The rebel heart hg-4

by Martin Stephen

  'And was Medina de Sidonia so good a commander?' whispered Essex, his mood changed yet again. 'They say he was a coward, that he failed in his leadership.'

  'He's the best man I've ever served with or under.' Except Sir Walter Raleigh, but given the relationship between Essex and Raleigh it was probably not tactful to mention that now.

  'Why? Why was he so good?'

  Essex was driven by what he knew in his heart he would never attain: military glory. It was one of the ways he would rescue his life, give it meaning. It was simple. You fought and won, or lost If you were lucky you lost your life in the latter case, and gained sweet oblivion from the mess of life. Did Essex share with Gresham a wish for death, to end the struggle, the fighting for position, the endless pursuit of ill-defined goals?

  'Medina de Sidonia had lands, estates, position. A happy marriage, children. When he was summoned, without warning, to take charge of the Armada, he knew it would fail. Too much damage had already been done, and his intelligence told him that this outwardly great fleet was like a child damaged beyond repair in the mother's womb. His King had given him binding orders that crippled his freedom of action.'

  'So he served an ungrateful monarch,' breathed Essex, 'and yet he still took the duty on?'

  'Of course he did!' said Gresham, scornfully and stung for once into an entirely open response. 'He was a grandee of Spain, wasn't he? In Spain, nobility justifies itself by sacrifice. He knew he would lose his honour by leading a fleet that was destined to fail. And his honour is the only thing a Spanish nobleman has that matters. Our poor noblemen…'

  Careful! Essex was poor, his extravagance paid for by a monopoly on sweet wines.

  '… our poor noblemen hang round like hungry dogs outside the doors of the Court, destroyed if they cannot don a new doublet. In Spain the poorest noble thinks himself rich if he has his honour. Yet his King had called for Sidonia to do something that he knew would lose him his honour if he accepted and lose if he refused. He knew he would lose. Yet still he sailed, because he had sworn his fealty to his King. He knew that when he lost he would lose his own honour and reputation, the things more important to him and his ancient family than life itself. Yet in losing his own honour he would ensure that the real villain, his King, preserved his. It was a conscious choice, don't you see?' Gresham was getting carried away. He decided to let it happen. 'Forgive me, my Lord Earl. Do you know how many times he led his own flagship into the heat of the battle, exposed himself to every sharpshooter in England? A cannon ball does not stop in mid-air and bow to noble blood. So I sink a little when I hear you bemoan your own lack of advancement. The noblest commander I've ever met sacrificed his own reputation for a higher end, the reputation of his monarch. In my mind, true nobility consists of sacrifice as much as self-advancement.'

  'And do I have that quality of true nobility?' For a moment, Essex was like a child before his father, seeking approval.

  Gresham ran through the facts in his mind. Essex's boat master had tried to ram his way into a berth to which he had no right by brute force. Yet in the aftermath of a battle he had clearly lost, the Earl had shown no rancour, and rather put himself out to be generous to his erstwhile opponent.

  'You may have, my Lord,' said Gresham simply. 'Or you may not. The jury has yet to return a verdict.'

  'And you, Henry Gresham? What is your verdict?'

  Why was the greatest nobleman in the country asking a mere Sir Henry Gresham what he thought of him? 'I don't give verdicts,' he said. 'And I trust only two people on this earth, and view that as a major weakness.' A weakness Cecil had been able to exploit. 'My personal jury is likely to stay out for the rest of both our lives, give no judgement on your standing or on my own. But it's a little better than that. I can tell you one verdict it won't be uttering.'

  'And that is?' Essex, for short periods, had phenomenal power of concentration, bringing such intensity to an issue that he threatened to burn it out.

  'I won't be telling you to, "Fuck off, mister!'"

  Essex rocked back, a great guffaw coming from him. 'I think the level of gratitude shown to you by that street urchin is an emblem for the Court, as it happens, a measure of the reward we who haunt this place get for our sycophancy.'

  A servant had brought some wine and some sweetmeats in on a silver tray, emblazoned with the Devereux arms, and left as silently as he came.

  'Have you been sent to spy on me?' asked Essex casually, as he reached for the wine. 'I understand Cecil summoned you last week.'

  There are defining moments in our lives, usually ones we have not prepared for, often ones where we think afterwards what we should have said or done. Was this what it had all been leading up to? Had Essex planned the invasion of the berth simply to meet Gresham intimately, lure him into a false sense of companionship and then find out the truth about him? Gresham had less than a second to decide. If he hesitated, he was declaring his guilt. If he owned up to being Cecil's creature, a man with the vast resources of Essex could have Gresham dead within the hour. If he denied it and Essex believed him, all it would take was a disloyal and bribed servant in Cecil's household and Gresham would find a dagger in his back. Gresham had no illusions that Essex would put his own interests and survival on a far higher priority than that of a convenient and amusing drinking companion. And he had no time to think!

  'Yes,' said Gresham simply. 'Of course I have. In a manner of speaking. Cecil uses me to clean up some of his rubbish, and I fear that's how he sees you at present. But we ought to be clear on one thing. Cecil thinks I work for him. I don't. I work for the Queen, and for peace and stability in England.'

  'And for yourself?' asked Essex.

  'If by that you mean will I put my own survival before yours, yes. As you will undoubtedly put your survival before mine.'

  'True,' said Essex, as if this went without saying. 'And you are willing to tell me that you will put your personal feelings aside, and work for Cecil and the Queen even if by so doing you harm me?'

  Essex was gazing directly into Gresham's eyes now, and Gresham returned his gaze. Essex had his sword belt by his side, while Gresham's had been rescued from the jetty and was now presumably in the hands of one of his men somewhere distant in the Palace. Gresham had stripped naked in front of Essex, who knew there was no dagger hidden on his person. Gresham was as defenceless as he would ever be, his servant outside the room, and he had just confessed to being in Cecil's employ.

  'Of course I am, my Lord,' said Gresham, seeming immensely relaxed. 'If that situation were to arise. Better the spy you know. It gives us both so much more control over the quality of the information.'

  'Is this… normal? In your line of business, I mean. To be so open?' asked Essex, the merest hint of a laugh in his voice.

  'Well, no, actually,' said Gresham. 'Come to think on it, this is the first time I've told someone I quite like that if the need arises I'll shaft them with the government. But somehow it doesn't seem unreasonable, given the circumstances. Indeed, it seems rather a good idea. I'm surprised I haven't thought of it before. It takes so much of the tension out of things. And, of course, I hate Cecil, and in a strange, drunken sort of way I really am quite fond of you.'

  'They said you were a very, very strange man,' said Essex. 'When

  I asked my own spies about you. I've never known whether you shared my company because it interested you, or whether you were being paid to do it.'

  'I did so because you interested me. And because life quickens when you are there. Was it deliberate on your part to force an encounter earlier?'

  ‘No. There was no plan. But I could have stopped my boatman heading for your berth. I chose not to do so.'

  'Why?'

  'It was more fun that way. And the Queen has enough money left to build some more boats.'

  'And why this sudden questioning about my motives? Our conversation today has taken rather a new turn.'

  'I've become suspicious of everyone,' said Essex. 'Of necessity. The time
s are very… tense. My position with the Queen is not secure.' It was probably the truth. 'You're known to work for Cecil, and to hate him. And he you, so they tell me. Wasn't it you who gave the Queen his nickname? "My little pygmy" she calls him, to his evident distress.'

  Cecil hated and despised references to his warped body. Gresham sighed.

  'So the story goes, but alas it's untrue. Everyone believes it was me, but in fact the name was suggested to her by Cecil's father. It's more comfortable for Cecil to believe that it was me.'

  'I can't understand how two people who loathe each other can work together as you and the pygmy appear to do. Or why a man as wealthy as you evidently are needs to do such work.'

  'Yet you, my Lord, agreed a truce with Cecil when he was away on his ill-fated embassy for the Queen to the King of France. A truce which you honoured.'

  'That was politics,' responded Essex airily. 'It suited him to be in France, and it suited me for that time not to be plotting. Simple mutual convenience.'

  Gresham decided this particular conversation was going nowhere. 'Are we going to see the play, my Lord? Oh, and by the way, if you are going to kill me, would you mind starting now, while I'm wearing your clothes? It's so difficult to wash out the blood…'

  Gresham had noted that Essex's hand was resting on the hilt of his sword. Essex's hand stayed where it was. There was no humour now in his voice. 'No, I am not going to kill you now. But, as we are making a very uncourtly honesty the flavour of the day, it is entirely possible that I may do so later. I do not like the little pygmy, or those who work for him. I do like you, but that fact won't stop me killing you. Or you me, I suspect, if the need arises. I'm really not so sure you are Cecil's man. Not in your heart. I take it he has some dirt on you? Some hold over you?'

  Gresham smiled a slight smile, but said nothing.

  'I'll take that as a yes,' said Essex. 'And, in the name of that same honesty, I shall try and wean you off that detestable little toad …'

  So that was where the inscription on Cecil's wall had come from.

  '… and make you my man, rather than his. You will find me a better master.'

  And that, thought Gresham, as he and Essex rose to leave the room, is probably the truest thing said in this bizarre conversation.

  But at least Essex's ploy was quite clear. He would try to seduce Gresham away from Cecil, thereby hurting and humiliating his greatest enemy. Robert Devereux wanted Henry Gresham as a trophy, a living and possibly even a notorious witness to the great Earl's capacity to attract men into his party. Well, it suited Gresham to play the game for the moment. He had no option.

  Before they reached the door, it shook with two mighty thumps, and a noise like an iron sheet being dropped onto a door key. Gresham shuddered. He knew that noise. The Queen's guard always dropped their pikes to the ground with a resounding crash when they arrived at their destination. They were overweight, and so wore their breast- and backplates loosely tied. The result was that the two heavy pieces of metal were forever grinding against each other, and bouncing off belt buckles. The door was crashed open by a guard, whose helmet showed a serious dent on its left-hand side. Valiant action against an enemy, wondered Gresham? Or contact with a door post while drunk?

  Elizabeth's dress might have been dark red, if much of the cloth had been visible beneath the pearls. She was fanning herself. Essex and Gresham both swept off their hats, and bowed low, forcing their eyes to the floor.

  The Queen ignored Gresham.

  'Robbie, Robbie,' she crooned as a lady might talk to her pet dog, 'how is it that yet again you cost me money?' She extended her hand, and bid him rise up. 'My poor boat is smashed, and my loyal boatman distraught.'

  Essex, upright now, gave her a brilliant smile.

  'Majesty, I shall build you a new boat with my own hands, finer than that which Cleopatra rode in to meet Mark Antony-' he began grandly.

  'Which like you, will look beautiful, but sink at regular intervals!' the Queen cut in. They both collapsed into peals of laughter, more like boy and girl than Queen and noble. Gresham was still bent forward in his bow, his back starting to feel as if he had collected the harvest in single handed.

  'You may rise, Sir Henry,' said the Queen, who until this moment appeared not to have noticed Gresham's presence. 'While you still can,' she added caustically. Gresham rose up, to his considerable relief. The Queen looked coldly at him. 'I hear that yet again it is you who have led this young man astray.'

  Gresham had learnt to take risks — small risks only — with the Queen.

  'Your Majesty,' he said, 'I have tried for some years past to lead my Lord of Essex astray, but for some reason he has always overtaken me and left me as a mere follower.'

  What might have been a flicker of grim approval crossed the Queen's face, and she turned again to Essex. It was as if everyone else had vanished, Gresham, the guards and everyone, and the only people in the room were Elizabeth and Essex. Her old eyes were alight for a moment, sparkling with the excitement of flirtation and dalliance.

  'And will you take me, an old woman, to the play, my Robbie?' she asked in an unusually soft voice. When she chose she could bark with the sensitivity of a fog horn. Her eyes softened for a moment, gave a hint of the girl she once had been. Was she in love with this man? And was he in love with her, or with her power and office?

  'I will take you…' said Essex, pausing deliberately'… even to the ends of the earth.' Somehow what should have been arch flattery was sincere. Adoration? Worship even? Essex needed the Queen's approval, not just for the money and the favours it brought, but almost more for the excitement, the sense of being at the heart of things. Yet at the same time there was a deep resentment, a burning anger at being in thrall, a fierce yearning to be free. God help Essex, God help England — and perhaps even God help Elizabeth — if ever she and Essex came to blows.

  Chapter 4

  Late June, 1598 Scotland

  'I hate bloody Scotland!' said Mannion glumly.

  'How can you hate it? You've never been there.'

  'Don't have to 'ave bin somewhere to know you hate it.'

  They were riding side by side, nearly at the moorings where the Anna lay ready to slip her anchor. The slaughterhouses at Deptford were pouring blood and offal into the river, turning the near shore-side sections of it a stinking brown. The ships jostled against each other in the moorings, the squeak and rattle of rigging vying with the thousand and one noises of a busy mooring. The slop of the waves on the stone steps was reassuring, but even they seemed tired. The day had turned heavy, hot and humid, with thick grey cloud lowering over London. There was nowhere for the air to go, and the stench of the slaughterhouses hung everywhere, sticking to clothes like an invisible devilish glue.

  Gresham suspected that one reason for Mannion's reluctance to travel was that a relationship with one of the cooks in The House was starting to get interesting. The woman, recently widowed when her drunken husband fell into the Thames, was both good-looking and a good cook. The combination of sex and food was about as close to a vision of heaven as Mannion could go.

  'Madge'll still be there when you get back, old man,' said Gresham with a singular lack of sympathy. 'Anyway, she's still in mourning for her husband, isn't she? Though why anyone would mourn for that drunken lout I'll never know. And how did he kill himself falling in? He came here looking for a job as a boatman and swore he could swim.'

  'Tide was out when he fell in,' said Mannion. 'Twelve foot drop. Pity really.' Mannion's voice contained no shred of pity whatsoever. 'It's all silt down there, 'cept there's one rock within about a mile. He fell 'ead first onto it. The sharp bit of it. Stupid bugger.'

  'Madge must have been heartbroken,' said Gresham drily.

  Mannion did not see the joke, or chose not to see it. 'Bloody ecstatic, more like. She'd been tryin' to kill him for years. Anyway, that's not why I hate bloody Scotland.'

  'Well,' sighed Gresham 'you're clearly going to tell me, so why not get i
t off your chest now and then we can all have some peace?'

  'I hate it,' said Mannion, 'because it's cold, it's wet and it's a bloody long way away. And they eat oats boiled in water, cold with salt on top. And there's midges, and the beer's lousy. And,' he continued, warming to his point — it was clear he had been asking around in' the taverns, 'they say as 'ow the people in the lowlands are all miserable bastards who don't like drink or dancing and wear black all the time, and those in the mountains are mad as hatters and so pissed by nine in the morning that they can't give you the time o' day.'

  'Well, that last bit sounds attractive for someone like you.'

  'I enjoy a drink,' said Mannion. 'When 'ave you ever seen me out for the count as a result of it? I likes to experience my pleasures.'

  Never, now Gresham came to think of it. Which was quite extraordinary, as he had never seen anyone capable of drinking as much as Mannion. A surprising number of conversations with Mannion ended with him in charge. Gresham decided to give up. They were nearing the Anna, and it was time for business.

  Gresham had not been joking when he said he kept a vessel in permanent wait for him. Or had done so, in recent months. His only sadness was that having confessed to it, he would now have to find a new boat and a new berth. Cecil would get his own men to identify the ship and where it lay, and a vessel that was known to his enemy was no use to Gresham, however beautiful it was. The Anna was small, a barque, yet with three masts, the first two square-rigged and the third lanteen-rigged, but for all her small size she was a thing of great intricacy and perfect in her form, well able to stand the storms of the Channel if the need arose. Her previous owner had died at sea; his widow wanted a quick sale.

  Mannion may have hated Scotland, but he hated sea journeys even more. Yet even he had to admit that if one had to go to Scotland it was better to go by sail than to face endless weeks on a horse or, even worse, a bone-shattering carriage. They rounded a corner with a timber-framed house leaning crazily forward as if it wanted to kiss the earth, the horses slipping on the mire and filth that lay on the road, and before them was the Anna.