The Coming of the King: Henry Gresham and James I (The Henry Gresham Series Book 3)

by Martin Stephen

  ‘They are inseparable, your Majesty,’ he replied. ‘When I have fought for you, it would have been that much harder if I had the temerity to despise you. Yet I have seen war, tasted war. There is nothing that is good about it.’

  He drew his breath. What he wanted to say was dangerous. Yet he wanted to say it.

  ‘It is my belief that Elizabeth the woman and Elizabeth the Queen hated war with as much venom as I did.’

  To give him his due, Cecil was no warmonger, though only because he considered it a scandalous waste of money.

  ‘It is easier for monarchs to fight than it is for them to fight for peace. When I fought for you, it was because I believed that under your reign Jack would have his Jill, the seasons would come round and those who died would do so because of illness, foul weather or the bad harvest, not to satisfy the lust and ambition of a ruler or would-be ruler.’

  ‘And when I tried to avoid war, do you think it was for these noble reasons, Sir Henry? Or, like my Lord Cecil, because I thought war simply a waste of good money? Or because whereas war is like a lottery, peace is more like a game of cards where the intelligence of the player might at least have some influence on the outcome?’

  Despite himself, Gresham found himself grinning, in the dark.

  ‘Majesty,’ he said, ‘as you once said that you do not seek a window into men’s souls, perhaps it might that you should not enquire which direction a man came from to reach his destination, provided he arrived at the right place.’

  ‘Clever, Henry Gresham, as ever. Some would say too clever by half.’

  Silence.

  ‘But I am no fool. Not yet, anyway. I know all mortals die. Even Queens. But someone is trying to hasten my death.’

  Something like a spear of ice shot through Gresham’s veins.

  ‘Madam, I ...’ he began.

  ‘Silence!’ she commanded, with a wave of her hand. Even that effort seemed to drain here, and she took a drink from an ornate goblet by her side. ‘Listen before you jump in with your silly denials, your belief that a dying old woman cannot accept the hand of nature and must see instead the hand of man.’

  It had been so close to what Gresham was actually thinking that it did shut him up.

  ‘Some weeks ago something changed. I have the constitution of an ox.’

  Only a few weeks ago any courtier saying as much would have been flayed alive. Maybe they still would.

  ‘My body has always been able to bear the trials of my mind. Three weeks ago it changed. I know the aches of old age. New things happened. Fiery burnings in my joints. Strange mental blackouts. My skin flaking away like ash. My stool more like a rabbit’s than a human.’

  Gresham groaned inwardly. Examining the Queen’s stool was one of those jobs he most hoped to avoid. The Queen had been hard enough to handle when her mind was sound. With it apparently gone, she would be a nightmare.

  ‘Your Majesty has physicians ...’ Gresham offered.

  ‘Her Majesty has idiots!’ The words were spat out with something approaching the fire and passion of the old Queen, through lips painted the colour of raw blood. ‘How do I know this is not just some extra burden of the years? Ten days ago, I was sick. I mean violently so, throwing up the content of my guts. For that at least we knew the cause, and it was not an assassin’s powders. It was a consignment of bad fish. Many of the Court were so taken. So violent was the affliction I ate nothing for two days. Half way through the second day my spirits returned. I felt the old strength flow through me again. For that half day, I was Queen again. Then I ate again, sparingly. Ill again. Instantly.’

  Gresham was interested, despite himself.

  ‘Have you tried ...?’

  ‘Changing the food order at the last minute? Eating the food of a lady-in-waiting instead of my own, and without warning? Having my food tasted? Feeding a sample to a hound before I ate? I have tried all of them, and to no effect.’

  ‘Why ...’

  ‘Why ask you, Henry Gresham?’

  Her mind had not gone the way of her stool.

  ‘Of all my Court, you are the most hated. My little pygmy despises you. The Spaniards remember still the Armada, and hate you for the part you played. Yet many think you linked to Spain. Those who hate the Scots know you visited Scotland’s King...’

  Elizabeth still could not bring herself to mention the name of James VI of Scotland, her most likely successor.

  ‘... and see you as his ally, yet the Scots blame you for the loss of their best agent here at Court. Raleigh is a spent force, and you are emotionally entangled with his vessel even as it sinks. Those who support the Stuart girl have taken note of the scorn you pour upon her ...’

  There was the trace of a smile in the Queen’s wavering voice. She approved of anyone who mocked Arbella Stuart.

  ‘...and ironically the French think you are a Spaniard at heart, noting the praise you have heaped on that buffoon who commanded the Armada.’

  ‘Buffoon’? The ‘buffoon’ in question was Duke Medina Sidonia, unquestionably the bravest man Gresham had ever known. Queen Elizabeth had scant respect for those she had defeated.

  ‘So you see, my enemies are your enemies.’ And you like those who win, thought Gresham. ‘Indeed, you seem to have a truly remarkable capacity to make enemies. Perhaps that explains my weakness for you. I was friendless once before, as I am now.’

  It was easy to forget Elizabeth the young princess taken through the Traitor’s Gate to The Tower of London, in the opinion of many destined to follow her mother to the scaffold.

  ‘Will you find out if someone is trying to poison me, Henry Gresham? Will you do this last service for your Queen?’

  The voice should have been imperious, commanding. Instead it was little more than a whisper. Gresham did not need long to think.

  ‘I shall try, Your Majesty. But, please, do not look for miracles. I will do what I can.’

  The old Devil had led a wicked life, and had frequently made Gresham think that Machiavelli’s great work should be retitled The Princess in her honour. Yet she had kept England at peace more or less for years, been less inclined to make fires out of her subjects and more inclined to let them keep their heads than many of her predecessors. He knew, and at one stage could have proved, that Queen she was but virgin she certainly was not. Did she know that Gresham knew the true story of the one real love of her life, and the child it produced? He rather thought not, believing that had she done so he would have been long dead. But if she did know, it might explain her trust in him. It was an intriguing puzzle.

  ‘Hurry, Henry Gresham. Hurry. That is all I ask. I shall die if I do not eat. I am dying if I do. I do not know how much longer this body of mine can stand the assaults being made on it. This is not how I wish my reign to end.’

  ‘Is there anyone I can trust in your household?’

  ‘Some of my ladies-in-waiting. As for others, so many have died ...’

  How she must miss old Burghley, and the extraordinary Walsingham and the rest of the strange crew who had nailed their unlikely flags to her mast all those years ago. All dead now. Elizabeth had survived them all. For a little longer.

  There was a long silence. Gresham wondered if the Queen had dropped off into a doze.

  ‘You have been corresponding with the Scottish King.’

  The words were like a cannon ball. James had supported Essex in his growing impatience with Elizabeth’s longevity and desire to take over the English throne. He had managed to slide out of blame when Essex rebelled, but in the course of the whole sorry saga James had come across Gresham. Yet the Queen was wrong. Gresham had sought no communication with James.

  ‘No, I have not, Your Majesty,’ said Gresham.

  ‘Rest your mind,’ said the Queen, almost pityingly. ‘Hardly a member of
my Court is not in touch with Scotland, and writing more treasonous stuff than you would ever be stupid enough to do. But there is another one who writes, a great enemy of my Lord Essex, and his words become sweeter by the day.’

  ‘And who might this be, Majesty?’

  ‘Not all dogs that hunt are big,’ Elizabeth said gnomically.

  Cecil! It had to be Cecil! Not only the bitter rival of Essex, only a handful of people knew that King James called him his ‘little beagle’. It was hardly a surprise Cecil was loving up to James. He would be the best power base for a continuation of Cecil’s power, whilst he was the man in England who could do most to gain James the prize, without a war. So why was the Queen telling him? It had to be because she was suspicious of Cecil, wondering if it might not be in the little weasel’s interest to speed up her death. And if Cecil knew this, he knew Gresham was the one man with the informants and access to find it out. Which might explain why someone with a great deal of money to spend on the enterprise was trying to kill him.

  Gresham waited for the Queen to say more, but she fell silent. Finally, in almost a whisper, ‘Get me the truth. Allow me to die at God’s will and choosing, not that of one of my subjects.’

  She handed Gresham a ring, ornate enough but with a cheap jewel, which she said would allow him access to her at any time. She seemed almost asleep, comatose even, as he left, opening the doors himself this time. The fire in the Withdrawing Room was almost out, like the fire in her heart. Power flaked away from a dying monarch, like snow melting off a tree. The pikes clashed together behind him. One had rust on it, Gresham noted, and there were stains on the tunics of both guards.

  Cecil. Where was he? Part of Gresham had expected another ‘accidental’ meeting in the Palace, or even a peremptory summons, but neither materialised. It was a fine, cold day, and the tide was just on the ebb, sweeping back down to London. He had been strangely disturbed by his meeting. The colourful, noisy and rank river passing him by. Three murder attempts, and yet the only time he had been truly affected was when he thought Jane was threatened. He was a fool to think he could give Jane the life of a country wife. Or himself the life of a squire. He realised now he fed on danger, needed it, sometimes even craved it. As he was about to show.

  ‘Shall we try it now?’ he said to Mannion, wrapping his cloak round him, luxuriating in the warmth his rich gloves gave to his hands.

  ‘I knows you’re very proud o’ this plan of yours,’ said Mannion, ‘but don’t I remember bein’ taught something about pride coming before a fall?’

  ‘You’re just scared of anything that happens on water,’ said Gresham.

  ‘With good reason, if you ask me,’ said Mannion, knowing that his own misgivings in some way stirred Gresham on. ‘I think you’re a mad bastard,’ said Mannion.

  ‘Well,’ said Gresham lightly, ‘one of those is certainly true.’

  They reached the waterfront, ignoring the stables where their horses lay. The day was sunny, the winter light sharp, a brisk wind wrinkling the water and unleashing sails on the river as if it had rained butterflies. Mannion excused himself for a moment. Four men surrounded Gresham, the minimum Mannion had insisted on, looking around suspiciously at anyone who came close, their hands on their swords.

  Mannion returned. The six men walked on to the jetty where the largest number of boatmen plied for hire. Gresham and Mannion held a muttered conversation, and the four guards nodded and broke off, heading purposefully for the stables. To any casual onlooker it seemed as if the fine gentleman and his body servant had decided to take advantage of the day and the ebb tide, and speed back to town by water rather than pick their way through the cramped streets and dust stirred by the wind.

  Their choice of boat seemed odd, a battered thing with an equally battered old man in charge of it. His disproportionately large upper body and thin legs were typical of the sailor, a topman who needed great strength to hold in bucking sails but who would frequently be bow-legged. He was nearly toothless, a few remaining stumps ground down almost to gum level. Again, this shouted sailor at any onlooker. The sailor’s diet caused teeth to drop out early, and the flour sold to ships usually had as much sand in it as wheat. The diet appeared to have got to this old man’s mind as well; Mannion and Gresham had to wake him up. He took an age to hoist his tiny sail and as he pulled out he cannoned off two other boats, to the raucous, half-amused, half-angered shouts of the other boatmen.

  There was precious little law in London, other than the survival of the strongest, and even less on the water. The Thames was London’s main thoroughfare, and its main sewer. The bigger the boat on the Thames, the more it behoved a smaller one to get out of the way. The elderly boatman swore loudly as a larger and faster boat, still a river ferry but newer, larger and faster, bore down on them. An expression first of surprise, then of panic and then of fear crossed the lines on his face as the other boat turned with them as if attached by rope, and rapidly started to gain on them. Deliberate attempts to kill people on the river were rare – easier to pin someone down and rob them on dry land – but if someone chose to settle a debt afloat the easiest way was simply to run the other person’s boat down. Very few people, even sailors, could swim. Even if they could, a sharp crack on the skull from swinging the hull of the attaching ship round over the swimmers would do the trick nicely.

  It was the realisation that he was being watched and followed every time he left The House that had snapped what little was left of Gresham’s patience. He had been hunted before, but never over anything like such a long period. He was beginning to tire of the game, not least of all because even perpetual vigilance could lapse for the second that it took to slip a knife under his ribs, or for the same result to be achieved just by bad luck. What if it was his foot that slipped at the crucial moment? Gresham had to stop this hunting of him like some animal in a park, and to do that he needed information.

  ‘I use the river a lot,’ he had said to Mannion.

  ‘So does most of London,’ replied Mannion.

  ‘But whoever’s after me knows my habits, might even think I’d use the river more if I knew I was being hunted. I think whoever’s behind this is desperate. Three attempts in Cambridge! All of them needing to be planned in advance, and done so ruthlessly that as soon as one failed the next was launched. Whoever it is doesn’t just want me dead. They want me dead now, immediately.’

  ‘Must be about the Queen,’ said Mannion. ‘Only thing that’s changed is ’er asking you to find her killer. Whoever it is must be scared to death you’ll find out.’

  ‘Probably so. But finding out why they’re doing it is a luxury I can afford after I find out who it is.’

  ‘So kill ’em before they can kill you.’

  ‘So kill them – or him – before they can kill me. Look at the pattern. The killer has covered all the angles, had plan B – the poison – and plan C – the attack in the country – in place just in case. He must have a river plan. And the fact we survived all three must be getting him more and more frustrated.’

  Since Cambridge The House had been guarded more than The Tower of London. Gresham had gone nowhere without a close escort of Mannion and four trained men, with at least that number only a few minutes away. All his food had been tasted, all his journeys on horseback rather than on foot, and routed through the widest streets London could offer. It was becoming insanely boring.

  And so Gresham had hatched the plan, to Mannion’s disgruntlement. There were three things Mannion hated above all others – water, Cambridge and Scotland. It was his misfortune that his devotion to his Master had led him to extended contact with all three.

  The attacking boat bore down on them, threatening to splinter their leaky old tub. The old man steering did not even have the wit to jink and weave, driving a simple straight course through the water.

  The other boat had four men in it
. So intent were they on the prey ahead of them in the water that they did not notice the sleek cutter, the Hawk, that had been overtaking both boats towards the middle of the river. It suddenly cut in and headed towards the attacking boat. Its crew of ten were dressed as if they had been released from the asylum. Briefed by Gresham to discard the smart Gresham livery, they had entered rather too much into the spirit of the affair and apparently robbed every scarecrow in the fields bordering London. Only seconds after the men in the attacking boat realised their danger Gresham’s men crashed into them with wood-splintering force. The boat had been ready for a week, and come up to Richmond twice in case Gresham decided to launch his plan.

  It should all have gone to plan. Two men at the bow of the Hawk should have hurled grapnels across, allowing the rest to jump over and corner the men in the attacking boat, who if they had any sense would surrender rather than face certain death and, alive, provide Gresham with crucial information as to who was hunting him. Yet as the first of Gresham’s men was poised to hurl his grapnel, an extraordinary thing happened. A man in the other boat took a knife out of his belt and hurled it. It was an impossible throw, from one pitching boat to another. By luck or judgement it buried itself deep in the arm of the man with the grapnel. He dropped it with a screamed obscenity. The other man managed to throw his grapnel, but before he could use it to secure the boats a second man sliced through the rope with one plunging blow of an axe. Then the first man showed his first throw had been no accident. Taking another knife out of his belt he hurled it at the helmsman on the Hawk. Gresham could not see if it was a killing blow. It was a blur through the air, striking the helmsman somewhere in the chest. Killing or not, it was enough to crumple him on the deck. Freed of control, Hawk turned away into the wind, motionless with sail flapping. Not so the attaching boat. It left Hawk in its wake, poised to smash into the lumbering tub with Gresham in it, so slow it had hardly made any ground in the few seconds it had taken to blow apart Gresham’s plan.