Object Lesson

When the lady Elizabeth, as the Queen's sister was called back then, took the air in the cool of the evening, walking the leads of the Tower, the roof piece high above the courtyard, she was never entirely alone. One of her women was required to attend her both for her dignity's sake and for her safety. One or two men at arms, such as myself, must always remain nearby as well, lest any harm come to her or worse, should treason somehow present itself.

I was young, then, and full of myself, reveling in my new responsibility. I snarled at the fall of every leaf, challenged every raven when it landed, as if like a pigeon it might carry some message from her enemies—or her friends. And if any human being called to her from the ground or made his reverence from a window, I noted his name and style and rudely sent him away, reporting the incident to my captain.

My name is Martin Gage, and I am an idiot. Let me explain.

As a boy down in Plymouth, I entered my father's workshop, the least of his apprentices, learning the joiner's trade. The one thing I had from him to set me apart from the other boys was a box for tools expertly made by his own hands. A master of his mystery, he had contrived to make the dovetail joins nearly invisible, then carved the top with my name and a motto in Latin: age quod agis, which I am told means "Do what you are doing." Or, in the words of Stephen Gage, master joiner: "Pay attention."

As a mark that he did not otherwise play favorites, it was empty when he gave it to me. I had to make my own tools against the day when I was my own man. I might also buy them one by one from the silver I got for delivering messages, writing up orders, and even, when I was older, accompanying finished pieces to the patron or to the next master craftsman involved in the tedious process of creating an expertly joined, stained, carved, and painted desk or court cupboard or bed. I once earned a silver shilling for delivering a table and twelve chairs to the chamber of our town council.

When I was nearly twenty and was deemed to have learned enough, and when that wooden box was heavy with the basic tools of our trade, he pronounced me a journeyman, and went up to London to enter my name in the books of the Joiners' Company, our ancient guild. It was time to leave his shop and become a man, employed by others.

I was delighted, for a day or so. Possibly as much as a week. But when I became the least of the hired men in my uncle Harry's workshop, I knew I could no longer bear it. I was twenty and utterly convinced I was made for greater things. I hated the wood, hated the lathe and the smell of sawdust, and desperately hated horse glue. A young man like me, with my exceptional talents, should be off making his fortune, I said to anyone who listened. 

On the face of my box I carved a new motto, learned from a scrivener: fortes fortuna juvat, Fortune favours the bold. I felt bold when I did it, and ridiculous when I saw how awkward the letters were, and how they began to press up against the edge at the end instead of being all one size, evenly spaced. And I had left out the "j". I could do better, but I didn't care.

Shortly afterwards, another phrase appeared below the self-assured words, but like my father's, beautifully finished: aut disce aut discede. Learn, said my clever uncle, or leave. In fact, so weary was he of my complaints that he gave me five silver shillings to deliver a small commission to a patron in London, after which I could do whatever I liked with myself. Yes, I was dismissed, but I was free! 

The adventures of that journey and indeed of my first sorry year in the metropolis would fill a book, if only as a cautionary tale. Let me say only that my fortunes rose and fell. I learned to fight. I sold my sword, then had to pawn it. And redeemed it only because my friend Daniel Schooler—we had been apprenticed together—found me one day picking fights in a tavern without the means to pursue them, and too drunk to know it.