Matthew Prior - The Green Gown - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

By Royal Command.

With a final gutter the wick keeled over and the room fell into comparative darkness. Through the grimy casement cold moonbeams crept in to icily penetrate the furthest recesses of the dingy London lodging, hard by the Thames and wringing with damp. But Matthew didn't even notice. He was deep in thought and deep in debt.

"The life of a pensman is a precarious existence."

The words of his father floated up from the pewter ink pot; and why not? The inkwell had, after all, been his father's property. Matthew searched with the nib of his quill in the silver gloom until it found its mark, where it settled into the substance of unwritten words, blocking out his father’s voice and putting the last full stop to a predictably dull day.

"Time for bed", he sighed, rising and opening the doors of his ‘vast’ boudoir, which was, in effect, little more than a cupboard in the wall at the far side of the room. Tomorrow marked the day of his birth. Thirty-five Aprils, he thought; and each one bringing him closer to oblivion and obscurity.

His head swam a little as he climbed beneath the welcoming blanket. There was still some warmth here, the remnants of the meagre fire, now little more than grey ash in the grate. Deep in his stomach the dubious concoction of mutton and ale struggled to gain a common chemistry. At least he’d eaten and drunk well – rather too well it now seemed. A bawdy repast paid for by a simple sonnet, made in a moment for a lovelorn Lancastrian, bound for a tryst by London Bridge.

The White Goose in Southwark had been crowded; old men spitting, young men coquetting, and a buxom barmaid, apple-cheeked and ready with a wink, blustering about amongst the tables, in an atmosphere as sweet as a piggery and as thick as a four day stew. John Acres, of Lord Reckington’s Men, had arrived just past ten, with a promise of work if Matthew could only force his errant brain around a new comedy, or better still a stout history to counteract the success of ‘Lord Strange’s Men’ at the Rose. Matthew had smiled. John was a good friend and ever ready with promises, but for all his optimism, tardy when it came to parting with the tin. In any case, the muse that very occasionally alighted on Matthew’s battered old oak desk was presently residing in the Americas, or at any rate far from Wyatt's Yard, where Matthew’s pens and parchment presently waited for promise of fruitful use.

Already beneath the blanket Matthew rolled over and tossed his doublet onto a chair. He was struggling to remove his boots when he heard the horses galloping into the yard beneath his window.

"Hold his head!" A sharp command cracked in the quiet night. "I'll get him."

A heavy thump, thump commenced on the street door below. Matthew crouched in the darkness and wondered which of his creditors would go to the expense of sending horsemen round in the middle of the night. He half forced a smile. They had little chance of plucking even such paltry sums as he owed from a purse more roomy than Westminster Abbey. He smiled, knowing that he wasn't successful enough to be deep in debt.

"Open up!" cried an angry voice, "Open Up - In the name of the Queen!"

The Queen? What on earth could the Queen possibly want with him - Matthew Prior? Fearing that the ancient oak planks would part at any moment, adding to the amount he already owed his avaricious landlord, Matthew struggled from beneath his heavy woollen blanket, and grabbing his doublet once more, he hurried off down the steep steps. A split second before the old iron hinges burst inwards he had eased back the bolt and opened the door. Out in the yard, holding a torch in one hand, and the reins of three fine horses in the other, was a liveried guard, gold and silver thread on his surcoat glinting in the flickering light of the fiery brand.

Before Matthew stood the Yeoman's companion, huge, dark and dangerous.

"Would ‘ee be Master Matthew Prior?" The tall man croaked in a West Country drawl.

"Why - Yes", gulped Matthew, his last hope gone of these fine fellows having come to the wrong door.

"Get your cloak", the soldier ordered. "Her Majesty the Queen has business with ‘ee!"

Matthew wondered that if, in spite of his rumbling stomach and the bitter cold he had managed to get to sleep and was now partaking of a particularly strange dream.

"The Queen?" he spluttered. "What business could the Queen have with me?"

"Like as not she wants to hang ‘ee for all I know." The big man, growing larger by the moment, showed a glimmer of humour and a mouth full of rotting teeth. Turning to his colleague he repeated the line and laughed. Matthew tottered, his mouth open, the scratching of the hempen rope on the flesh of his neck all too real in the fertile recesses of his fabler’s mind – ironically his first glimmer of genuine creative invention in weeks.

The soldier turned back to him abruptly. "Can ‘ee ride Matthew Prior?"

Matthew toyed with the idea of suggesting that he could not, but even a humble scrivener has some pride and he did not relish the prospect of entering the Royal presence slung like a side of beef across the pommel of a saddle.

"Yes," he managed in a resigned tone of voice. "I can ride".

All too soon the streets and byways were racing past them, houses and yards, shops and stables hurtling backwards as they sped onwards through the night at an alarming pace. The cold was now starting to bite and Matthew's cloak was not adequate for keeping out the chill on any journey but that from the nearest ale house to his lodgings. He shivered, from a late frost but hardly from fright, since he was so busy trying to keep his seat on the racing horse and barely had time to contemplate his fate at the Tower. The Queen’s business probably wouldn’t matter, he thought, as his shoulder bumped heavily on a low inn sign, threatening to dismount him. He’d be dead long before they reached the Tower.

The near full moon did at least offer some illumination. On Parsons Row Matthew’s horse put a foot wrong as he struggled to keep up the pace, threatening to toss him onto the cobbles. By a stinking drain, in a maze of streets close to the bottom of Tower Hill his right foot slipped from the stirrup and he had to be hauled into an upright position by his two companions. Finally, with the shadow of the imposing bastion not far off, and at the top of Ermine Row, the mutton and mead formally gave notice of their incompatibility. Leaning down from the saddle, Matthew wretched violently. The halt was fleeting, and the only satisfaction for having parted with a supper so gainfully won and enjoyed was that he had contrived, though accidentally, to deposit the entire meal on the doorstep of a particularly loathsome money lender of his acquaintance, a man by the name of Erasmus Small. Small by name, and small by nature.

The imposing walls of the Tower of London were growing larger, and the building, many towered and silver in the glow of the moon, stood like a mountain before them. The trio clattered across the metalled yard and on, up to an open and well lit doorway. Matthew slithered down gratefully. The large grey gelding turned to look at him and snorted contemptuously, obviously unimpressed by his equestrian skills.

"Don't stand there man," scolded the Yeoman. "In ‘ee go. We'll catch our deaths out here on a night like this."

"And I may well catch mine in there and out of the night," Matthew heard himself mutter.

In the seventeen years he had been in London, Matthew had only rarely caught sight of Queen Elizabeth, let alone been summoned into her presence. He liked it that way - everyone did. It was well known that Queen Bess only ever came into contact with her humbler subjects, either to provide them with alms on holy days, or to have them flogged and hanged on other occasions. Holy days were rare, which was more than could be said for hangings.

The writer was pushed and bullied down a series of corridors, each hung with a collection of portraits larger and more imposing than the last and lit by smoking torches and bunches of rush lights. Finally he was urged through a dark, anonymous door and into a sumptuous room hung with tapestries and dripping with wealth. It smelled of intrigue and tobacco. The air was warm - but certainly not welcoming and a brooding silence hung over all. Matthew had time to take in his surroundings because as the door swung shut behind him, he seemed to be alone. A large table stood in the centre of the room, containing writing implements and pieces of parchment. Expensive looking gold handled pens lay on a Flemish cut glass stand and a three branch candlestick, with fine beeswax candles, cast a steady light onto the documents.

At the far end of the room a log fire crackled in an iron grate and either side of the chimney, large fire screens showed summer scenes of shepherds picked out in faded but exquisite needlepoint. The large window was shuttered against the night and above the mantle a stern portrait of Queen Elizabeth herself glowered down at him, so that, despite the heat of the room, he shivered again.

"You are Matthew Prior?" A disembodied male voice floated across the room. It carried the cracks of age, but the swell of authority.

"Yes", Matthew replied hesitantly, his own voice a mere rasp and his quick eyes darting this way and that, trying to discover where the speaker was hiding. There was silence for a moment, which Matthew instinctively considered he should somehow fill.

From a doorway in the far corner, obscured by a free-standing oak screen, appeared an elderly man. His skin, in the flickering candlelight, looked the colour of aged velum. He was gaunt and sported a wispy pointed beard, which fell awkwardly across a large starched ruff. His clothes were dark forests of black material, carrying only some colourful badge of office to break the solemnity. The man glowered at Matthew, who at last found the courage to speak.

"I wonder sir? Do you know why Her Majesty has summoned me?" he finally managed and then added, "Am I to see her here?"

The old man’s solemn countenance faltered as he managed a sort of laugh.. "Good God Man", he said, eyeing the scrivener up and down and obviously unimpressed by the shabby attire and worn boots, "What on earth do you think Queen Elizabeth would want with you?"

Thinking the old man to be some sort of servant, and feeling indignant, because whatever law he had broken must be serious indeed to involve recourse to the Queen herself, Matthew managed. "But two Yeomen came to fetch me from my rooms. At the Queen's orders."

"The Queen is long since abed” the old man said, seating himself at the desk and gesturing Matthew to sit opposite. “in St James’ Palace". Matthew deposited himself on the large and ornately carved chair. “As indeed I would be myself, were I not having to talk to you Master Prior." the old man added. There was a pause before the voice confirmed, "You will have to make do with me for the moment."

"Might I ask whom I am addressing?" Matthew wanted to know, after another protracted silence.

“The man looked Matthew full in the face. He was probably well in excess of sixty years, though his eyes were bright and alert. They drove arrows into Matthew’s soul.

“You ‘may’ ask a great many things,” the old man told him, picking up a piece of the parchment from before him. “For example, this note is from Sir John Cranton, presently residing with us here at the Tower. He ‘asks’ if I will offer him some leniency on account of past services.” He picked up a pen, dipped it into the ink and scratched the word ‘Refused’, across the bottom of Sir John’s epistle. “You see” he said, holding up the parchment, the better for Matthew to see it. “He asked – that’s his right as a free born Englishmen. But it won’t keep his head familiar with his neck tomorrow.”

Matthew gulped.

“On the other hand I suppose we can learn nothing without asking,” the old man mused. So, for what it’s worth to you, my name, Master Prior, is John Cecil, though if you have heard of me at all, and I am vain enough to believe that I may have been mentioned in your company, you doubtless know me as Lord Burghley.”

Oh Christ!, thought Matthew, so loud that the sound echoed several times like a great church bell around the echoing recesses of his head.

“Oh my Lord”, he spluttered. “I had no idea. I thought you to be some sort of secretary, or servant?”

Burghley was the shadowy First Minister of the Queen. It was said that she never even passed wind without him weighing the political and international implications of it. The man standing before the scrivener was, in every sense of the word, the most powerful man in the realm.

“Then your assumptions were correct Master Prior”, he confirmed, almost smiling. I am most definitely a secretary to Her Majesty the Queen, and also her willing servant. These positions I hold by the Grace of God and the generosity of Her Majesty. I undertake them with the utmost diligence, because she is my monarch and I love her right well.” His eyes narrowed as they caught Matthew’s once more. “Do you love your Queen Master Prior?”

Matthew had recently loved, or rather lusted after Frances Earnshaw, a Chandler’s daughter from Greenwich, though she wouldn't entertain him until he became rich. He knew he should love his God, though their acquaintance had not been extensive over the years. He supposed he loved his parents - though both were long since dead. But his Queen? Perhaps the supposition of love for one’s monarch was worth considering, and in any case he knew full well as a writer that the words available to the English language concerning this complicated emotion made few distinctions between ‘types’ of love.........

His musings were shattered as the voice boomed out again. "I asked you Matthew Prior. Do you love your Queen?"

Matthew jumped in his seat and admitted that his affection for his monarch knew no bounds and that he would, of course, prove loyal and true to her Britannic Majesty, no matter what the cost to himself.

The old man’s voice became calmer. "Good.” He looked down on the desk and picked up another piece of parchment. After scanning it for a moment he said. “And so to business. You are from Yorkshire Master Prior?"

"Why yes sir," confirmed Matthew, "from Stanton Prior. It's only a small village - and dull at this time of year I shouldn't wonder. I recall......"

His nervous babbling was cut short. "When I want a history of the provinces I shall come to your lodgings and order one," Burghley intoned. “Now listen to me very carefully Matthew Prior, because I am an old man, I have the gout and the ague, both of which make me rather bad tempered. It is not in my nature to suffer fools and I do not care to repeat myself. Do you follow my direction henceforth?”

Matthew dare not speak, but he nodded as graciously as he could.

"Then you must do exactly what I say. Nor more and no less. Tomorrow at noon you will go to the shop of Bartholomew Thrace. He is a seller of wine and has his premises in the Vintner's Row. There you will be given instructions as to what is expected of you. In the meantime you will talk to nobody concerning this interview. You will ask no questions of me and you will go straight home to your lodgings and your bed. Good night Master Prior."

Matthew sat for a moment, despite himself, but the voice was insistent.

"I said Good Night Master Prior."

Matthew was puzzled, but he rose and turned for the door. He did not consider himself to be a handsome man, and his frame had seen better, slimmer and more agile days. All the same his head and his body were accustomed to their imperfections and he dearly wished them to remain attached, one to the other.

As he reached for the handle and pulled the door towards him the ageing voice spoke again.

"Wait".

Matthew froze in his tracks.

"Come back to the table and pick up the purse ".

Matthew did as he was bid and there, sure enough, to one side of the parchments was a leather purse, tied with red strings.

"This is for you Master Prior.” Burghley told him. “As an indication of the generosity of Her Majesty to those of her subjects who know how best to serve her. Take it and go."

For the first time during the interview Matthew was fully in tune with the sentiments of the voice - he was too poor to be inquisitive where cash was concerned. The voice continued.

“There is more where this came from. Simply follow the instructions you are given, and you will not be the poorer. Now go home Matthew!"

The guards muttered as they were forced from the warmth of their garrison out into the cold April night once more, and despite the obviously important nature of his business within the Tower, even the grey gelding showed him no more respect than had been the case on the outward journey. But he managed to make it back to Wyatt's Yard without vomiting again, and he still had his head - at least for the moment.

Matthew dismounted and turned to talk to the soldiers, but they were already trotting off into the mist that was swelling up from the river. In less than a moment they were gone, and Matthew was alone. The Moon was high above the low mist and its silver beams enhanced the gleam of the gold that tumbled out of the purse and into his hand. Ten sovereigns  - Full ten sovereigns. He bit into one, half ashamed of thinking that the Queen of England might deal in dubious coin. It tasted better than the mutton and mead - travelling in either direction.!

At six the next morning the Watch cried from the street beyond Wyatt's Yard and Matthew stirred. Dawn had broken and a pale sun stole into his consciousness. Well at least he could make some money from the dream, he consoled himself, his mouth tasting like bitter aloes and his head throbbing from the ale. There may be a story here worth a few pennies to someone.

Rising from his cupboard bed Matthew stared blearily around the room, and almost immediately his gaze alighted on the gleaming pile of coins on his work table. It hadn’t been a dream after all. Suddenly, and for reasons he could barely guess at, he was rich beyond belief. But he wasn’t to be left in peace. The invisible familiar who sat on his left shoulder at times like these, and which was always certain to wring misery from any twist of fortune had not deserted him.

"What use is all this money", the familiar wanted to know, "if you are to become a pawn in the machinations of the Royal Court? Queens don't bestow this sort of cash on the likes of you unless there is danger somewhere along the road."

Matthew shrugged. Was he not the writer of 'A Gentleman of Etruria', the hero of which had undergone a hundred perils to win the love of his maid and his true inheritance? If he wrote it, could be not be it?

"Oh yes," agreed the familiar, "but it wasn't even a very good play was it? What a foolish fellow you are Master Prior. A play is simply a fabrication.. And as your father continually told you:  'There's always a price to pay!'".

Matthew wasn't listening. He was already wondering where he could go to get change for a sovereign without attracting too much attention. He decided to walk across the City and buy himself a new doublet and cloak in some district where he wasn't known. If he was going to come face to face with adversity and perhaps even danger before the end of this day, he might at least meet both looking tidy.

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