The Conscience of the King

4

May, 1612 Sir Francis Bacon's Residence, London

Besides of the fire, outwardly companionable enough. Sir Francis, author of some of the greatest works of natural science ever written; Bishop Andrewes, prime component in the greatest translation of the Holy Bible ever published. The two men had waved the servants away, and brought two chairs closer to the blazing hearth. It was summer, but the old stone of the building kept the chill that was so welcome on a hot day but which could bite into the bones at night.

There was a wariness between the two men, something admitted by Bacon.

'We're old friends, my lord Bishop,' said Bacon, gazing into the fire, his hand loosely clasping the goblet of wine. 'Yet it shouldn't be so.'

A thin smile crossed the face of Lancelot Andrewes, Bishop of

Ely.

'And why shouldn't the King's Solicitor General and his Bishop of Ely be the best friends in the world?' Andrewes replied lightly. 'We've known each other for many years now. You certainly need someone to safeguard your soul, and at times I need someone to tell me about the way of the real world. We face a common threat, after all. We're both deemed by others to be men of wit. And we've both been disappointed, I think…'

It had been a year since King James had made another, weaker man Archbishop of Canterbury, when all the world and its priests thought Andrewes was the only candidate. As for Bacon, his lifelong battle for preferment seemed to have stalled on the rock of Sir Edward Coke, apparently the lawyer more trusted by King James.

'All of which is true,' said Bacon, not turning to look at his companion. 'But the real reason's elsewhere. You see…' And now he turned to look Andrewes full in the face. 'You, for all your ambition, are a main of morals. I, for all my ambition, have none.'

'All men have morals,' replied Andrewes mildly, his eyes amused despite himself.

'Perhaps. But mine appear to have been lost by the wayside at an early age. It doesn't make me an evil man, you understand.' Bacon spoke as if lecturing a child. 'Indeed, the fact that I've placed self-interest above morality, and made it my substitute, means I'm actually very predictable. Far more so than many who've been bitten by the illness of religion. For example, I'm quite likely to spare someone because they amuse me, rather than kill them because they have a different religion.'

'There's a difference between religion and faith,' answered Andrewes. 'Religion is the institution man erects around faith, and because it comes from man it must be fallible. Faith is what we're given from God. It's pure.'

'Well preached!' said Bacon, without malice. Andrewes was renowned as the best preacher in the country. His sermons were a potent blend of intelligence and wit, but the driving force that drove his congregation to tears was the combination of humanity and sincerity. 'But we really do need to move off spiritual matters and on to Mammon. Or Cecil, to be precise. You've heard he's about to die?'

Andrewes crossed himself instinctively. 'How certain are you? 'As certain as one can be in these matters.' 'And are you pleased?' Andrewes spoke with no hint of accusation.

'Yes, I think so. He's blocked me all these years, been the main reason for my lack of preferment despite our family links. His death will certainly open up new opportunities for me. But that's not why we needed to meet. Cecil sent a summons out from Bath yesterday.'

'A summons? To whom?'

'To Sir Henry Gresham.'

There was silence.

Andrewes spoke first, hesitantly. 'And what do you think was the purpose of this… summons?'

'I can only guess that it's the business that joins us. As far as Cecil's concerned, it's perhaps the greatest loose end in his life. Started by his father, watched over by him but never ended. Now threatening to blow up in the face of the country he thinks he's ruled for all these years past, damaging — perhaps even destroying — the stability he thinks is the inheritance he's left to the future. Gresham is the obvious man to bring it all to an end.'

'Is Gresham as dangerous a man as his reputation allows?'

'In some respects, my old friend,' said Bacon, sipping his wine thoughtfully, 'he's very like you. He has more wit and intelligence than he knows how to handle, a brain as powerful as any I've ever known and as sardonic a sense of humour. He's as restless as you. In the room he occupies, time seems to go just a little faster, as it does in any church where you preach. Oh, and at times he's crippled by a sense of duty. Far too much of this dreadful morality; just like you.'

'And the differences, assuming I accept your rather wild description as holding any truth at all as far as I'm concerned?'

'Well now, there's the problem,' mused Bacon. 'Gresham's fabulously rich, so he needs bow his knee to no man, and he's utterly ruthless, sometimes even cruel. He really doesn't care about his own life. He's probably the best fighter — and I do mean fighter, not just swordsman — in the country. He and Cecil loathe each other with a venom I've rarely seen anywhere else, yet they seem to have an understanding between them that no outsider comprehends. If Cecil sets him on the trail of the truth, the odds are more than even that he'll find at least some of it.'

'Are the consequences for us and the others as bad as we've persuaded ourselves they are?' asked Andrewes.

'They vary for each of us, I think,' said Bacon. 'For you and me, there's the fact of us having been involved in a deceit, telling the great public a lie for so long. It's not good for lawyers or for clergymen to be seen as deceivers. Then there's what it is we've been doing. Given the ferment in my Parliament and your Church, we're not clever to be seen as active in that particular field. In your case, the risk is greater. There are things the man responsible for the greatest edition of the Holy Bible ever written can't be seen to be involved with. As you've been so involved. Finally, for both of us, there's the humiliation of the real truth. More so in my case than yours.'

'And for the King?'

'The same. With the complication of these letters. A great complication, I fear. And the madman who has them now.' The silence hung heavy.

'I won't have him killed.' Andrewes' tone was peremptory.

'Who?' said Bacon, startled out of his reverie for a moment.

'Shakespeare. I won't have him killed.'

'Yet if he's stopped, much of the danger goes away,' Bacon stated factually. The part of his mind that from his earliest days had been distanced from him, an eavesdropper perched over his ear listening and reporting, wondered how this sight would look to an outsider. The Solicitor General and the Bishop of Ely quietly discussing the merits of murdering a man.

'As you've said, I have my morals.' i take the point. Yet there must be a chance that Gresham will kill him. There's no love lost between them. Gresham won't be constricted by your morality,' said Bacon.

'I've no control over Gresham,' replied Andrewes, aware of how thin the theological and moral ground was over which he skated.

'Well,' said Bacon, a sigh accompanying his words, 'the job may be done for us, without our lifting a finger. It seems they're queuing up to do away with Master Shakespeare.'