The rebel heart hg-4

by Martin Stephen

  'True enough,' said Mannion. 'And most of 'em are thousands in debt. An' I mean thousands.'

  'Which means on the one hand they can't muster many men, but at the same time they're desperate,' said Gresham.

  'And that's the picture with a real ol’ wild bunch he's got with 'im as well. You want the names? You knows most of them.' Gresham nodded, including Jane in the gesture. She would not necessarily know who Essex's lesser supporters were, and there was no point in her joining them unless she was fully briefed.

  'Blount, o' course. Then there's that Sir John Davies: bad 'un, that one — acts like a sort of chief of staff, wily bugger. He and that Gelli Meyrick are thick as thieves. Both Essex's creatures: ain't got nothing if they ain't got 'im. Sir William Constable; Sir George Devereux, Essex's uncle; Sir Ferdinando Gorges; Sir Tom Heydon; Sir Robert Cross; Sir Griffin Markham; Richard Chomley; Tom West; Robert Catesby; Francis Tresham… there's about ten or twenty more of 'em — gentry.'

  'Christ Almighty!' said Gresham, and Jane recoiled slightly at the blasphemy. 'What a list of… of incompetent, ne'er do wells! It's about everyone who ever missed out on favour at Court.'

  'Well, that's it, isn't it?' said Mannion. "Is supporters are the ones 'o got pushed aside at the feeding trough. They're 'ungry, they feels left out, and they're mad.'

  'They're also stupid!' said Gresham. 'There's hardly a brain to share between them.'

  'Wait till you 'ear the list of the military men,' said Mannion. He reeled off a list of adventurers, many of whom had sailed with Essex to Cadiz on the Azores expedition and gone with him to Ireland.

  'Firebrands,' said Gresham, 'drunkards, braggards and loud mouths. Out of work soldiers whose only hope for preferment — or employment — is Essex. What a mixture!'

  'Well,' said Mannion, 'mixture they might be, but there's a fair number of them. And all of 'em with a real capacity to raise 'ell. But that's not the worst of it.'

  'Go on,' said Gresham. 'Make me happy.'

  'The people we sent out into the Marches. They all report one thing. That Gelli Meyrick's been riding round all summer like a lunatic on Essex's lands. Loads o' people there promised 'orsemen, support. Apparently half the borders is willin' to march to London for Essex.'

  Jane spoke, softly and obviously nervous.

  'Bolingbroke landed in Wales and gathered his army there when he usurped Richard II, didn't he? He took over the Crown with Welsh peasants.'

  'Yes, he did,' said Gresham. 'And the link between them's been noticed in a score of pamphlets. Both Welshmen. Both men who seem to have been wronged by the reigning monarch. Both men with massive public support; both men who ended up King when they swore all they wanted was justice, because the King himself was so unpopular.'

  There was silence. Mannion had a list in his hand of those who might be presumed to support Essex in a rebellion, a very long list. It seemed as if every bankrupt, every wastrel in the country, almost every man who had fallen foul of Court patronage was there.

  'So can he do it?' Jane ventured. Her voice cracked as she spoke. How nervous was the girl? Surely by now she should be getting used to being there? 'The Earl, I mean? Do you think he could overthrow the Queen?'

  Gresham thought for a long minute.

  'Yes,' he said. 'If he planned it, if the wind was in the right direction, if luck was on his side — rebellions never go according to plan. But the Queen's in decline, Cecil's unpopular, Essex still has hero status with the people — yes, he could do it. Perhaps.'

  'Would it be the right thing?' asked Jane. 'For England? For the people?'

  Maybe that was why Mannion had asked her to join them. Who else could ask such a treasonable question with such genuine innocence?

  Gresham had to think about that one too.

  'No. Probably not.' He thought for a moment longer. 'Definitely not. Essex is unstable. He's a spoilt child really, someone who's never grown up. Elizabeth is a mother figure for him. He craves her authority as much as he resents and fights against it. All he really wants is for people to accept him, to see him as the hero he would desperately love to be. He's also got a death wish. He's like the child who wants to attend his own funeral, to see how sorry people will be when he dies. He's got many virtues, actually. But if he became King, his supporters would call in their debts. They'd descend on this country like vultures denied food for years. Good government would stop.'

  And he has drunk a child's blood, thought Gresham, a fact he had sworn never to reveal.

  'So is Cecil provoking Essex to rebel? Why would he do that? Particularly if Essex might win.'

  Gresham was finding this more interesting than he had imagined; Jane's questions were forcing him to put his thoughts in order.

  'It's as if the Queen is taunting Essex as well as punishing him — not killing him, but denying him the contact, the favour and the money he needs. That's her instinct — has been all her life — defer the decision until the last moment, change your mind all the time, never put in the killer blow. It's what she did with Mary of Scots. Yet it's wrong with Essex, as it was wrong with Mary. All you do is provoke rebellion. Cecil must know that, and if Cecil told her either to take Essex back into the fold or get rid of him for good on a treason charge, I think she'd do it. So, logically, we've got to deduce that Cecil's holding back, letting the Queen go her own, sweet and thoroughly misguided way. That means he sees profit for himself in Essex rebelling.'

  'But how could he profit?'

  'He's always seen Essex as a playboy. He's always underestimated the power and strength of popularity. He's always opposed Essex.'

  'Why didn't Cecil 'ave Essex killed in Ireland?'

  'Perhaps he tried,' said Gresham. 'Perhaps Essex jumped the gun by running home.'

  A sudden thought crossed Gresham's mind, a new and blazing insight.

  'What if Essex has made a friend and an ally of James? What if he's won with James?' he asked excitedly. 'What if James really does believe Essex is his man, and that Cecil is a sodomite and a creation of black magic? What if the letter I carried up to Scotland failed to do its job? Perhaps Essex was more persuasive and won James round? My God! Essex can be persuasive right enough, and he can write like an angel when he's in the mood. He knows how to flatter as well — he's had a lifetime of practice with the Queen. If he's actually won with James, that would mean Cecil would have to produce an absolute thunderbolt to dislodge Essex from James's favour. James is a devout believer in the divine right of Kings — that monarchs hold their power from God, not man. If Essex rises up against Elizabeth, he damns himself in James's eyes!

  It's about the only thing that would wipe Essex out of James's favour! James will never support someone who rises up against their lawful ruler. If Essex rebels, it proves Cecil right all along. It gifts him power with the King-elect, clears his greatest rival out of the way so he can get on with cosying up to James and securing his accession when the time comes. So perhaps Cecil is provoking a rebellion by Essex because he believes it'll fail and deliver final power to him?'

  Mannion interrupted. 'But half the Court and even some of our men, and our two contacts in Spain reckon Cecil's been takin' money from Spain for years, to get the Infanta on the throne.'

  'He probably has,' said Gresham, 'but he's bound to smarmy up to all contenders while there's any doubt over the issue. He's like the Queen in that. Keep everyone happy until the last minute. I admit Iwas tempted to see him favouring Spain and the Infanta for a while. She'll be putty in his hands, after all, while James is a tried and tested monarch, and no one's fool. Then I thought again. James would come to England as the King of a terribly poor nation, someone thanking God and anyone who had got him the throne for what he was about to inherit. Far better that than have King Philip of Spain pulling all the strings, and having to keep the Queen in control and her father as well.'

  'So you're saying that all this trouble with Essex,' said Jane, her eyes wide, 'is because Cecil thinks he will self-destruct. And if he does,
Cecil has rid himself of one of his greatest enemies, and built up his reputation for prudence and for being right with both the Queen and James.'

  'Then it must 'ave been that bastard Cecil who tried so 'ard to get you killed, first on the Channel and then by that other bastard Cameron fuckin' Johnstone — beggin' your pardon,' said Mannion with a nod to Jane. 'He knew you were a friend o' Essex, knew you'd probably put 'im off rebellion. Must 'ave bin eatin' nails when you stopped him from bringing an army back from Ireland.'

  'I suppose so,' said Gresham, 'but somehow it doesn't seem right. Cecil really wanted me to take that letter to James. And hiring twenty men to kill us before the letter was delivered — it doesn't make sense for Cecil, and it's just not his style to kill someone so… so lavishly. Cecil's a back-of-an-alley man if ever there was one.'

  'Well, me, I'm stickin' with Cecil trying to set up Essex and stick you one while 'e's at it,' said Mannion, with the strong sense of a man whose journey had ended.

  'I'm sticking with something else,' said Gresham. 'I'm sticking with the fact that whoever's been trying to kill me is doing it because I'm one of the few people who might, just might, talk sense into Essex and stop him from rebelling. So someone wants Essex to rebel. But the style of the murder attempts — they haven't been Cecil's style.'

  Jane looked at Gresham, and said in a very small voice. 'I think there's something else you ought to know.'

  'What's that?' said Gresham, mildly. His mind was on Essex and Cecil. Was it really that simple?

  'Lord Willoughby. George,' said Jane.

  'What about him?' Dammit! Why, when things were going so well, did the girl have to bring in one of his oldest friends! Willoughby was off territory for her, off limits.

  'I know George — he's said I can call him that — is one of your oldest friends, and I know I've no business commenting on him. And I like him a lot. He was always so nice to me when I first came here, when I was an orphan in this terrifying house and seemed to belong to no one. And when I grew up he never dribbled over me or made a pass at me or thought it was clever to be lewd and suggestive.'

  'So?' Gresham's tone was cold.

  'So Mannion said women were like witches and had intuition. And George — Lord Willoughby — he's changed so much this past eighteen months, ever since the Essex affair started. Changed when we saw him, and now changed because he won't see you.'

  'So?' said Gresham again. 'People change. People have moods.' He had decency enough not to refer to the several hundred changes of personality her adolescence had inflicted on him.

  'But down at St Paul's’ said Jane, more nervous by the second, 'they talk of all sorts of things. Not just books. Not books at all most of the time. And they've mentioned all the people you've mentioned — Southampton, Rutland and all the lesser people. And — and — and they've talked of George. Lord Willoughby.'

  Gresham gave a caustic laugh.

  'George has never been at the centre of any events, now or ever. What are they saying of George at St Paul's? That he watched an ear of wheat turn ripe in the country? That he yawned in his dreadful wife's face?'

  'No,' said Jane, raising her eyes to look into his. 'They say he's in the pay of Spain. They say he's working for the downfall of Essex.'

  Gresham burst out laughing this time, genuine laughter. 'George! You must be joking! George couldn't conspire to swat a fly. Oh, certainly, he hates Essex, always has. But dear, clumsy old George as a spy! It's simply a joke. St Paul's gossip.'

  Jane was holding back tears. 'I'm sorry, truly sorry. I knew you'd hate me for saying this. I've tried so hard not to. But you see, the gossip was that he was in London at times when I was sure if he'd been here he'd have come to see you. Except he hadn't. So I didn't believe the gossip. And then I saw him.'

  'You saw him?' asked an incredulous Gresham.

  'After I've been to see the booksellers, I like to walk through the cathedral. With Mary, of course, and my escort. You know how many people gather there, people who have nothing to do with religion.'

  The fact that the nave of St Paul's was used by every criminal in London had given numerous poets the chance to play upon the difference between 'nave' and 'knave'.

  'I saw him — George, that is — talking to a man in a corner. They looked like they were arguing, and then George threw up his hands, like this' — she imitated a gesture of mixed anger and frustration — 'looked round and stalked off, pulling his hat low down over his face. He didn't see me, I'm sure.'

  'That proves nothing,' said Gresham. 'Even if it was him he could have been talking to anyone.'

  'It was him,' said Jane more firmly. 'And I spent the next two or three days waiting for him to visit, because I couldn't conceive of his being in London and not coming to see you. But there was nothing. No visit. No letter, even.'

  'And that,' said Gresham, 'was enough to make you believe that George Willoughby — my oldest and beyond any shadow of doubt my most naive friend — was spying for Spain?'

  'No,' said Jane; and there was a terrible finality in her voice. 'Like you, I thought life would be much easier if it hadn't been George, if it was someone else who looked and walked like him. And I think I'd half persuaded myself that I'd been mistaken, that it wasn't really him, until that dreadful night on the boat. The Anna.'

  Why did it cut him to hear her speak the name of the one woman he had loved with all his heart as well as with his body? Jane waited for Gresham to comment. Something in her voice had stayed him, hooked him onto her story. He remained silent.

  'I heard the other boat coming alongside!' she said, the memory clear as if it were happening now. 'I don't know how and I don't know why, but locked down in that dreadful cabin I heard the waves in a different way, and I heard a change. I just knew it was another boat. You'd warned us things might happen, but not shared your plans. I expected shouting, alarms. There was just silence. So I worried that no one else had seen this other boat, that you hadn't spotted it, so I tried to come on deck to warn you. I had my hand on the latch of the door when you fired the cannons. The light was like little, red-hot iron bars showing through where the caulking had gone between the planks of the door.'

  'What did you do then?' asked Gresham.

  'I pushed the door open,' said Jane. 'I don't know why. I've never been so scared in my life, but for some reason I wanted to see what was happening on deck. And I saw him.'

  'Him?' asked Gresham, confused. 'You mean George?'

  'No,' said Jane. 'Not George. Not Lord Willoughby. On the other boat. Directing the enemy men. The man he'd been talking to in St Paul's. The small man, with the goatee beard. I swear to you, it was the same person.'

  A chasm opened up under Henry Gresham. And he felt himself falling, screaming, down into the abyss. It would be so easy not to believe her. So less hurtful.

  'So why have you waited this long to tell me?' His outward manner continued urbane, controlled. Inside, every nerve ending had flames licking at it.

  'Because my heart wanted it not to be true, not to acknowledge what my head told me I had seen.' Her tone was frantic now, pleading. 'If those men were the same, it must mean that George was a traitor to you, had conspired against his greatest, his oldest friend. And I was scared, of what it would do to you, and I suppose to me as well.'

  Gresham turned to Mannion.

  'Was this why you wanted her here, at our meeting? Did she tell you before she told me?'

  'Just for once,' said Mannion, glaring at him as he had not done since Gresham was a youth, 'as you're the one who's meant to 'ave the brains, use 'em, will you? Of course she bloody well told me! Or rather, she didn't. She said she 'ad something to say about George that only you could hear, but she was frightened to tell you.' Mannion seemed to be having difficulty getting the words out. 'If you want to know the truth, I thought 'e'd made a pass at 'er. After all, all 'e gets from that wife of 'is is the sharp side of her tongue. Shows 'ow much I know.' Mannion paused. 'You know why this 'as 'appened, don't yer?
Why we've had to wait so bloody long to hear somethin' we ought to 'ave 'eard ages ago? It's 'cos you're so pig 'eaded! Every time she's told you the truth you've told 'er she's bein' bloody impertinent, 'aven't you? It's a bloody wonderful recipe for getting someone to tell you what you needs to hear.'

  An old Fellow of Granville College, a rather lovely man who had died a year after Gresham had joined as a poverty-stricken undergraduate, had once confided in him and said that friendship was like a loaf: the more thinly you carved it and handed it round, the less sustenance it gave and the less it was worth. You gave a part of yourself to a true friend. The smaller the part, the lesser the friendship. Gresham had only had three real friends in all his life: George, Mannion and, for a brief moment, Anna. And of course there was Jane. Not a friend, but someone whose life had become inextricably woven with his, by accident.

  Anna he would never see again. Now the girl, who for all her irritating ways had become part of the fabric of his existence, had proved his greatest friend a traitor to him. And Mannion, who was friend and father, was agreeing with her, and telling him that it was his manner and attitude that was at fault for him not finding out the truth earlier.

  At one stroke, Jane had cut through one of the certainties in Gresham's life. He felt sick, physically sick, as if at any moment his stomach would hurl out its contents, as his mind wished it could hurl out what it had been told.

  'I must talk to George,' said Gresham flatly.

  'He's in London now,' said Jane in a tiny voice, 'or at least, it's rumoured so very strongly in St Paul's.'

  'Well,' said Gresham with an irony that would have cut through iron, 'if it's rumoured so in St Paul's, it has to be true.' Despair was a deadly sin, because by its nature it meant one gave up on the prospect of redemption

  'You go to 'im?' asked Mannion. 'Or we bring 'im to you?'

  'Bring him here!' said Gresham explosively. And in issuing the order for his old friend to be brought to him, Gresham knew that he had accepted the truth of what Jane said. Too many things, too many small gestures had fallen into place as she had spoken. The clinical part of Gresham's brain had seen the truth long before his heart would ever accept it.