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

by Martin Stephen

  He edged towards the door, stopped as a noise came from the back of the room. It was a servant, her apron holding logs for the fire. She caught sight of him, looked as if she was about to scream. Gresham held up the Queen’s ring, and she thought better of it, dropping her eyes. He motioned for her to carry on, and edged out of the room.

  No pack of armed men waiting to arrest him. Nothing except the usual bored guards.

  ‘Raleigh,’ he said to Mannion. ‘I must see Raleigh. And then My Lord Robert Cecil.’

  When he had first trusted Jane enough to discuss serious things with her, she had been careful to explain her feelings about Sir Walter Raleigh.

  ‘He saved your life, so I can’t hate him for that,’ she said. ‘He’s also a very powerful, attractive man if you like that sort of thing.’ She managed to imply that she did not, without actually saying so. ‘But I feel he uses your debt to him, almost as a hold over you. He’s an almost unconscious sense of superiority to you. And most of all, I think Raleigh cares only about himself, above all others.’

  And that’s criminal, she wanted to add. Because you’re three times the man he will ever be.

  Raleigh felt a sense of superiority to everyone he met, and in Gresham’s experience very little of it was unconscious. In essence a Cornish freebooter and privateer, Raleigh had become one of the Queen’s favourites. He was the physical type she liked in men, for sure, but she had also had a knack of putting her trust in good yeoman or gentleman stock, rather than pure nobility. Burghley and now his son Robert Cecil had come from nowhere socially, and that extraordinarily effective executioner Walsingham was not exactly blue blood. Perhaps it was that no English noble could ever see her as a woman, but must always see her as a route to becoming King? It was also that when she had gone for the opposite of a bit of rough, Essex, she had been sorely let down.

  Yet Raleigh was fighting for his life. His one hold on power was the Queen, and she was a spent force. He was widely hated as a commoner upstart and, so Gresham’s informants told him, was being blackened by Cecil to King James. Gresham was probably the only man alive who knew the truth of Raleigh’s incessant plotting and his entirely scandalous and treasonable involvement in the Essex rebellion. Yet Raleigh had saved Gresham’s life. And despite knowing the truth of what Jane said, Gresham could not help liking Raleigh, albeit with equal mixture of love and exasperation – which, worryingly, had been equally true of his feelings towards the Earl of Essex. Raleigh was a brilliant, dark poet, a superb seaman and someone who took entire responsibility for his life. He was the rudest, most sarcastic man Gresham had ever met; Raleigh blamed neither God nor the Devil when the bad times came, only himself. His hatred for Cecil – ‘the worm’ – further recommended him to Gresham.

  ‘Dark times, Henry. Dark times,’ Raleigh greeted Gresham.

  ‘For who?’ asked Gresham. ‘The Queen? England? Or Sir Walter Raleigh?’

  ‘All three are inextricably linked. How are you for spoiling one of the little worm’s deepest desires?’

  Well, you had to give it to Raleigh. He spent little time on the pleasantries.

  ‘Forgive me, Walter,’ said Gresham, moving closer to the roaring fire that underlit and flickered on Raleigh’s face, making him look demonic. ‘Your idea of spoiling one of Cecil’s deepest desires could range from ensuring he gets served cold porridge to raping his mistress, were he to have one.’

  ‘Raping his mistress?’ Raleigh guffawed. ‘Any woman used to sleeping with that wreck would welcome being taken by a real man. But to real business. The Queen is dying.’

  Dying? Being poisoned rather. Gresham stayed silent.

  ‘The worm has been cosying up to James for years. The minute Elizabeth dies, Cecil will have James on the throne of England – and we will be at peace with Spain.’

  Peace with Spain seemed distinctly preferable to the dreams of carnage Gresham had been enduring. Raleigh saw it differently. That part of Raleigh’s income that did not come from the patronage of the Queen came from piracy. The anointment of a King who did not favour Raleigh and would sign a treaty with Spain – something James was known to want – would ruin Raleigh.

  ‘Can peace be such a bad idea?’ said Gresham wearily. It was a debate he had held many times with Raleigh, as well as with his dreams.

  ‘Why cannot people see the truth?’ asked Raleigh, with an intensity that could only spring from genuine conviction. ‘What the world calls piracy – and which I confess enriches me – strikes at the heart of Spain’s ability to conquer England. The Spaniards are religious fanatics, blinded to all other truth. We, England, are the Anti-Christ to them. Peace will simply allow them to transfer more gold into their coffers from the New World, money that will be used to raise new fleets against us. It is not diplomacy …’ he almost spat the word out, ‘that has kept England ruled by the English these fifty years. It is Spanish ships being sunk by the English.’

  Why did Gresham feel affection for this man? Gresham had sailed on the 1588 Spanish Armada, known its leader and still held that much-reviled man as the bravest and most honourable person he had ever known. In comparison, Raleigh was proud, arrogant and boastful, with a cruel streak and an immense venal selfishness. Yet Raleigh was also charismatic, a poet of genius and afraid of nothing. And Gresham owed his life to him. Sometimes Gresham thought he loved Raleigh because of his weaknesses, not despite them.

  ‘Moving from matters of high politics to low manoeuvres, how exactly do you propose to spoil one of Cecil’s deepest desires?’

  ‘Cecil has pushed his nose so far up James’ royal arse that it’s visible in his royal throat. One of his deepest commitments has been to tell the Scottish sodomite when our gracious Queen dies – the first to do so.’

  ‘So who can do so before him?’

  ‘The bitch Lady Scrope has been toadying up to James. She fears for her brother’s job, and hence her status.’

  Her brother, Robert Carey, was Lord Warden of the Middle Marches, the border with Scotland. He was also a dim-witted, accident-prone but harmless functionary, who was fearing for his future, as were most of the Court.

  ‘She has promised that her brother will be first to bring James the news. He and she, poor fools, think that in some way this will secure their prosperity. She has a ring – a sapphire ring – from James that will be the signal.’

  ‘And you want Carey to deliver the news, not Cecil. Surely it’s a petty victory ...?’

  ‘Carey wants to deliver the ring. More than he’s ever wanted to do anything. But perhaps also a sign that the worm cannot always deliver what he promises.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ asked Gresham, signally unexcited by this childish game.

  ‘Firstly, Carey is not here. He’s insisted on staying in lodgings and not in the Palace. He can be locked out at will. Secondly, Cecil knows of the ring and will do everything he can to keep Carey out of the Palace, and if he does get in, to keep him here. Thirdly, if Carey does get out the fool is such a bad horseman he’s very unlikely to get further than the Midlands without help.’

  ‘And ...’ asked Gresham.

  ‘And you, my friend,’ said Raleigh, ‘are my secret weapon. I want you to get Carey in when he comes, then get him out and finally go with him to hold his hand.’

  ‘Do you know how far it is to Scotland?’

  ‘As one of the few men alive who knows how far it is to the New World, I think I can safely be assumed to know how far it is to Scotland.’

  ‘It’s a long way to both,’ said Gresham, ‘and they’re about as much use as each other.’

  ‘I need you to be of use to me. Enough of this banter. Will you help me as I ask?’

  A thousand thoughts raced through Gresham’s head. Most of them wondered why he felt loyalty towards this arrogant, stupid man who was also one of the most brilli
ant men he had ever met.

  ‘Someone has tried, consistently and professionally, to kill me on several occasions recently. Everyone in the created universe is courting the man who appears to be destined to be England’s King, for fear that the new regime will ruin them – except me. James could be planning for me to be his pastry cook for all I know – and given that Cecil is briefing him, it’s more likely that he plans to have me inside one of his pastries. At the same time, someone is trying to close my College, and may well take advantage of my absence to do even more damage. And you want me to ride up most of England with a dimwit to bring news of his throne to a man who for all I know wants me dead?’

  Raleigh thought about this for a moment.

  ‘Yes,’ said Raleigh. And then, as an afterthought, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I haven’t said yes,’ said Gresham.

  ‘No,’ said Raleigh. ‘But you will.’

  Gresham felt a need for Mannion or Jane.

  ‘And by the way,’ said Raleigh, ‘I need to go to the West Country. If, God forbid, the Queen should die while I am away, I will need you to stiffen Carey in his resolve.’

  ‘Is there no end to your arrogance?’ said Gresham.

  ‘What arrogance?’ said Raleigh. And the frightening thing was that it was a genuine question. Raleigh did not see himself as others saw him.

  Despite what the playwrights wrote, there was rarely thunder and lightning when great events happened. Rather, when Queen Elizabeth died, there was silence. The bells in London on a Sunday were a hellish rather than a heavenly noise, and when the Queen was too ill to attend morning service in the Royal Chapel – an unprecedented event – the word spread through the capital that the long wait was about to end, and the bells were stilled. Finally persuaded to take to her bed, it took her until the early hours of a March morning to die. Hours earlier her Council had gathered round her walnut bed, and asked her to name her successor. The capital was in turmoil, with many Catholics openly condemning James as a heretic, and several Protestant sects condemning him as a foreigner. In the strange silence that fell over London the most common sound was that of men locking their doors and shuttering their windows. Speechless, the Queen had named no-one. It did not matter. The Council had chosen James, and lied to the public that she had made a gesture signifying assent when the name of James was mentioned.

  ‘I wonder if at last she regrets not marrying?’ said Jane wistfully, almost as if she was speaking out loud. Gresham had torn home as it became clear the Queen was soon to die, to arrange horses and tie food and spare clothing into a pack. He still did not know why he had agreed to try and spirit Carey into James’s presence. Gresham well remembered his last meeting with James. He had sailed to Scotland with Mannion and Jane, ordered by Cecil who had temporarily got the better of him and carrying a message. Unbeknown to Cecil, Gresham had also been carrying a ring and a letter from Elizabeth as well. Gresham had navigated his way in and out of Holyrood House, and if not winning the trust of James had at least seemingly not earned his suspicion. The strange, intelligent and drunken King had not inspired Gresham. There was a danger in James he could not exactly identify.

  ‘Why should she regret it now?’ asked Gresham, with less than half his mind on what Jane was saying.

  ‘Because she is a lonely old lady surrounded by those she pays to serve her, and those who’ve fed off her power. I think she would rather have a husband, however bad, by her bedside, and a son or a daughter, however wayward.’

  Gresham looked at her then, but she said nothing more, bending to pick up a spare pair of sturdy boots and cram them into the smallest space. She had no son or daughter. She did not even have a legal tie to the man she loved, and who provided her income and the roof over her head. How lonely would she be if Gresham were to die? Lonelier than a dying Queen? She had said nothing when he had told her he was going with the mad-cap Carey, to satisfy a whim of Raleigh’s. Those wide eyes had simply looked at him, until he turned his gaze away. He remembered her on their last trip to Scotland, half-mad, standing on the bloodied deck of the Anna semi-crazed with a pistol held to the head of the sailor who had betrayed them. She had pulled the trigger. It had misfired, the powder fallen out of the priming pan, but she had not known that. Misfiring pistols were clearly destined to be part of Jane’s life. Until one of them actually fired.

  The Queen had called to see him, just hours before she had allowed herself to be carried to the bed she knew she would never rise from. Her speech was slow and slurred, but the intelligence was still there, in her eyes.

  ‘So who did this to me?’ she asked, weakly and with each breath seeming to hurt.

  This was no time for lies.

  ‘Your Majesty, I do not know who. I only know how. I believe your Prayer Book was impregnated with poison. I am truly sorry I found out too late for it to matter.’

  And, strangely, as he heard himself uttering the words, he knew he really did mean them. With all his heart. Infuriating, maddening woman that she was, she was someone who had greatness in her, the greatness that rises above petty moralities or individual character weakness, the greatness that makes people say in their hearts that this person in a way they did not understand was greater than they were.

  To his surprise, Elizabeth croaked a laugh. There were noises outside. Council had made it clear they found this last private meeting irregular – and one of the members of Council, Gresham felt sure, would be agonising at this very moment that he had miscalculated, and that Gresham did not only know how the Queen came to this state, but who had brought her there.

  ‘A few days ago, I would have cared,’ whispered Elizabeth. ‘Now … I am old, Henry Gresham, older by far than most in my kingdom. If not now, how long would it have been? A month? Months? Even a year … what matter? There is a time when hanging on becomes so desperate a need that … death is a release. But I tell you this …’

  A claw-like hand touched Gresham’s arm.

  ‘I have seen it in my dreams. Death. Destruction. Turmoil. A country torn apart by civil war. The death, I fear, of England. They will have this James. And the spirit of his mother will rise up in him and in his children, and take revenge on this country. I thought I killed Mary Queen of Scots. And now I know all I did was postpone her vengeance.’

  Suddenly there was real strength in the arm that clutched him, a terrifying intensity in the voice that did not rise above a whisper but seemed to echo down eternity.

  And Gresham felt scared. This mad, old woman had looked into Hell, and come back to tell him about it.

  ‘Is there anything to be done?’ he asked, feeling the life force drain out of him as it was draining from the Queen.

  ‘It may happen in your time. More likely in the time of the children you will have.’

  Children? He had no children! Nor, given the frequency and the passion of their love-making, did he think he and Jane were capable of children. It gnawed at him. Of all the wild, young courtiers he had known, he seemed the only one not to have a bastard with his blood in it. It had almost become a joke, and his rumoured infertility he believed on one occasion had been a deciding factor in luring one particular girl into his bed.

  The Queen’s voice was lower than a whisper now. He had to strain with every nerve to hear.

  ‘Teach your children to hide. To hide as I learnt to hide as a child when all around was chaos that threatened to kill. And then, when the sun leaves the clouds, teach them to emerge into the newly-revealed sun, and claim their inheritance. And now, Henry Gresham, leave an old woman to scuttle to her death.’

  ‘There is no old woman here, though no-one can make death easy for you. There is a great Queen, who will be remembered for as long as humans still tell stories. Goodnight, your Majesty. Without you, the darkness is nearer.’

  He knew – or was it sensed – it to be true. He had met Jam
es. Was he the unwilling agent of his witch mother? Gresham had known her, blooded himself on her in his first exposure to the world of espionage. Her power to attract and yet disrupt and eventually destroy all that came near her had frozen him as a young man. Was it her spirit that was in her son? Gresham feared it was, the sense keying in with the heart of darkness he had felt rested in James when they had met.

  He had shared this whole extraordinary business with Jane, and with Mannion. Mannion’s response had been simple.

  ‘Look,’ he had said, with the patience of a father explaining to his children that night followed day, ‘it’s always bloody chaos – excusing your pardon, Miss – and nothing’s going to change. Most people out there believe in things – things like Spain, France or England. Things like one flamin’ religion or another. Me, I don’t believe in things. I’ve seen a lot of people die for England, and a lot of people die for Spain, or whatever. And you know what? They’ve been just as dead, whoever they bloody well died for. I’ve seen the people they left behind cry their guts out, but I ain’t seen England nor Spain cry. ‘Cos these things people give their lives to – countries, religions – they use you, they spit you out, but they don’t care. It’s the people what care. So …’

  He looked at them triumphantly.

  ‘… Sod the Crown. Sod England. Sod Scotland. And most of all, sod religion. What’s best for the three of us here?’

  Gresham was far from convinced joining forces with Carey was the best answer to Mannion’s question, but it was Mannion who made the best case for it.