An Honourable Murderer Read Free

in the Netherlands or that he’d killed a man in a duel and only just escaped the noose – at least you wouldn’t have thought any of these things until you experienced the strength in his hands.
    At this moment, from our vantage point at the head of the gangplank which linked the
Hercules
to dry land, we could see over the heads of the people milling about on the river bank. There was a stir of activity in the region of the anonymous barge moored further upriver. There was nothing really anonymous about it, of course. How could there be when the Queen of England and Scotland was involved? A knot of uniformed yeomen blocked our view but between their shoulders I could glimpse a figure being ushered into a closed carriage. The figure’s face was concealed by an elaborate mask. From a practical point of view this was silly. (If you want to draw attention to yourself, wear a mask. If you’re looking not to be recognized, go about bare-faced and with some tiny difference from the usual.) But it was said that Queen Anne liked dressing up and taking part in dances and masques.
    Ben Jonson was still at my elbow as we paused on the gangplank, caught up in the line of our departing fellows. Beneath us was a ten-foot drop into the greasy water between the barge and the bank. I was almost fearful that a careless movement might pitch me into the river. Jonson gestured towards one of the individuals who had disembarked from the royal barge and was pacing in the Queen’s wake. This was a quite elderly man with a fine, fair moustache and a forked beard.
    â€œLook at Howard, look at the Lord High Admiral,” he said. “Observe the spring in his step. That’s what a young wife will do for you. Young wives are a great preservative.”
    Like Shakespeare, Ben Jonson was fond of showing his familiarity with the court high-ups. He did it more nakedly than WS, however. But it was true that Charles Howard – or the Earl of Nottingham – or the Lord High Admiral – walked with a bounce that denied his age as well as the weight of titles which he carried. He’d recently married a much younger woman.
    â€œGet a move on, Ben,” said someone to our rear. “You’re holding everyone up.”
    â€œI’ll move when I’m ready, thank you,” said Ben, deliberately not budging even though there was now space in front. I would have moved forward but he had me firmly by the elbow.
    â€œAnd Cecil. You know Cecil, Nick? There he is.”
    It was easy enough to spot Sir Robert Cecil, Secretary to the Privy Council. Cecil was a short man with a large head topped by a great brow. But his main emblem was the crooked back that accompanied him everywhere. Today he was on his feet although usually he would not walk any distance in public and must be transported in a chair. Seeing Cecil I felt a queasiness in my guts.
    â€œI have met Secretary Cecil, yes.”
    â€œ
You
have met him. When?”
    I recalled being taken blindfold through the midnight streets of London for my meeting with Robert Cecil in the closing days of Queen Elizabeth’s reign when the Earl of Essex was plotting his treason. I recalled the task with which Cecil had entrusted me. The secrecy of it. *
    â€œIt’s of no account,” I said. “I’ve no wish to meet him again. He is dedicated to his plots.”
    I pulled out of Jonson’s grasp and started to move down the gangplank before the people behind grew impatient enough to shove us into the Thames.
    â€œDedicated to plots? You must tell me about it some time,” said Jonson. “I can smell a story.”
    â€œWho’s that man and the woman too?” I said to distract him.
    A slight individual with prominent ears was leaning down so that Cecil might whisper something to him. He looked grave, as you would do if the second most powerful (some would say
the
most powerful) man in the kingdom was addressing you. Nearby stood a