The rebel heart hg-4

by Martin Stephen

  The Gresham crowd burst out cheering, rushed forward and clapped the boat crew on the shoulders. The ten soldiers, still grim-faced, walked in and faced outwards, guarding against a surprise attack.

  'Silence!' shouted Gresham, and there was a sudden hush. 'For God's sake, uncock those blunderbusses before we blow down the Globe or our own backsides off!' There was a ribald cheer. 'But keep them on half cock. We've got to get home.'

  'Tom,' said Gresham to the man he had sent for the reinforcements. 'Well done. Any troubles?'

  'Nearly fuckin' messed it up, sir, beggin' your pardon. First time I've 'ad unlimited money to get a ferry across, and the first bloody time there's not been a boat in sight. Got one in the end, though. Thank God. And 'e 'ardly charged. 'Ere's your money, sir.'

  'Keep it,' said Gresham.

  They marched rather than walked to the jetty. Gresham was half expecting to see his boat and the others that had brought the extra men from The House holed and smashed, half sunk in the mud, but to his surprise they were in one piece.

  'What do you think that proves?' he asked Mannion.

  'They were wild. Up for anything,' said Mannion. 'It's Sunday tomorrow. Apprentice boys ain't at work, free to cause any trouble they wants. Nothin' on at Court tomorrow. Lots o' the good and grand gone 'ome for the weekend. Fine time for a rebellion, if you asks me. That play. It's got to be a signal, ain't it?'

  'Great strategist, my friend the Earl,' said Gresham. 'Don't just mount a rebellion; tell everyone you're doing it beforehand.'

  'Hang on,' said Mannion. 'It ain't that stupid. Town's full o' stories of wild Welshmen comin' in at every gate, sleeping in alleys and in attics. Not easy to get the word to that lot. But if you makes your signal Richard the Second on at the Globe — well, London only ever knows two things for sure: if the Queen's in town, and what's on at the Globe. And the other theatres, o' course.'

  Jane had been silent until now. She was wrapped in a vast cloak, and had seemed wrapped in her own thoughts.

  'There's been talk of a thousand men at Essex's command, for months now. In St Paul's, that is.'

  Gresham looked at her, and for a moment his astonishment defeated his self-control.

  'You've known about this rumour? Why didn't you tell me?'

  'Because I assumed if a stupid girl hanging round the bookstalls heard it, you, who've made it your job to pick up these rumours, were bound to have heard it too. And I didn't want to look a fool.'

  'What else have you heard?' There was real urgency in his tone. 'This could be really important. This isn't a time for dignity, yours or mine. London's going to blow up any minute, and we're on the edge of civil war. I do know about the rumours. But what else had you heard?'

  She was frightened by the intensity in his voice, the tension in his body.

  'Only that people keep mentioning a man called Smith. A sheriff", someone meant to be very friendly with Essex. Is it militia he's meant to control? Something like that?'

  'Sheriff Smith,' said Gresham. 'In theory he can call out a thousand militia men, though it's doubtful if the real figure he can call on is more than five hundred. And, yes, he's been seen visiting Essex House by night, and so people assume secretly. Though how anyone can think anything taking place in that house is a secret is beyond me.'

  'And Essex will make him call out these men?'

  'I think Essex will think he can call out these men. It's not quite the same thing.'

  'This makes my head ache,' said Jane rather pathetically. 'Is nothing as it seems in your world? Is nothing ever what it seems to be on the surface? Is there always a double or a treble meaning?'

  'It's usually not that simple,' said Gresham, looking at her fondly. Welcome to the real world, he thought. A world where after a time you may well yearn for the safety, security and above all the predictability of making preserves that need to be stored for winter and the supply of sheets and linen.

  'So why won't you tell us?' They were within sight of the private jetty at The House. One of the other boats would go in first to land men to act as a guard if The House had been infiltrated or taken over.

  'Because I believe Essex is about to be forced into a rebellion. And I believe he thinks he may have an extra thousand men to call on. But I don't believe, never have believed it's as simple as that. Yet what I believe is so fantastical, so much in the face of any evidence, so much my own invention based simply on a feeling I have… Do you know,' he said in the tone of a man facing a sudden revelation, 'I think I can't tell you for the same reason you didn't tell me about the thousand men. For fear of being laughed at. For fear of being proven wrong. Now isn't that strange?'

  'I'd call it normal,' muttered Mannion.' 'Bout the only normal thing there is with you, I 'ave to say. Ever considered bein' normal? Might make a change for all of us.'

  'So,' said Jane, snuggling down rather fearfully into the depths of her cloak, like a mouse burrowing down in cut straw and hoping the hawk had not seen her, 'civil war's about to be unleashed from a house a few yards along our street. We're facing pandemonium, chaos, a collapse of all civil order, bloodshed on the streets and probably rape, loot and pillage for those stupid enough to be caught out in it, and some of those trying to hide from it. What are you going to do about it?'

  'I'm going to get captured by Essex, probably,' said Gresham.

  'No you fuckin' ain't — beggin' your pardon, miss!' exploded Mannion.

  'Essex is like a lit fuse. I can't stop that. I've just got this sense that he's finally going to blow. If that fuse reaches the powder, the country could be blown apart. And if my theory is correct, some-thing even more shameful may happen. And it'll mean I'll have broken my word. I have to see Essex! Even if I can't stop him, I have to try and limit the damage. To him, and to everyone.'

  'You can't do that!' said Jane aghast. 'They'll kill you before you get to Essex! You saw them tonight. They'd have cheerfully ripped the flesh from our bones and eaten it as talk to us if you hadn't out-thought them!'

  'She's right,' said Mannion. 'Least they'll do is rough you up, mebbe bad. Might get to Essex and find you ain't got a mouth or a tongue to speak to him with.', 'I know,' said Gresham. 'But sometimes you don't get choices.'

  Chapter 13

  February, 1601 London

  Gresham had chosen to wear a nondescript cloak, and ride on a nag that was like countless hundreds of others in London. His hat was pulled low down over his brow.

  Essex House was lit up like the Court on Twelfth Night, and among the noise and turmoil emanating from it there was the occasional ominous clang of metal on metal. The front entrance was heavily guarded, the back one as well and the river gate sealed.

  On a whim, Gresham made Mannion ride with him west up the Strand. The Queen was at Whitehall, the proximity of the Palace as much a feature in the popularity of the Strand as London's prevailing wind direction.

  'Nothing,' said Gresham. There were no extra guards, no sign in the far distance of any extra activity in the Palace. As they were turning round, there was a clatter of hooves behind them. The rider was in a hurry, four men in the Queen's livery with him. He had lost his hat, and his face was covered in mud.

  'John! John Herbert!' Gresham called into the darkness. The man reined in, peering through the gloom. Secretary John Herbert was a prime administrator for the Privy Council. A decent man, he was typical of the hundreds who slaved away quietly and without much evident ambition to service the workings of government. Why was Secretary Herbert riding out at this time of night, when all decent men were tucked up in bed? It must be approaching midnight.

  'Sir Henry!' Herbert was nervous, and his escort drew round him. 'What business have you riding in town on this of all nights?'

  'I might ask the same of you,' said Gresham, 'except to say that I serve the Queen to whom I remain loyal. And you have nothing to fear from me.'

  'I have never thought I had,' the man answered simply, 'unlike many others. But excuse me, I must about my business.
'

  'I would caution you against Essex House this night,' said Gresham. 'It's a wild place.'

  'I have no option, Sir Henry,' said Herbert. 'There is no reason why you should not know. The Privy Council summoned the Earl of Essex to their presence late this afternoon. He returned no answer. I am sent to demand his presence. Now.'

  'He won't come,' said Gresham. 'You know that.'

  'On a night when my family are on their knees praying for my safety, I know only that I have my duty to do. Will you let me pass?'

  'Of course. I'm not your enemy.'

  Strange how bravery and courage showed themselves. There was the bravery of the great general, the great leader. And there was the bravery of the ordinary man, the man with just a little courage and a sense of duty, the man who would go where duty drove him, quietly and without fuss. History would discard him and his name without a moment's thought if he fell foul of a drunken rebel or Gelli Meyrick's knife, something John Herbert knew as well as history.

  The two men let Herbert have a decent start, and then followed after him to where a glow in the sky showed London and the burning lights of Essex House. They had lit a vast fire in the courtyard to warm the men who were gathered there. Two hundred? Three hundred? It was difficult to say.

  They stopped in the darkness that lay like a cloak around the great house, and Gresham dismounted, handing the reins of his nag to Mannion. Mannion was awkward, troubled. 'You shouldn't be doin' this,' he said.

  'You're probably right,' said Gresham.

  'I should come with you,' said Mannion.

  'It wouldn't work. Even you can't fight off all Essex's men, and they'd separate us immediately. Probably torture you to find out if you knew anything. Or just for the fun of it. You know it's got to be me. And why.'

  Gresham had told Mannion what he thought was the truth as they had ridden down towards Essex House. To his relief, Mannion had not laughed, but had agreed.

  'Yeah,' he said with a vast sigh. 'That figures. It's just what them bastards would do, isn't it? Clever, though. You got to give them that. Well, that's it then,' he said. Then he did something extraordinary. He got off his horse, came up to Gresham and enveloped him in a vast bear hug. Gresham gasped. It was like being clutched by a large hairy carpet. Mannion let go, and the breath returned to Gresham's chest.

  'You bloody well survive!' said Mannion, 'or I'll never forgive you.' He rode away with both horses into the dark. It was, of course, a trick of the light that suggested the phlegmatic Mannion had tears in his eyes.

  Some soothing influence must have been released into Gresham's blood as he walked up to the gates of Essex House. He felt nothing, no fear, no tension. Calmly he said to the man on the gate, 'My name is Sir Henry Gresham. I am an ex-friend of the Earl's and I have vital news for him.'

  A startled look came over the man's face, but he opened the small gate cut into the huge wooden one, ushered Gresham in and shut it quickly behind him. The scene in the yard was like a vision of hell. A furious fire was blazing, sparks flying up into the night air, and all around men were walking, talking, doing exercises, oiling weapons or sitting silently in corners, guns and swords laid carefully on their laps. The guard whispered to another man, who waved a hand and called two others over.

  Now it begins, thought Gresham, tensing himself for the first blow. Instead, the three men took him across the yard, spoke briefly to the man acting as a sergeant, handed him over and went back to their stations. The sergeant listened politely to his story, motioned him to sit on one of the crude boxes littering the yard, and called to a man whose long cloak concealed the dress of a gentleman.

  It was Gervase Markham, the young officer Gresham had struck up a friendship with in Ireland. He did not look nearly so happy to see him now.

  'Are you mad?' he hissed. 'Meyrick and the rest of them are saying you're Cecil's creature, one of the causes of the Earl's disfavour. The rumour is you outwitted them at the theatre, and they're spitting. Get out while you can! You're only still alive because I've got my men on duty, and they still have some semblance of training.'

  For the first time in this awful business was God smiling on him?

  'Firstly, can you get me in to see Essex? Or at least into the room he's in? I promise I won't harm him, or cause harm to him in any way. Secondly, get out of here, Gervase. This is no place for a real soldier. You're being used, all of you, used in a foul plot. It's you who should get out while you can. You can't win. And even if you seem to have won, you'll have lost. Believe me.'

  Markham looked at him for a moment, gave a brief nod and said, 'Keep your hat low down over your brow. They're having a Council of War. All the good men and true.' Markham's sense of irony had not left him. 'I'll open the door for you. I doubt you'll ever get out.'

  'That's my choice, isn't it? And thank you.'

  'It's a pleasure,' said Markham lightly. 'Things are always more fun when you're around. More dangerous, but more fun.'

  Another strange echo, this time of what Gresham had always said of Essex.

  They skirted the edge of the yard, hiding in the gargantuan shadows thrown up by the fire, and climbed two sets of stairs. Men hurried past them, all heavily armed, but set on their own business.

  Markham opened the door, and suddenly they were in the dining hail of Essex House, a long, imposing room with a vaulted ceiling and portraits along each wall. The fire was piled high with huge logs, so high that flames must almost be pouring out of the chimney. Huge, flickering shadows were being thrown round the room with ten or twelve candles in one spot, then yards where there was no light at all. A sudden silence descended.

  Davies stood up, knocking his stool back with the force of the movement.

  'Kill him!'he said.

  'No!' said another voice. It was Essex. He was wild-eyed, seemed to have lost weight since Gresham had last seen him, and was dressed in full Court rig. Was he planning to break in on the Queen again? Or did he simply feel one ought to be properly dressed to ride to one's death?

  'My Lord,' said Gresham, hoping these would not be his last words, 'I have something you must know. Something that affects this enterprise and yourself most crucially.'

  The silence lengthened, unbearably.

  'Tell me,' said Essex finally, his voice thin.

  'The thousand men. The militia. The men summoned by Sheriff Smith — the men you are counting on for tomorrow — they do not exist. They have been disbanded. Sheriff Smith has been warned off and told that the Crown knows of his disloyalty.'

  'And who has done this?'

  'I have,' said Gresham. A rumble as of thunder swept round the room. Two or three of the twenty or so men gathered there reached for their swords. Essex held out his hand to stay them.

  'And why did you do so?'

  'To save you and your honour. Because I know who is behind those thousand men, know now who is forcing you into rebellion. My Lord, you-'

  The blow to the back of his head was savage. He had heard nothing. As his conscience splintered and then broke, he had just one glimpse of his attacker as he slumped to the floor.

  Cameron. Cameron Johnstone.

  It was dark when he came to, his head split by pain, his doublet sticky with blood. He was being cradled by someone, a damp cloth wiping his face and head. He reached for his sword and the hidden dagger. Both gone. He had been disarmed. His feet were tied together, cruelly tight. There were fragments of rope round his wrists.

  'Your hands were blue,' said George, holding him like a baby. 'So I cut through the rope when they stopped talking before your hands fell off.'

  Gresham tried to struggle up, but pain lanced through his head, pierced his eyes, and he fell back into George's arms.

  'And for once, you've got it wrong,' said George, continuing to sponge gently, ever so gently, at his wound. 'The great Henry Gresham, master spy and master of all intrigue got it wrong. Completely wrong. Those thousand men, Smith's militia. They weren't designed to win Essex the rebellion. Th
ey were designed to make him lose it.'

  'Were they?' said Gresham wondering if this was a dream. They seemed to be in the dining hall still, the fire half banked up and flickering, candles and lamps around the room, some of them out. There were men asleep, snoring, round the walls. That would be why George was whispering, so as not to wake the men. Gresham had not lost his hearing after all. 'How is that so?' he managed to mumble.

  'Cameron made me the go-between with Smith. Oh, don't worry. Cameron's working for Cecil still. Actually, he's working for James, but Cecil wants James as King, so it's the same thing. But Cameron's clever enough to make Essex think that James is on his side. I wasn't tarnished, you see, with any of the Court intrigue. People thought I hated Essex so I could see Smith without any suspicion being raised. Cameron told Essex I was a double agent — that he'd cultivated me for years. That's why I'm here. Essex thinks I'm one of his men! Cameron hates Essex as well. So does James. Essex thinks Cameron and James love him. Do you understand?'

  Gresham managed to move a little this time, and get his head above his chest. Maybe if there was a little less blood going to his head it might hurt just a little less.

  'I'd have difficulty understanding that even if my head were unbroken,' said Gresham.

  'Look, it's simple,' said George, continuing to cradle Gresham, 'Cecil hates Essex. James of Scotland hates Essex. Cameron hates Essex, and I hate Essex. All of us have been working against him, except that James and Cameron and myself have made it look as if we were on his side.'

  'I see,' Gresham managed to say. The pain went through his head and into his jaw, making it extraordinarily painful to speak. 'It's simple. James sees Essex as a threat. Cameron works for James. The best way to deal with a threat is to get it to trust you, rely on you even. Essex is so desperate for the approval of the next King, for influence with the next King, that he'll believe anything of Cameron. All the time Cameron seems to be working for Essex he's working against him.'