The rebel heart hg-4

by Martin Stephen

  'To stop the assassination? Those were your instructions?'

  Cameron looked uncomfortable. The motion of the boat was rising and falling in the easy swell, now they had cleared Leith, but Cameron's discomfort had nothing to do with the sea.

  'Well, no, as it happened. My instructions were simply to identify the boy, find out who he was working for, if the plot was real.'

  'And did you?'

  'Identify him? Yes, though he was surprisingly well buried. Find out if the plot was real? There was reason to believe so. The boy was living above his means, had purchased two very fine pistols and so on. As for finding out who he was working for, no. That was our failure.'

  'And your master would have let him do his work?' Gresham asked.

  'Aye, well… that was left rather open.'

  'It would be, wouldn't it? James must be desperate for the throne of England. Elizabeth's death might be seen as simply speeding up an event that is going to happen anyway.'

  'If you mean that the relative poverty of our country and the perceived wealth and splendour of England has given many of our noble families a gleam in their eye that outshines the star at the nativity, yes. And James himself would deeply love to leave the intrigue — and, aye, the threat to his own life — behind him.' Cameron paused for a moment. 'That was why I had to think long and hard before I stopped the man. In the act, as it happens.'

  'You stopped him?' said Gresham, fascinated.

  'We'd actually been given a date for the attempt. Except it was a week later than when the fool actually tried it. At Court. Simple, really. He planned to move forward at the start of the procession, when Elizabeth first marched from her bed chamber through the antechamber, fire a pistol at her head from the closest range and presumably back that up with a dagger. I'd been watching him for a week, and sensed something was different in him.'

  'Why was there no scandal?' asked Gresham incredulously. 'Why didn't we hear about this?'

  'Luck, mainly,' said Cameron. 'I grabbed him at the back of the crowd, as he was making to break through, tumbled him through an arras and an open door. I hadn't realised how much all eyes are on the Queen at moments like that. Anyway, we got away with it. Only a few guards saw the disturbance, and they were easily settled.' 'And the assassin?'

  'Dead, unfortunately. He fought like the Devil, and it was him or me. Which meant we never did find out who he was working for.' 'So why did you decide to stop him?'

  Cameron sighed. 'It was damned difficult. For all I knew James wanted her dead. But the truth was, the boy was Scottish. I can't help but believe that if he'd been paid by the Scots I'd have heard somehow. The father didn't know who the boy was working for, just knew he was planning to do something dreadful in England and had said goodbye to them all in a letter. He only wanted the boy's life saved. Which we failed in as well.'

  Gresham said, 'But even if the boy wasn't working for the Scots no one would believe it. James would have been seen as setting up the murder, and the effect might have been to rule him out of the succession. So you decided that your King's chances of becoming King of England would actually be lessened if the murder succeeded, and so stopped it.'

  'Summed up like a professional!' said Cameron. 'And then I decided that we might as well get as much advantage from the situation as possible, and told Cecil, having disposed of the body. I told him the boy was Scottish, told him how we'd heard, and was very forcible in my denial that James had any part of it. He believed me, I think. After all, the assassination would have turned people against James. Cecil told your Queen. I suspect that letter was her thanks. And possibly even a promise.'

  'The promise of a throne?'

  'It seems likely. You see, I'm a cynic. Most Scots are, and if you look at our history you'll see why. I think Elizabeth hates James. I think she wants him as the next King to throw her reign into glory. I think she's starting to hate her country for letting her die, and making James her heir she sees, in a perverted way, as her revenge.'

  'My, my,' said Gresham.*You are cynical, aren't you?'

  'All too likely to be bloody true, though,' said Mannion. 'She's always been too much of a bloody woman. Can't make her mind up, changes it all the time when she does. It'd been all right if she'd had babies. Babies makes women stop being selfish.'

  Mannion's summary of half of humanity was at least clear and simple.

  'So that's why you like giving women babies so much?' asked Gresham. 'You see it as your social duty to help out womenkind?'

  'Well,' said Mannion, 'you upper-class bastards — beggin' your pardon — spend enough time ensuring the line doesn't die out. You can't deny the same privilege to the working classes.'

  There was a slight expression of confusion on Cameron's face. He had not heard too many interchanges between Mannion and his master before, and clearly had much to learn.

  'All of which leaves the interesting question of who it was tried to kill the Queen,' said Gresham. 'The Pope? Spaniards?'

  'They've tried before,' said Mannion glumly. It was common knowledge in the Court that King Philip of Spain had tried up to ten times to have the Queen killed.

  'Or one of the English factions wanting to put a puppet Queen on the throne?' Gresham continued.

  'Unfortunately for my credibility, you miss one other candidate out,' said Cameron. 'The Scots.'

  'But you said it would be political suicide for the Scots to try and assassinate Elizabeth now,' said Gresham.

  'Political suicide is what my kindred have been best at these past five hundred years,' said Cameron. 'We have nobles who can't think beyond the end of their bonnets, are even stupid enough not to see the consequences if a Scotsman murders the Queen. And some with memories of the last time one Queen murdered another. A Scottish Queen.'

  'You were at Court,' said Gresham. 'Someone must have authorised that. Someone like the Queen.'

  'I believe she knew of my presence. Unofficially,' said Cameron, sniffing.

  'So you were the intermediary between Elizabeth and James? Placed in her Court with her consent to take that role? And when you had to go back to report to James because guards had seen you and your cover had gone, she was left with no messenger… which is presumably why the role descended on me.

  'You'll be pleased to stay as my guest in The House,' said Gresham. Cameron started to demur, but Gresham held up his hand to silence him. 'The price of your passage is having you where I can keep an eye on you. And knowing an instant messenger is there should I need to write to King James myself. And,' Gresham continued, 'think how convenient it will be for you to keep an eye on me. And be so near to Essex.'

  Cameron stayed silent. He realised this was an order, not a request.

  Part 2

  The Road to Ireland

  Chapter 7

  January to March, 1599 London and Ireland

  Jane had bought books in her brief foray into Edinburgh. She seemed to have an instinct better than any homing pigeon for them. The journey back to England had been as idyllic as any such journey could be. The sun had shone, the wind had blown just enough to give them good speed but no scares and Gresham had found Cameron to be knowledgeable in both Italian and French poetry, as well as the works of Machiavelli. Gresham and he were careful to keep off issues relating to their mutual existence as spies, talking poetry and politics instead. Jane was buried in a book, and Mannion listened to the exchanges between Gresham and Cameron pretending not to understand. Every now and again, he would stagger the remaining crew of the Anna with his nautical knowledge.

  The journey proved to be the calm in the middle of the storm.

  They came back to an England in uproar. The Earl of Essex had been banished to the country after the Queen had boxed his ears and he, in high dudgeon, had drawn his sword on her! The fiendish rebel Tyrone was sweeping through Ireland and English bodies littered every river and every ford in Ireland! Essex was ill! Essex was dead! Essex was not dead, but seriously ill — really ill this time, not the preten
d illnesses he usually contracted when the Queen was piqued with him. Essex was better! Essex had been murdered on the orders of Cecil! Essex had been called to raise and command a new army in Ireland, the army that would sweep the rebels into the sea!

  'You are in total neglect of your duty!' said Jane to Gresham, standing defiantly in front of him. Things had rapidly got back to normal. 'You will not replace your steward, who is in his dotage, and you will not order repairs to The House! The result is that the roof of the west wing will collapse unless something is done soon.'

  'It is my house, and I will do with it — or not do with it — as I wish!' said Gresham stingingly.

  'It is something you hold in trust, as does any man who owns a great house, and you are betraying that trust!' said Jane equally vehemently.

  He had been too nice to her when she was young. It never did. Treat them rough and they grew up respecting you, Gresham thought, denying the fact that every shred of his actual experience proved the contrary.

  'And how about the people who will die when the roof collapses? Do you own them and their souls, as you own this House?'

  'You are impertinent!' said Gresham. 'Leave my presence immediately.'

  Jane gave the most skimpy of little bows, turned on her heels and left.

  Gresham realised he had quite enjoyed the row. Jane's cheeks coloured and her eyes flashed when she was angry, and he liked the way her chest rose up and down.

  'Me, I never went to college,' said Mannion.

  'That's because they only let intelligent people in!' retorted Gresham.

  'Good thing, probably,' said Mannion, undisturbed, 'cos uneducated men like me are dead stupid with words.'

  'Stupid with words?' said Gresham caught off guard for the moment. 'What words?'

  'Words like "impertinent", for starters,' said Mannion. 'I alius thought it meant cheeky, impudent. Never realised it meant bein' right.'

  'It doesn't,' said Gresham.

  'Must do,' said Mannion. 'You told 'er she were impertinent.' 'So?'

  'Well, she told you as 'ow the west wing's about to fall down, and it surely is. So if she tells you, and you tells her she's being impertinent, it must mean she's right.'

  Gresham felt himself deflating.

  'Oh, Christ. Is the sodding building about to fall down?'

  'Building ain't,' said Mannion. 'Roof is. Much the same thing when you comes to it.'

  'Why do you always side with her?' asked Gresham. 'Have the pair of you got a thing going?'

  'No, we haven't, as it happens,' said Mannion calmly, 'as you knows full well. She's family, ain't she, in a sort of way. I don't bed family.'

  'It's about all you don't bed,' muttered Gresham. 'Jealousy'll get you nowhere,' said Mannion. 'And me, I just goes with those who're impertinent.' 'What?' said Gresham.

  'Those who're impertinent.' He looked at Gresham pityingly. 'Those who're impertinent. Like what you've told me the word means. Those who're right. I mean ter say, you're a Fellow of a grand college and all that. Me, I'm just a working man. If you tells me as 'ow the meaning of impertinent is being right, who am I to argue?'

  'Can we end this conversation?' asked Gresham.

  'Course,' said Mannion easily. 'You're the master. You can end any conversation when you likes. In fact, you can do that a lot easier than rebuild the west wing. Which is what you'll have to do before long if you don't recognise that 'er who annoys you so much is actually very impertinent when it comes to the state of that roof.'

  'For God's sake! All right! Go and get someone to mend the bloody roof! And hire a new steward while you're at it! The old one's been loyal, hasn't he, even if he is ga-ga. Give him a room in the bloody attic — the west wing of course — and a pension and free food. Let's have all London feeding off me.'

  'Better if she does all that,' said Mannion. 'You know, 'er that's impertinent.'

  'Can't I even keep my dignity?' said Gresham.

  'No,' said Mannion, 'you can't. Leastways, you can't order a new roof when you're buggering off to Ireland. And taking me with you. She can. And she'll look out to make sure they does a good job.'

  Life went into hibernation over winter, the celebrations for the twelve days of Christmas a brief glittering interlude. Despite that, the Court had been a frenzy of activity following Gresham's return in September. The incredible row between Elizabeth and Essex had been patched up; Essex was widely seen as the man who would lead an early spring offensive in Ireland. Recruitment had started by October, and showed no signs of lessening off. The army for Ireland was shaping up to be the biggest land force Elizabeth had ever sent out in her name. She was not prepared to be the monarch who lost Ireland for England. For once, she even seemed willing to put her money where her thin mouth was.

  Gresham had gone immediately on his return to deliver his packages to the Queen and to Robert Cecil. The Queen had been cursory, verging on dismissive, her thanks perfunctory and her whole manner that of someone whose mind was elsewhere. Cecil had been cold.

  'Thank you,' he had said, fingering King James's letter but managing to hide what must have been an. intense urge to open and read it. 'The Earl of Essex will in all probability lead the expedition to Ireland. You will accompany him.'

  'And tell you if the man commanding the largest army Elizabeth has ever mustered is likely to turn it round and bring it back over the sea to conquer England and not Ireland?' asked Gresham. The incident with Elizabeth had not lessened Essex's popularity with the masses, if anything had increased it. Many at Court felt there was a very real risk in letting Essex take command of one of the largest land armies England had ever seen. In Gresham's opinion they were right.

  'Precisely so,' said Cecil.

  'And I do this for love, my Lord?' asked Gresham. 'Love of my greatest friends, I mean, rather than for love of the Earl of Essex?' Cecil sniffed.

  'There are consequences for you and for your closest friends if you fail me, yes,' he said. 'Those consequences have not changed. As I have said, I believe your friendship with Essex to be born out of a flagon, not out of any true meeting of minds.'

  'I think the consequences have changed, my Lord,' said Gresham trying not to sound too smug, 'not least of all because there are now consequences for you as well.' Gresham had been looking forward to this for some while. He liked to be in the driving seat, and anyone not in that position with Cecil was likely to find that the alternative was to find himself under the wheels.

  'How so?' said Cecil, trying not to appear interested.

  'You were kind enough to give me a letter, with your own personal seal on it, to give to King James of Scotland.'

  Cecil said nothing.

  'As you know, it's extraordinarily difficult to make an exact forgery of a seal, particularly one produced by an expert. They can be made to look similar, but the finer lines are almost impossible to replicate exactly because they're cut by hand and each hand is slightly different. An expert will spot the difference in minutes.'

  Cecil remained silent, his eyes boring into Gresham's. 'Here,' said Gresham, tossing a sealed paper in the direction of Cecil. 'I've tried to forge your seal on a number of occasions. I've used the best people, the very best people. This is the finest example I've managed.'

  To all intents and purposes the seal on Gresham's letter matched that used by Cecil. Cecil strove to appear disinterested, but the colour had left his face.

  'You can relax, my Lord,' said Gresham. 'It's good, I grant you, as good as money can buy, but it wouldn't fool an expert", not for long. But there's a technique for lifting an original seal off one letter and fixing it to another.'

  And a devilish complex business it was, as Gresham could confirm, having witnessed its use on Cecil's letter to James.

  'It works,' said Gresham confidently, 'most of the time at least. And it worked, thank God, with the letter you gave me for James. After rather a lot of effort, I was left with your seal complete and unbroken, and an opened letter.'

  Cecil stayed s
ilent.

  'Congratulations, by the way. Your letter to James was excellent. Respectful, dignified, precise. An excellent refutation of two most serious accusations. But back to business. While duplicating a seal is very difficult, forging handwriting is far less so. You wrote to James in your own hand, of course. You couldn't trust it to any secretary. Your hand is a fine one, but it's College-taught, a standard script. Please open that letter. The one I passed you with the false seal on it.'

  Reluctantly, slowly, Cecil reached for the letter, glanced briefly at the seal and cracked it open. The letter thus revealed was a letter in the hand of Robert Cecil. Every detail, every swirl was exact and precise. It was his own handwriting. Except that at the bottom of the page was a vast ink blot It happened. The pot was tipped over. The quill took on board too much ink, and decided to drop it randomly on the page. How the person forging that letter must have cursed his own carelessness!

  The letter, blot and all, was an effusive paean of praise for King James of Scotland, regretting bitterly the time it would take for him to inherit his rightful throne, pledging undying loyalty to him and making some terse and deeply wounding criticisms of the 'old lady' running England from a red wig.

  Cecil had the grace to go really white this time.

  'Did you-' he started to ask.

  'Did I place your proper seal, after taking it off your actual letter, put it on a clean version of this forgery and hand it to James? No. That would have been too easy.'

  'So what did you do?' asked Cecil, his voice that of the snake.