Martin arrived back at Saxon Hall just before his first visitor. He was still wearing the disguise which made Kate think of him as a bear. He was upstairs unpacking his own luggage for there were a number of items in it which he wished no one else to see. One of them was a small volume which he had found at the bottom of a chest in his bedroom at Bretford House—the room which had once been his brother’s.
It was bound in vellum and appeared at first to be a commonplace book in which the owner entered in his own handwriting poems, sayings and items which had interested him. Written in faded ink on the title-page were the words John Chancellor, his book. Even a cursory inspection, however, showed that the book was more than that. After a few pages it turned into a diary, a record of his brother’s daily life, and as Martin rapidly turned its pages he saw his own name mentioned several times.
Curious to find out what his brother might have written of him—if anything—he had put it in his luggage in order to read it at leisure when he reached Saxon Hall. It was all that he had taken with him from the place which his father insisted on calling his home, and it was more than he had taken with him when he had fled into nowhere fourteen years ago with no luggage and nothing in his purse or his pockets. He placed it on a table beneath a window immediately before his steward entered the room.
‘You have a visitor, sir. I think that he is one whom you would not wish to turn away.’
None of the staff at Saxon Hall yet knew that their master was Lord Hadleigh, Bretford’s heir—hence the sir.
Martin said dryly. ‘It would be useful if you told me his name.’
‘It is Sir Walter Raleigh, and he says that it is important that he speaks to you as soon as possible. I have shown him into the withdrawing-room.’
‘Good,’ said Martin and set off to find out what it was that Raleigh thought was important enough to pay a morning visit to Saxon Hall. Never mind that he was still dressed in his beggarly seaman’s clothes, and that Raleigh only knew him as his other self, he must oblige him at once. After all, it would not be long before all his secrets were in the open.
Raleigh’s eyes widened in surprise when Martin entered the withdrawing-room. He was, as usual, finely dressed, with a pearl in his left ear. He also brought with him a general air of power and consequence.
‘I had not thought to see the wild man of the woods come in,’ he remarked, smiling. ‘You look larger than ever now that you are accoutred like one of your seamen—or was that what you wore when you helped to rob the Spanish argosy?’
Martin was not embarrassed. He said coolly, ‘There is a good reason for my appearance. Had you arrived a little later you would have found the man you have always known.’
‘Captain Martin, there is always a good reason for everything you do—as I have long been aware. I have called on no idle errand. I have been, as I need not tell you, a friend of m’lord Essex, and I have come to you with a message from him. What you must understand, though, is that I am only a messenger, a postman of sorts, and that whatever I have to say to you comes from Essex, not from me. I am not trying to persuade you to join in any of his enterprises. You must do as you think best when you have heard what he has to ask of you.’
Martin began to laugh. ‘You are then, a vocal letter, no more and no less.’
Raleigh smiled at him. ‘The very thing. I am as impersonal as the piece of paper on which a letter is written. Now this is the gist of the matter. Lord Essex thinks that England needs a new, younger and better ruler, not an elderly woman long past her prime. To that end he wishes to rid the state of the relics of the old guard who make up her advisers. Not only that, he wishes to rid us of the Queen herself, and replace her by appointing himself as the Lord Protector around whom he will gather new men, young men who will make England both rich and great. In short, men like himself—or like you—self-made men.’
Martin gave a short laugh. ‘Then he doesn’t want me. I’m not a new man. I am descended from the old men of power—as he is. You—and he—know me as Andrew Martin, the lowly sea captain who has made himself rich by helping to loot the Spanish galleons, the argosy which carries the treasure from the New World to the Old.
‘The time has now arrived when I must tell you the truth about myself. My name is not Andrew Martin. I am Martin Chancellor, Lord Bretford’s younger son who ran away from home. I became Andrew Martin, who sailed against the Armada and clawed his way from poverty up to riches. By chance, and the death of my brother, I have recently become Lord Hadleigh, my father having tracked me down after many years.’
He paused, and Raleigh, raising his brows, said, ‘So you are the mysterious Lord Hadleigh of whom London’s society has been talking. I wonder what your father makes of you seeing that you are not in the least like your brother John. He was so sleek and smooth, while you…’ And it was his turn to pause and Martin’s to laugh.
‘While I am rough-spun and speak my mind. I will do so now. First, I must tell you that my father does not yet know that I am Captain Andrew Martin—he thinks me a poor failure. I shall shortly enlighten him and I know that he will be as disappointed by my success as he was pleased by my failure. Second, I would not give Lord Essex the time of day, let alone join him in such a mad enterprise as trying to unseat the Queen would be. I don’t believe, Sir Walter, that you wish to help him either, nor do I believe that Bacon, once his best friend, will support him. Bacon is a man who always looks after his own best interests—as a sensible man should—and therefore he will never encourage Essex in his folly.
‘In my opinion m’lord Essex is a fribble, a fool who does not know how to look after his own best interests. A man who made a sad botch of his enterprise against Ireland and afterwards behaved in such a mad fashion as to lose the Queen’s confidence, nay her love, does not merit my support.’
‘Well said,’ remarked Raleigh. ‘It is exactly what I would have expected of you. More than that, I have to tell you that I don’t respect the men who make up Essex’s court. That nasty little hobgoblin Frampton is ever present these days.’
Frampton—this was the second or third time that Martin had heard Raleigh mention his name recently. ‘What do you know of him?’ he asked Raleigh, after the butler had brought in hippocras and a plate of biscuits and they were busy enjoying them.
‘Very little; only that I always suspect those who spend their time crawling and fawning around people like Essex and who also give me a cold grue whenever I see them—that’s the Scottish description of a nasty shiver. I was told of it by one of Moray’s folk when he visited the Queen.’
Trust Sir Wat to pick up an odd phrase—and then use it!
Martin said thoughtfully, ‘So you won’t be supporting Essex in any rebellion against the Queen?’
‘No, even though I think that Her Grace’s best times have come and gone. I was a very young man when I first met her and to see her now…’ he shuddered, and said slowly, ‘…is to understand what time does to us all—should we live long enough.’
‘True,’ and they both fell silent. Raleigh shuddered again, before remarking with a slight smile, ‘At least under Her Grace, unlike her sister and father, most of us have the chance to achieve a long life.’
Years later Martin was to think of this conversation and sigh, remembering something which Shakespeare had later written, ‘We know what we are, but we know not what we may be.’ At the time, however, he thought nothing of it, only laughed a little. His friend had always possessed a lively mode of speech, which he showed in the many poems he wrote.
Raleigh took another swig of his hippocras before saying, ‘Lord Essex being disposed of, I must turn to Master Will Shakespeare. You haven’t attended the Friday Club recently so he asked me to give you a message when next I saw you.’
‘Playing the postman again?’ grinned Martin.
‘Anything to oblige. He says that he has read your play and is most impressed by its beginning, since it is plain that a true mariner wrote the first scene showing a storm at sea. Nevertheless, while he thinks that there is much promise in it, he also believes that it will need a great deal of reworking before it is fit for the stage. He asked me to tell you that you may either have the script back, or leave it with him to rewrite when he has time. He will then, of course, discuss his alterations with you.’
Martin was not sure whether this was good news or bad. ‘At least he discovered something to praise in it. I think that I found it difficult to decide what to do next once the shipwrecked sailors reached the island.’
‘Exactly what Will said. He’s a shrewd fellow—busy making money in all sorts of enterprises which have nothing to do with the theatre. In his way he’s as hard a man as you are. His only worry is that he might find himself in trouble with the Queen. She let it be known that she was most annoyed by his play, Richard II, because it showed an unpopular monarch being deposed, and now he has been warned that Lord Southampton—Essex’s right-hand man—is talking about it being staged again, to raise support for Essex’s policies.’
‘Perhaps it’s as well, then, that mine is not ready to be staged. At the moment I am too busy to spend my days dabbling in the theatre. Now that I am Lord Hadleigh, not only am I to marry the young woman who was betrothed to my brother, but my father’s health is such that I don’t think that he has long to live. I have two favours to ask of you before you leave. First of all, I would be pleased if you would not reveal my true identity to anyone until after my marriage, and secondly, referring to my marriage, I have something to ask of you.’
‘Ask on.’
Martin told him what he wished Raleigh to do for him. Sir Walter clapped him on the shoulder, finished off his hippocras and left, but not before assuring Martin that he would be only too happy to assist his good friend. After all, he would be able to enjoy the joke of his changed appearance more than anyone.
Later that day, Martin went upstairs to his room to pick up his brother’s diary. Once there, he paused to look at the portrait of his late wife Mary, which was hung in a small closet, away from prying eyes. She had been very small and sweet, quite different from Lady Kate in her gentle submission to him and to life. Distraught after her death—and that of his son—in childbirth, he had vowed never to marry again. Yet here he was, ready to stand, once more, before the altar. He could not help but feel that he was betraying her memory.
Before he had met Kate, it had been easy, not to forget Mary, but to prepare himself to marry her from a sense of duty, if for nothing else. Except that once he had come to know her, Kate had sounded some chord in him which Mary had never touched—with the result that his sense of betrayal had become even stronger. Once he had told Kate that he would not leave her at the altar, however, he felt compelled to honour his commitment to her, to his family and his name—even if to oblige his father stuck in his craw.
Finally he saw himself, briefly, in a Venetian mirror which he had won at cards from a young fellow who had been to Italy and had spent so much on beautiful objects there that he was virtually penniless when he arrived home. Yes, he did look like the wild man of the woods, or the bear which Kate had called him, and which she had been unaware was the motto which he had adopted on the coat-of-arms he had acquired after making his fortune—Cave Ursum, or Beware of the Bear.
Laughing a little, he picked up his brother’s book and sat down to read it…
Bevis was trying to control his anger at being misused. He had arrived at Essex House with some plans anent a possible uprising which he wished m’lord to study. Until this visit he had always been ushered immediately into Essex’s presence, but this morning the steward had informed him that m’lord would not be able to see him for some time. It seemed that Mr Francis Bacon was with him and even when he left, which might or might not be soon, his lordship had yet another great man to see before he had occasion to speak to Master Frampton.
Time passed. Bevis’s anger grew. He would not have been so annoyed if he had not worries of his own to trouble him while he waited. He had given his hired assassin his most treasured and valuable weapon, a German wheel-lock pistol with which he could be sure of finishing off Martin Chancellor. He had told him to report to him immediately the deed was done, but several days had gone by, the fellow had not returned, and Martin Chancellor still walked the earth.
Either the fool had failed to kill Chancellor and he had then run off with the pistol which he had been stupid enough to lend him, or Chancellor had disposed of him, and he did not know which supposition he liked the least. All was to do again. Bretford had still not been punished sufficiently—that damned second son seemed to possess a charmed life, if all he had learned about his career since he had fled his home was true.
One ironic joke was that Bretford did not know what a powerful man the second son had become in comparison with that weak fool, his brother, whom he had found it so easy to suborn and destroy—without even needing an assassin to do it for him.
His musings were interrupted by the steward, who came to tell him that Lord Essex was ready to see him. Nothing for it but to go in, and try to persuade the fool which he knew Essex to be that if he were going to engineer a rising to depose Her Grace, it must be planned most carefully or it would not succeed.
The devil of it was that nearly all the human tools whom he had used in his long life to try to bring about his much desired revenges had broken apart in his hands, and he had the horrid feeling that Lord Essex was going to be no better than the rest.
Afterwards, closing his brother’s diary, Martin was to ask himself whether it might not have been better to have cast it into the nearest fire rather than have read it. Even before he had turned a single page he had known what kind of weak and vicious fool John Chancellor, Baron Hadleigh, had become. Once Martin had become rich and, as his world knew it, powerful, he had hired agents to find out for him all that was known of his brother’s life after he had left home.
The subsequent reports had made painful reading. John’s life had been a series of betrayals of women and friends, as well as a record of cowardice which would have been unbelievable if the evidence of it had not been plain before him. One agent had discovered that there had been some dark influence on Martin’s brother by someone whose identity he could not trace. ‘Before a certain date,’ he had written, ‘m’lord’s escapades had been, if not innocent, not particularly vicious. After that date he changed, and it was during the following year that he had contracted the Great Pox which had brought about his death.’
Martin sighed. Now, after reading John’s book, he knew from what was written there that the first, and in some sense the most dreadful betrayal of all, had been of himself, his brother’s younger twin, who had been innocent of all the misdeeds for which he had been so often, and so severely, punished, until in the end he had been compelled to leave home in order to save himself.
There, in John’s diary, was recorded in detail the fashion in which, while pleasuring himself, he had been able to attach the blame to his brother. The brother whom he had envied because, even though he had been the second-born twin, he had been the larger, the stronger and the cleverer. The elegant body, the looks and the easy, outward charm had gone to John, but all else had been gifted to Martin.
And John knew that. By what he had written he had always known it, and he had allowed the envy which it had created in him to destroy his life while he was trying to destroy his brother’s. After he had successfully driven Martin away by his lies and deceits, he had descended further and further down the primrose path to hell, unable to give up his vicious way of life.
No one who knew him had ever suspected to what depths he had sunk. To his father he had been, and still was, his paragon of a son. Even the manner of his death had been attributed to bad luck rather than a consequence of the debauched career of which neither his friends and family knew anything. Only ‘my friend’—that vague shadow who had accompanied John on all his most vile adventures—knew the true man.
John had never given any direct hint in his diary of the friend’s identity. Once, his writing disturbed and barely legible, he had complained bitterly that he was unable, for some reason he did not understand, to write down his ‘friend’s’ name—other than that his Christian name began with B. That he trusted him was plain from what he wrote—except that now and then there was a hint of fear, a feeling that he was being led into adventures of a kind even he would once have flinched from.
Martin’s one bitter thought was of how disillusioned his father might be if he were to hand him John’s diary and allow him to discover what his favoured son had truly been like. But, little though he loved his father, he would never do that—unless it were needed to save himself, since in some of his worst escapades John had called himself Martin Chancellor.
What irked him the most was that his father had been willing to allow his pox-ridden pervert of a son to marry poor Kate. But he must try not to let what he had discovered disturb him over much. One thing was certain: he needed to remember to guard himself from any further attacks while he was waiting to marry Kate Wyville. He smiled ruefully at the surprising thought that this marriage, which at first he had decided to try to avoid, was becoming more and more attractive to him, so that he could hardly wait for the wedding day to arrive. What magic did she possess which had caused him to transform all his thinking about women?
Oh, be damned to that! He was simply lusting after her and trying to find excuses for why he should be doing so—but he knew that he was deceiving himself, for what he was beginning to feel for her was far more than mere lust. He was already starting to miss her animated face and her teasing voice, both of which made her unique among women.
A friend had once said to him, ‘We cheat ourselves where women are concerned, by thinking that, like men, they differ from one another. They are all the same and made for one purpose only—and that bed.’
Even then, and it was before he had met Mary, he had refused to believe such a judgement could possibly be true. Women, like men, each had their own different set of qualities, and to demean them by believing otherwise was to demean one’s self.
If Martin was thinking about Kate, she was also thinking about him. Before he had left Bretford House she could not have dreamed that she would miss him so much when his departing cavalcade had finally disappeared from sight.
She had nicknamed him the Bear, but the more she had grown to know him, the less he seemed to resemble that ursine animal. He had brought light and amusement into her life, and when—occasionally—he had behaved to his subordinates like a bear, he had allowed her to tease him until he was tame again.
Would he still be so gentle with her after they were married? Would the cheerful friendship which she had come to share with him disappear? She had known a number of women who had gone happily into marriage only to find that their husbands had shut them out of their lives, treating them as mere bed companions, leaving them to fall back on a drab and lonely existence.
And then there were the few whose husbands mistreated them brutally. One of her friends, driven to tell the truth to someone whom she could trust, had told her of the constant beatings to which she was being subjected. Worse than that, when she had complained to her husband that she did not deserve them, always having been a faithful wife, he had told her that she was rightly suffering for the sins of Eve and Delilah and must therefore accept her punishment cheerfully.
No! She could not believe that Martin would behave like that, but what she believed and what might be true could be different things. Something else, however, troubled her: now that Martin had left Bretford House, would he arrive at St Paul’s cathedral on her wedding day?
It was at this point in her musings that Jennie came in and told her that Lord Clifton’s brother-in-law, Lord Padworth, and his family had just arrived at Bretford House in order to be present at her marriage and the celebrations afterwards.
‘Alison? Is my cousin Alison with them?’ Kate asked joyfully, her recent worries forgotten.
‘Indeed, she is, m’lady, which I made haste to tell you, knowing what friends you are. She is in the withdrawing-room with her mother. Lord Padworth is with the lords Clifton and Bretford in m’lord Bretford’s room.’
Alison was here! Alison, her very best friend, had come to celebrate her marriage—if marriage there were to be. No, forget that—and Kate ran downstairs as fast as her stiff clothing would allow her, to find Alison and her mother waiting to greet her.
All ceremony forgotten, Kate and Alison threw themselves into one another’s arms, until Alison held her off to inspect her closely.
‘Dearest Kate, is it not strange that you are the first of our cousins to marry when you had so often vowed that you had no wish to be a wife! And what is this we hear?—that your future husband has disappeared to somewhere unknown just before the wedding! We had so hoped to meet him. Such a fairy-tale, is it not, that he came from nowhere, not only to be Lord Hadleigh, but also to marry his brother’s betrothed. Is he like his twin, John?’
‘No, indeed,’ replied Kate, while Alison’s mother begged her daughter in plaintive tones not to talk and behave like a tomboy: ‘for no one will wish to marry you, if you do!’
‘Oh, pooh to that, Mama. As you are well aware, I have no want of suitors, since you and father are busily trying to decide which of them is the most worthy of me. Now, Kate, my love, to resume—if he does not resemble John, what is he like?’
Kate could not stop herself telling the truth. ‘A bear,’ she informed Alison, laughing as she spoke. ‘He is very large, not smooth at all, and has lots of hair—but I like him.’
‘Resembles a bear, and you like him! How very strange. Does he growl like one—or try to eat you?’
‘He growls sometimes, but never at me, and when I tell him not to, he does as I ask, so the question of eating me has never arisen!’
‘What a very odd bear he must be,’ said Lady Padworth faintly. ‘Are you sure that you wish to marry him, my dear? I know that he will be Lord Bretford and thus a great man one day, but nevertheless…Gossip also says that no one knows where he has been, or what he has been doing, since he left his home all those years ago. Has he said aught of that? It seems to me that you will be marrying a complete stranger.’
‘He has said nothing of his past to me—and as for marrying a complete stranger, most women of our station marry them every day, so that is no matter. Besides, I have spent some time with him before marriage, which is more than many poor brides have done.’
There was no denying that, and the arrival of the three lords, all looking grim, served, in Lord Padworth’s words, to cut womanly chatter short. By Alison’s expression it seemed to be a favourite phrase of his. Kate reminded herself, with some pleasure, that one of Martin Chancellor’s virtues was that he never talked down to her after the fashion of most men with their women.
She had little time for further thought, or speech, except to ask where Alison’s brother Stephen was, to be told that he would arrive shortly before the wedding, since he was currently staying with the family of an old college friend. He, too, was longing to meet the mysterious heir to Bretford, as Martin had apparently been nicknamed.
In all this fuss Kate’s questing mind was silenced, until she found herself alone in bed when, of course, misgivings and doubts, coupled with a few hopes, started plaguing her again.
Just before she finally fell asleep she wondered where Martin was, and what he was doing.
Martin was busy trying to forget that he was the heir to Bretford and the puzzle which Lady Kate Wyville presented to him. Back in his own home, and restored to the usual appearance of Captain Andrew Martin, he decided to visit the Friday Club in the hope that some of its livelier spirits would be there.
He was in luck. Raleigh was present, and in his usual corner, watching and observing, was silent Will Shakespeare. Martin occasionally wondered if he would ever turn up on stage one day under some betraying name. More than one noble or gentleman who belonged to the club had recognised himself on the boards, either to his amusement or his annoyance.
Raleigh, as usual far from silent, called him over. ‘Well met. I have a letter for you from our mutual friend, who was apparently been writing to you at Saxon Hall but complains that he has never received a reply.’
‘Oh, God, not Essex again,’ Martin groaned. ‘I thought that I had heard the last of him.’
‘Indeed, not—or not until we have all heard the last of him, which, if his present mode of conduct is any guide, will not be long. Pray relieve me of it. I would not play at postman for anyone but you.’
Martin took the letter from him, and thrust it into the pocket of his capacious breeches. He was so finely groomed and dressed that Kate would not have recognised him—other than by his size, that is.
‘What is the latest gossip about court, then?’ Ben Jonson asked.
‘Now why should you ask that?’ queried Raleigh. ‘Seeing that all your plays are about City merchants and the like?’
‘Who knows?’ Jonson grinned back at him, nothing daunted. ‘I might decide to follow friend Will here and write about lords and ladies, Kings and Queens.’
For once Shakespeare took part in the conversation. ‘I thought that your latest piece was to be a comedy.’
Jonson nodded. ‘True,’ he agreed. ‘Cynthia’s Revels being its new title. But that does not mean that I don’t enjoy court gossip with the rest of you.’
‘There is none at present,’ Raleigh declared. ‘Save that Her Grace is old and ill.’
‘Which is not news,’ Shakespeare said, and fell silent again.
More drink was called for, which loosened people’s tongues a little, but at the end of the evening Martin thought that he, too, must be growing old, since the club seemed to have lost a great deal of its sparkle lately. What might provoke liveliness would be a new scandal, of which there had recently been a dearth, or of Essex doing something terminally stupid.
Raleigh caught at his cloak when he left. ‘Pray, old friend, go and see his would-be Highness in his den and persuade him that you are not to be wheedled into being fool enough to support him.’
Martin grinned at him. ‘I promise, though I have no wish to, but in return I have one more thing I want you to do for me.’
‘Which is?’
‘This,’ and Martin leaned over to whisper in Raleigh’s ear.
His friend nodded. ‘Agreed—I need something to liven my days. I will not ask why you are interested in Frampton, although I might guess.’
‘My hearty thanks,’ Martin said, and left.
The following morning he took himself to Essex House, but not before both Rafe and Webster had separately doomed at him.
‘Is this errand wise?’ Webster said. ‘The man is a nodcock. You should have nothing to do with him lest you share his fate.’
‘Prettily put,’ smiled Martin. ‘But listen carefully to me and learn that I trust him even less than you do. I go as a favour to a friend. To say good day—and little more. I have no wish to become one of his dupes.’
Rafe was even shorter and coarser in his advice than Webster. His reward was to be told that he, with Jacko, would accompany Martin on his visit to the deposed favourite.
He was still grumbling when they arrived at Essex House, where he and Jacko were told to wait in an anteroom while their master paid his respects to Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex.
Martin was led by yet another self-important steward—he had long observed that they thought themselves to be the equals of their masters—into a long room which had a dais at one end on which was a chair of state in which m’lord of Essex sat. He was the only person in the crowded hall who was not standing.
On the dais, a few paces behind him, were the most important of his followers. Among them was a little grey man whose fine clothing only seemed to diminish him. His presence distracted Martin a little from giving his full attention to the wayward Earl, who was splendidly decked out in scarlet and gold with a giant ruff circling a handsome, if rather weak, face. Fortunately the steward, once he was before Essex, made such a great meal of announcing him as Captain Andrew Martin that it gave Martin time to decide on what to say to his master.
Essex nodded his head thoughtfully and then said in a light and pleasant voice, ‘You may advance, Captain Martin.’
Martin walked forward to the very edge of the dais, where he had a splendid view not only of m’lord, but of the grey man. He had seen him once before, and was suddenly sure that he was looking at, if rumour were true, Lord Essex’s chief adviser, Bevis Frampton. It also struck him that Frampton might not only be his brother’s mysterious B but also the little man who had paid the first assassin to murder him—if the rogue was telling him the truth; which was why he had asked Raleigh to find out as much as he could of any untoward rumours about Frampton’s life.
He reminded himself of the reason for his visit and listened carefully to what m’lord Essex was saying.
‘I am pleased to see that, at last, Captain Martin, you have chosen to do my bidding and wait on me, here at Essex House. Since Her Grace sees fit to imprison me here, I may not visit others, although they may visit me. Such, alas, are the rewards of one who has served his country on the battlefield and in the Privy Council Chamber.’
Not knowing quite what to say to this, Martin merely bowed his head in apparent agreement.
The Earl continued. ‘I understand that you have served your country both on the sea, and in the City of London. It is such new young men as yourself whom I choose to welcome. For too long England has been ruled by old men and old women. The time is ripe for change. You understand me, sir?’
Only too well, Martin thought, but he did not say so. On the contrary, he honoured and respected the Queen, whose courage had defeated all her enemies and the great Spanish Armada itself.
‘You are quiet, sir,’ remarked Essex when Martin did not immediately reply.
‘Such is my nature,’ lied Martin and was happy that Rafe and Webster were not present to hear such a patent untruth.
‘What say you then? I give you leave to speak your mind.’
Which he had much better not do! Nevertheless he would have to say something, even if what he might offer the man before him might not please.
‘It is my belief, m’lord, that change is sometimes necessary. I would also trust and pray that such change might be peaceful in nature. It is not so many years since this country was torn apart by war and I would not wish to see that happen again. Thus I would seek to influence Her Grace and Her Grace’s Parliament by words and advice—which, m’lord, I am sure is your wish also.’
Martin was not sure of this at all. Not with Bevis Frampton glowering at him, and his memory of what had been written in his brother’s sad outpourings.
Essex leaned forward. ‘Sometimes violence is necessary to cleanse a misruled state.’
Martin could not help himself. He said, in as detached a voice as possible. ‘I have never thought blood to be a good cleanser of anything, m’lord. I trust to your good judgement in the matter, and would like to believe that you will only do what is best to maintain the peace and prosperity of this kingdom.’
He saw Essex’s face darken. He heard mutterings among the courtiers standing behind him. Essex rose and turned his back on Martin, in order to leave the dais by the door behind him, but not before he had given a curt order to his steward, ‘You may show this fellow out straightway with as little ceremony as possible.’
He could not have said anything more calculated to please Martin. He followed Essex’s flunky into the anteroom where Rafe and Webster waited for him. Before they could leave, however, the little grey man entered the room, saying brusquely to the steward, ‘You may show Captain Martin’s servants out. I, however, wish to have a private word with him before he leaves.’
What was this, then? What could Frampton have to say to him?
Martin’s response was brief. ‘Why are you detaining me, sir?’
‘Because I need to speak to the brother of my late friend, John, Lord Hadleigh, in order to advise him that it would be in his own best interests to agree to support m’lord Essex in his most reasonable wishes regarding the future of this realm. My name, in case you do not know it, is Bevis Frampton and I am always at your service.’
Martin’s voice was ice. ‘So, Master Frampton, did you always advise my brother what to do in his own best interests?’
Frampton’s smile was as oily as his cold face could make it. ‘Indeed I did, Lord Hadleigh, but he often chose not to follow it—to his own detriment. I would have thought that you might be wiser than he was.’
‘And so I am, which is why I wish to have nothing to do with Lord Essex or your good self. What he was proposing, and you are apparently supporting, is little short of treason, and I, sir, will never betray my country. I give you good day.’
Frampton’s pale eyes managed to glitter.
‘Be sure that you will come to regret your refusal of m’lord Essex and of me.’
‘Oh, I think not, Master Frampton. My regrets would be if I became one of his—and your—followers. Again, I bid you good day. I have much to do and may not waste further time here.’
It was plain to Martin that Frampton was boiling with rage at his cold rejection of him and all his works, and if provoking him to that degree was unwise, then so be it.
He turned on his heel and left the room.
Bevis Frampton was, indeed, boiling with rage. John Chancellor had been an easy target for him, but his brother was of a totally different temper. The sooner Martin Chancellor lay dead in the gutter from which he had risen to success and wealth, the sooner his murderer could rejoice in having finally punished Lord Bretford for the slights he had put upon him.
Martin Chancellor would do well to watch his back. No man had ever insulted Bevis Frampton without being severely punished for it.