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  Edward scrambled to his feet, and faced the door as it swung inwards to admit his father. Tom Warner looked unnaturally grave, and carried a paper in his hand.

  'You'll leave us, boy.'

  'Now why drive him away, Tom?' Raleigh asked. 'He is all the comfort I possess, or am likely to, while Scotch James dispossesses me of my family.'

  'He will dispossess you of more than that, Wat. This is a grave matter.' He handed Raleigh the paper.

  'You wish me to read this, Tom? It is addressed to the Lieutenant of the Tower, and marked secret.'

  'Read it,' Tom said.

  Raleigh sat on the bed to peruse the document, at first with only a faint frown, but then with a slowly increasing gathering of his brows, while the colour began to drain from his face, leaving only the yellow stain of the suntanned skin behind. ts this some royal humour, Tom?'

  'Not so. Think you Scotch James knows humour, Wat? Oh, no, regardless of the outcome of your trial, he orders me to prepare for your execution. And on a sentence fourteen years remitted.'

  2

  El Dorado

  Tom could not spy the stag, but the hunt itself was easily found, from the baying of the hounds, the cries of the beaters, and the halloos of the horsemen. He sat his horse on a low hill and watched the cavalcade straggling across a brook which formed a tributary of the Thames, forcing their horses through the shallow water and over the boggy land, using whip and spur to bring them out on to the firmer earth of the meadow beyond. Mud flew with water, splashing velvet doublets and lace frills at collar and cuff; booted feet jerked in the stirrups, and then the leaders debouched from the swamp and came galloping towards the ducket below him.

  Tom picked up his own reins, and urged his horse down the gentle slope. No need for him to hurry; he would arrive at the foot long before the rout which approached him. And indeed, from the edge of the meadow it was a sight to make all but the stoutest heart quail, as the multi-coloured huntsmen spread their ranks, waving whips and fists at the sight of tliLs intruder who seemed to be placing himself between them and their prey.

  He drew the back of his glove across his forehead to remove a layer of sweat; he was under no misapprehension as to the risk he was running. But the bulk of the chase he could ignore. He was concerned with those in the middle, and more especially with the two who rode at the head of this centre group, not faster than their fellows, certainly, but none the less permitted to lead. They made a peculiar contrast. On the left the rider was young, tall and well built, bareheaded and with long dark hair flowing behind him in the wind. His clothes were velvet, crimson slashed with gold, so that he created a blaze of colour amidst the blues and greens which surrounded him; the diamond clasps on his doublet winked like miniature lanterns. He sat his horse like a Charon, viewed the morning's proceedings with a contemptuous smile, only now beginning to fade into a frown of disapproval as he saw his way barred.

  His companion slouched in the saddle, and swayed, giving the impression of being tied into place, as indeed he was. His clothes were a muddy brown, on which the dirt kicked up by the horses around him had made but little impression, and he wore a tall hat firmly secured under his chin. His beard seemed to lack strength as he vainly pulled on the reins to stop himself charging full tilt into his Lieutenant of the Tower.

  Fortunately, there were aides on either side to seize his bridle and bring him to the halt. His horse dug its hooves into the soft earth, and the muscles rippled up its legs and into its belly, as it commenced to pant, while the whole mighty army around it also came reluctantly to a halt, gasping and steaming.

  'Whoa,' my lord of Buckingham remarked. 'A messenger from the grave.'

  The King shuddered, and all but dislodged himself. Although it was only the middle of the morning, his face was already suffused with wine, or perhaps the flush remained from the previous night. If so, it was a lack he seemed determined to correct. He waved his hand, and a page rode forward with a flagon. 'Warrrner?" His Majesty inquired, and drank deeply. 'Ye'll no say the folk are rioting?'

  Tom replaced his hat. 'London Town is as quiet as any man could wish, sire. Indeed, I left it before it had even awoke.'

  James drank some more. To come out here and do awa' wi' me sport? Ocli, ye're a daftie, Warrner. Steenie, he's a daftie.'

  Buckingham was smiling again, but this time there was more venom than contempt. 'You'll seek to be an inmate of your own cell, Captain Warner?"

  ‘I came out here, sire," Tom said, choosing to ignore the Duke. 'Because I have waited three days for an audience, and been granted none. From Whitehall I rode to Windsor, to be informed your majesty will conduct no business this week.'

  'And ye'd break in on me few hours of sport?' James cried. 'Awa' wi' ye, man, awa'. The beastie will ha'e gone to ground.'

  Tom drew a slow breath. The older this man got, the more incredible it was to believe that his mother had been known as the most beautiful and accomplished woman in Christendom. That being so, it was to easy to believe all that had been said of his father. But Darnley had also been handsome; that was acknowledged even by his enemies. And when James had been a young man, there had been a certain nobility to his features, which only disappeared when he attempted to speak, and the raw Scottish brogue fought the over-enlarged tongue to escape the loosely thick lips. Now the nobility was gone, sunk to the bottom of endless barrels of wine, untold midnight debauches with his favourites. Only the fool remained, in brain as well as appearance. But the fool held so many lives in the palm of his hand.

  'Sire, believe me, this is a matter of great importance. Sir Walter Raleigh ...'

  'Wha'? Wha'? Ye'd mention that man's name to me? A traitor, who'd see us at war wi' Spain. Ye've sons, Tommy, man, would ye watch them dying to gratify Raleigh's ambition"

  'Sir, it was no doing of Sir Walter's. He lay sick abed at the time.'

  'He's no daid? Dinna tell me he's daid, Tom. I maun ha'e his haid. I promised Gondomar. God's blood, I'll ha'e it off if he's in his grave.'

  ‘I spoke of the battle on the Orinoco, sire. Sir Watler is in perfect health at this moment. I but sought to intercede with Your Majesty for his life. To kill such a man, sire, and purely for the gratification of the Spaniards . ..'

  'Ye'll preach to me, Tom? God's blood, ye'll be asking for a place in the kirk, soon enough. Be off wi' ye, man. Back to your duties. There's a stag out there'

  'Sire...'

  'Steenie, ha'e him moved. Ye've nae right, Tom, nae right, to interfere wi' a man's pleasure.'

  'Get away, you fool,' Villers hissed.

  James made to urge his mount forward, and Tom laid his hand on the bridle.

  'Wha? What' cried the King. 'Ye'd stop me, ye rascal?"

  'Sir Walter can come to no harm in the Tower, sire. He'll not escape.'

  'He dies, and there's an end to it. Ye'll not trouble me again, Tom. I'll not ha'e it.'

  'Then you'll have another Lieutenant to do your bidding, sire," Tom shouted. ‘I resign my post.' He pulled his horse aside. 'Now get to your stag.'

  'You're a fool, Tom Warner. A good friend. The best a man could ever dream of possessing. But a fool.' Raleigh filled his pipe, with great care, and Edward stood on one leg. He had not expected to hear any man call his father a fool and survive.

  But Tom was nodding. 'Perhaps, Wat. And yet I'd be a criminal were I to stay here another day. I have not the stomach for it. I only grieve for you."

  Raleigh sucked, expelled smoke, sucked again. ‘I'd better enjoy my pleasures while I may, eh. But look at it this way, old friend. I have lived a full life. Fuller than most. Fuller than Scotch Jim, by God. There's more to it than licking a royal arse, male or female. I'd not have anything change, except maybe...' he smiled. ‘I'd have liked to have seen El Dorado. Even if I'd yet failed to bring him away with me. I'd have liked to have seen him. But you . . . what will you do?'

  Warner shrugged. tll join my brother in the farming business. There's land enough.'

  'And think you
that Suffolk will be sufficiently removed from Jamie's anger? Or if not his, for I doubt he will remember much of this morning, then from Villiers'? That young man has a vicious streak.'

  'Favourites come and go. I'll be out of sight and out of mind, for a while.'

  ‘I hope you're right.' He held out his hand. 'Godspeed, in whatever you attempt, Tom. You've the character for greatness, should you be given the chance.'

  'And you've a courtier's tongue, even in your old age, Wat I can offer you nothing in return.'

  Raleigh smiled. 'Leave the boy, for a minute.'

  Tom hesitated, then nodded. 'You'll join your mother before the hour strikes, Edward.'

  'Yes, sir.' He wanted to weep. But now was not the time. He listened to his father's boots hitting the stone floor, slowly receding, all the while gazing at his friend, who was again attending to his pipe.

  'So, we must say goodbye. And this time forever, I think, Ned.'

  'Sir...' Edward licked his lips. "We'll meet in Heaven, sir.' The Reverend was always saying things like that.

  Raleigh glanced at him. ‘I should not count on it, lad. Better to forget me. Or at least, the man. I'd not have you forget what we've talked about, these few weeks. You'll go to sea, Ned?'

  'Oh, yes, sir. My resolution is made.'

  'Keep it from your father, for the while. Tom has no use for the briny. And when you do take ship, sail west. There's where a man can make not only his fortune, but his life. Be sure of that, Ned.'

  ‘I'll find your man of gold, sir.'

  Raleigh chuckled, and clapped him on the shoulder. 'You do that, lad.' He held the boy by the shoulders, for a moment, and kissed him on the mouth. 'Now you'd best be off. We both have a distance to travel.'

  No crowds in Suffolk. No buildings either, and even the low hills lay ludden beneath the drifting snow in this winter of 1621. It had blown for three days and nights, an easterly gale which had gathered all the cold of the North Sea and laid it evenly along the eastern coast, obliterating farm and copse, river and village. But now the wind had dropped, and instead of the constant howl there was a silence as if the very world had come to an end.

  It was a time to do. Not all of the catde had been brought in before the onset of the blizzard, and even those got to shelter had all but perished in their barns. The men were out in groups, each commanded by a Warner, hunting for any strays who might conceivably have found shelter and survived the disaster. The children were forbidden to do more than wander the garden, where Mother Elizabeth and Berwicke were hastily compiling a snowman for their amusement. But this was, truly, children's entertainment. Suitable for Philip.

  Edward climbed the stile at the back of the garden, and walked. He had a long stick with him, with which he prodded the ground, for he had no wish to fall into an unsuspected hole, or to find himself plunging through the ice into the pond where Berwicke had last summer taught him to swim. He wished he were leading a search party; his two cousins were only a few years older, but they were treated as men, whereas he . . . at least, this was one way to keep warm. Sweat poured down his face, and he could feel it gathering between his shoulder blades, beneath his layers of warm clothing. Although the sun was out it contained little heat; it was the exercise, the energy required to lift his foot from one drift and place it in another.

  And it was exhausting. He had walked better than a mile, he thought, and was out of sight of the farm itself, hidden as it was behind the snow hump which was the orchard. A mile. He doubted he would get back so quickly. But he had to keep moving; to stop to rest would be to freeze.

  And out here, alone, he could think. There was so much to be thought of. Father. He was no farmer. His boredom was plain to see. He had brought no happiness to Uncle Edward, despite the apparent joy with which he had been received. He brooded, and remembered. Sir Walter? They had cut off his head, three years gone. Nothing more than that, at the least. Edward wished he could get Mr Walkden out of his mind. But he also wished he had looked more closely. Then he would have had more to remember. But Sir Walter had been spared the ultimate humiliation, and he had died with the support of the crowd, calling down damnation on the head of Scotch James. And how many others had died, since, or would die, in the future? It seemed an odd way to ride a country, to execute every man who would think for himself. But the King would have it so. To think for oneself was treason.

  Edward found himself stopped, and staring at the next shallow rise. Then was he also guilty of treason? For drinking? Father, certainly. Father had quarrelled with the King himself. When Uncle Edward had heard of that he had been aghast. But that was also some time in the past, and no doubt the King had forgotten about it. Besides, perhaps he knew Tom Warner well enough to be sure that the greatest punishment he could invent would be to leave that active spirit to stagnate in the marshes of East Anglia.

  And at least Mama was happy. Recently she had been happier than Edward had ever known her, for all the lowering clouds of winter outside. Now she kept much to her bed, and yet she smiled, and laughed, almost as if she were nothing more than a girl. And her laugh held a great secret, which was undoubtedly shared by Father, if by no one else. Only when Father looked on her did his face soften.

  Still he watched the ridge in front of him. There was movement on that near horizon. And now he saw the men, rising and falling in their saddles. The pair kept to the bridle path, where the snow was no more than a few inches duck.

  'Holloa,' he shouted. 'Holloa.'

  They reined, and turned their heads, this way and that. The leader wore a tall hat and a long cloak, in dark brown, and his boots were of a similar colour. As no doubt would be his doublet beneath, for Edward had recognized him.

  'Uncle John,' he shouted, floundering through the snow. 'Uncle John.'

  John Winthrop smiled. He had uncommonly tight lips, and wore his beard longer than was fashionable, so that the lower half of his face seemed to drop away when his features relaxed. 'Edward.' The smile faded into a frown. 'You're too far from the house, in this weather.'

  ‘It is good to be out of doors, sir. But I'd beg a ride home.'

  Winthrop extended his arm. 'Get up here, then. You'll have met my godson, my lord?'

  The other man nodded. 'When he was a babe, Mr Winthrop. I doubt he remembers me.'

  Edward gaped. Now that the stranger's cloak had swung open it was easy enough to tell that he belonged to the nobility; there was a great deal of velvet and lace under there.

  'The Earl of Warwick, Edward.'

  'My lord.' Edward hastily raised his hat.

  "You're a fine lad, Edward,' Rich said. 'We seek your father.'

  'He is out for strays,' Edward said. 'But if you'll visit the house, I'm sure Aunt Jane will make you welcome.'

  'We'll do that, Mr Winthrop,' Rich decided. 'Jane Warner's mulled wine is the best I've tasted. Just the thing for a day like this. And God knows we need some cheer.' He kicked his horse and sent it ahead, wisps of snow flying from its hooves.

  'A grim man, Uncle John,' Edward whispered.

  'Tis the tide, not the man, Ned,' Winthrop remarked. 'Only grim men can survive the overheated air in Whitehall, these days.'

  The fire blazed in the hearth, and gave a tremendous glow to the huge room; its heat even managed to reach the far corners, and although it was only the middle of the afternoon, the flickering flames sent shadows crawling up the walls and racing across the ceiling. After all, the farm was that much more comfortable than the Tower.

  Philip rode his cock horse to and fro, before the blaze, singing to himself in a high-pitched voice. The men seemed not to mind. At the back of the room, Mama and Aunt Jane and Mother Elizabeth sewed industriously, every now and again raising their eyes to smile at each other, for all the gravity of the men's talk. The table had been cleared of the remains of the side of mutton, of the capons and the tarts, of the ale, and in their places Berwicke poured the wine, and saw that it remained at a suitable temperature, while the scent of the spices filled
the room. Edward chose to stay close to the table, for he had been allowed but a single mug and hoped for more; the entire day had become warm and friendly. And besides, from here, sitting next to the carved oaken legs, he could watch and listen to the men, without their apparently being aware of it.

  Certainly they seemed to have much to discuss. The Earl of Warwick might pretend that as he was in any event on a visit to his Suffolk estates he had thought the moment opportune to visit his old friends, but no one could doubt that he had more on his mind than the festive season. Even Uncle Edward, who had grown uncommonly stout and seldom allowed much to disturb him—it had been his cattle gone astray during the blizzard, but it had been Father who had spent the sleepless nights—was looking grave as he sipped his wine. On this occasion, remarkably, Father looked the most calm, although he remained standing, an empty pipe in his hand; he used it more for punctuating his sentences than for smoking. Mr. Winthrop, seated by the table, his long legs thrust out towards the fire, to cause the steam still to rise from his boots, also looked tranquil enough; but then, this was his manner and his character. Not so the earl, who moved, restlessly, to and fro, only stopping to allow Philip to navigate between and around his legs.

  ‘I but spoke my mind,' Tom Warner said. 'There's no treason when done to his face. He'd not find a witness against me for any other matter in this entire country.'

  'As if he needs witnesses,' Rich said. 'Tom, you're a trusting man. You know your own honour, and you assume all others possess the same. Tis remembered your mother was a Jerningham.'