The rebel heart hg-4

by Martin Stephen

  'So be it,' said the Queen, her eyes fixed unmoving on Cecil. He did not lower his gaze.

  Excellent, he thought. Let the Earl of Essex mull over that message. Let him add it to the news that Cecil had been awarded the Mastership of Wards, the highly profitable post that his father Lord Burghley had held and which had built half Burghley house, the post which Essex coveted above all others. Let him realise who was master now in England.

  'You're in favour again,' said Mannion. 'Summoned to a Council of War. 'Cept it's been goin' on for two hours already, so you probably missed the best bits. Messenger grabbed me outside. Get a move on.'

  Gresham hurried off to the Council Room. Why this sudden summons?

  Essex had been ill for weeks since his return from the fruitless but mercifully brief expedition to the west. It was an old and familiar pattern in the face of adversity: long, sudden bouts of supposed illness typified by deep melancholy and soul-searching, the need to be alone, the self-pitying wallowing that so annoyed Elizabeth. Perhaps as a child and a much-needed heir, illness had been a bartering tool, a way of reminding people of his true importance. Perhaps it had simply been a way of getting attention. All it achieved now was impatience on the part of those who followed him, and derision from those who did not. Yet in a strange way it seemed to add to his lustre with the common people, those who did not know him. A string of well-wishers, many of them of humble origins, had flocked to his door, some with pathetic gifts of fruit and food. Gresham had gained permission from the Master-at-Arms to have one of his own men guard all such gifts, and had even found a team of peasant labourers to act as tasters. How easy it would have been for Tyrone to slip poison into such gifts.

  Essex was thinner than when Gresham had last seen him, slightly bent in his gait, and for the first time Gresham saw the hint of wrinkles beneath a man's eyes that predict the coming of age. How would Essex fare without his beauty if it ever left him? wondered Gresham. Very badly, he suspected. The knowledge of his physical attractiveness was a central building block, almost a cornerstone, of the man's whole personality.

  It took only three or four seconds after he entered the room for every alarm bell in Gresham's head to start ringing. The expression in Essex's eyes, flashed a warning to him. Whatever had just been going on in this room, Essex had been opposed to it. His face had the mule-like expression Gresham had come to realise Essex wore when he was thwarted in his wishes or denied.

  This was not a Council of War. It was a trial. And Gresham was the accused. It was there in the glares of those in the room, virtually all Essex's top commanders and allies, and in the smirk of Southampton, the gleam in the eyes of Gelli Meyrick. It was there in the fact that the conclave was being held in the main hall of the castle, a room big enough to dwarf the twenty or thirty people in it. Why hold the meeting here unless it was intended to summon many more to receive one of Essex's grandiose pronouncements? The outcome of a trial, perhaps?

  'Sir Henry!' Essex jumped straight in. 'We receive news from London almost daily that our efforts here are derided and dismissed, that we are held in scorn, that our honour and our reputation are besmirched.'

  Of course they were. Essex's young entourage in particular would be receiving letters from their friends back at Court all the time, would hear of the Queen's displeasure, of the promotion of Cecil. Gresham stayed silent.

  'Many here among my Council believe you are a spy for the Queen, or for Robert Cecil or for Sir Walter Raleigh. Many here believe that it is your words that poison the Queen against me in my absence. They wish to call you to account. Is it your letters that tell the Court I and this army, its officers and its men are incompetent and cowardly?'

  So that was it! Essex had managed to make it clear that the simmering frustration in the camp had finally boiled over. Essex's officers wanted a human sacrifice. What better than a man rumoured to be a spy, someone who seemed to have taken over, in small part at least, some of the favour of Essex?

  'Because if it is so,' said Sir Christopher Blount, Essex's stepfather, 'then you are the traitor, not my Lord of Essex, and it is you who should suffer a traitor's death.' Blount could well have had the 'o' missed out of his surname when he was born. If Blount was gunning for Gresham, he really was in trouble. Scapegoat. That was what he was being set up as: a scapegoat for the disapproval the expedition was getting in London. Not just a scapegoat: a sacrificial lamb. The credit that would accrue to Essex if he executed one of Cecil's spies could be vast, particularly among his own army and its collection of hotheaded young officers. Yet Essex looked as if he was doing his best for Gresham. Given Essex's capacity to go for lost causes, perhaps he should worry about that more than anything else.

  They had executed a brave Irish officer who had wrapped the English colours around his body and fled the battlefield only when all seemed lost, inviting any Irish who caught him to rip his guts out before killing him, so he could watch his own blood stain those same colours. Gresham's money was no use to him here in Ireland. Essex had the powers of a King. Essex's wild young men wanted a sacrifice. The more he thought about it in the split second he was allowed thought, the more Gresham realised what a perfect sacrifice he would make. It would assuage the army's need for blood, and it would also send a clear message back to England that Cecil's men were as vulnerable as any other. It was known that Gresham had some form of special relationship with the Queen, dating from the days of the Armada when she had knighted him, and never properly explained why. His death would show that Essex was powerful enough to execute even one of the Queen's creatures. And no one loved a spy.

  I'm dead, thought Gresham, unless I can think of something very fast indeed.

  He placed his hand on his sword hilt and drew its glittering length in one, easy movement. Thirty men recoiled, thirty hands went to their own swords, and with a strange rasping noise like a crocodile taking its last breath, thirty swords came out of their scabbards.

  'I had this sword by my side,' said Gresham conversationally, 'when you, my Lord Essex, asked my men and myself to go on a suicide mission into the Pass of Cashel. I did not need to use it, but I did ride at the vanguard of my men, and I showed what man I am by my actions in that skirmish. I picked this musket ball out of my saddlebag, after the action. The one that caused this dam in my coat I could not keep, as it passed an inch behind my spine.'

  Thank God he was wearing that same coat. He reached into a pocket with his other hand, found the musket ball he had kept with him since that day and tossed it onto the rush-strewn floor in front of Essex. It bounced once, and lay still.

  He had their attention now. But how often and how quickly had he seen the audience turn against the actor holding the centre of the stage?

  'At the Pass of Plumes' — some of the audience could not resist the slightest of titters — 'I hope I showed my loyalty, as I hope I have shown it at other times in this campaign.'

  He did not need to mention the capture of Cahir Castle, after Cashel the only significant victory in the whole campaign. Most of those here knew that it was his plan of action that had led to its capture, and that Gresham had led the charge across the island where the castle lay.

  'As for letters, I issue a simple challenge. I have not put pen to paper since my arrival in Ireland, nor instructed others to do so on my behalf. Not a single word of mine has gone back to England, to Robert Cecil or to Her Majesty. You may put that assertion to any test you wish. Ask them, or ask any man who can write in this our army, and if you find any proof that I have written to England these past months, I will deliver you my head on a platter, and save you the trouble of removing it from my body.'

  He felt strangely calm now. All he had to lose was his life. As it so often did, that calmness was working on these men who moments earlier had been baying for his blood.

  'And I issue a second challenge. Let any man who has proof against me, either of my cowardice or my disloyalty, let him come forward now, and face me as a man. Let God and trial by combat de
cide the issue.'

  And with that, he plucked off his glove and dropped it neatly over the musket ball. It was his only hope. Essex was in love with chivalry, loved the idea of personal combat, of man-to-man challenge. It spoke to his belief in a chivalric code that had only ever existed in the minds of those who wrote romances.

  Well, that had been very theatrical. Never mind that Gresham was far from sure he believed in God, and was certain that trial by combat always resulted in the victory of the bigger brute over the smaller one. Or perhaps God simply favoured the bigger brute? Part of Gresham's brain realised that this was actually a very interesting moment.

  One of Essex's lickspittle supporters might be just stupid enough to pick up Gresham's glove, in the hope of gaining Essex's favour. Well, it was done now. He looked round the chamber, with a rather vague and philosophical interest. He really, really did not feel like killing anyone today.

  No one moved.

  Gresham leant forward and offered his sword, hilt-first to Essex in the ancient gesture and, with a reluctance he hoped he was not showing, dropped down on one knee before him.

  'My Lord, the decision is yours.'

  Well of course it was bloody well his. This idiot who happened to have been born in the right bed at the right time to the right woman had the power of life or death over countless humans, not least of all one Sir Henry Gresham. The fact that it was cruelly unfair had nothing to do with it, and never had. Was God like the Earl of Essex? Very beautiful, and quite terrifyingly random? It might explain a lot.

  It was not until many years later that Henry Gresham realised one reason why, against all the odds, he had liked the Earl of Essex so much: it was his capacity to do the unpredictable. It was a talent that Gresham had used to save his life on a number of occasions, but which at times seemed very lacking in other members of his species.

  Essex stood up from the mini-throne on which he had been seated, and drew his own sword. He advanced the short distance to Gresham, his sword extended before him.

  Oh well, thought Gresham, win some, lose… He had always imagined he would not be able to complete the last word when the moment finally came. Or did the brain continue to work for a brief while after death?

  'In England,' said Essex, clearly speaking now for all to know, but with his sword still held dangerously close to Gresham's neck, 'there is a Court based on rumour, falsehood and envy. In that Court, brave men can have their reputations and their honour tarnished by false report.'

  Gresham could still hear him, so presumably he was still alive. There was a ripple of approval from the members of Essex's Court.

  'Here in Ireland, deserted and misunderstood by our countrymen, we have no Court as such. Yet in this, our temporary Court of Ireland, we recognise courage and bravery more than intrigue and politics!'

  He had struck a chord there, no doubt.

  'Test your word? Prove your word? Henry Gresham,' Essex paused for effect, 'you proved your courage at Cashel and at Cahir.'

  Then the stupid man flung his own sword on top of Gresham's. Gresham could not but help notice that both blades now pointed towards the Earl of Essex. He hoped no seers were watching.

  'I will throw in my sword with that of a brave man, and believe the word of a fighting man before that of a flatterer, a sycophant or a courtier.'

  Oh God! thought Gresham. Now I have to rise to my feet, clasp him in my arms and hail him as a brother. As I would willingly clasp a nettle, or a snake. And the others will roar, clap their hands, respond to this wonderful piece of theatre, without realising that I, Henry Gresham, rewrote the script while on the hoof, and changed its ending, so that I lived instead of hanging from a scaffold. And the only other person who knew what a farce, what a vast joke it all was, Gresham was holding in his arms now!

  The onlookers were roaring, clapping their hands. It was better than a play. Southampton, Blount and Meyrick were looking like spoilt children denied a treat.

  As Essex clasped him like a long lost brother, he whispered two words into Gresham's ear. Finally he released Gresham and went back to his chair that looked suspiciously like a throne.

  'Sound the trumpet!' Essex announced grandly. It was the signal for a full meeting of the garrison, and Essex had used it once or twice before. The blasts on the trumpet were squeaky and out of tune — the trumpeter was clearly not expecting to be called and had to wipe beer and cheese off his mouth before he put his instrument to it — but effective enough. In ten minutes the hall was crammed with every officer in the garrison, and many of the men. The remainder gathered outside to wait for whatever news was to be passed out to them. Where were George and Mannion, Gresham wondered, with a slight twinge of worry? Cameron was one of the first to arrive, looking both studious and eager.

  Essex stood up, and struck a pose, one leg out in front of the other, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other on his hip.

  'I have reached a decision,' he said as loudly as he could without shouting. The acoustics in the hall were good, something a born actor such as the Earl knew full well; they gave his voice a slight echo and resonance, deepening it. If Essex heard the sotto voce mutter of, 'About fuckin' time!' from a man at the back of the hall, he did not show it. 'We march on the foul traitor Tyrone, march to bring the infamous rebel to his knees!'

  There was a faint cheer at this, enough of a flame for Essex to fan. Gresham had heard so many of this type of speech that he more or less ceased listening, having learnt over the years when to cheer, stamp his feet or clap his hands. Essex's decision meant, presumably, that in a relatively short space of time men would be hacking each other to pieces. It was going to happen, and nothing could stop it. Why bother if a few words from the man who ordered it made the men feel a little better, even if only for little while?

  He left the meeting feeling strangely light-headed. Perhaps only he fully realised what a lucky escape he had had.

  'The strangest thing just happened to me on the way to the gallows — Oh, and Essex is off after Tyrone at last, now he's lost two thirds of the army and-'

  Then he saw who was sitting at the back of his room, flanked by George and Mannion — Jane.

  'What the hell are you doing here?' he exploded, disbelieving, shocked almost out of his mind. 'I gave you express orders to stay behind!'

  'My Lord, I-' she began.

  'How dare you defy me! Is this my reward for having taken you in to find my wishes flouted in this shameless manner? I explained to you the appalling difficulties if you joined me on this campaign. I actually took the time and trouble to explain to you, tried to treat you as an adult-'

  'My Lord-' Jane was desperately trying to speak.

  'I want none of your words!' ranted Gresham. 'You will turn straight round and-'

  'You better listen to 'er,' said Mannion flatly. 'You really 'ad.'

  Gresham looked at him.

  'What?'

  'You better listen to 'er,' said Mannion.

  Angry beyond belief, Gresham heard something in Mannion's tone. Gritting his teeth, he glared at Jane. 'For his sake, and for his sake only, I'll let you speak. But make it short. Very short. And then turn round and head straight for England.'

  Jane was thinner than when he had last seen her, with bags under her eyes, eyes which had dark rings round them. She wore a mud spattered riding dress — was clarted in the stuff. There was also a wild look in her eyes, a look he had not seen before, a look of total desperation. She seemed suddenly very vulnerable. He moderated his tone. Was he going soft in his dotage? 'Sit down. Now, tell me your story.'

  Was there a flicker of gratitude in her wild eyes?

  'It's so… stupid,' she said.

  Why had he not noticed that her voice was a slight register lower than most women's?

  'I was in the stables. I go there sometimes. I like the horses, and they know me now, at least the ones you left behind do.' She sensed herself rambling, visibly took a grip on herself, and carried on. 'There was a commotion outside in
the yard. Your breeder had sent you three new horses, they were just being taken in. One of them was rearing up, he must have been spooked by something, I don't know, and there was a man almost pinned up against the wall, a man I'd not seen before. He looked terrified. Two grooms calmed the horse down, and the man, instead of walking, sort of ran. The horse had his back towards him by then, must have caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, lashed out with his back legs. One hoof caught the man on the side of the head…' She was living the horrific sight in her head now, almost talking to herself. 'His head was like — like an eggshell. It just… cracked open.' There were tears running down her face. 'I went to try and help, but it was too late. Everyone was shouting and screaming. All I wanted to know was who he was, if he had a wife or someone we had to tell about the accident.'

  She stopped to compose herself.

  'I asked everyone. One of the grooms said he'd seen the man before; he'd been to The House once, maybe twice before. He'd come in by the stable door and asked the groom to take him to Cameron Johnstone's servant. The one who keeps going over to Ireland. I didn't know what to do. You weren't there, Mannion wasn't there and Mary just screams all the time when anything happens. The steward's drunk by late afternoon, and because you were away we'd let half the servants go home for the harvest.'

  'So what did you do?' asked Gresham, gently.

  'All I could think of was how we could make the man look presentable for his widow or his family, with his head… so horribly smashed in. I ordered people to take the body inside, thinking perhaps at least we could wash it. They took it into the kitchen, dumped it on one of the slabs we use to carve up meat… I told the men to leave, and sent orders for two or three women to come and help me wash and dress the body. And this… this letter fell out of his clothing. Onto the floor. The kitchen floor.' She stopped for a moment, eyes wide now, full of the horror of the moment. 'The horse must have caught him twice, once in the head and once on the chest. His ribs were all broken as well, and the letter must have caught the full force of the hoof. The seal on the letter was broken. As I picked it up the top fold bent outwards and… and…' She looked up at Gresham. 'And I saw your name. So without thinking I started to read. I thought perhaps it was a letter for you, a letter that needed to be sent urgently to you in Ireland — I don't know!'