The rebel heart hg-4

by Martin Stephen

  'He knows what I think…' As if on cue, a man in tangerine livery stepped out from round a corner of the castle and asked

  Gresham if he would accompany him. At least Essex's servants were more polite than Cecil's.

  Essex had moved from the Council Room to a side chamber. He was without Southampton, Blount or Meyrick, the only other person present a young page with a bruised face. Gresham had heard about that. Apparently the boy had dropped a jug of ale at supper the night before, and splashed the Earl's doublet. Essex had stood up and punched the boy, hard enough to fell him to the ground, then dragged him up by his hair, bent him over the table and thrashed him with a horsewhip. It had shocked many of the Irish there, not least because of the sudden violence of the action. The boy stood, eyes red, trying not to tremble with a jug and two simple pewter mugs on a tray. He had blond hair and pale-blue eyes.

  ‘Pour,' said Essex, and the page did so without being able to conceal the trembling of his hands. Gresham winked at the boy, feeling sorry for him. No one ever had much time for a page. He would let the dust settle for a day and then get Mannion to take him hawking for an afternoon, give him a decent meal. It usually didn't take much to cheer up a boy like him, and his stripes would heal soon enough.

  'They tell me, my Council, very different things from your advice. They say Tyrone is reinforcing rebels in the south, in Leinster and Munster. They say we need to march there and destroy these reinforcements and only then move north and attack Tyrone.'

  'There's no evidence of these reinforcements, other than hearsay that could easily have come from men paid to say it. Settlers in the southern counties always stress the danger they're in, to persuade you to give them support. The sight of our army in those provinces is as important to the settlers as any battles we fight. And if Tyrone's unwise enough to reinforce those in the south, it's all the less people to fight if we meet him in his stronghold.'

  Gresham was getting tired of saying the same thing over and over again.

  'They say there is no transport to resupply us if we take off to the north’ said Essex, undeterred.

  'They mean,' replied Gresham, 'that it's far more dangerous to resupply you in the north. They forget how an army can forage for itself, or go on hard rations for a while.'

  'What think you of my new Master of Horse?' asked Essex. Had he heard Gresham's earlier replies? For all the attention he paid them Gresham might as well have spent the time mouthing silently. This was getting very boring.

  'My Lord, you know what I think of the Earl of Southampton. And he, no doubt, likewise of me. I think he's a piece of shit, with the same ability to rise to the top whatever water he's in. You also know what I think about your appointing him your Master of Horse, despite a direct prohibition from the Queen. You've enough enemies, without making a further one of the person you most need as your friend. And why, oh why do you have to make so many people knights? It infuriates the Queen — and some of the people you've knighted are just plain apologies for humankind!'

  Essex had awarded knighthoods in profusion, as was his habit. Gresham knew why he did it. Underneath his bravado the Earl craved popularity; this was a cheap route to it.

  Essex's brow furrowed. As usual, he ignored the question he did riot want to answer.

  'The Queen is ill-advised, has always been ill-advised.' He looked up at Gresham. 'You know my problem? I have no feel for Ireland. I can't sense it, as I can sense England — its fields, its seasons, its pulse.' At times Essex looked like a little schoolboy, lost and rather forlorn. Yet this was the man who had savagely beaten a page.

  'You've decided to take a large party to the southern counties,' Gresham said flatly.

  'How did you know?' asked Essex.

  'I guessed it a week ago. It'll let you "sense" Ireland, as you wish and need to do. It will reassure the settlers. It might allow you some easy combat to bed in the army and test the opposition. It'll mean there will be rich pasture in the more barren north when you do move there after Tyrone.'

  It will also let you prance ahead of your army on your fine horse and receive the cheers of the settlers as you come into their towns, thought Gresham.

  'You've summed up what was said at the Council meeting admirably,' said Essex. 'And still you think I'm wrong?'

  'Yes,' said Gresham. 'But when people tell you you're wrong you dig your noble heels in and become even more stubborn, and determined.'

  'Your plan? What would it be?' asked Essex.

  'Head for Tyrone, force him to fight or to flee. Our intelligence is that he can call on up to twenty thousand men, but they're scattered over the country. If he's sent his men to the south then he's weakened his northern force even more. Yellow River proved how good his men are. But they aren't used to formal battle. Ours are. Now is our time to strike.'

  'I dare not.' There was a tone of finality in Essex's voice. 'There you have it. England's noble commander dare not head straight for his enemy. I daren't because I come here to our Irish friends as a man given command firstly only by his link with the Queen and his position as her favourite, and secondly as a man with a reputation for rash and imprudent action. Someone has done their work well,' he added darkly. 'If I'm to retain the support of my Council I have to show that I listen to them.'

  It would be Cecil, Gresham knew. Ireland was divided by the English who came over when there was war to be fought or new land to be grabbed, and the resident Anglo-Irish, some of them from the Norman stock that had originally invaded the country. No power from England could be sustained in Ireland without the support of the Anglo-Irish, those who lived in Ireland, farmed its lands and had based their whole future on their continued occupancy. Someone had done a good job in advance of poisoning many of the Anglo-Irish leaders against Essex; the rumours had been spread that he was a philandering popinjay. It had all the hallmarks of

  Cecil's work. Essex had worked hard to show he was a steady hand, had done well. There had been no rages, no illnesses, no retiring to his bed. The only extravagance had been the strange business with the page.

  ‘I’d like you and your company to come with me on my expedition; to be the vanguard.' Gresham bowed. It was an order, not a request.

  George emerged from one door, wiping his mouth, as Gresham emerged from another. Mannion soon made a third and together they enjoyed the warmth of the sun in the courtyard.

  'Did you mention Wallop?' asked Mannion, after Gresham briefly told them the gist of his conversation. 'Or Kildare? Or Ormonde, for that matter?'

  'No,' said Gresham, 'and I'm not sure I will.'

  'What about Wallop and Kildare?' asked George, confused. 'Have you been keeping secrets from me?' *Not deliberately,' said Gresham. 'I've been doing some research. Now I have found but as much as I can, I can bring you in on it.'

  'What research?' asked George.

  'Sir Henry Wallop was Treasurer to the Irish Council and one of its most experienced people,' said Gresham.

  'He's the one who died, didn't he, the evening we got here?' said George. 'Everyone said it was a bad omen.'

  'Yes,' said Gresham, 'he did die, in agony, spewing his guts up. Mannion found out that two of his servants left the next morning, haven't been seen since.'

  'What's odd about that?' asked George. 'Servants know their job goes when their master goes. They often clear off, after seeing what they can steal, of course.'

  'Servants who are closely connected with preparing their master's food?' asked Gresham.

  'Ah,' said George. 'I see what you mean. And Kildare? I take it you mean the Earl of Kildare?'

  'Yes. Drowned in a storm in the Irish Channel. There's a strange amount of confusion surrounding the Earl's death. He was another stalwart supporter of us English, the good Earl. No one quite seems to know why he was out in the Irish Channel at the time, or understand a drowning in what one sailor described as "just a little bit of a blow". And no one seems to know for certain if he fell overboard, or even if his ship sank, or what. There's a rumour
on the quayside that he was pushed.'

  'Rumours on the quayside!' scoffed George.

  'Perhaps,' said Gresham, 'but isn't it odd that two of the steadiest and wisest people in Ireland are suddenly out of the way — permanently — when the new Lord Lieutenant arrives? And then the wisest of the lot, the Earl of Ormonde, gets called away just when the Council is deciding whether to hit Tyrone in his lair, or go gallivanting off to the counties we already control for a beauty parade?'

  'Well,' said George, 'these things happen. Trouble at home, trouble with the estate…'

  'It'll be interesting to see when Ormonde returns whether or not the summons was genuine, won't it?' asked Gresham.

  'Look, dear boy,' said George in his most annoying avuncular manner, 'are you sure you're not seeing conspiracy under every bed? I know I was the one trying to warn you in London about plots and plotting, but here in Ireland — surely it's simpler here?'

  'Could it be as simple as Cecil trying to guarantee the failure of this expedition?' asked Gresham bluntly. 'Thereby helping to destroy Essex and his reputation? And since this army will undoubtedly fight at some time or other, and Essex will undoubtedly be unable to keep out of the fighting, and commanders in Ireland have an unfortunate habit of being killed in action or dying in agony in their beds, what might you do if you were Cecil, and wanted to destroy your chief rival for good?'

  There was a long silence. George, subdued at last, spoke to his booted feet. 'I'd have Essex killed,' he said, in what was almost a whisper.

  'Precisely!' said Gresham. 'Best way? Bribe one of our men to

  "accidentally" fire a ball into his back in the heat of action. Friendly fire. Happens all the time. The great hero killed in action, falling as he would have wished in action facing the enemies of his Queen! It would probably never even come out that he had been shot by one of his own men. Get rid of Essex while he's safely out of the country, give him a magnificent state funeral to make the mob feel better. Back-up plan? Have him poisoned. Less glamorous for Essex, same result for Cecil. Oh, and take all the right people out or away to ensure the campaign's a failure.'

  George was refusing to look at Gresham.

  'Come on, George. Spit it out!'

  'Henry…' he started clumsily. He hardly ever used Gresham's first name. 'Is… is this your way of telling me that Cecil has ordered you to kill Essex?'

  Gresham looked aghast. 'Me? Kill Essex? Of course not, you great booby! Exactly the opposite in fact. I came to protect Essex!'

  George smiled thinly, wanting to be convinced.

  'Summat else you must 'ave worked out,' broke in Mannion. 'If Cecil wants 'im dead, he'll most likely 'ave to kill you too, gamble on finding that letter you forged before it did any 'arm. And if he wants this campaign to fail, 'e's gonna go for you on that score as well, seein' as 'ow you're the only person talkin' military sense to im.

  George looked at them both.

  'So we assume that even now someone paid by Cecil is out there looking to kill you and Essex?'

  'Seems reasonable,' said Gresham casually.

  'And you knew that before you agreed to come out here?' asked George disbelievingly.

  'Why else do you think I came?'

  There was a long silence.

  'I've been doing some research on Tyrone as well,' Gresham broke the silence. 'Do you know the one word that comes out time and time again when people talk about him? Dissembler.'

  'Educated in England wasn't he?' asked George, trying to gather his thoughts. His knowledge of Irish history was sketchy. George had spent most of his time in Dublin writing letters home. Whatever the problem was with his estates, it was taking up more and more of his time.

  'Not only educated there, but seen as an Irish lord friendly to England. Even had some of his troops trained by us, knows our military tactics inside out. Fell out with Elizabeth when he was made one of Ireland's top chiefs and had to choose between supporting one of his family arrested by us or sticking with us. He chose family — not that he had much choice. His own lot would have skewered him if he hadn't. But everyone who knows him speaks of his charm, his intelligence — and his total and utter unreliability. This man lies like you and I have a piss — it's the most natural thing we do, and something would go wrong with our day if we don't do it regularly and frequently.'

  'So?' said George.

  'So we're being outmanoeuvred,' said Gresham, 'by someone who's as much English as Irish. Tyrone's sending us exactly where he wants us to go.'

  'Will Tyrone kill Essex? If Cecil can do it, surely Tyrone can,' asked George.

  'He won't 'ave to, at this rate,' muttered Mannion. 'If Essex goes off gallivanting all over Ireland in the opposite direction to this bastard Tyrone, 'e'll either kill 'imself or make the fuckin' Queen do it for 'im. I reckon if she don't get Tyrone's head, she'll want the Earl's.'

  In early May Essex marched out with 300 horse and 3,000 foot. It was all he had left after reinforcing garrisons and positions in the rest of Ireland. The rather tawdry little castle at Athy had surrendered after firing a few token musket shots, and the old Earl of Ormonde had arrived at last bringing 700 foot and 200 Irish cavalry along with him, as well as the Lords Cahir and Mountgarret, both of whom had dabbled with the rebels, and now, in the most theatrical manner possible, begged forgiveness of Essex, who loved every minute of it.

  Gervase Markham, one of Essex's young bloods, rode up to the head of the column, where Gresham was riding with Mannion and George at the head of seventy of his men and twenty-five of his horse.

  'Sir Henry!' Markham called out. 'My Lord of Essex seeks your company!'

  'Does he want me to write a victory sonnet?' asked Gresham.

  Essex was sitting on a glorious grey, looking for all the world like a young god. Southampton rode by his side, instead of with the horse he was meant to be master of, looking like a sour lemon with mould on its skin.

  ‘I see you copy my horse,' said Essex. Gresham was riding a fine grey.

  In London, Gresham would have replied that Essex copied his horse. Here, in Ireland, on campaign, he said nothing to his Commander in Chief.

  'I need to draw the enemy out, give them a challenge they can't back away from,' Essex said. 'How many men do you have with you?'

  'Seventy foot, my Lord, and twenty-five horse.'

  'I am heading to the Pass of Cashel. You know of it?'

  'I know it on a map,' said Gresham.

  'It's ready made for ambush, I'm told. There are rough woods and bogs on either side of the roadway, excellent cover for the enemy yet providing a barrier on either side that we'd be ill-advised to try and cross.'

  Essex reined in and looked at Gresham.

  'I propose to invite the Irish to ambush us at the Pass of Cashel. I'll swing the army round with much noise and sounding of trumpets, take the road that leads only to Cashel. We'll delay subtly in our advance, so that those who're undoubtedly spying on us even now can ride or run ahead and gather a suitable force, if such a one exists.'

  Gresham said nothing.

  'Do you understand?' asked Essex. His horse was restless, as if sensing his rider's mood. 'I must see how great a force the enemy can muster, see how they fight, draw them into conflict.'

  'And if they muster a large force, as at Yellow Ford? If they fight as well as the Irish appear to have fought there, beating over three thousand English troops?'

  'That's where I need you.'

  'Sir?'

  'You've some of the best-trained and equipped troops in the army. I wish you to act as an advance party. Go to the pass ahead of the main army. Draw the enemy fire, allow me to gauge their strength, so that I know whether to attack with all my force or, if the enemy are too strong, retire before any proper ambush can be enacted.'

  'What if the Irish read your mind,' asked Gresham, 'and hold their fire?'

  'You're the experienced soldier,' said Essex. 'You must ensure they don't do so. Your force is large and threatening enough, I believe,
to draw them out to reveal their full strength. Of course, if you're afraid I shall ask someone else. Or do it myself.'

  It was the crowning insult, the one no gentleman could forgive. It had come out of the blue, shocking, unexpected and above all, unfair. The only saving grace was that none of Essex's other commanders were near enough to hear. Essex and Gresham had drawn away from the column and the slow-moving army moved on ponderously by their side. 'Of course I'm afraid,' said Gresham witheringly. 'Only fools feel no fear, and brave men are those who carry on despite it. But, my Lord, if you call me coward again, I'll kill you.'

  He said it so simply that for a moment a listener might have let it pass by, before he realised not only that Gresham meant every word, but that Essex believed him.

  'So be it,' said Essex. 'But if I call you it again, it'll be because you've failed me at Cashel, and if you've failed me there the Irish will have killed you long before you can kill me.'

  Mannion was less than enthusiastic at the news Gresham brought.

  "'Act as an advance party"?' exclaimed Mannion. 'Fuck me! This ain't no advance party! This is a fuckin' suicide party!'

  'Is he testing you?' asked George, worried more for his friend than for himself. 'Is this him seeing whether, when the crunch comes, you'll fight for him, or whether your priority here is to stay alive and spy on him for Cecil?'

  'It could be,' said Gresham, 'or it could be that he wants me dead.'

  'What?' said George.

  'I didn't just come here to protect Essex. I came here because I sensed, have sensed for months that terrible things are brewing, plots within plots, wheels within wheels, twistings and turnings. And that in some way I still don't understand, Essex is at the heart of it all. It's entirely possible I've misread the whole situation. Suppose Essex just wants a few easy victories to boost his image. Then he'll return to England and either blackmail Elizabeth into giving him Chief Secretary on the back of his popularity, or go for broke, lead a rebellion and either make himself King or marry one of his sycophants off to Arbella Stuart. In either case he either rules himself or rules by proxy, and he knows I'll stop him. This is a brilliant way to kill me with no blame attaching to him at all, and no suspicion.'