician almost as much as I need another muster of pike and horse.’ He gives Nicholas a challenging stare. ‘Unless, that is, you’d prefer your fellow countrymen to ail and die for lack of a surgeon, while you sit comfy in the queen’s company, listening to poetry?’
‘Of course not, my lord,’ Nicholas says quietly, feeling his control over Robert Cecil’s commission vanish like a handful of ice thrown onto a fire.
‘Consider yourself assigned to Sir Oliver Henshawe,’ Ormonde says, bringing the short audience to a close. ‘He will direct you as he sees fit. Once the situation here in Munster is resolved, Her Majesty may listen to Spenser’s horse-dung until her ears bleed. In the meantime, Dr Shelby, I fear you are a prisoner of your own undoubted abilities.’
15
The coroner’s inquisition into the murder of Lemuel Godwinson, a seventeen-year-old shepherd’s apprentice from the manor of Camberwell in the county of Surrey, and recently slain on Bankside, opens on a chill October morning beneath a grey, indifferent sky. The jurors themselves are no more charitable than the weather. It doesn’t take them long to reach a verdict.
‘On the matter of the coroner’s inquisition post-mortem upon the body of Lemuel Godwinson, previously viewed lying dead at St Thomas’s Hospital by Thieves Lane,’ the jury foreman intones laboriously as he brings the hearing to a conclusion, ‘I believe we are all in accord.’
He looks at his fellow jurists for dissent. Finding none, he continues.
‘I propose to inform the Surrey justices of the peace that Master Godwinson was assaulted by persons unknown, and died during the melee while attempting to prevent his purse being cut away. Which anyone – short of a Don, a Frenchie or a Turk – ought to know is not a wise thing to do on Bankside. Particularly at night, with no witnesses. May the good Lord have mercy on the poor lad’s soul.’
Ned Monkton adds his own amen to all the others.
Throughout the hearing Ned has sought to remain unobtrusive, no easy feat for a fearsome-looking fellow such as himself. He is not comfortable around juries of any stamp. The branded M on his thumb has made him so. But he has come out of a sense of curiosity, and also out of respect for the young recruit whose body began its official passage to the hereafter on the floor of the Jackdaw’s taproom.
The verdict comes as no surprise to Ned. What does is the fact that Gideon Strollot and Barnabas Vyves have somehow managed to inveigle themselves onto the jury.
Their presence disturbs Ned considerably. Vyves’s appearance – being the man who called poor Lemuel to arms – he can just about explain. But Strollot? Yes, he’s an alderman’s clerk, a man of some small dignity and therefore as likely to serve on a jury as any other; but on that day when Vyves brought him to the Jackdaw, didn’t he say he was from Cornhill Ward? What is a fellow from Cornhill doing on a Southwark jury?
And there is something else troubling Ned today. Why is it that no one has asked why young Lemuel Godwinson was on Bankside the night he died, and not fighting the papist rebels in Ireland, where at least his demise would have incurred the grateful thanks of his sovereign lady, Queen Elizabeth?
He steps forward from the small knot of the bored and the curious who have gathered to watch the proceedings. ‘’Scuse the liberty, Master Foreman,’ he says. ‘But I ’as a small question to ask.’
The foreman recognizes him at once. Ned’s appearance anywhere tends to be notable, and few are inclined to deny him his right to be heard, especially when he’s asking nicely.
‘Ask away, Master Monkton,’ the foreman invites.
Ned takes off his cap and says, as respectfully as he can, ‘I was merely wonderin’ what poor Lemuel was doin’ in Southwark, when ’is company is away fightin’ in Ireland. I mean, a fellow doesn’t get mustered to spend ’is time playin’ dice or visitin’ the play’ouse, does he?’
‘I fear I cannot help you, Master Monkton,’ says the foreman. ‘The question might be more properly addressed to Ensign Vyves, I think.’ He turns to Vyves, inviting him to bring light to the general darkness.
Vyves leans back in his chair. The lank hair swings around his neck like a grey veil. He adopts a look of admiration.
‘A cleverness to match your size, Master Ned,’ he says. ‘I can see as how nothing slips by you. Wasted, that’s what you are. You should hold some position of authority in this realm – like Lord Chancellor or Master of the Rolls – instead of running a tavern.’
‘I’m only askin’,’ says Ned. ‘Besides, it’s my Rose what runs the Jackdaw – for Mistress Merton.’
‘Well, you’re an observant fellow, regardless,’ says Vyves. ‘But I can set your mind at rest. Young Godwinson was kept behind due to the fact I needed someone to assist me in the procuring of pike and powder. We can’t send our fine young fellows off to fight the papist traitors with naught but the courage in their hearts, now can we?’
‘I should think not,’ says the foreman in agreement.
Vyves gives Ned a condescending smile. ‘After all, lead don’t turn itself into ball, black powder don’t mix itself, an’ pikes don’t grow on trees, do they?’
‘Well, they does, actually,’ Ned points out respectfully. ‘Pikes is made of wood. You ’as to lop a strong, straight branch an’–’
The foreman cuts in, ‘I think Master Vyves has answered the question, Master Monkton, if it pleases.’
And Ned is forced to conclude that Vyves’s answer is plausible enough. He is about to step back when a thought strikes him. Craving the foreman’s indulgence a little further, he turns to Gideon Strollot.
‘I was just wonderin’, Master Strollot, ’ow come you’re sittin’ ’ere on this ’ere jury? Seein’ as ’ow you’re from Corn’ill, that is.’
Strollot’s porcine face beams happily. ‘I happened to be with Master Vyves when he was invited. I thought it right to offer myself. A man’s civic duty may call at any time, and at any place. When it does, he should not refuse the summons.’
The foreman nods approvingly. ‘I trust that answers your enquiry, Master Monkton?’ he says. ‘Now, we are a little pressed for time–’
What makes Ned ask his follow-up question will remain a matter of conjecture for him for a long while to come. He will later put it down variously to an innate stubbornness, a mistrust of the law, a general feeling of suspicion about Gideon Strollot and Barnabas Vyves or just plain genius. But he will always look back to this moment and say he felt a guiding hand on his shoulder.