February, 1601 London
Gresham had chosen to wear a nondescript cloak, and ride on a nag that was like countless hundreds of others in London. His hat was pulled low down over his brow.
Essex House was lit up like the Court on Twelfth Night, and among the noise and turmoil emanating from it there was the occasional ominous clang of metal on metal. The front entrance was heavily guarded, the back one as well and the river gate sealed.
On a whim, Gresham made Mannion ride with him west up the Strand. The Queen was at Whitehall, the proximity of the Palace as much a feature in the popularity of the Strand as London's prevailing wind direction.
'Nothing,' said Gresham. There were no extra guards, no sign in the far distance of any extra activity in the Palace. As they were turning round, there was a clatter of hooves behind them. The rider was in a hurry, four men in the Queen's livery with him. He had lost his hat, and his face was covered in mud.
'John! John Herbert!' Gresham called into the darkness. The man reined in, peering through the gloom. Secretary John Herbert was a prime administrator for the Privy Council. A decent man, he was typical of the hundreds who slaved away quietly and without much evident ambition to service the workings of government. Why was Secretary Herbert riding out at this time of night, when all decent men were tucked up in bed? It must be approaching midnight.
'Sir Henry!' Herbert was nervous, and his escort drew round him. 'What business have you riding in town on this of all nights?'
'I might ask the same of you,' said Gresham, 'except to say that I serve the Queen to whom I remain loyal. And you have nothing to fear from me.'
'I have never thought I had,' the man answered simply, 'unlike many others. But excuse me, I must about my business.'
'I would caution you against Essex House this night,' said Gresham. 'It's a wild place.'
'I have no option, Sir Henry,' said Herbert. 'There is no reason why you should not know. The Privy Council summoned the Earl of Essex to their presence late this afternoon. He returned no answer. I am sent to demand his presence. Now.'
'He won't come,' said Gresham. 'You know that.'
'On a night when my family are on their knees praying for my safety, I know only that I have my duty to do. Will you let me pass?'
'Of course. I'm not your enemy.'
Strange how bravery and courage showed themselves. There was the bravery of the great general, the great leader. And there was the bravery of the ordinary man, the man with just a little courage and a sense of duty, the man who would go where duty drove him, quietly and without fuss. History would discard him and his name without a moment's thought if he fell foul of a drunken rebel or Gelli Meyrick's knife, something John Herbert knew as well as history.
The two men let Herbert have a decent start, and then followed after him to where a glow in the sky showed London and the burning lights of Essex House. They had lit a vast fire in the courtyard to warm the men who were gathered there. Two hundred? Three hundred? It was difficult to say.
They stopped in the darkness that lay like a cloak around the great house, and Gresham dismounted, handing the reins of his nag to Mannion. Mannion was awkward, troubled. 'You shouldn't be doin' this,' he said.
'You're probably right,' said Gresham.
'I should come with you,' said Mannion.
'It wouldn't work. Even you can't fight off all Essex's men, and they'd separate us immediately. Probably torture you to find out if you knew anything. Or just for the fun of it. You know it's got to be me. And why.'
Gresham had told Mannion what he thought was the truth as they had ridden down towards Essex House. To his relief, Mannion had not laughed, but had agreed.
'Yeah,' he said with a vast sigh. 'That figures. It's just what them bastards would do, isn't it? Clever, though. You got to give them that. Well, that's it then,' he said. Then he did something extraordinary. He got off his horse, came up to Gresham and enveloped him in a vast bear hug. Gresham gasped. It was like being clutched by a large hairy carpet. Mannion let go, and the breath returned to Gresham's chest.
'You bloody well survive!' said Mannion, 'or I'll never forgive you.' He rode away with both horses into the dark. It was, of course, a trick of the light that suggested the phlegmatic Mannion had tears in his eyes.
Some soothing influence must have been released into Gresham's blood as he walked up to the gates of Essex House. He felt nothing, no fear, no tension. Calmly he said to the man on the gate, 'My name is Sir Henry Gresham. I am an ex-friend of the Earl's and I have vital news for him.'
A startled look came over the man's face, but he opened the small gate cut into the huge wooden one, ushered Gresham in and shut it quickly behind him. The scene in the yard was like a vision of hell. A furious fire was blazing, sparks flying up into the night air, and all around men were walking, talking, doing exercises, oiling weapons or sitting silently in corners, guns and swords laid carefully on their laps. The guard whispered to another man, who waved a hand and called two others over.
Now it begins, thought Gresham, tensing himself for the first blow. Instead, the three men took him across the yard, spoke briefly to the man acting as a sergeant, handed him over and went back to their stations. The sergeant listened politely to his story, motioned him to sit on one of the crude boxes littering the yard, and called to a man whose long cloak concealed the dress of a gentleman.
It was Gervase Markham, the young officer Gresham had struck up a friendship with in Ireland. He did not look nearly so happy to see him now.
'Are you mad?' he hissed. 'Meyrick and the rest of them are saying you're Cecil's creature, one of the causes of the Earl's disfavour. The rumour is you outwitted them at the theatre, and they're spitting. Get out while you can! You're only still alive because I've got my men on duty, and they still have some semblance of training.'
For the first time in this awful business was God smiling on him?
'Firstly, can you get me in to see Essex? Or at least into the room he's in? I promise I won't harm him, or cause harm to him in any way. Secondly, get out of here, Gervase. This is no place for a real soldier. You're being used, all of you, used in a foul plot. It's you who should get out while you can. You can't win. And even if you seem to have won, you'll have lost. Believe me.'
Markham looked at him for a moment, gave a brief nod and said, 'Keep your hat low down over your brow. They're having a Council of War. All the good men and true.' Markham's sense of irony had not left him. 'I'll open the door for you. I doubt you'll ever get out.'
'That's my choice, isn't it? And thank you.'
'It's a pleasure,' said Markham lightly. 'Things are always more fun when you're around. More dangerous, but more fun.'
Another strange echo, this time of what Gresham had always said of Essex.
They skirted the edge of the yard, hiding in the gargantuan shadows thrown up by the fire, and climbed two sets of stairs. Men hurried past them, all heavily armed, but set on their own business.
Markham opened the door, and suddenly they were in the dining hail of Essex House, a long, imposing room with a vaulted ceiling and portraits along each wall. The fire was piled high with huge logs, so high that flames must almost be pouring out of the chimney. Huge, flickering shadows were being thrown round the room with ten or twelve candles in one spot, then yards where there was no light at all. A sudden silence descended.
Davies stood up, knocking his stool back with the force of the movement.
'Kill him!'he said.
'No!' said another voice. It was Essex. He was wild-eyed, seemed to have lost weight since Gresham had last seen him, and was dressed in full Court rig. Was he planning to break in on the Queen again? Or did he simply feel one ought to be properly dressed to ride to one's death?
'My Lord,' said Gresham, hoping these would not be his last words, 'I have something you must know. Something that affects this enterprise and yourself most crucially.'
The silence lengthened, unbearably.
'Tell me,' said Essex finally, his voice thin.
'The thousand men. The militia. The men summoned by Sheriff Smith — the men you are counting on for tomorrow — they do not exist. They have been disbanded. Sheriff Smith has been warned off and told that the Crown knows of his disloyalty.'
'And who has done this?'
'I have,' said Gresham. A rumble as of thunder swept round the room. Two or three of the twenty or so men gathered there reached for their swords. Essex held out his hand to stay them.
'And why did you do so?'
'To save you and your honour. Because I know who is behind those thousand men, know now who is forcing you into rebellion. My Lord, you-'
The blow to the back of his head was savage. He had heard nothing. As his conscience splintered and then broke, he had just one glimpse of his attacker as he slumped to the floor.
Cameron. Cameron Johnstone.
It was dark when he came to, his head split by pain, his doublet sticky with blood. He was being cradled by someone, a damp cloth wiping his face and head. He reached for his sword and the hidden dagger. Both gone. He had been disarmed. His feet were tied together, cruelly tight. There were fragments of rope round his wrists.
'Your hands were blue,' said George, holding him like a baby. 'So I cut through the rope when they stopped talking before your hands fell off.'
Gresham tried to struggle up, but pain lanced through his head, pierced his eyes, and he fell back into George's arms.
'And for once, you've got it wrong,' said George, continuing to sponge gently, ever so gently, at his wound. 'The great Henry Gresham, master spy and master of all intrigue got it wrong. Completely wrong. Those thousand men, Smith's militia. They weren't designed to win Essex the rebellion. They were designed to make him lose it.'
'Were they?' said Gresham wondering if this was a dream. They seemed to be in the dining hall still, the fire half banked up and flickering, candles and lamps around the room, some of them out. There were men asleep, snoring, round the walls. That would be why George was whispering, so as not to wake the men. Gresham had not lost his hearing after all. 'How is that so?' he managed to mumble.
'Cameron made me the go-between with Smith. Oh, don't worry. Cameron's working for Cecil still. Actually, he's working for James, but Cecil wants James as King, so it's the same thing. But Cameron's clever enough to make Essex think that James is on his side. I wasn't tarnished, you see, with any of the Court intrigue. People thought I hated Essex so I could see Smith without any suspicion being raised. Cameron told Essex I was a double agent — that he'd cultivated me for years. That's why I'm here. Essex thinks I'm one of his men! Cameron hates Essex as well. So does James. Essex thinks Cameron and James love him. Do you understand?'
Gresham managed to move a little this time, and get his head above his chest. Maybe if there was a little less blood going to his head it might hurt just a little less.
'I'd have difficulty understanding that even if my head were unbroken,' said Gresham.
'Look, it's simple,' said George, continuing to cradle Gresham, 'Cecil hates Essex. James of Scotland hates Essex. Cameron hates Essex, and I hate Essex. All of us have been working against him, except that James and Cameron and myself have made it look as if we were on his side.'
'I see,' Gresham managed to say. The pain went through his head and into his jaw, making it extraordinarily painful to speak. 'It's simple. James sees Essex as a threat. Cameron works for James. The best way to deal with a threat is to get it to trust you, rely on you even. Essex is so desperate for the approval of the next King, for influence with the next King, that he'll believe anything of Cameron. All the time Cameron seems to be working for Essex he's working against him.'
'That's it!' said George, so happy that Gresham had got the message at last that his voice became dangerously loud. A man muttered in his sleep, turned over, reached out for his sword then fell back into a disturbed slumber. 'You've got it! Except you've gone and spoilt it! That was why Cameron was so angry. Why he laid you out. He told me so. I'd already told Sheriff Smith not to call the men out. I'd already ensured there'd be no men at Essex's call tomorrow. But Essex needed to think there would be — to make him rebel, so he could destroy himself. And you nearly spoilt it.'
'Nearly?' croaked Gresham. 'And as you've been rubbing at the same spot for five minutes, do you think I could suck on the cloth, even if half the liquid's my own blood?'
George reached for a pitcher of water on the floor, and offered it to Gresham.
'Just pour it over my bloody head.'
It was water in the desert. Cold snow on the burn from the fire for a few seconds. Then the pain returned.
'Yes, nearly,' said George. 'Cameron explained to Essex that you'd be bound to say what you did, that you must have found out about the thousand men and decided the only way to stop the rebellion, the only way for Cecil to preserve his power, was to persuade you that the thousand men didn't exist. Cameron said he'd had direct word from Smith that the men were still there. So it's all right. It really is! Essex will go to the City tomorrow, expecting a thousand armed men to turn out for him. And they won't be there! And Essex's followers will lose heart, lose faith in him and evaporate. The rebellion'll be over! And no one will die except Essex and some of his foul cronies.'
'Why am I alive?' asked Gresham. He had just enough strength to reach out for the pitcher, drink, roll the stale fluid round his mouth and dried-out lips.
'Because of me,' said George. 'They were going to kill you. I said I'd done good service for the Earl, and that you and I'd been good friends, and that I only asked for one thing from him: your life. I said he could decide what to do with you when he was King, but that all great Kings started their reigns by acts of mercy. I gave him my word you'd stay tied up here, and I'd guarantee you wouldn't be released. I think Cameron wanted you dead. Essex wouldn't have it, though I think he was tempted.'
Cameron would have hated seeing Gresham live. Essex probably had enough shreds of decency left in him to respond to George's plea. Gresham probably did owe his life to George. How ironic.
'What's their plan for tomorrow?' asked Gresham. He was strong enough to inch himself up a little more now. He only saw two images of George instead of three.
'They had a terrible argument,' whispered George. 'Davies had a brilliant plan to take over the Court, capture the Queen and go from there. Then that terrible man Gorges poured cold water over it, said that unless we captured the Tower and the City first we'd simply be besieged in Whitehall, particularly as we don't even know if Cecil and Nottingham and all the rest of the power brokers are actually at Whitehall. All we know is that we march at dawn. Cameron's doing everything he can to make Essex march to the City. He says if Essex goes to Whitehall — Essex has nearly four hundred men here already, you know — he might actually capture the Queen and the Court, that the rebellion might succeed.' George looked down at Gresham. 'Look, I'm really sorry. Sorry for all of it. I didn't mean to get you in danger. Cameron swears you'd have been spared on the boat. But I did save your life, tonight, here. They'd have killed you if I hadn't stood up. Now I can untie your legs, but only if you give me your word you won't run off. You see, if you're not here tomorrow, I'm well and truly dead.'
Gresham looked at George, and wondered if he could tell him the truth. He had to. He had no option.
'George,' he said, 'you've been fooled. You've been sold a line.'
'Oh, not that again!' said George. 'You just can't bear it that for once I've been cleverer than you.'
'George,' said Gresham, 'those thousand men exist. Or five hundred of them at least, and about fifty others who arrived in a merchant ship last week, moored up-river. They're there now. They're battened down below in the day, but they take them ashore to walk and breathe a bit at night, when no one can see them.'
No one except the father of one of Gresham's men, who was a poacher, and had seen strange men exercising on the shore at a time when no law-abiding man was about. That had been the message which had been causing him so much thought, just before Jane had told him about Richard the Second being performed at the Globe.
'Men? On a boat? But I don't understand!'
'Nor does the poacher who heard those dozen men talking on the shore in Spanish. Nor did anyone else when a man with a goatee beard yelled at two of his men not to kill me on board the
Anna. Or perhaps only I heard. When he called out first of all, he shouted Spanish for "Hold off!" Then he shouted in perfect English. It happens to people in the heat of battle. They revert to type.'
'But I still don't understand-'
'No, you don't That's the whole point. Cameron doesn't work for Essex, or for Cecil, or even for James.'
A wave of nausea hit Gresham. He recognised it as a result of minor concussion, the almost inevitable result of a bad blow to the head.
'Cameron works for Spain. Has done all along.'
'Spain?. Spain?' George's brow was furrowed. 'But that's impossible! I don't see-'
'Keep your voice down! Can't you see it's the only explanation? Do you think Spain's given up its ambition for the English throne when it has a perfectly good claim to it, one that stands up in any court? One that even Cecil has to acknowledge? When countless thousands of its men and countless millions of its gold have been poured into a string of Armadas, only one of which ever got within sight of our shores? When it's funded ten or more assassination attempts on the Queen? When it pays a "pension" to half the influential people in the Court, including Cecil? When the Queen, and Cecil, and Essex, and Raleigh, and for all I know even bloody James himself, have seen James as the heir apparent, thought the threat from Spain was only from Spanish invasion and dismissed it, been lulled into a sense of false security? And all the while Spain's been working on the real plot, the one way it can guarantee to get the Infanta on the throne of England.'
'But how? I just don't see-'
'Think!' said Gresham. 'For years Spain's been working on Cecil to isolate Essex, to get rid of him. Essex — the only one who wouldn't take a Spanish pension. And Cecil does their job for them, because he thinks he can play them and King James off against each other, and he wants rid of Essex — the only man with more influence with the Queen than he has — as much as they do. So Essex is first of all put in a position where he can't refuse to go to Ireland, and as a direct result is forced into rebellion. After that, it's simple. It only takes two men to get Spain on the throne of England: Grey is one. Bastard that he is, I'll bet my inheritance he's been in the pay of Spain for years. So he launches an attack on Essex's closest friend, Southampton, guaranteed to provoke Essex, be the last straw, act like a glove slapped across his face. The famous Sheriff Smith is the second man. Pay him to be on Essex's side, raise these men. And pay him to look the other way when his militia are reinforced in the morning by fifty extra men, dressed like militia but Spanish. Trained marksmen.'
'How can so few men make a difference?' asked George in desperation.
'You still can't see it, can you?' said Gresham. 'If Essex has any sense, he'll take Smith's men straight to Whitehall. He secures the Queen, takes her prisoner, calls Parliament together and declares a protectorate. London's fed up enough with the Queen and Cecil to rise up in support of him. Particularly if the Queen's kept alive.'
'So… so how does Spain come into all this?'
'So unbeknown to Essex, to Cecil and to anyone else except King Philip of Spain, there's fifty trained marksmen in that troop of bloody militia. Fifty Spanish marksmen smuggled in by bloody Cameron. Fifty trained marksmen who'll make sure they're in the forefront of those who go to drag the Queen from her bedchamber, who'll then calmly put a musket ball in her head or in her breast.'
'Oh God,' said George in a quiet voice, the enormity of it all suddenly dawning on him.
'Oh God, indeed,' said Gresham. He was sitting with his back to a wall. 'Are you starting to see it now? I'll bet half the Spaniards are English speakers, renegade Catholics who think they'll get to heaven by killing the heretic Queen. A few of them might be Scots too. No shortage of Scotsmen in the mercenary trade. When they've shot the Queen, they'll find and kill Cecil. He never leaves any Palace where the Queen is staying. Then they'll shoot Essex, and probably Meyrick and Davies if they get a chance.'
'And Cameron Johnstone will stand up with his Scottish accent,' said George, 'and declare the rebellion is in the name of King James of Scotland, soon to be King James of England.'
'And for good measure probably say as well that James is poised with an army just north of the border, poised to invade England to reinforce his point that he's our next King. It's very clever, isn't it?' said Gresham who was tiring of saying important things in a whisper. George's head was bowed. 'Both of James's greatest supporters, Cecil and Essex, are dead. A Scots King has not only killed his allies in Court, but has also killed our Queen. The English have gone off Elizabeth recently, but if anyone's going to kill her the average Englishman wants it to be one of us, not some hunchbacked sodomite from Scotland. And he's killed Essex as well, who they really do like. They're going to love James, aren't they? Raleigh will be the only survivor with any real clout. And guess what? For some strange reason they won't seek him out and kill him. He'll be the only figure with power in Court who's allowed to escape. He'll go berserk if he thinks James killed Elizabeth, he'll be galvanised into action. He'll have ambassadors off to Spain pleading for the Infanta to take over the throne before dawn's risen, and by evening he'll have an army marching to block the border. For once, everyone in England'll be on his side. And dear old James, who thought he had it all sewn up — Elizabeth seeing him as the least worse choice, Cecil gunning for him, Cameron Johnstone orchestrating it all beautifully, even Essex on his side — suddenly finds himself high and dry, the most hated man in England, his greatest ally proving to be a traitor, his other so-called allies all dead.'
'How could Cameron do that?' asked George, needing no concentration now to speak in a whisper. 'And how could I have been such a fool?'
'Same answer,' said Gresham.*You see, a fox doesn't worry about killing a chicken. It doesn't invent a God, or morality, to tell it what to do. It doesn't give meaning to things, try to work out reasons. It just goes for the kill, because that's how it survives. Most humans aren't like that. They aren't animals, they have all these weaknesses: goodness, morality, feelings, a conscience, all that rubbish on the road to survival. Sometimes you meet people who've none of it: Cecil's one; Cameron's another. They have one, simple instinct, and no morality. Used in the right way, it gives you tremendous strength. And a huge advantage over the rest of us. By the way, he'll be here to kill me before long.' 'What?' said George.
'Think about it,' said Gresham. 'Cameron laid me out because I was about to tell Essex the truth. He'd have shot or stabbed me if he'd had the chance, but he didn't have a pistol and Essex had stopped everyone drawing their swords. What did he lay me out with? A stool? Or was it a complete table?' Gresham felt gingerly at the edges of his wound. 'Anyway, he can't let me live.'
'So what do we do?' asked George desperately.
'If I vanish and he comes in, he'll simply raise a hue and cry. You stay awake,' said Gresham, 'and keep my arms free, and lay your sword down here, by me where it won't alarm one of these men if they wake, but where Cameron can see it. And if you can grab a pistol, and point it at him, so much the better. But resist him because you're a friend of mine. Don't let him know what I've told you.'
'I thought we weren't friends any more,' said George.
'Irony comes back before friendship,' said Gresham. 'Stay awake.'
'But what about the fifty men?' asked George.
'As it happens,' said Gresham tiredly. It was going to be a real struggle to stay awake, never mind what dawn brought. 'High tide was about half an hour before sunset today. They can't land the men until nightfall. Take an hour, maybe a bit less to get them to the City. So by night the ebb tide would be positively ripping along. My men should have cut the mooring ropes just after dark. If it was windy they'll have had to board. But I don't think there's been any wind, so simply cutting the ropes should be enough. They'll only have one spare anchor at most, and it won't hold on that bottom, not with a full tide. There's no point in trying to sail up against the tide, not without wind. My men'll follow them down, give them a shooting party if they try to leave the ship. It'll be enough to make sure they're not where they need to be when they're needed. And Smith won't be there either. I saw to him this morning. It's amazing what an intimate description of what it's like to be hung, drawn and quartered does to a man.'
Cameron came in the hour before dawn. Gresham was still propped up against the wall, one arm conveniently near George's sword. George stared at Cameron, unblinking, a pistol surprisingly steady in his hand.
There was nothing in Cameron's eyes. No expression. No feeling. He looked directly at George.
'Your lands and your life, or your so-called friend? The choice is yours. But don't think you can have both! If I leave here with Gresham, you're safe. If I leave here without him, I'll make sure you're one of the first to be hung, drawn and quartered when Spain takes over the Crown!'
Gresham looked at George, not seeing a man worn down by failure, jealousy and bad decisions. Instead he saw the burly figure who had waded into the boys in the playground when Gresham was being beaten to a pulp, losing his senses and his dignity when a group of boys who had decided that to be a bastard was a crime had set on him.
'My so-called friend has scuppered your and Spain's chances. I hope even if I didn't know that, I'd choose my friend.'
Cameron was weighing up his chances, Gresham could see. Yet the pistol did not waver, and Gresham's capacity to resist was an unknown quantity. Cameron looked straight into Gresham's eyes.
'Perhaps not now. But later: you and your woman and your servant.'
'You realise the worst of it?' Gresham asked after Cameron had left, radiating malevolent hatred. 'If Essex turns to Whitehall, we might still have him as King. I've no way of knowing if Spain has other men suborned at Whitehall, other men who might kill the Queen. It's possible.' It was the thought that had helped keep him awake through the dreadful night.
'So what's the answer?' asked George.
'I'm thinking,' said Gresham.
Essex House awoke before dawn, the atmosphere as frenzied as it had been the night before. Men were hoping to see their leader. They were disappointed.
'Bundle me in a corner,' said Gresham to George. 'Half hide me in that tapestry! And put some rope loosely round my wrists, so it looks as if I'm tied up still.'
Where was Essex? There were 300 armed men in the yard now, and more men coming in and out of the dining hall, not least because food was being prepared and handed out there. They could hear the noise of men riding out from the yard an hour or more before dawn, calling to Essex's supporters, gathering the clan. The men who came in to feed, gossip and look for their leader talked wildly. Raleigh had called to see his kinsman Sir Ferdinando Gorges at first light. Essex was so suspicious that he demanded the meeting take place on a boat in the middle of the Thames, in full view of Essex House. Discussion had been cut short when Essex had ordered four musketeers to set out from the river gate, and his bitter enemy Raleigh had rowed away. A consignment of arms ordered by Rutland from Europe had not arrived. Too many of the Welsh had not come to London yet. Where was Essex? Every minute that went by allowed the Privy Council to muster its forces.
It was late now, long past dawn, and the sense of frustration in the dining hall was getting greater by the minute. There was a sudden burst of jeering, yells from the yard; then a sudden cheer.
'Go to the window,' said Gresham, 'or better still, help me up so I can see.'
Gresham was convinced that if he appeared unbound he would be killed. Nearly every man who came in cast a wary glance at him. With George's help, he hobbled to the window.
The Privy Council had sent a deputation to Essex. Their arrival had been the source of the jeers. The cheers had been for Essex. He was there with a host of the others — Southampton, Rutland, Mounteagle — standing in the yard.
'Open the bloody window!' urged Gresham, and George fumbled with the catch. 'My God they're trying!' Gresham said.
'Who's trying?' said George.
'The Privy Council, that's who,' replied Gresham. 'Look at who they've sent: Egerton with the seal. He was Essex's jailer when he first fell out with the Queen, and by all accounts tried to be as decent as he could. Then there's Essex's uncle, Sir William Knollys and Worcester — he's a friend of Essex's. Who's the other one?'
'Popham,' said George, 'the Lord Chief Justice. I suppose they had to send him.'
'Hush!' said Gresham. He could only pick out odd words. Egerton raised his voice over the noise of the crowd, asking what the reason for this assembly was. Essex shouted back, speaking to his own men more than to the Lord Keeper, that men had sought to kill him, murder him even in his bed.
The Privy Councillors all tried to speak, but Southampton burst in, shrieking about the assault on him by Grey. The men started to chant, cheer and jeer. Egerton suddenly rammed his hat firmly down on his head. His words were clear enough. Disperse, he said to the crowd, or be found guilty of treason. Now that was guts, thought Gresham. He only hoped the actual guts that had produced the order would not soon be laid out on the cobbles of the yard. There were howls, yells, obscenities. 'Kill them!' was the least violent. Essex swung round, marched into the house. The four Privy Councillors followed him, buffeted by the crowd. The tumult came inside the house. Essex's study was along the corridor, separated from the dining chamber by a vestibule. For a moment Gresham thought the Privy Councillors were going to be marched into the dining hall. There was an increase in the noise, shouted words, raised voices. A door slammed. The Privy Councillors had been locked in Essex's study. The noise advanced to the dining hall. The door was flung open, and Essex was caught in the light from the high windows. He looked ill.
Two of the men they had sent to Essex were his relatives. The third was his erstwhile jailer who he had outwitted on every occasion. This was not the action of a Council with armed soldiers gathered round the Palace of Whitehall. Gresham thought of the fifty fat and pampered men who supposedly guarded the Queen, the edge on their pikes blunted by the gilding applied to the blade. These were the guards who had allowed the Earl, on his own, to burst directly into the Queen's bedchamber. Cecil, who had done so much to allow this rebellion, scorned military men and warfare as the last resort of the incompetent. Perhaps now he was being hoist by his own petard. Had he underestimated the power of the Earl and the 300 armed men Gresham had seen in the yard?
If Essex ordered his men to the Court, he would win the power he had craved for so long. Gresham knew it, felt it. If Cecil had prepared for this, it would have been armed men who came to Essex House not conciliatory Privy Councillors. Gresham was feeling rather sick, and his head was swimming. There were five Georges, where for a brief and merciful period there had been only one. He felt the need to vomit.
Essex burst into the dining hall. George stumbled to his feet. Essex ignored him. Poor old George, thought Gresham irreverently. His greatest skill was to be ignored by important people. Essex stood over Gresham with fifteen or twenty people behind him, every one of whom wished Gresham dead. Cameron, thank God, did not appear to be among them.
'I see you've managed to move in the night,' said Essex.
Damn the man! Someone in his position should not have remembered where he left a prisoner the night before.
'So, Sir Henry,' said Essex, laying ironic emphasis on the 'Sir' and getting the laugh he had aimed for from his followers. He drew his sword, and placed it not on Gresham's neck but pointing straight at his crotch. 'I and my men move out now.' He half turned to those behind him. 'They have banished us, they have told lies against us, they have tried to kill us. And now we march to tell them the truth, and to bring back justice to the land.'
A huge cheer rocked the vaulted ceiling of the hall.
'But do I turn to my left as I leave my house? To the Palace of Whitehall, to the Court and to the Queen? Even to Cecil and Raleigh?'
There was a huge cheer at this, even greater than before.
'Or do I turn to my right, to the City where my support lies, to pick up the thousand men you tell me do not exist, the men who will let me take the Tower — to the armoury for London, the fortress that commands it and commands the river — and the Palace?'
The red ring was round his eyes now, the flaming mark of the Devil.
'What is your advice, Sir Henry?' Again the ironic cheers, albeit a little confused. This game was going on too long. 'Do I go to the left or to the right? Think carefully before you answer. Kingdoms might depend on it.'
Gresham tried desperately to concentrate on Essex's face, which was going in and out of focus all the time. The right answer was clear. Go to the Court. Turn left. Capture the Queen, kill Cecil. But what if other, undiscovered Spanish marksmen were lurking there to kill Essex as well as the Queen? The fate of a country might depend on this decision, whether to turn to the right or the left.
If Essex turned left, England might have him as its next King. The wild, uncontrolled Earl, less suited to be a King than any man Gresham knew. Or it might find its throne handed over to Spain, its oldest and most bitter enemy, whose last reign over England had, under Queen Mary, produced clouds of greasy, smoke smelling of burnt human flesh.
If England was to survive, Essex had to turn right. To the nonexistent thousand men of Sheriff Smith, away from the Court.
What to say to Essex?
'Turn left, my Lord,' said Gresham. 'Turn left to the Court. It's your only chance.'
There was the longest pause in Henry Gresham's life.
‘We turn right,' said Essex. ‘We go to the City.' There was a muttering from the men behind him. 'This man has no love for me. He has tried to deceive me, lied to me about my thousand men. If he tells me to go one way it is to deceive me. We go to enhance our forces. We go so we shall be marching by afternoon on the Court with a thousand men, and the Tower in our hands!'
There was a confused cheer, and Essex swept from the room. That same rather half-hearted noise emerged shortly afterwards from the yard and, after a great clattering of hooves, a sudden silence descended on Essex House.
Time passed.
Gresham was still seated on the floor by the window, his back up against the panelling. George had wandered off to the other end of the room, and Gresham was gazing up, despite the pain in his neck, at the winter sunlight flooding in through the glass. He was entranced by its beauty. There was a faint thud from the other end of the room, and the noise of a pot breaking. Dear old George, clumsy as ever. He never could stop knocking things over. It wasn't worth moving his eyes from the wonderful light. Gresham called out, 'Bring some food, will you? And take this bloody rope off my feet before they fall off!'
There was silence, and a terrible fear crept into Henry Gresham's heart. He turned his head, slowly, painfully.
George's mouth was open in an expression of total surprise, his eyes wide, gaping, empty. He had fallen over a table, and a bowl full of pieces of bread was jammed under his cheek and raised up against his eye at a ludicrous angle. The dagger in his back stuck out like an obscene crucifix.
Cameron Johnstone, sword in hand, looked casually at the body, wiped the hand that had plunged the dagger into George against his side, and advanced towards Gresham. There was nothing in his eyes at all. No feeling, no compassion, not even any regret.
He stood over Gresham, and stuck his sword under Gresham's chin, not caring that the point broke flesh, producing a little stream of warm blood.
'Pleased, are you?' He had grabbed a piece of stale bread on his passage to Gresham and was eating it casually. 'I take it my fifty men won't be there to meet Essex? Or Sheriff Smith, for that matter.'
'Your fifty men won't be there, or so I hope. They'll be spitting nails, careering down into the sea with their mooring ropes cut and fifty of my own men shadowing them. Sheriff Smith'll be there. Briefly. To tell Essex to bugger off. He's been persuaded to change his mind.'
'Well, there's a thing,' said Cameron, and actually flipped a piece of bread in the air, catching it in his mouth as it fell. As he did so the point of his sword sunk further into Gresham's neck producing more warm blood.
Gresham suddenly shouted, 'Well, you're safe now, aren't you? It's only George and me who knew the truth about you and Spain, and George's dead and I'm about to be! Isn't that right?'
'Why are you shouting?' said Cameron, quickly glancing round the empty room. There was no one there, just the tables littered with pots and scraps of food. At least the shock of his shout had made Cameron withdraw the blade an iota, instead of pushing it in even further.
'Because… because…' Gresham was forcing himself to remain conscious. He might as well be aware of the moment when Cameron killed him — it would be the last thing he would ever be aware of. 'Because I'm delirious and concussed from where you hit me, and because where there should be one of you there are three or even four sometimes, none of them any more attractive than the others… my, you have put on weight,' he added inconsequentially, 'shouldn't eat so much bread.'
'Oh, very funny,' said Cameron. He pushed the blade back in a bit, for good measure. 'But I don't want you to die just yet. Very soon, but not just yet. You see, you've caused me more problems than anyone eke I've met. If only Essex had turned left and gone to the Court. I tried to persuade him. If only.'
'So you had other men at Whitehall?' asked Gresham.
'And only at Whitehall, as it happens,' said Cameron. 'None at Nonsuch, or Greenwich or Hampton. Only at Whitehall. Three of them. It might have been enough. But Essex wouldn't listen. He thinks you are the cleverest man in England. Was convinced that the cleverest man in England would never give him the right advice, was too loyal to the Queen to do so. You double bluffed him, didn't you?'
'Yes,' said Gresham. There was not much more to say. Elizabeth would never know he had saved her throne, kept his word. In doing so, he had ensured Essex's death. The rebellion would fizzle out without the men Essex was expecting, and by the time he reached Whitehall there would be half an army round it. Was it a fair exchange? Essex for Elizabeth?
It is better for England, he kept saying to himself. Not that England would ever know, or care.
'Well,' said Cameron, 'you may have double bluffed him, but you won't do it to me. There are two more people who know about me, aren't there?' He tweaked the blade a little, to emphasise the point. 'There's that woman of yours. The lovely Jane. I'll have her raped before I kill her. Might even do it myself. Several times. The rape, I mean, as well as the killing. So she knows what she's done by believing in a shit like you.'
The agonising pain in Gresham's head and the different pain in his neck began to spread to the rest of his body.
'And then there's that hulk of a man you call your servant, and who's actually your master. Mannion. We need something special for him. I wonder… perhaps if I castrate him and cut out his tongue, but let him live?'
'He might surprise you,' said Gresham suddenly.
'You've surprised me,' said Cameron, withdrawing his sword and looking carefully at its bloodied point, 'but not for much longer. And I don't propose to let anyone else surprise me.'
It is a strange sight seeing half a man's head mashed to pulp by a lead pistol ball that enters from the rear and blows out the front of the face. The half of the head that is still recognisable carries the expression formed by the last order the brain was capable of sending it. So as Cameron Johnstone died, the left-hand side of his face retained the look of snarling superiority. His body stood upright for a ludicrous second, and then toppled forward.
Mannion stood by the table from under which he had emerged, a smoking pistol in his hand.
'I don't propose to let anyone else surprise me!' he said, and spat on what was left of Cameron's head. 'Castrate me, would you, you bugger!'
'I shouted when I saw the latch lift up!' said Gresham desperately.
'I know,' said Mannion, cradling him as George had done. 'I tried to keep him talking as you crept up under the table,' said Gresham.
'I know,' said Mannion.
'And he killed George. George saved my life earlier,' said Gresham gabbling. 'Do you think there's any chance he's alive?'
'I didn't know that about George,' said Mannion with infinite compassion. 'And I'm afraid he really is dead.'
'Oh God,' said Gresham, and fainted.