The Reckoning by M J Trow

Author:M J Trow
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781448304240
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2020-01-12T16:00:00+00:00

NINE

The palace of Whitehall lay under a thick carpet of snow. Even the buskins of the Queen’s guard were silent as they patrolled the parapets, the glow of their fires making magical lights on the crystals that sparkled like silver.

If there was poetry on such a night, sharpened by frost and lit by the moon, it was lost on the four men who sat huddled in the upstairs chambers of Lord Burghley. He had left his long-suffering mule at the gate now that the meadows of Westminster merged with the white cloak of the Strand and had hurried indoors to his fire and his Rhenish. His second son stood beside him until the others arrived and then he too sat down. The Queen’s imp didn’t need to be reminded how all men – and most women – loomed over him. In a chair, the world seemed more equitable; furniture was a great leveller.

Howard of Effingham had arrived next, his admiral’s cloak soaked because he had ridden from Deptford through the night and it was still snowing along the river. He gratefully accepted Burghley’s mulled wine and cradled the cup in his hands until the feeling returned to his fingers, his boots steaming in the heat of the fire.

Last to arrive was Henry Carey. The first Baron Hunsdon was the reason they were all there and the others didn’t appreciate being kept waiting by him. Greetings were exchanged, hands shaken and the business of the inner circle of Her Majesty’s Privy Council began.

‘Right, gentlemen. What have we?’ Burghley opened the proceedings.

‘Essex wants to join us,’ Hunsdon scowled.

Burghley shot a glance at his son. ‘I’m sure he does,’ he said.

‘The Queen’ll never allow it,’ Howard said, leaning over to the table set before the fire and refilling his cup.

‘Her Majesty blows with the wind, Charles,’ Burghley said. ‘And Essex is a smooth operator.’

‘Never trust a man,’ Hunsdon growled, ‘whose beard is a different colour from his hair.’

‘Point taken,’ Burghley said, ‘but the Queen’s growing fond of him again after that debacle in Rouen. I suppose we’ll have to let him in.’

‘Perhaps he can hold the horses,’ Effingham smirked and the others laughed.

‘Robert,’ Burghley turned to his son, ‘what news of Ireland?’

‘Tyrconnell’s plotting with the Spaniards,’ the spymaster said.

‘There’s a surprise,’ Hunsdon muttered.

‘I have a man on it,’ Cecil said. That was good enough for the others. The Queen’s imp knew his business.

‘This fellow Penry …’ Hunsdon brought it up; someone had to and it might as well be him.

‘Who?’ Effingham asked. ‘Have I missed something?’

‘Puritan,’ Burghley said. ‘One of the elect. He’s been publishing religious rubbish for months now.’

‘We’ll have to close him down,’ Cecil suggested.

‘Almost certainly,’ Burghley nodded. ‘But we have to tread warily there, for obvious reasons. Hunsdon, where are we on the Scadbury business?’

Hunsdon shifted in his sear. He reached to his left and pulled up a letter satchel stuffed with papers. ‘I take it you all have this?’ he said. ‘Marlowe’s play?’

There were mutters all round.

‘Filth,’ snorted Effingham. ‘Pure filth.

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