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

by Martin Stephen

  ‘You’ll not need me to tell you,’ said Gresham, ‘that Sir Walter Raleigh was convicted of treason for being offered such a pension, and not telling the authorities. You, on the other hand, have been receiving such a pension for several years. And were one of the Commissioners who, in a trial that has made a mockery of English justice and outraged the populace, who condemned Raleigh for talking about such a pension.

  ‘How did you get that letter?’ Cecil asked, through gritted teeth.

  ‘Two of them actually,’ said Gresham, ‘in case there was an accident to the one you see here, or indeed to the man who holds it. The answer goes back a long way.’

  Gresham sat down at the table, picked up a glass of wine, sniffed it suspiciously and put it back. Cecil was both mean and possessed of an execrable taste in wine.

  ‘As you know better than most, I helped betray and mislead the Armada of ’88. And as you also know, I sailed with the Armada, at least for a time. And in that time my servant and I got to know two young Spaniards. They were everything young men should be – brave, innocent, willing to sacrifice their lives without really knowing what it was they were sacrificing. When I had landed, months later, my informants told me that these two young men were being held in Ireland. Their ship had foundered, they were among the few survivors. The rest were killed, by wild Irish. These two survived because they swore an English Mi’Lord would pay a fabulous amount for their ransom. They must have been persuasive. They were allowed to live, after a fashion.’

  ‘And you ransomed them?’ asked Cecil, lips curled, face still white.

  ‘No,’ said Gresham. ‘I rescued them. It was cheaper.’

  ‘And their captors?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘And ...’

  ‘The Spanish grandee would willingly have given his own life to save the life of his only son. And the Papal Nuncio, who had no business having a son, I think had loved the boy’s mother more than he loved God, and saw in the boy the one thing he had cherished; the mother died in childbirth apparently.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And two years ago, at the height of the Essex trouble, two identical signed documents arrived, one of which I have here. The men were aware that my life was in danger, not least of all from you. They asked that I used this paper only in extremity, in that revealing the King of Spain’s secrets would have ruined both of them, possibly even led to their own executions. Brave of them, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Foolish,’ said Cecil, ‘foolish and emotional.’ He pronounced ‘emotional’ as if it were the worst blasphemy ever uttered. ‘And how precisely am I meant to commute Raleigh’s sentence?’ Cecil was regaining control.

  ‘Simple,’ said Gresham. And it was.

  ‘You report to your King that there’s been a massive popular reaction against Raleigh’s conviction. That to commute his sentence, and – to my deep regret, that of Cobham and the rest – would both calm the public unrest, and show him as a merciful and forgiving monarch.’

  ‘And if I do not?’

  ‘I imagine Coke would enjoy prosecuting you for receiving a Spanish pension just as much as he enjoyed prosecuting Raleigh. More, perhaps.’

  ‘And if the King does not see things my way?’

  ‘Then you die. As does Raleigh. This deal is not about intentions. It’s about results.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Cecil. ‘Subject to one condition.’

  It was Gresham’s time to be jolted.

  ‘You’re in no position to make conditions.’

  ‘But I am,’ said Cecil. ‘You see, I value my life at little. And, horrify the Church as it would, I do not believe in the afterlife. I believe what we have now is all we know we have. So to live the rest of my life believing that Sir Henry Gresham holds the power of life or death over me would be impossible. I would rather die, by this.’

  Cecil drew something out from under his cloak. A dagger.

  ‘Essex’s dagger,’ said Gresham. ‘Stolen from my house some two year’s ago.

  ‘Essex’s dagger,’ replied Cecil. ‘A bejewelled dagger given, famously to Sir Henry Gresham in settlement of a wager. If I sink this into my throat, I am killed by you. And you die with me. Or, perhaps, for me.’

  Gresham’s face remained still.

  ‘Are you brave enough to sink a dagger into your own throat?’

  ‘Are you stupid enough to find out?’

  ‘Your ‘condition’?’

  ‘That every copy of the document you hold is destroyed, and that you give me your word you will never use the information you have against me while I live.’

  ‘And you trust my word?’

  ‘It is the only thing I trust about you.’

  ‘And if I say no?’

  ‘I die, which no doubt would please you, but you die also, when I am found dead with your dagger in me, shortly after you bruised in by violent means and demanded audience. They will need to look no further for my murderer. And I will die happy, knowing that I departed at the peak of my powers, took my enemy with me and will not need to spend the rest of my life in thrall to him.’

  ‘Why do you hate me?’

  ‘You are dangerous. And you seem above all other men to slip out of the traps I set you.’

  And then Cecil really surprised Gresham. What he said could only be the truth, but it took Gresham closer to Cecil’s soul than he had ever been, or was likely to be.

  ‘You see, I fear you,’ Cecil said, ‘as I fear no other man. I fear you are to me what Octavius Caesar was said to be to Mark Anthony, a man who in some strange way not understood was able to conquer all Anthony’s strengths and enlarge all his weaknesses. It is said that, uniquely, where Octavius Caesar was concerned, Mark Anthony always took the wrong decision.’

  ‘You needn’t fear me,’ said Gresham, knowing the uselessness of what he said, ‘I’ve never hated you as much as you hated me. Can’t you see that I just wish to be left alone?’

  ‘And you cannot see,’ said Cecil, ‘that you do not need to hate me to destroy me. Look at you now. How many men are there in England at the moment who could destroy me instantly? One. Sir Henry Gresham. He alone. Which brings me back to my point. Do I have your word?’

  ‘You realise I’ve other ... insurances?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Cecil, who was irritating Gresham considerably by seeming to enjoy the dialogue. ‘But none as powerful as the one you hold in your hand, I’ll wager.’

  ‘But you never wager.’

  ‘I would on this.’

  Silently, Gresham held his paper over a candle. It spluttered into flame. When the flame was about to reach Gresham’s fingers, he tossed it into the fire, where it caught on the burning logs and disappeared.

  ‘You have my word that all other such documents will be destroyed, and that I’ll never use this information against you. Though I should point out that I’ll not be in a position to agree to your terms if I’m murdered on my way home tonight.’

  ‘If you are, it will not be on my orders.’

  ‘Then pray no accident happens. And, by the way, my word is given solely on the basis that Raleigh is spared. The exact copy of what I’ve just burnt receives similar treatment when Raleigh’s commuted sentence is announced.’

  ‘It is hard ...,’ murmured Cecil, ‘I cannot guarantee ...’

  ‘It goes hard with me, my Lord,’ answered Gresham, ‘and my only guarantee to you depends on a pardon to Raleigh. It’s that simple.’

  ’Has it ever crossed your mind how similar we are?’ asked Cecil.

  ‘No,’ said Gresham. ‘I’ve too much self-respect.’

  Chapter Eleven

  December 1603 to January 1604

  Gresham returned to Raleigh.

  ‘You won’t die,’ said Gresham bluntly. ‘
You won’t go free, but you won’t die.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gresham, ‘though steel yourself for a last-minute reprieve.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘James is a survivor. By condemning you, he’s shown that he has the power to bring the mightiest in the Kingdom to heel. He’ll want to milk that until the last possible moment. Then, when everyone’s convinced you’re a dead man, including yourself, he’ll pardon you, to appear as both the King who has power but also has the quality of mercy to allay that power.’

  ‘How sure are you of this?’ asked Raleigh.

  ‘How sure is anything in life – or death?’ answered Gresham, thinking it entirely fair that Raleigh should sweat a little over his fate, given that Raleigh had gone into his trial unsure as to whether or not Gresham would implicate him.

  Raleigh’s execution was scheduled for December. Gresham felt obliged to use the time to go back to Cambridge. Though nominally a Fellow, he hardly qualified in any respect. By special dispensation granted by order of the dead Queen, he was not required to live in College. He hardly taught now, though when he did his classes were packed – interestingly, because they were genuinely interesting, not solely because of his bogey-man reputation. He held his position in the hierarchy of the College solely because of the money he provided it with.

  He had been at a feast, an annual event held in commemoration of Henry Granville founder of the College, often mistakenly thought to be the Henry after whom Henry’s Tower was named. The money left by Granville had long since been spent, and the Feast, unbeknown to all except a handful of the Fellows, was paid for by Gresham. He had taken the unusual step of staying overnight in the rooms he still allocated himself in College. Partly it was because he knew he would have a thick head from the Feast, partly because he had been invited to take part in particular disputation opposite one of the cleverest men in the University. Gresham had won, and was feeling more pleased with himself than usual. Mannion was guarding Jane, and despite the temporary truce with Cecil he had retained the small army at The Merchant’s House. He was unusually content and at peace when he took a glass of his finest wine out into the Old Quadrangle, perhaps an hour past midnight.

  There was a full moon, with just a smear of cloud over it. Gresham loved Cambridge on those crisp, clear winter nights when there was a snap in the air, a thin mist hovering over the ground and the first signs of the frost that would garland the ground by morning.

  What was that? A scuffling from the corner, the unmistakable noise of an old, heavy door being dragged open. A student who had climbed over the wall following an assignation? Yet the noise came from the corner housing the Old Library, where there was no student accommodation.

  Suddenly alert, Gresham lay his glass down on the ground, and walked silently across the Quad.

  There! On the first floor! A flicker of light, someone striking a flint, like a tiny burst of lightning.

  The Library was the best thing about Granville College. Almost the largest belonging to any College, it owed its excellence yet again to Gresham’s money. Not only did it have a copy of all the standard classical and religious texts, but Gresham had insisted on it including many works on mathematics, as well as poetry and plays, hitherto unheard of in Cambridge. It was partly Jane’s library. She had loved books from the outset, and haunted both the printers and the second-hand bookstalls round and in St Paul’s. Gresham had drawn up a list of what the best library in Cambridge should contain. It was not a question of simply going out to buy them. Many existed only in isolated copies, or were known by reputation alone and feared to be no longer in existence. To build up such a library was a lifetime’s work, and Jane looked happy at the prospect. Jane even became adept at tracking down rumours of the existence of rare volumes in houses in deepest Cornwall or Northumberland, and special servants would be sent forth to the four corners of the land to negotiate and bring back the prize.

  Gresham moved silently up the stairs. The old oak door in the Quadrangle and the door that led into the Library would both have been locked, but were open. Either someone had picked the locks, swiftly and silently, or the doors had been left open on purpose, an inside job. Either way, it suggested that whoever was inside the library was a professional.

  There was another flicker of light, and a muttered curse. Two men, Gresham saw, silhouetted against the moon shining in. Another flicker, and then a small whoomph! As something took fire in what looked like a bucket. The fire caught rapidly, and thick coils of choking black smoke rose from the bucket. Before Gresham could move, the same thing happened with a second bucket. In a moment the whole library would be on fire. The men turned, knocked books off the shelf and into the buckets. The dry, old bindings caught like powder. In seconds the smoke was so thick a man could hardly see, let alone breathe.

  Gresham did the only thing he could. Screaming at the top of his voice, he hurled himself on to the buckets, grabbed their smouldering rope handles, mercifully hanging down by the side and swung them out at the nearest window.

  It was a terrible risk. If the weight of the buckets did not smash through the leaded windows the burning pitch would fall back into the Library and the place would be an inferno in seconds. Or if he hurled the buckets so they tipped over, the burning pitch would drench the floor and the shelving, and achieve the same effect. Only if the buckets flew level and true, smashed the window and landed harmlessly in the Quad. would the Library be saved. The ironic, detached part of him that was always there grinned a wry grin. He had actually been there when a man’s life had depended on the throw of the dice. Now his Library, and perhaps the whole College, depended on two throws of the bucket.

  The appearance from nowhere of a screaming, cloaked figure bought Gresham the couple of seconds of shock he needed from the two men, two seconds in which they would not lunge at him. As had happened before in moments of extreme peril, everything slowed down to a snail’s pace. All emotion ceased. Thank God, the flaming buckets were side by side. Slowly, oh so slowly, he covered the two or three paces to them. He knew he was running, felt as if it was the slowest walk he had ever taken. He deliberately slightly over-ran the two buckets so that when he grabbed the two burning handles – he felt no pain – his hands were actually slightly behind him, but swooping forward. The handles held – he had been worried they would fracture as he grabbed them – and he used the momentum of his ongoing rush to sweep them both forward, releasing the two buckets just as the flaming pitch was about to run over the rear rim of each.

  It was done.

  He watched powerless, as the two flaming buckets, like miniature meteors from Hell, arched towards the window. His heart leapt into his mouth. The trajectory was right, and the buckets had not spilled their flaming load. Yet the buckets were being drawn towards each other, as if by some strange magnetism. If they met before they reached the window, they would crash against each other, break and spill their load.

  They touched just as they reached the centre of the window. Gresham realised that one bucket might not have smashed through. As it was, the weight of both on a small area proved too much. With a massive smashing of glass the buckets burst though and landed several feet into the paving of the Quad., breaking apart and depositing several rather pretty little mounds of fire around and about, but thankfully over nothing that burnt.

  All hell broke loose. The college Porter, woken sharply from a drunken and befuddled sleep, heard smashing glass and saw fire, and yanked frantically on the bell, waking half of Cambridge as well as all of Granville College.

  Gresham was not safe yet. The two arsonists had woken from their shock. They rushed at him, both with daggers raised for a killing blow.

  Gresham turned and leapt to as near the top of the nearest massive bookcase as he could manage. The two men gawped up at this figure scrambling spider-like up a bookcase, and realised too late hi
s plan. Overbalanced, the bookcase toppled forward and landed squarely on top of both of them. The bookcase and a torrent of books crashed down on both men’s heads and shoulders, but carried on down remorselessly and smashed them down on the floorboards. The Library was full of thick smoke, for all that much had been sucked out through the broken window, but in the dim moonlight Gresham saw the tell-tale stream of blood, black in that light, flow out from under the collapsed shelf. Gresham would not be interrogating these two men.

  There was light flickering up the staircase, the sound of rushing feet. Bodies began to appear in the Library, many in night gowns and bare feet. There was a babble of voices.

  The smoke was in Gresham’s throat. Thick, black oily smoke, the smell of a shipyard. A hacking cough followed his every word, a cough he could not control.

  ‘Two ... men. Trying to burn the library ... down with buckets of flaming ... pitch. There ... under the bookcase ... dead.’

  Raddled by his cough, doubled up almost, knowing how close he had come to losing his College and his library, with piercing red-hot needles of pain shooting through his head, Henry Gresham had never felt less like a hero. Fool! How could he have come out into the Quadrangle armed with only a glass of wine! Why had he not had at least a dagger with him? Should not he of all people, given the previous months, know that there was no respite from Death? He had fooled himself into thinking that on this night he was safe. Yet he was never safe, because of the life he had chosen for himself. If he did not go looking for trouble, it would come after him. Was he becoming addled in his age? Was he losing that vital edge, the edge no-one else seemed to have and which had kept him alive?

  That was how he saw himself.

  The onlookers, by now a mix of students, Fellows and servants, saw something else.

  They saw a dark, cloaked and utterly threatening figure. Apparently incapacitated by the smoke he had inhaled, he had nevertheless been there when two outsiders had tried to burn down the prize possession of Granville College, and had killed the two men responsible, as well as saving the Library, whilst apparently unarmed himself. The eyes of the witnesses were drawn inexorably to the single hand, palm upstretched, that stuck out from the fallen bookcase, surrounded by a pool of blood. It clasped a dagger. An unarmed Henry Gresham had managed to see off and kill two armed men, surely professional bandits.