Earthly Joys. Philippa Gregory

who lack all judgement, who care nothing for agreements, who just want to act. They’d rather die in the faith than live in peace with their neighbours.’

      The boat nudged the landing stage and the rowers snapped their oars upright. A dozen lanterns were lit on the wooden pier and burned either side of the broad leafy path to the house to light the lord homeward. ‘If they attempt to disturb the peace of the land that I have struggled so hard to win – then they are dead men,’ Cecil said gently.

       October 1605

      The peace Cecil worked for did not come at once. A year later in mid-autumn John saw one of the house servants picking his way down the damp terrace steps to where he was working in the knot garden. Cecil had finally agreed that he should take out the gravel and replace it with plants. John was bedding in some strong cotton lavender which he thought would catch the frost and turn feathery white and beautiful in the winter, and convince his master that a garden could be rich with plants as well as cleanly perfect in shapes made with stones.

      ‘The earl wants you,’ the servant said, emphasising the new tide, reflecting the pleasure the whole household felt. ‘The earl wants you in his private chamber.’

      John straightened up, sensing trouble. ‘I’ll have to wash and change my clothes,’ he said, gesturing to his muddy hands and his rough breeches.

      ‘He said, at once.’

      John went towards the house at a run, entered through the side door from the Royal Court, crossed the great hall, silent and warm in the afternoon quiet after the hubbub of the midday dinner, and then went through the small door behind the lord’s throne which led to his private apartments.

      A couple of pageboys and menservants were tidying the outer room, a couple of the lord’s gentlemen gambling on cards at a small table. John went past them and tapped on the door. The sound of the Irish harp playing a lament abruptly stopped and a voice called: ‘Come in!’

      John opened the door a crack and sidled into the room. His lordship was, unusually, alone, seated at his desk with his harp on his knee. John was instantly wary.

      ‘I came at once; but I’m dirty,’ he said.

      He wanted Robert Cecil to glance up, but the man’s face was down, looking at the harp on his lap. John could not see him, nor read his expression.

      ‘The man said it was urgent – ‘

      The figure at the desk was still.

      There was a silence.

      ‘For God’s sake, my lord, tell me you are well and that all is well with you!’ John finally burst out.

      At last Cecil looked up and his face, normally scored with pain, was alive with mischief. His eyes were sparkling, his mouth, under his neat moustache, was smiling.

      ‘I have a game to play, John. If you will take a hand for me.’

      The relief to see his lord happy was so great that John assented at once, without thinking. ‘Of course.’

      ‘Sit down.’

      John pulled a little stool up to the dark wood desk and the two men went head to head, Robert Cecil speaking so softly that a man in the same room could not have heard them, let alone any of them waiting outside the door.

      ‘I have a letter that I want delivered to Lord Monteagle,’ he whispered. ‘Delivered to him and none other.’

      John nodded and leaned back. ‘I can do that.’

      Cecil reached across and pulled him closer again. ‘It’s more than a messenger boy I want,’ he whispered. ‘The contents of the letter are enough to hang Monteagle, and to hang the messenger. You must not be seen delivering it, you must not be seen with it. Your own life depends on you getting it to him with no man seeing you.’

      John’s eyes widened.

      ‘Will you do it for me?’

      There was a brief silence.

      ‘Of course, my lord. I am your man.’

      ‘Don’t you want to know what’s in the letter?’ Superstitiously, John shook his head.

      Cecil, mightily amused at the sight of his gardener stunned into silence, broke down and laughed aloud. ‘John, my John, what a poor conspirator you will make.’

      John nodded. ‘It is not my trade, my lord,’ he said with simple dignity. ‘You have others in your service better skilled. But if you want me to take a letter and deliver it unseen, then I will do that.’ He paused for a moment. ‘It will not undo Lord Monteagle? I would not be a Judas.’

      Cecil shrugged his shoulders. ‘The letter itself is nothing more than words on a page. It’s not poison, it won’t kill him. What he does with the letter is his own choice. His end will be determined by that choice.’

      John felt himself to be swimming in deep and dark waters. ‘I’ll do what you wish,’ he muttered, clinging only to his faith in his lord and his own vow of loyalty.

      Cecil leaned back and tossed a small note across the table. It was addressed to Lord Monteagle, but the hand was not Robert Cecil’s nor that of any of his secretaries.

      ‘Get it to him tonight,’ Robert Cecil said. ‘Without fail. There’s a boat waiting for you at the jetty. Make sure you are not seen. Not in the streets, not at his house, and not, not, with the letter. If you are captured, destroy it. If you are questioned, deny it.’

      John nodded and rose to his feet.

      ‘John-’ his master called as he reached the door. John stopped and turned around. His lord sat behind his desk, his face, his whole stance alive with joy at plotting and trickery and the game of politics which he played so consummately well. ‘I would trust no other man to do this for me,’ Cecil said.

      John met his master’s bright gaze and knew the pleasure of being the favourite. He bowed and went out.

      He went first to the knot garden and gathered up his tools. The plants which were not yet bedded in he took back to his nursery plots and heeled them into the earth. Not even an act of high treason could make John Tradescant forget his plants. He glanced around the walled nursery garden. There was no-one there. He rose to his feet and brushed the earth from his hands and then he went to the potting shed where he had left his winter cloak. He carried it over his arm, as if he were headed for the hall for a bite to eat, but turned instead towards the river.

      There was a wherry boat waiting at the lord’s private jetty but it was otherwise deserted.

      ‘For London?’ the man asked without much interest. ‘In a hurry?’

      ‘Yes,’ John said shortly.

      He stepped into the little boat and he thought the lurch it made at his weight was what caused the sudden pounding of his heart. He sat in the prow of the boat so the man might not have the chance to look in his face, and he wrapped himself warm in his cape and pulled down his hat over his face. He was sure that the sunlight along the river was pointing a rippling finger towards him so that every fisherman and riverside walker, pedlar and beggar took particular note of him as the boat went swiftly downstream.

      The river flowed fast down to London, and the tide was on the ebb. They did the journey quicker than John had hoped and when the boat nudged against the Whitehall steps and John leaped ashore it was only dusk. He blamed his sense of sickness on the movement of the boat. He did not want to recognise his fear.

      No-one paid any attention to the working man with his hat pulled down over his eyes and his cape up to his ears. There were hundreds, thousands of men like him, making their way across London for their suppers. John knew the way to Lord Monteagle’s house and slipped from shadow to shadow, making little sound on the dirt and mud of the streets.