The rebel heart hg-4

by Martin Stephen

  'I took your original letter, the one I'd lifted your seal off, and re-sealed it with the best forgery I had of your seal. King James of Scotland got your original letter, right enough, albeit with a false seal. As I said, the forged seal isn't perfect. But it was probably good enough to fool the King of Scotland. After all, the letter you wrote does a good job of exonerating you from blame, actually makes a strong case for your not being either a sodomite or a Devil-worshipper. Why would anyone bother to forge a letter that in all probability puts you back in King James's good books? You can relax about that at least. The King of Scotland received the letter you wrote him, as you had written it to him. The only difference was that the seal was a forgery. A forgery he is unlikely to notice.'

  'And my original seal? The one you tell me you lifted off my letter? To what use did you put that?'

  'Well, I had to find a good use for it, didn't I? It's not every day I get the chance to make a letter look as if it came from you. That went onto a fair copy of this splodged letter. Same text, more or less. Except no blot this time. The one that protests undying love for King James, deep resentment at Queen Elizabeth and sufficient treasonous comments to have you hung. If not drawn and quartered.'

  'And its whereabouts?' asked Cecil.

  'In safe keeping. A treasonous letter with an apparently unbroken seal. A seal that matches in every line and whorl your seal, because it is actually your seal. A treasonous letter, written in your hand. A letter which the loyal Henry Gresham was tasked to deliver, but through loyalty to the Crown refused to do so.'

  Gresham paused for a moment.

  'The scene is positively tear-jerking. I really don't know why someone hasn't put it in a play. This loyal servant of the Crown, the humble Sir Henry Gresham, is blackmailed by the evil Robert Cecil, into taking a message to the King of Scotland. Knowing that the letter will inevitably be traitorous and disloyal, he is far too terrified to open it. Instead he uses his vast wealth to substitute it for a letter that merely protests my Lord Cecil's innocence of accusations of sodomy and Devil-worship, sealed with a hastily forged copy of my Lord's seal that only the King of Scotland would be fool or drunk enough to accept. He achieves his mission. My Lord Cecil seems happy with the delivery of the letter, and his threat to Gresham is placed at the least on hold. King James seems happy enough with what he has read. Everyone is happy. Including Henry Gresham, who of course has retained the original letter in the certainty that it is treasonous, who can produce it unopened, who now knows that the altered content is quite explosive. So Henry Gresham can now blow Robert Cecil out of the water on demand, at least while the Queen lives.'

  The silence was long enough for a competent spider to have built a significant web.

  'And where does this leave us?' asked Cecil. His composure never left him for long.

  'Equal, I think,' said Gresham. 'You hold the mortgages on my friend's land and forged letters that will send me to the block. I now hold the equivalent on you. Touche.'

  'And the Earl of Essex?'

  Cecil was nothing if not consistent.

  ‘I’ve been asked by him to go on his Irish expedition. As a captain, with my own troop. At my own expense, of course. I said yes.'. Did Cecil's expression change?

  'It's quite ironic, really. You see, the dashing Earl knows I work for you, and it would flatter his ego hugely if he could seduce me into his service. You have very few secure sources of information on Essex — for all his faults, those who serve him do tend to be very loyal — and you're equally desperate for me to go with him as your spy. Well, I am going, but not in answer to your threats or to his entreaties. I'm going because I have chosen to go.' 'Why did you do so?' asked Cecil.

  'Ever since I met Essex I've had this sense about him. A sense that he is a mover and shaker, a sense that he is someone who will make and change history. There are two types of people in the world: those who simply live, and those who make a difference. Essex has the power to make a difference — for better or worse. And my sense is that his time is now. And because I'm beginning to realise that what's driven me to dirty my hands in the filthy game of power is the desire to make a difference, I'm drawn to him. Have you ever watched a good swordsman at work?'

  The question threw Cecil.

  'Violence is the last resort of the intellectually incompetent,' he rasped as if his saliva was acid. 'I despise it as a waste of resources. Why on earth should I watch a swordsman?'

  'Because if you had,' said Gresham, 'you'd see that a huge part of his skill is to go with the flow, let the weight and mass and momentum of the blade do most of his work for him. So it is with me. I'm fascinated by Essex. I'm also frightened by his power to influence people — frightened because he himself does not realise how much he can use that power for good or evil. If you wanted me to spy on Essex, all you had to do was to use my natural inclination, my fear of Essex, and for once I'd have been a willing partner, matching your very different fear. As it is, and because you chose to enlist me by a crude threat, you've lost me as an ally. I go to Ireland as a free agent who might choose to report back to you, but who is under no compunction to do so.'

  'I think you lie to yourself,' said Cecil. 'I think the Earl of Essex has cast his spell over you as he has cast it over so many others. I think you are his creature.'

  'Your lack of imagination catches you out. One can observe a spell without falling under it. I go to Ireland, knowingly, because Essex intrigues me. He's Icarus. He'll fly too near the sun, and it'll destroy him. And I go because I care for peace in England, and his raving ambition's a threat to England. And because as I quite like him I might be able to stop him doing the stupid thing. But most of all I will go to Ireland because I can sense things happening, great, momentous things. Things that might change history. Oh, I know you see yourself as the spider, sitting at the centre of the web, controlling everything and everyone. But I tell you, there's more afoot than even you can imagine. The Earl of Essex is somehow at the heart of it all so if I am to find out what's going on, I need to be with Essex.'

  Gresham left Cecil's presence a great deal happier than he had left it the last time. He had not destroyed the threat posed by Cecil, but he had offered a counter balance, and the two were now in the state of an immovable object up against an irresistible force. It was good enough. It would have to do.

  'This,' said Mannion, 'is a right bugger's mix.'

  One end of the Library faced out onto the Thames. The other overlooked the courtyard, where what appeared to be a minor battle was raging.

  Gresham had put word about that he wished to recruit a company of men. As a result the house had been besieged since dawn. There were 'captains' in their hundreds out there, big, swaggering burly men with huge moustaches and extravagant hats whose brims nearly bridged the Thames, some of them with weather-lined faces marked by smallpox, others with battle scars, one with a huge black eye patch that seemed to make his other eye glare even more. There was a man with a wooden leg, seeming to move faster than his two-legged companions, and one with a hook instead of a left hand. Rather than the sharp end pointing back to the user, it pointed upwards in a grotesque U-shape, the better to rest the shaft of a musket on.

  It was late January, and bitterly cold. Braziers had been set up in the yard and, on Gresham's orders, on the street as well, the red-hot coals roasting the fronts of those who huddled near them while the raw wind froze their backs.

  Many of the men knew each other, veterans of endless campaigning in the Low Countries. They accosted each other with hollow fellowship or rich insults, their wary eyes glancing round all the time. The cold of winter held no threat for them; they were the survivors. They had overcome bad food, sweating fevers that had swept through the camps in winter, dysentery, heat and cold. They were the ones who the musket balls and the cannon balls had missed, the ones who had scrambled ashore when their transport sank off the Scheldt, the ones who had brought their mounts under control when they bolted and looked set to run straight a
t the enemy. It was luck, of course, more so than skill or judgement. Warfare took no account of morality, cared nothing for character, for wife or for family. The good died, the bad lived on, or the other way round. Attendance at communion before the battle was a primitive, primeval act, designed to placate an angry God just in case he did exist, to grab the luck to oneself even if it meant taking it away from someone else.

  Among their number were the young ones, some dressed in the height of fashion, some in rags, second, third or fourth sons whose only inheritance would be a small annuity. Men who had been conceived as insurance in case the eldest born died young. Shuddering at the thought of a career in the Church or life as a hanger-on, they placed their faith in becoming a hanger-on to the gods of war. War offered excitement and the prospect of reward. And because they were young, they thought they were immortal, and it would be someone else who would die or be maimed. Ignoring the evidence of the older men around them, men for whom war had run its iron fingernails across the soft matter of their brains as well as their bodies, men whom war had corrupted and robbed of half their sensitivities, these young men hung around the edges of the group, the veterans deigning to notice them only if their clothing or equipment suggested they might be good for a free drink.

  Gresham and Mannion chose their men finally, fifteen officers and 150 foot soldiers; it took them most of the day. A major factor was the men's kit: a rusty sword, a pistol not gleaming with oil, a leather sword belt that was torn and likely to fall off in battle, and the man was dismissed instantly. So too was anyone with a clearly new, gleaming and unused pistol which had probably been hired for the day. What Gresham and Mannion were looking for were pistols showing signs of usage, carefully oiled and cleaned. The braggadocios wore their pistols openly. The soldiers would even cover the wheel, flint or matchlock mechanism with a carefully cut piece of oiled canvas, to protect it from the weather. If in doubt, Gresham asked to look at the ammunition bag carried by each man. A number had no pistol balls or powder. An equal number had a few balk of different calibre, none of which fitted the gun they were carrying. The real soldiers had at least ten or twenty balls, all as perfectly round as the foundry allowed, and the true veterans would have cast the balls themselves. A misshapen ball could stick in the barrel, blowing up the gun, or simply roll out of it. The less round the ball, the less accurate its flight. As for the sword, it must show signs of use, be oiled and sharpened on one side only, and show no signs of a sudden application of the sharpening stone that morning. A blade that was lovingly tended every day revealed itself to an expert as quickly as some men can sense a virgin. Another key was the length of the blade and weight of the sword. The worst of the soldiers carried swords far too long and heavy for their size and build; carried it for show rather than for use. The true veterans matched their sword to their body mass, height and reach.

  So much for the trappings. Then there was the man himself. There would be illness enough on the campaign — Ireland was riddled with a particularly virulent form of dysentry which seemed to eat up men's insides — so to take someone already ill or brewing a sickness was madness. Was the face pale from drink or a wasting sickness? How about the cough? Was the limp an honourable wound or a suppurating sore? Then there was the final and simplest check of all: did the man look you in the eye?

  Gresham and Mannion made their way the short route down the Strand to Essex House where there was a level of apparent chaos that made The House look positively calm. Yet it was ordered chaos, Gresham noticed. For someone so mercurial, Essex could be a surprisingly good organiser. While he was a strange mixture, he had some good officers round him, and while his command decisions had been suspect in his few real experiences of warfare, his administration had always been surprisingly good.

  They heard the Earl long before they saw him. Most of London must have heard him. He was sitting by a map-covered table and he was screaming. Not just shouting, but screaming, so carried away that spit was flying across the room from his mouth. 'God's blood!' he yelled, 'Am I to endure this? Can a man not breathe? Must I be thwarted at every move?'

  None of his entourage were willing to deny him. That had always been part of Essex's problem. The loyalty he inspired was that of the Messiah to his disciples, and only Judas had disagreed with Jesus. Gelli Meyrick, over-dressed in a turquoise doublet and a hat that could have shaded most of Cheapside, was standing by the table, looking vaguely menacing with a dark scowl on his face. The Earl of Southampton was standing by Essex's side — a sensible place to be in the face of the flying spittle — and he and Gresham exchanged guarded nods. Southampton was a fey creature, with a rather languorous manner and an ivory complexion that always looked pale and damp. Gresham thought him a vicious little pimp and, on the few occasions they had met, Southampton had shown every sign of returning the feeling. It was noticeable that on his drinking and wenching bouts with Essex, Southampton had not been present. Also in the room was Sir Christopher Blount, Essex's stepfather. He was more of a mystery than Southampton. Anyone who could survive Essex's mother had to be saintly, and Blount had always struck Gresham as more straightforward than his reputation for deviousness merited.

  'Good day, my Lord,' said Gresham.

  Essex swung sideways to face Gresham standing in the door. 'I am tried beyond my patience!' he shouted, but this time it was a shout, not a scream.

  'Why so?' said Gresham.

  'The Queen has denied me, not once, but twice over! The Earl of Southampton here, who I wish to be my Master of Horse…' Good choice, thought Gresham ironically. Southampton, the devious little prick, was about on the same level of intelligence as a horse, though not nearly so beautiful.'… I am told cannot have that position, and nor will My Royal Pestilence allow Sir Christopher here a place on the Council for Ireland.'

  The problem, thought Gresham, is that there is no reason whatsoever why Blount should have a place on the Council for Ireland, save that he was Essex's stepfather and his duties might keep him for a little longer out of the company of Essex's mother. Anyone in their right mind would want that. Essex's mother was the most dreadful person Gresham had ever met.

  Essex stood up suddenly, and his stool flew back, skittering, across the room, to land with a bang against the wall.

  'I am tied to my own reputation!' he shrieked again.

  No one jumped up from their seats. No one had any. Essex had adopted the royal prerogative of having no one sit in his presence. It was a dangerous sign. This is not a man in control of himself, thought Gresham. This is a man driven by a demon, or perhaps by the pox. But why no other symptoms? The Earl's face was as unmarked and handsome as ever, the hair flowing without need of a wig and there was no sign of the high, prancing step forced on pox victims, who lost all sensitivity in their extremities and so could not sense where their feet were landing.

  'They call on me,' the Earl ranted, 'because there is no other, yet when I go, it is to leave my enemies behind me to triumph.'

  A tremendous sense of loneliness, that was something else Gresham had noticed about Essex. That and the melancholia drew them together.

  'My Lord,' said Gresham, taking a deep breath, 'isn't it about time you stopped shouting? It fails to impress the men. It is not what a top commander does.' A top commander, thought Gresham, strikes poses and makes calculated speeches to win over the hearts and minds of simple men, before leading them to their death.

  A look of stunned disbelief swept across the faces of those in the room, not to mention that of Essex himself. People did not talk to Essex in this way, particularly when his river was in full flood. His face suddenly fell, his body slumped as if it was a corpse full of corrupt air, bloated in the sun, which had suddenly collapsed at the prick of a spear. He still had energy- enough to scowl at Gresham.

  'Come!' he said, imperiously. The others glared at Gresham as he went with the Earl into an inner sanctum. This fool of a man was the Earl's drinking companion! They were his officers! Gresham felt their hatred almost a
s a physical force beating at his body.

  The back room had a bed in it. A retreat for seduction? Gresham thought not. It was a hastily erected thing, on three trestles. Interesting. Gresham wondered if it went wherever the Earl went. Why did the Earl of Essex need a bed? Was it the pox? Or was it some other illness?

  Something Gresham did not wish to remember crept into his mind. There had been a Fellow at Granville College. A loud, overbearing and frequently drunk man, he let it be known that he dabbled in the black arts. Few believed him. Gresham had been forced to undertake servant duties for lack of money. It was either that or starve. He had gone into the man's room one morning thinking him gone, and only five minutes into his rudimentary cleaning had realised that the bundle of rags in the far corner was a man. It had stirred, groaned. Thinking him ill, Gresham had helped him to the bed, sat him on it.

  'It takes its toll,' the Fellow had muttered, acting as if drunk but in some way that Gresham sensed not drunk at all. Confused would have been a better word, but this was a man of outstanding intelligence, one of the most fluent debaters in the College.

  'What takes its toll, sir?' Gresham had asked innocently.

  The Fellow had looked at him, and Gresham remembered the livid, red rings round the man's eyes. Eyes of fire. Then the man had said, 'When the cycle… has finished and the… the blood is… used — gone — then the… tiredness comes.' The man could hardly speak. He was looking not at Gresham but through him to something so endlessly dark that Gresham could not see or even conceive of it.

  'What blood?' asked Gresham.

  It was as if the man had suddenly woken up. He blinked once, twice, three times, even shook his head.

  'Why,' he said, 'the Blood of the Lamb. The Devil has no sheep in his field. Only the young ones. Only the lambs. Now leave me.'

  He had rolled over on the bed, seemed to drop into an instant sleep. The Blood of the Lamb? It was the reference to the blood of Christ in the communion service. The Devil has no sheep in his field? Troubled, for no reason he could understand, Gresham had gone to one of his few friends in College. The friend had blinked.