The Truth of the Line

By M V Taylor

Nicholas Hilliard (1547-1619) was a trusted member of the court and favourite of Queen Elizabeth I. He illuminated various charters and legal documents as well as painting portraits of the queen and many of his contemporaries.

From the 1580s onwards HIliard portrayed the queen either as Cynthea - Virgin Goddess of the Moon, or as the perpetually young Astrea - Virgin Goddess of the Golden Age. These miniature portraits reinforced the idea that England's queen was, and would remain unmarried. However, is there more than propaganda regarding the queen's chastity behind these portraits of Elizabeth I?

This novel tells Hilliard's own story through some of the portraits he created for his patrons and interprets the symbols and emblems these paintings contain. From the time he was introduced to Elizabeth I in 1572, I explore the great events that happened between 1572 and 1588 as seen through his eyes.

The title is a quote from Hilliard's draft treatise of 1598, but is it purely a reference to his extraordinary ability to capture his sitter's likeness? His portrait of a young man holding a hand coming from a cloud (in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London) has long puzzled historians and art historians, and I am but one in a long line of those who have theories as to the meaning behind the motto, Attici Amoris Ergo. I believe the answer also lies in comparing this portrait with Hilliard's portrait of Elizabeth I painted in 1572 and the many he created of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester - for that you can go online and look at the portraits for yourself. These are listed at the back of the book. As a great friend of mine who is a forensic scientist, said, "You can't beat genetics!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781471744884

Book preview

The Truth

of the

Line

M V Taylor

© M V Taylor

All rights reserved

First published 2012

Revised edition 2022

Cover image

The Clopton portrait

courtesy of

Photographer Cliff: https://www.flickr.com/photos/28567825@N03/3438345700

ISBN 978-1-4717-4488-4

No part of this book to be reproduced in any form, electronic or otherwise, without the permission of the author

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd 

Thy beauty's form in table of my heart; 

My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, 

And perspective it is the painter's art. 

For through the painter must you see his skill,

To find where your true image pictured lies; 

Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, 

That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. 

Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done: 

Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me 

Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun 

Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; 

Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;

They draw but what they see,

Know not the heart.

Sonnet XXIV 

William Shakespeare

Prologue

24th March, 1603

Nicholas Hillyarde raised his head and listened.  The sudden single note tolling of all the bells of all the churches in the City of London could mean only one thing.

Queen Elizabeth was dead

Semi-frozen droplets of sleet slattered against the mullioned windows and the wind squirmed its way through the cracks making the room cold, despite the fire crackling in the grate.   Spring was only weeks away, but today the gods controlling the weather were letting London know they were mourning that England’s glorious queen was no more and a reminder that winter had not yet lost its grip.

The bell continued tolling its gloomy message and Nicholas laid down his brush of just three squirrel hairs and stretched to ease the muscles in his shoulders. He had been hunched over his small easel for hours. A tiny portrait of a woman rested on his desk gazing into the distance with unseeing eyes. He only needed to dribble white paint to form the lace edging of her ruff. A painted red enamelled locket lay over the woman’s heart and its twin lay on his workbench waiting to enclose and protect her. But now, hearing those bells, he no longer had the heart to continue working.

The faces of all those who had sat for their portraits paraded themselves across his memory. Many of those portraits had carried visual declarations of undying love. Everyone recognised symbols such as a hand over a heart, a forget-me-not or a pansy flower. He had once painted his dear wife Alice with an ear of corn and a pink rosebud pinned to her bodice. They had been living in Paris at the time and she was about to return to London with his father because she was pregnant with their first child, and in 1577 London was a lot safer than Paris. His idea was that if she died before he returned to England he would at least have her portrait to remember her by. He had painted his own portrait and enclosed it in an ornate locket of his own making for her to wear next to her heart. He had included a tiny sprig of dandelion in his cap, so tiny that most people would miss it, but Alice would recognise it as a sign that she was forever in his heart and that he missed her.

Other portraits had messages that were far more arcane. Young Essex had asked him to include the words Dat poenas laudata fides that, according to the young Earl, meant, My praised faith procures my pain. When Nicholas had painted this portrait he had no idea what faith had procured what pain for the young Earl. However, only two years ago young Essex had gone to the block for treason. 

Then there had been the mysterious Arthur Southern who had asked to be painted holding a lady’s hand coming from a heavenly cloud and had supplied the puzzling motto, Attici Amoris Ergo. The meaning was nonsensical – By, with, from or through the love of Atticus. Nicholas had come to understand just what this motto had meant, but not from his sitter.  His childhood friend and companion, Thomas Bodley, had supplied that information and long ago Nicholas had decided that idea should go with him to the grave.  The motto was truly complex and anyone who saw it would require a comprehensive knowledge of the personal history of a specific member of the Roman senate of the first century.  That portrait had been one of his most exquisite and was loaded with arcane symbolism.  At the time he had studied Agrippa’s books on the Christian Kabbalah in order to add extra elements of meaning.  He had been so intrigued he had painted two versions so he could keep one, and deliver the original as promised. 

As the queen had aged and passed child bearing age, he had painted her as the perpetually young Astraea, the Just Virgin Goddess of a Golden Age.  Her aging face was reduced to a formulaic representation, but set amidst a display of her famous shimmering jewels and fabulous gowns.  He had perfected a way of making those jewels look as if they were real diamonds, rubies or sapphires.  Elizabeth had loved these portraits, but Nicholas was convinced that the true meaning of Elizabeth as Astrea was hidden deep within Virgil’s poem.

He remembered the stories his teacher Levina had told him about when she had served Mary I and her Spanish husband and how the London streets had been filled with people throwing clods of horse shit at the Spanish party as they had entered London after the marriage of the Spanish prince to Queen Mary at Winchester. 

The first commission Levina had undertaken for England’s first queen regnant was to illuminate the text for the reinstatement of the Good Friday service for the blessing of cramp rings and the curing of the King’s Evil.  Only the English and French monarchs had the ability to do this, all thanks to the sovereigns of each country apparently being descended from Edward the Confessor, or so Levina had told him. The manuscript was now housed at the Abbey, and he had looked at it often wondering why she had used the difficult copper based bluey green and a bright pink throughout.  Nicholas assumed it was because these pigments were very difficult to use and expensive so had never asked her. Philip had given Mary a gold and blue macaw and this featured in the margin of the page showing Mary laying her hands on an afflicted person.  The parrot was still kept at Whitehall in an aviary of other exotic birds that had been captured in the New World. 

Despite Mary making use of Levina’s considerable skills, the artist had never been paid. Perhaps this was why that unbeknown to Mary and Philip, Levina had been quietly keeping the then Princess Elizabeth informed of what was happening at court.  For that loyalty Elizabeth had turned the original annuity of £40 granted by Henry VIII into a lifetime annuity.  Levina also received a lump sum amounting to what she should have been paid during Mary’s reign. 

Levina had not been the only member of the household who was a creditor of the Crown.  The man who had taken Nicholas on as an apprentice goldsmith, Robert Brandon, had also been repaid in full.  Brandon had told him that the late queen had owed him the staggering sum of £1500 and that debt had nearly bankrupted him.  It was only because this debt had been paid in full before the anniversary of Mary’s death that had saved Brandon from the debtor’s prison.

Nicholas had little memory of Mary’s reign.  His father had sent him into exile with John Bodley and his family in 1555, and they had ended up in Geneva where the Elizabeth’s cousin Catherine (or perhaps half-sister if the rumours were true) and her husband Francis Knollys were also in exile. He had vague memories of their daughter Letitia being there.  Some might have described her as high spirited, and she had certainly exhibited a talent for ignoring protocol over the years.  Nicholas leaned back and thought whether she had married Robert Dudley out of spite just because she could and Elizabeth could not?  Now only Letitia was still alive so did it matter anymore that Letitia had married the queen’s beloved Robert out of spite? 

Elizabeth’s death was not unexpected, but now it had happened Nicholas felt old. They were all gone, his beloved teacher Levina, the queen’s beloved Robert Dudley; Sir William Cecil - the man who had to all intent and purposes ruled so wisely and for so long, the queen’s spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham, England’s great naval hero Sir Francis Drake.  He even thought, with sorrow, about the young, arrogant Robert Devereux who had tried so hard to take the throne and paid the ultimate price.  Even the enigmatic young man he had painted holding a hand coming from a cloud had apparently vanished somewhere in Spain.

Nicholas contemplated the nearly completed portrait lying on his bench and mused on the various lockets he had made over the years. Lockets that hung on chains around a lover’s neck or nestled between a lady’s breasts where the gentle beat of the wearer’s heart would sound to the painted ears of the hidden lover.

Another blast of wind hurled another squall of sleet against the window and the room darkened even more. Hilliard shivered, remembering his being ordered to ride to Fotheringay to record the death of another queen years before.

These sad nostalgic thoughts drove any desire to finish his work from him. He wanted something hot to drink, perhaps something spicy. Crossing to the fire he thrust the mulling poker deep into the coals, picked up a silver tankard and poured himself some wine. Reaching for a silver box on a high shelf, he sat for time with the box resting on his knees and running his fingers over the engraved entwined initials, N and A. These were surrounded with a design of daisies and forget-me-nots. The daisy petals were made from halved creamy white oval seed pearls with small round yellow topaz centres. Those of the forget-me-nots were of pale blue sapphires with tiny diamond chip centres. The silver spice box had been one of his wedding gifts to his beloved Alice, who made the tastiest mulled wine he knew. Inside were cloves, a couple of nutmegs, slivers of dried ginger and several cinnamon sticks. Nicholas took the small tin grater from its drawer and grated some nutmeg directly into the wine cup, then pounded a clove, a sliver of the dried ginger and some cinnamon in a small pestle and mortar. Adding the powdered spices to the wine he stirred it with his finger, pondering on what was happening at the palace.

Who could succeed such a queen? 

No doubt Robert Cecil had that all in hand.  Nicholas sighed.  Sir William had been the power behind the throne and had taught his son well, but there was something about Robert that Nicholas did not like.  It was not his physical deformity.  Heavens above, there were enough people with missing limbs, club feet and crooked backs walking the streets of London. There was a streak of ruthlessness even more unrelenting than his father had shown on occasion.  One occasion that had very nearly been Sir William’s downfall had been the execution of Mary Queen of Scots, and Nicholas remembered how William Davidson had become the scapegoat for the joint decisions of the senior members of the Privy Council.  Memories of witnessing the execution of the Scottish  queen on that cold February morning at Fotheringay still haunted him.

Leaning forward he took the now glowing mulling poker from the fire and plunged it into the silver tankard. The cold liquid spluttered against the red hot metal and the smell of hot spices rose, offering a taste of far off places. Nicholas sat relishing the warm spiced wine, but it was not as good as when Alice made it. His gout pained him so much that even his soft lambskin slippers were uncomfortable. 

Settling back into the chair and resting his aching foot on a padded footstool Nicholas adjusted a fur rug around his knees and sat staring into the fire. He thought about the commissions he should be doing but did not have the heart to finish. Later he would visit the Goldsmith’s Hall, but for now he just wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

"Ah Marcus he thought, If Thomas and I hadn’t rescued you from those ruffians all those years ago, I wonder how different my life would have been?  I bet it wouldn’t have been as nearly as exciting!"

Nicholas closed his eyes.  The mulled wine was dulling the ache in his foot allowing his memory to glide back down the years.

Introduction to the Queen

April 1572

Nicholas’s mouth was dry and his palms were moist.  Looking down he noticed how the black leather of his new uncomfortable boots was almost invisible against the dark oak floorboards polished by the thousands of feet passing over them every week. His career hung in the balance. Levina had insisted he demonstrate his talent for painting the tiny portraits Queen Elizabeth was so fond of, by painting one of her. Today would be the test of whether or not the queen liked his work.

So, you are the young man that Mistress Teerlinc tells me can paint as well as she. Is this true Mr Hillyarde? The queen of England was seated on a chair in front of one of the window bays.  She inspected the good-looking young man standing before her.

Mistress Teerlinc believes it so, your majesty. Nicholas bowed, his voice was soft and still held a trace of a Devon accent. Coughing to clear his throat, he continued: If your majesty cares to examine this portrait, perhaps you will be better able to judge. Nicholas knelt and proffered the portrait of his teacher. Elizabeth took the small white silk parcel, unwrapped it and cradled the tiny portrait in the palm of her hand.

Struck by the slenderness and whiteness of that hand Nicholas raised his head and found he was looking directly into the face of his sovereign. Her brown eyes twinkled with merriment and Nicholas ached to capture her expression and the way the light caught the different hues of her red hair.

The queen returned her attention to the miniature portrait and studied it for some minutes, turning it this way and that.

This is indeed a very good likeness.

Thank you, ma’am. Mistress Teerlinc is a very excellent teacher.

In style it is not unlike those I remember from my father’s time by Master Holbein. Elizabeth looked at Nicholas questioningly.

Quite so, ma’am. I was afforded the opportunity of studying the great master’s sketchbooks and it was suggested I study both his style of painting and his notes.

Elizabeth beckoned to one of the young women who were sitting in a window bay sewing.

Go, fetch Mistress Teerlinc. Elizabeth commanded. The young girl left at the run. Now, Mr Hillyarde, this will be the test. How well will your likeness compare with the lady?

Just as Nicholas was struggling to form a reply that sounded neither pompous nor arrogant, Robert Dudley entered the queen’s private apartments.  None of the ladies-in-waiting seemed surprised that he had not knocked, or been announced.

Ah Robert come, be my Eyes. The queen smiled as Dudley took her hand, raised it to his lips and held it there for just a fraction of a second longer than was seemly. Nicholas was convinced he saw the queen squeeze Dudley's hand in return. He ached to capture the twinkle in her eye and the golden glints of her hair so that in years to come, the whole world could share the exact moment he had met England’s Virgin Queen. If only it were also possible to catch her musical laugh in paint, he thought!  

Levina Teerlinc entered, her black silk skirts rustling as she curtseyed and rose to stand impassively in front of the queen. Elizabeth stood holding the tiny portrait next to the Levina Teerlinc’s face. The queen stood, tipping her head from one side to the other in thought while she compared the painted image with the face of her loyal limner.

Not bad. Dudley had moved so he too could compare the sitter with Nicholas’s painted image and was resting his hand lightly on the queen’s waist. Nicholas sensed the earl was using his comparison as an excuse to caress the queen's body.

Levina stood looking straight ahead apparently oblivious of their close scrutiny. Nicholas moved so he was in her direct line of sight; her face was unreadable, but he noted the corners of her eyes crinkled minutely as an inaudible comment passed between the queen and her favourite.  That tiny movement spoke volumes, but he was unable to understand its message.

Mistress Teerlinc, your pupil is a credit to you Elizabeth stated finally, and you say that he is also a master goldsmith.

Nicholas squirmed while he was discussed as if he were a prize horse. Elizabeth turned to him. 

Mr Hillyarde, my Lord Leicester believes you have made Mistress Teerlinc too dour; but I believe you have caught her likeness perfectly. This is a remarkable piece of work. Elizabeth placed her hand on Robert Dudley’s arm and smiled up at him. Now my sweet Robin, how say you to a wager?

Don’t tell me. Let me guess Dudley replied, laughing.  Mr Hillyarde is to paint your likeness and if it is not judged to be perfect, I pay his fee?

What a wonderful suggestion. I accept.

But who are to be the judges? Dudley chided.

Well, perhaps my ladies? Elizabeth tilted her head coquettishly.

Oh no, Dudley wagged a finger at her your ladies are far too biased. I suggest my gentlemen?

I think the same applies! She retorted frowning and poking Dudley in the chest.

A loud rap on the door broke this light-hearted banter, the atmosphere losing its playful informality as Elizabeth resumed her seat.

 Come. She commanded.

Sir William  and Sir Nicholas Bacon entered. Burghley’s fleeting expression of annoyance revealed his feelings at finding the queen closeted apparently in a cosy domestic encounter with the Earl of Leicester.

Ah, perfect! Elizabeth clapped her hands in delight. What say you Robert – are not these two perfect judges for our little wager? They neither know of what we speak or of what is wagered.

Elizabeth crooked her finger at Nicholas, indicating he should approach.

Mr Hillyarde, how soon can you perform this service for me? she asked.

As the centre of a royal wager with two of the most powerful men in the land as judges, the possibilities of success were endless; so too were the perils of failure. He glanced at his teacher who was quietly making her way towards the door.

Ever since Nicholas had known her, Mistress Teerlinc had lectured him of the perils of court, stressing that he needed to think fast, offend no one and acquire a reputation for absolute discretion. She had lectured him long and hard on how people would try and befriend him, desperate for information that might be useful for promoting their own position. Sensing the political currents now swirling round him, Nicholas realised why she had been so determined to drill this information into him. He also remembered how these lectures had bored him and wished he had paid more attention. If he were to become Elizabeth’s chosen limner he would have to try and steer his way through these political perils. One wrong word, repetition of a snippet of gossip to the wrong person and his career would be finished.

Nicholas grew even more uncomfortable in his new doublet and tight kid boots. The sudden patter of raindrops on the window provided him with an idea.

Perhaps, should the sun shine, we could walk in the garden later.  The rain will have washed the sky and the light will be purer, therefore better suited for our purpose.

The implication that with the right location they could be away from prying eyes pleased the queen. Clearly, this young man with his dark curly hair and saturnine looks had been well coached in the subtleties of court language.

I take my exercise at noon and you will find me in the Long Walk.  The queen’s reply was both a command and a dismissal. Nicholas bowed low as he retreated from the royal presence.

Outside the private royal apartments the members of the court were absorbed in their daily routines. The past half hour proffered a once in a lifetime opportunity he needed to discuss with his teacher. As he made his way to the royal library he wondered what was happening inside in the royal apartments. Dudley had been standing looking out of the window apparently ignoring the conversation between the queen, Sir William and Bacon.  It was common knowledge that these two courtiers had little time for Dudley at present. Now Hilliard was a pawn in a game where his talents were being used to play Dudley off against the queen’s two most senior advisers. Was she doing it because she was bored, or to remind all three that she was their queen?  It excited him to think that Elizabeth considered his talent good enough to be used in this way.

He found Levina in her private room in the library complex. 

Nicholas, that went well. Levina’s gentle voice calmed his turbulent thoughts. Her majesty was much taken by your portrait of me. She handed him a tankard of her special mint water and Nicholas drank it down in one.

What precisely was it the queen said to Lord Leicester? Nicholas desperately wanted to know what had made his teacher smile.

Just when I thought you had learned the lesson of discretion, you disappoint me by wanting to know a private comment. Nicholas blushed at her reprimand. Some things are best left unknown, but, trust me, it was very complimentary. Now, if you are to describe the queen in paint it will have to be done quickly. So go, get your paint-box and your sketchbooks.

Later that day

It was sunny, but a cool easterly breeze was ruffling the surface of the river Thames. Nicholas pulled his cloak closer. The rain had stopped and the light was as he had said it would be. As he walked he pondered on how best to paint the queen. He had studied Holbein’s sketchbooks and style as well as those by Lucas Horenbout who had been Henry VIII’s first painter of portrait miniatures. These tiny portraits were not at all like the big table portraits by Holbein that hung on walls.

Nicholas preferred Holbein’s sketches to any of his completed works because they were far more lifelike than the large oil portraits. The painted stubble on a man’s cheek or the fur of a collar all told of Holbein’s amazing virtuosity, but his finished oil portraits remained solemn. It was as if the twitch of a smile at the corner of a mouth, or the sparkle of the sitter’s eyes had been buried deep beneath the oil paint. In particular he had been invited to compare the portrait of the late Lady Mary Guildford with Holbein’s original sketch.  The sketch was of a woman who appeared to be about to burst into giggles, which was completely at odds to the dour faced individual that stared out of the much larger painting.  That vital something that made Holbein’s preparatory sketches sparkle with life had completely disappeared in the finished portrait.

Nicholas wanted to capture Elizabeth’s vivaciousness and, remembering how Holbein’s enchanting first sketches had become stiff and boring when re-worked, was why he had decided that instead of doing any preparatory sketches, he would paint directly on to the vellum. He hoped he could capture Elizabeth’s personality in the same way Holbein had caught the sparkle of the giggling Lady Guildford.

With his satchel slung over his shoulder Nicholas walked through the palace gardens.  The queen was playing bowls where a tall, dark green yew hedge sheltered the players from the cool easterly breeze. Mistress Teerlinc smiled as he approached.

 Well done Nicholas. Levina whispered to him. She has talked of nothing else this morning, but of how she is having a new ‘eye’ paint her likeness. She asked many questions about you. You have quite captured her imagination.

Nicholas was flattered that the queen was so keen to have her likeness painted, but his teacher’s comment filled him with trepidation.  Previous commissions had taken several sittings to enable him to prepare sketches to work from and then several more sittings in his studio with the sitter being patient while he made sure the details were all absolutely to his liking. He relished the prospect of showing off his talent, but was worried whether he would he be able to achieve a suitably accurate likeness painting directly onto the vellum. It was one thing to criticise the Holbein's great portraits for their stiffness, but for such an important commission quite another to decide to experiment with a new way of working. He cursed his arrogance because he had nothing except some scraps of paper on which to make notes or make any sketches.  Swallowing hard, he replied:

I won’t let you down. I promise. He prayed these would not turn out to be hollow words.

Nicholas, of that I am sure; just be yourself. Our lady hates those who try to be what they think she wants them to be and, besides, you can give her something she desires; but never forget she is your queen. Levina smiled encouragement. If it were not for her, he would not have this opportunity.  Levina did not deserve to be repaid by failure.

Their exchange had been only a matter of a few seconds and Nicholas waited as the queen bowled her turn before approaching and bowing low.

Ah, Master Hillyarde. I thought you would never stop gossiping.

Nicholas held her fingers gently and raised them to his lips. Her skin was soft and carried a hint of the scent of roses and marjoram. Lifting his eyes to her face he saw her dark eyes twinkling with merriment.

Come now, Mr Hillyarde. Let us commence. Elizabeth turned to her ladies and clapped her hands. Now ladies, off you go. Mr Hillyarde and I have work to do.

Elizabeth sat down on a bench in front of the dark green hedge.

Your majesty he coughed and bowed again, not sure how to continue. Elizabeth was sitting in full sunshine and he was unsure of where to place himself. If he stood directly in front of her she would be looking straight into the sun and that would make her squint.

Mr Hillyarde, do you not think it best to have me in the open light; in the Italian fashion, who shadoweth not and are the best of all nations at drawing?

Indeed your majesty, shadows in pictures are caused by the shadow of the place, or, if inside, coming in a high window the light will come in only one way and at an angle.

Elizabeth thought his voice gentle and pleasant to listen to.

The Italians are, indeed, the greatest painters in large, he continued but limnings require close attention unlike the large paintings and, unlike other nations, Italians model their faces in like manner to a limner, needing no shadows.

Quite so Mr Hillyarde, but I choose to sit here enjoying the April sun without shadow at all, save that as the heaven is lighter than the earth.

Nicholas realised Elizabeth was using the reference to shadow as a metaphor for defects of character.

Your majesty, it is the truth of the line which is the important element, for in that line with no shadow, showeth all to good judgement, but shadow without line showeth nothing at all. Both line and colour give the lively likeness and the shadows the roundness and the effect or defect of the light wherein the picture was drawn. Nicholas expounded as he set up his tools on a small table directly in front of the queen. The box folded out to provide a portable easel and a selection of very fine paint brushes, some being of only one or two squirrel hairs wide. He took a small rectangle of very fine vellum that had already been glued to a playing card.  Nicholas dipped his brush in the water and set to work mixing a suitable pale skin colour in the centre of his tiny scallop shell palette to match her complexion.

Mr Hillyarde, Elizabeth continued, The Earl of Leicester tells me that he met you some years ago. Nicholas nodded his affirmation. So how is it that you have not come to my notice ‘til now? Elizabeth watched Nicholas as he concentrated on his first vital strokes.  She liked his face: it had an openness of expression suggesting a character to match. She thought it a young face, not yet sullied by life’s lessons that made cynics of us all and added the lines and wrinkles of experience.

It is true, ma’am, I met both him and Mistress Teerlinc on the same day.  Nicholas replied as he worked, his anxieties forgotten now he was absorbed in his work. He had used just four lines to capture the outline of her face and, conscious of his omission to include a sketchbook, he committed these four lines to memory.

 I gather you made quite an impression even then? Elizabeth wondered why Dudley had never mentioned Nicholas until this morning.

I was the ward of Mister John Bodley and we were just returned from Europe.  Nicholas flushed at the memories of that November day long ago in 1559.

Reminiscences of November 1559

The twelve-year-old Hilliard and Thomas Bodley were exploring the streets and alleyways of the City of London having recently returned to England after five years of exile in Geneva.

Mrs Bodley, deciding the boys were more a hindrance than a help in unpacking the various boxes that had come with them from Switzerland, had shooed them out of the house with instructions not to be back until dark. The sounds of London were very much like those of Geneva, but London was bigger and the smell of the sea suggested far off lands. The boys were fascinated by the forest of ships’ masts and how the ships were ranged against the docks. The dockworkers and merchants shouted instructions as they supervised the unloading of exotic cargoes from the New World or the Orient, or not so exotic cargoes of coal or tin from the north of England. The shouts of the stevedores mingled with those of the rivermen plying their trade up and down the Thames hauling small cargoes of goods and passengers.

The River Thames was the artery that carried the wealth of the nation and was filled with all sizes of ships and boats at all times of day. When the tide was low the beach was covered in flotsam and jetsam. The boys sometimes found money and used their foreshore bonus to buy pies from a hot pie seller because, like all boys, they were always hungry.

The two were making their way down to the beach to see if fortune would smile on them before the tide rose when passing a small alleyway, a young lad dashed out, knocking them to one side. Four older boys pushed passed in hot pursuit.  Nicholas and Thomas looked at each other; odds of four to one were unfair and they took off after the four pursuers.

Ahead they could see their quarry pounce and were punching and kicking the little fellow who had curled into a ball. With the element of surprise in their favour, Nicholas and Thomas jumped the gang from behind. Thomas and Nicholas thumped tight fists into jaws and stomachs. The tussle continued, but the well intentioned two were losing.  The ball on the ground had uncurled into a boy who was now fighting back, but the odds were not in their favour. Nicholas kicked a tall blonde lad hard on the shins and slammed a tightly curled fist upwards into a knobbly chin as the boy doubled up clutching his injured leg.

Turning to help Thomas, Nicholas did not see the fist that smacked him in the left eye. He staggered back tripping over his own victim and crashing to the cobbles. The body on the ground seized the opportunity and rolling out from under Nicholas, rose to his feet and kicked Nicholas hard in the side. The blow landed squarely on Nicholas’s kidneys and he rolled around trying to get his breath and avoid further kickings.

Oi A loud shout stopped the action dead.  A man and his manservant were bearing down on them with unsheathed swords. The four attackers took to their heels leaving Nicholas and the boy lying in the muddy road.  Thomas was bent over, panting hard and rubbing his jaw.

What goes on? The voice carried the note of command. An elegant man stood before them. Thomas squirmed at the thought of the probable punishment for brawling, as if the bruises from the first encounter were not enough.   He attempted to brush the dust and muck off his clothes so he would not appear to be a rough lout. Nicholas scrambled to his feet and examined his skinned knuckles. Both were trying to work out who had won, concluding independently they had achieved a moral victory.

Sir, the victim snivelled, these two came to my aid.

Pray tell me, young Marcus, why were you being pursued? the man asked. His tone had softened.

The small boy gulped and wiped his bloody nose on the back of his hand. His left eye was closing rapidly and would soon become black and very painful, but this and his split lip would heal in time and were unlikely to leave a scar.

I was returning from an errand when I was jumped outside Mr Brandon’s workshop by four thugs. I took to my heels hoping to outrun them, but they caught me here. I thought I was done for, then these two came to my aid. The boy had a slight trace of an accent. The man held out his hand and hauled young Marcus to his feet. A sleeve had torn from the lad’s shoulder and he had ladders in his