military nor religion carried any sway,” a very rude and licentious kind of government.  “Would to God,” said the secretary, “that, with his value and courage, he carried the mind and reputation of a religious soldier.”  But that was past praying for.  Sir John was proud, untractable, turbulent, very difficult to manage.  He hated Leicester, and was furious with Sir William Pelham, whom Leicester had made marshal of the camp.  He complained, not unjustly, that from the first place in the army, which he had occupied in the Netherlands, he had been reduced to the fifth.  The governor-general—­who chose to call Sir John the son of his ancient enemy, the Earl of Sussex—­often denounced him in good set terms.  “His brother Edward is as ill as he,” he said, “but John is right the late Earl of Sussex’ son; he will so dissemble and crouch, and so cunningly carry his doings, as no man living would imagine that there were half the malice or vindictive mind that plainly his words prove to be.”  Leicester accused him of constant insubordination, insolence, and malice, complained of being traduced by him everywhere in the Netherlands and in England, and declared that he was followed about by “a pack of lewd audacious fellows,” whom the Earl vowed he would hang, one and all, before he had done with them.  He swore openly, in presence of all his camp, that he would hang Sir John likewise; so that both the brothers, who had never been afraid of anything since they had been born into the world, affected to be in danger of their lives.

The Norrises were on bad terms with many officers—­with Sir William Pelham of course, with “old Reade,” Lord North, Roger Williams, Hohenlo, Essex, and other nobles—­but with Sir Philip Sidney, the gentle and chivalrous, they were friends.  Sir John had quarrelled in former times—­ according to Leicester—­with Hohenlo and even with the “good and brave” La None, of the iron arm; “for his pride,” said the Earl, “was the spirit of the devil.”  The governor complained every day of his malignity, and vowed that he “neither regarded the cause of God, nor of his prince, nor country.”

He consorted chiefly with Sir Thomas Cecil, governor of Brill, son of Lord Burghley, and therefore no friend to Leicester; but the Earl protested that “Master Thomas should bear small rule,” so long as he was himself governor-general.  “Now I have Pelham and Stanley, we shall do well enough,” he said, “though my young master would countenance him.  I will be master while I remain here, will they, nill they.”

Edward Norris, brother of Sir John, gave the governor almost as much trouble as he; but the treasurer Norris, uncle to them both, was, if possible, more odious to him than all.  He was—­if half Leicester’s accusations are to be believed—­a most infamous peculator.  One-third of the money sent by the Queen for the soldiers stuck in his fingers.  He paid them their wretched four-pence a-day in depreciated coin, so that for their “naughty money they could get but naughty ware.”  Never was such “fleecing of poor soldiers,” said Leicester.