The rebel heart hg-4

by Martin Stephen

  'Sacrifice,' he had said. 'The Devil-worshippers make live sacrifice and drink the blood after they have performed a ritual over it, a reversion of the Mass, in Greek, not in Latin.'

  'They sacrifice a lamb and drink its blood?' asked Gresham. 'What wonders! I do little more when I eat rare meat. If I'm ever lucky enough to taste a lamb at all.'

  'No,' said his friend, looking very discomfited. 'Not a lamb. A child.' He had refused to say more, pleading a lecture to attend despite Gresham knowing there were none scheduled for that afternoon.

  Was there a circle of red round Essex's eyes? Why was there a worrying reminder of the same extraordinary tiredness the Fellow had shown all those years earlier?

  The Earl's voice was on the edge of slurred. Seemingly oblivious to Gresham, he flung himself on the bed, laid full out and put his hand to his brow.

  'I need you to advise me,' the Earl said suddenly, just as Gresham had persuaded himself that Essex had fallen asleep.

  'As I explained, my Lord,' said Gresham, 'I've agreed to equip a company at my own expense. Should you wish to consult me, I'll come, as I've come today.'

  'Why does she thwart me at every turn?' asked Essex, his voice almost a whisper.*Why? Does the past mean so little?'

  Gresham shuddered to think what the past held between Essex and Elizabeth.

  'My Lord,' said Gresham, 'there's reason enough, if you but calm down.' 'Reason?'

  'Of course,' said Gresham. 'The Earl of Southampton made one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting pregnant. You know better than I Her Majesty's whims. She hates her ladies having affairs with younger men, God knows why. She hates them even more when they have babies. Perhaps it's too cruel a reminder for her of her own past, her own failure to complete a woman's duty. Yet she can no more stop the flow of sex in the Court and its inevitable result, than stem the Thames. To add insult to her injury, your friend then went and married the girl, again without her consent. He's lucky enough not to be still in the Tower. The Queen's certainly not going to give permission for him to mount anything else for a while, never mind give him command of her horse.'

  And the man's a silly little idiot with no more military training than a rag doll and even less brain, whose sole idea of military service is riding around on a horse looking glorious. God knows why Essex favoured him. It was one of the endless complexities of the man.

  'And as for Sir Christopher, he's a good enough soldier, but he has no links with Ireland except through your family, and he's an unashamed Catholic. I've no reason to doubt his loyalty…' said Gresham, thinking he had no reason to confirm it either — he suspected Blount's loyalty was to the Essex family alone — 'but Ireland is a Catholic nation ruled by Protestants. To those who don't know him, Sir Christopher is potentially one of the enemy, not one of their rulers.'

  Would Essex start to froth at the mouth again?

  'I am not well,' was all he said. 'Those who tax me do not realise what they take out of my poor body. I sense it within me, the illness that killed my father, the rotten inner core that can break out at any minute. My curse is to have been born fair, so that people look no further and see my real state of health.'

  What a wonderful actor the Earl would have made. The problem was, he dramatised everything, turning life into a script for a play.

  'I know a good doctor,' said Gresham, thinking of Stephen Perse and feeling immensely stupid once he had said it. Even Perse had limited remedies for a gross attack of self-pity.

  ‘It is not a doctor I need,' said Essex, managing to combine a huge sigh with an equally huge sense of melodrama. Oh God, he was speaking as if reading from one of the player's scripts now. 'It is our country that needs a doctor.' He looked straight at Gresham, an unfathomable bleakness in his gaze. 'There is no doctor for my illness, and no cure.'

  'In the meantime,' said Gresham, 'we can't offer the whole country a drink but we can certainly have one ourselves.' There was sweet wine on the table. Without waiting for permission, Gresham poured two glasses and offered one to the Earl.

  Essex started to sit up, looking angry for a moment and then allowing his face to relax.

  'You aren't like the others who serve me,' he said, rather plaintively.

  'That's because I don't serve you.' said Gresham. 'I'm here by my choice. It leaves me free to say what I want to say, as distinct from what you want to hear.'

  'Before you think yourself too much in charge,' said Essex, 'do you wish to know who tried to leave you at the bottom of the sea, on your recent northern trip?'

  Gresham hid his annoyance. Essex had an excellent spy network. Gresham's was better, and London was a city of tongues. If Gresham had not been stuck on a boat, or had dared put Mannion ashore to start an investigation while he flogged up to Scotland, he too would have found the small man with the beard. It must have been the sailor who owned up to being 'family', the one who had leapt overboard. He must have run back to London, told his story in the taverns and walked into or been reported to someone paid by Essex. Essex had had a flying start to find the man. It would explain why Gresham's efforts had been so fruitless. The attacker must have been a prisoner of Essex's all the time. What a waste of time and money on the agents Gresham had sent out to scour London for the man.

  "What even you mightn't know is that they were after you, not the messages you carried.'

  Damn! How did Essex know about the messages? Or did he know about them? Was he just shooting in the dark, hoping to land a hit?

  'I envy you your certainty,' said Gresham.

  All of a sudden, this was a different Essex. He was the efficient mastermind of a complex spy network.

  'Then you envy me something I don't have. The man in charge was betrayed to me by a fluke. One of the men he had trusted to sail with him, or at least hired to sail with him, owed a debt to my father. My long-dead father. Telling me that the man had sailed to attack you was his way of saying thanks and repaying the debt. That and the fact that you appeared to massacre very nearly everyone else he had hired. He was rather shocked. My informant sees you as a cross between Satan and Ghengis Khan. As for the man who hired him, I had him taken immediately I was given the story. Smallish, with a goatee beard and a strange hint of an accent. You wouldn't envy him. It took him… some time to tell what he knew. What little he knew.'

  'How long did you torture him, my Lord?'

  'Long enough,' replied Essex, 'or so I'm told. I wasn't present in person. I find that sort of thing rather distasteful.'

  Gresham saw in his mind the flickering torches on dripping stone walls, the metal heated in the furnace, the stench of red-hot iron on human flesh, the pincers, the bloody mass at the end of a man's hands, the mouth agape with blood where the teeth had been slowly, ever so slowly pulled.

  Essex could never quite wait long enough. Huge impatience was the price he paid for his occasional bouts of vast energy. If he had waited, knowing Gresham was bound to be interested in what he said next, and forced Gresham to ask the next question, it would have given him a moral ascendancy. As it was, he lost patience first and spoke.

  'He was most insistent that his aim was to kill you. Not to gain access to whatever packages you carried. Those interviewing him were of the opinion that it was true. They're experienced in such matters.' The narrow, watery eyes of Southampton came to Gresham's mind, and the cruel malignancy in the eyes of Gelli Meyrick.

  'Men under torture say what their torturers want to hear, to stop the pain, regardless of whether or not it's the truth,' said Gresham. 'Even the Queen knows that, which is why she so rarely has men tortured.'

  'That's certainly true,' said Essex conversationally. There was strength back in his voice again, though he still sounded exhausted. 'But as I said, those doing the business were convinced that in this instance it was the truth. Perhaps because they had only started on him that day. Unfortunately, they could find out no more, including who paid him and why. He killed himself.'

  'That was casual of your secretary,' said Gres
ham.

  'They were moving him from being chained to a wall, to chaining him on a table, so I understand.' Gresham noted that Essex had not denied the presence of Gelli Meyrick. 'They thought he was unconscious, let him drop to the floor and turned round for a moment to prepare the table. It gave him enough time to grab a blade that was nearby — one of the one's they had been heating up for him, in fact — and stick it under his own ribcage. He died immediately. Warmly, but immediately.'

  'Well, he would, wouldn't he?' agreed Gresham.

  'Now tell me about Cameron Johnstone,' said Essex, who was proving full of surprises that day.

  'What do you already know?' asked Gresham.

  'That he has been at Court claiming to have the ear of King James. That he has recently come from Scotland courtesy of a trip on your ship. And that he has been commanded by the Queen to accompany me to Ireland, for reasons Her Divine Majesty has not seen fit to tell me.'

  'He's a Scottish spy who was of use to me in Scotland, and came recommended from Northumberland,' said Gresham, 'and he masquerades as an advocate. He's spying on me and on the Court and will undoubtedly send reports back to King James on both you and on Elizabeth. Except I'm not so sure it can be called spying if you own up to it. He's attractively transparent about the whole business, and very good on Italian poetry.'

  'Well,' said Essex, putting the goblet down, 'it'll make a difference to have someone spying on me for King James, bearing in mind that half my army is spying for Cecil, for Raleigh, for the Pope, for the King of Spain, for the King of France, for the Queen, or for all of them. I take it you've been able to find out no more than I about who is loyal in this army of knaves?'

  'I don't think I'd tell you, my Lord, even if I had. I'd view it as my business. Unless, of course, it transpired that the plot was against you. You see, I've always valued our relationship as personal, rather than one soured by politics or anything other than a shameless interest in pleasure.'

  'There's a plot against me,' said Essex. 'At the same time as you were despatched to Scotland, the Queen sent a messenger to HardwickHall.'

  Hardwick Hall was the present residence of the Lady Arbella Stuart, resting prior to what many saw as her inevitable call to the throne.

  'From which you assume what?' asked Gresham.

  'That the Queen is selling her Crown,' said Essex bluntly, and the redness of rage began to rise again in his face. 'She will take the blood line of that damned woman and sell it to a foreign power. England will have a Queen in name but a King in reality. What will happen to this country if another Queen ascends the throne, tied by marriage to one of the crowned heads of Europe? What if terrible history repeats itself, and Arbella Stuart is used to legitimise the new King of Spain as King of England? What if the King of France is her choice? England conquered by a turncoat Protestant whose allegiance to his faith is based simply on the Crown of France being worth a Mass?'

  'A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, my Lord,' said Gresham quietly.

  'A little knowledge? What do you mean, a little knowledge! How can you claim to know more than I?'

  The arrogance was there again. You could see this man as Icarus, full of vaulting ambition and in his heart of hearts believing that he was greater than the sun. You could also see him craving the sun's blessing, and as an arrested child desperate to do the right thing.

  Gresham gazed levelly at Essex. 'Spain's plan isn't for the new King to marry Arbella. Or at least it wasn't when I last heard. Even they recognise how the memory of Mary's marriage to Philip of Spain has ruined the prospect of repeating such a thing for many years to come.'

  The two men Gresham paid in the Escorial Palace reported a new outbreak of realism among those who advised the Spanish monarchy.

  'The plan rather is for the Duke of Parma to ascend the throne. He has a blood claim. He's a powerful figure. He'll make a treaty that allows Protestantism to continue in England. The Spanish believe that Parma will be an ally of Spain, but be sufficiently divorced from it to justify to the English a strong, male ruler. More importantly, the plan for Parma to be next King of England has the support of the Pope.'

  Essex was looking horror-struck at Gresham. There was also an element of petulance in his face. Gresham had stolen his fire.

  'And how can you claim to know this? You, a mere… gentleman at Court?'

  'I may be just a gentleman who is an occasional attender at Court,' said Gresham, 'but I did once offer the Duke of Parma — the present one's father — the throne of England on Elizabeth's behalf. I have… contacts… in France, in Spain, and in Rome.'

  'You did what?' said Essex, aghast, disbelieving yet drawn to the sheer cheek of the idea like a moth to a flame. 'You offered the English throne to the Duke of Parma?'

  'Yes,' said Gresham, 'it's long story.'

  'And Elizabeth agreed to this?' asked Essex.

  'No,' said Gresham. 'There was a slight problem over that, now you mention it. A slight problem that involved the Queen, Cecil, the Tower of London and being put on the rack. As I said, it's a long story.'

  'What have you done in your life?' asked Essex. 'What else do you know?'

  'I know the rack's bloody uncomfortable, even before they start to yank the handles!' said Gresham.

  'You're the greatest fool I've ever known!' said Essex, exasperated. 'What else do you know about the present situation?'

  'The King of France is actually the main contender for the hand of Arbella. He's been led a merry dance by the Queen. She's spent her whole life giving suitors for her hand a merry dance.' Careful. Essex had probably been proposing to the Queen once a month on principle for the past ten years. 'Now she's doing the same thing with the suitors for a stupid girl who has royal blood. France has high hopes for chaos on the Queen's death, chaos into which it can step. I know letters have gone to Hardwick Hall from the King of France, and that so far there's been no response. I know Elizabeth is determined to have no woman succeed her. I know the Duke of Northumberland has swung behind the candidacy of King James, on the understanding that James will allow him "to hold a Mass in a corner" and not persecute Catholics. Cecil thinks he has it all under control, playing with Spain, with France and with James, worming his way into the favours of all three of them until he makes up his mind. Elizabeth also thinks she has everything under control: believes she has Arbella under her power, and is playing her usual game of encouraging both France and Spain to think they might be granted Arbella's hand, endlessly spinning out the secret negotiations. Most of the time, I couldn't judge who the

  Queen will anoint as her successor, if she can ever bring herself to do it. Sometimes, I think it could be the Earl of Essex she anoints, and that her anger at him is a measure of the gift she knows she might give him.'

  Essex's head shot up. There it was. A distinct, red ring round both his eyes. There was a long, a very long silence.

  Gresham drew a deep inward breath.

  'And just as Elizabeth wants no woman to succeed her, so I believe your gorge, my Lord, rises at the prospect of any man other than yourself becoming King of England.'

  'On what grounds do you say that?' asked Essex, eventually. 'And who are you saying it to?'

  'I say it on the same grounds that lead me to believe Elizabeth will allow no woman to succeed her. Instinct. It rarely lets me down. You're tied to the Queen by your oath of loyalty, and tied down by your dependence on her for the majority of your income. As for who I say it to — no one else, as yet.'

  There was another very long silence.

  'And by the way,' added Gresham, 'I believe there is a plot against you, though not one with Arbella Stuart at its heart.'

  'You tie me in tangles!' said Essex, the colour even more marked in his face. 'You are worse than the Queen! Whose is this plot? What is this plot?'

  'Cecil's,' said Gresham bluntly. 'Cecil doesn't care who gets the throne, as long as he can control whoever it is. He'll never control you. Therefore what he's trying to do is very simple: h
e's provoking you to rebellion. He's feeding your anger, your resentment of the Queen, in the hope that you'll rebel. When you do, you'll destroy yourself, and do his job for him. Cecil wants your body in two pieces on a scaffold on Tower Hill.'

  'But if I return from Ireland the victor, the people will call for me!' said Essex. 'I will be their champion. I will be… unstoppable!'

  'And Cecil knows that. But it was Cecil who was so forceful in suggesting to the Queen that you take command of the army for Ireland. What does that suggest to you?'

  'That Cecil is a fool?'

  'Cecil is never a fool,' said Gresham. 'He's someone who hates war. Not because of the killing and the maiming, or the suffering, but because of the cost and because war is random. Yet in this instance, he's done his research.'

  Cecil had talked to several soldiers who had served in Ireland. Gresham had been intrigued when he had heard, knowing how much Cecil despised soldiers, his scorning of war and its waste. It had caused Gresham to interview those same soldiers, to get reports of the conversations they had had with Cecil.

  'He believes that Ireland will defeat you. It's the biggest gamble in his political life. It's also the first time he's gambled anything on a war. He thinks the war in Ireland can't be won, and that by sending you to inevitable defeat you'll be shamed, and stake your all on a final blow, an act of rebellion.'

  It was as if someone had put a dart straight into Essex's heart. He collapsed back on the bed, the redness gone from his face and replaced by a pallid sweat.

  That's it, thought Gresham. You've been through this in your mind, faced up to the fact that Ireland destroyed your father, and decided that if you lose the war to make your final play for the throne! Cecil is right! You can be provoked to futile rebellion!

  'And how can you know this?' asked Essex, his voice a whisper.

  'Know it? I can't know it. But I know Cecil, and I know a little of you. You're passionate, impetuous, full of an outdated chivalric energy that ignores the real dirt of war. Cecil's cold-blooded, cautious, always planning in advance. If I were Cecil, I'd gamble on your losing in Ireland. It has, after all, been a bottomless pit for English military commanders, a stinking black hole that's swallowed up bodies and reputations. And the joy of it all is that he can't really lose. If you sink into the mud and the bogs of Ireland as so many others have, either you'll die as your father died or you'll come back discredited and in all probability be forced into a rash act of rebellion by your own overweening ambition.' Selective hearing. Gresham had just accused Essex of overweening ambition, but it was as if he had not heard. 'But what if you win? You'll be the hero of the day and perhaps even the month, but such fame rarely lasts. Cecil will have gained all the credit with the Queen for suggesting you so strongly, and proved what a selfless adviser he is. And in your absence he can secure his power base and attack yours, packing his allies more and more into the Court.' Gresham paused for a moment. 'I tell you this, my Lord. You're in danger of becoming another victim. Not of your own vanity and ambition, with which you're well supplied. But rather of the vanity and ambition of Robert Cecil.' As many of us, including myself, stand in danger of becoming a victim of Robert Cecil, thought Gresham. 'Cecil wants you to rebel. For the first time in his life, he wishes a rebellion. Is trying to engineer it, to provoke it. He needs to do something big if he is to take over in power and influence from his father. You're being manipulated.'