The Gunpowder Plot

Chapter 1Whitehall London, 1605 I should have known better. The dark spiral stairway leading up to my chamber was a place I had been waylaid many a time, so I usually had sufficient forethought to carry my weapon in my hand. But on this cold September evening, distracted by tiredness and thoughts of my bed, I took a chance and climbed the stone steps undefended. Hidden in the window inset halfway up the stairs, the man was upon me before I could defend myself. I admit to preferring men to ladies in the bedchamber, but I was in no mood to be fondled by one who hadn’t the decency to introduce himself first. I always kept my dagger secreted inside the waistband of my upper hose and I reached for it now, but the stranger anticipated me. I can only presume the man had been warned about it by some other predator, because he removed it from my hand before I could use it on him, sending it clattering up the stone steps and out of my reach. With big, rough hands, he shoved me into the embrasure and covered my mouth with his own. The stranger smelled strongly of beer and was without doubt inebriated judging by his fumbling hands and garbled speech. More important, kissing was a sweet thing, a loving thing that I wished to reserve for one I sincerely wanted to be with. I didn’t want this anonymous man to kiss me or f**k me, but admitting to myself the inevitability of the intimacy, I ceased my struggles for fear of being injured. After the monstrous kiss, he turned me around and dragged my woollen hose down to my knees in a fashion both casual and proprietary, as if I were a scullery maid or a peasant. I couldn’t see his face, but from the feel of his garments—a leather jerkin and trousers—the man was no more than one of the King’s foot soldiers, a palace guard, and shouldn’t have been inside this part of Whitehall at all, let alone wandering its passages and stairways—and where a foot soldier had acquired such a high-handed attitude was beyond my understanding. “You little c**k teaser. I heard you were a willing f**k,” he muttered while feeling my arse with his big hands. The roughness of his palms, callused from the sword and whatever other manual work he did, abraded the tender flesh of my backside. “I’m not a c**k teaser,” I protested with great indignation, but the soldier was going to take his pleasure, whether I agreed or not. “Shut up, you silly w***e,” he said into my ear. “What a pleasing backside you have. What a sweet fuck.” The brute began to plunder me with big, hard thrusts, ramming his c**k up my arse as if he were a cook stuffing the Christmastide goose. “Get your hands off me, rapere,” I cried, but he carried on as if I had not spoken until a voice came from above me on the stone stairway. “What in God’s name! Unhand that young man before I run you through.” The soldier released me and with all my might I thrust my elbow into the man’s mid-section. With a growl of pain he stepped back, tumbling down the steps and cursing loudly on the way. Dragging up my hose, I scrambled up the stairs, grabbing my weapon on the way. At the top, I stopped to restore my breath, the pain of the assault making itself known. But it wasn’t the first time I had been accosted, and if I didn’t improve my skills at self-defence, it wouldn’t be my last. Holding my weapon securely in my hand, I was about to make my way along the dim passage to my small chamber, wondering where the disembodied voice had come from. I was grateful to the man, but wanted no further truck with him that night. “Where are you off to, laddie, so near to the King’s chambers?” “Who goes there?” I looked quickly about me, trying to locate the man. The stairwells and passages were dim even in broad daylight. At night they were treacherous. A tall man stepped into the light of a torch set in a sconce further down the passage. He must have come in recently from the cold because he wore a long, dark, hooded leather cloak and he smelled of the outdoors. I thrust my dagger toward the figure. “Keep your hands off me.” “You would threaten me after I saved you from a rapere?” “Ahh. That was you. I thank you, sir, but I must go to my bed.” “I’ve heard talk that you’re good with your weapon—most of the time. A boy as pretty as you has need to be, I suppose. But be assured, I offer you no threat. You can put your blade away.” He pushed back his hood to reveal a fine-looking, close-shaved head. His face, too, was shaven. I’d seen the man about the palace on occasion, though never up close, and I knew not his name. He was always striding swiftly somewhere, seeming ever in a hurry. He didn’t live within the palace proper as I did. I looked into the strong, lean face and his handsomeness near took my breath away. Then, all in a moment, I pushed my dagger back into my waistband. “Why did that man think he could have you for taking, boy? Is it because you are in the habit of making yourself available?” My gratitude towards the man began to ebb with his accusation. “I do not make myself available, sir.” But that was a lie, and from his lopsided smile, I suspected he knew it. “I was accosted. He came upon me unawares from the window inset. He was hiding. He forced me.” “I perceived that. Do you know him?” I hung my head. “No. It’s so dark on the stairs at night. He had my dagger from my hand before I could defend myself. It was a guard. I know that from the feel of his leather jerkin. A common foot soldier.” “But you have a reputation for liking common foot soldiers, don’t you, lad?” the man said. His words cut me like a knife. For some reason I wanted this man to think well of me. “How dare you, sir! I have no such reputation.” But it would seem I did as the soldier himself had pointed out. I had spread myself far too thin of late, having s*x with any attractive man who winked at me, and some, like the soldier, whose faces I never saw. I was foolish to think it had not been noted. Quietly I added, “Whether I like soldiers or not is irrelevant. I do not wish to be taken against my will.” The man nodded. “What is your age?” “I am eighteen years old, sir.” Handsome as he was, I wanted nothing more at that moment than to get away from him. “Excuse me, I’m tired. I was walking to my chamber when the man grabbed me.” “Where is your chamber? This is the river side of the palace where King James resides.” “Precisely. So why was a common soldier wandering about unhindered? He could have been an assassin. Someone was not doing their job.” “You’re right, laddie. Thank God he was not an assassin.” The man looked me up and down. “But what of you? Why are you here?” “I serve Sir Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury. My chamber is near my master’s, though I have no more than a closet.” The man raised an eyebrow. “Lord Salisbury is Secretary of State. The King tells him everything and listens to his advice. He must trust you. How have you risen so high at such a young age?” “You mistake my position, sir. I am my master’s servant, nothing more.” Though it was true that my lord had begun to confide small matters to me of late. “And what are your duties?” Who did he think he was? “You ask a great many questions without having introduced yourself.” With a deep, sweeping bow, the man looked at me while still bent at the waist. “William Cranmore, at your service.” He stood upright again, towering over me. “And you are?” “I thought you knew me already?” “Only by reputation.” Quietly, he added, “Whether you like it or not, you are known as a pretty youth who enjoys his pleasures.” It seemed there would be no redeeming myself in this man’s eyes. “Lark Alleyne. I take care of his lordship’s clothes. I dress him. I sweep his chamber. I write his letters when his hand is weary. Sometimes when he is bored, he has me play cards with him or draughts.” “But Lord Salisbury has a wife, has he not?” “Yes, but a great lady is not going to sweep her lord’s chambers, is she? And she’s not often at Whitehall.” I met his gaze. “Will you allow me to pass?” William Cranmore stepped aside. “I was not detaining you, Master Alleyne. Good night.” “Good night, Master Cranmore. And thank you.” “Call me Will,” he said with such a smile that I smiled to myself as I hurried off to my chamber without looking back. Four years I had lived at Whitehall before I got my own chamber, having shared with three of the Queen’s maids of honour from the time I had arrived. I had liked sharing with the women. I felt safer, and they had all mothered me, a thing I’d never experienced before. But this night I was grateful to be alone. The image of William Cranmore stayed with me, making my heart flutter and my c**k rise. Unable to stop myself, I thrust my hand down the front of my hose and rubbed myself until my pleasure exploded while imagining Will Cranmore lying on top of me and f*****g me long and hard. For several minutes I stood in the darkness, my knees trembling, as I recovered. Steady on my feet again, I struck my tinder box to light my candle and was about to strip for bed when the door opened. Grabbing my dagger, I took a protective stance, but I released a great sigh of relief when Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, entered quietly. “My lord.” I bowed deeply, surprised to see my master enter my chamber. He was a man of short stature with a hump on his back, not handsome in any way, and having the misfortune to bear reddish hair and pale skin. Gossip had it he was mocked cruelly as a child, especially by the very handsome Earl of Essex who had made my heart flutter more than once. But Lord Salisbury was alive and well, holding the highest office in the land next to King James, while Essex was dead at the hands of Queen Elizabeth whose favour he had enjoyed for years. “Were you about to go to bed, Lark?” my lord enquired. “I’m not tired if you need me, my lord.” That was a lie, but it was the expected response. “I won’t keep you long.” Lord Salisbury had never been in my chamber before. He glanced about him, making me guess he was looking for a seat. “I have only a stool, my lord. Please sit on the bed, it’s more comfortable.” With a nod and a gentle smile, he settled himself on my narrow cot, and I stood before him until he indicated the stool. I walked miles every day in my work about the palace, and my legs often ached by day’s end, so I sat down gratefully. “There is blood on your hose,” my master said quietly, his face contorting a little as if he felt my pain. I swore I would never wear undyed wool hose again. I avoided his gaze, but I would not lie. “I was accosted, my lord.” “But you carry a dagger.” Lord Salisbury had always been kind, and I suspected the man of having a soft spot for me, though not in a way that would make him expect favours of a personal nature. “I could not get it out in time.” “Never mind, Lark.” His countenance softened as he spoke. “I would put out an order that you are not to be molested under threat of arrest, but if I show you favouritism, no one will trust you, and that’s not what I want. You’re well liked in general.” “Yes, my lord.” But why would it make any difference to Lord Salisbury if no one trusted me? It would give me a bad reputation as a procurer of favour, but how could it affect my master? As his servant, I ran errands for him and kept his rooms spotless. I waited on him and dressed him, but in the last two years, he had also had me write letters and deliver them for him, not just about the palace, but all over London. He had sent me twice on horseback to great houses with messages to deliver to men of importance. From the start he had warned me to keep my mouth very firmly shut about his business, and I had, not just because of his great power, being the Queen’s, and now the King’s confidant, but because I respected the man. I liked him.