It was his trump card. A letter from Cobham, purporting to have been written only the day before, swearing that Raleigh had asked Cobham to get a pension of £1,500 from Count Aremberg in exchange for information and influence. Were it not for Raleigh, Cobham would never have dealt with Aremberg. Raleigh had been Cobham’s nemesis, the cause of his fall from grace.
Raleigh was clearly shaken, but produced his own letter from Cobham which he persuaded Cecil, reluctantly to read out.
‘How many faces has this man?’ Raleigh asked the jury. The implication was clear. Cobham would change his story on demand, was the most unreliable of unreliable witnesses. Yet at the same time, Raleigh had to admit he had been offered a Spanish pension, and told no-one in authority. It was his death sentence.
‘But you’ve told me others have not just been offered Spanish pensions, but taken them,’ whispered Jane to Gresham, who was seething with anger.
‘Indeed,’ said Gresham, ‘including two who sit on the judge’s side in this very court.’
Howard, one of the Commissioners appointed to this trial a closet Catholic, had long been taking Spanish money, as had Cecil.
The jury took a mere fifteen minutes to reach their verdict.
Guilty.
There was a sigh from the crowd. Who would have believed it? The mob had pelted Raleigh’s carriage with stones as it left London for Winchester Raleigh puffing his pipe and ignoring them. Popham would sentence Raleigh to being hung, drawn and quartered, but as a person of quality it was accepted that the Commissioners would commute the sentence to beheading. Popham started on a long speech before issuing the sentence. It was clear that he was trying to claw back some of the losses the prosecution had suffered through Coke’s rantings and the visible unfairness of the trial, but clear also from the groans of the crowd that he failed. Then he paused.
Gresham tensed. The moment had come. Popham had not actually asked Raleigh if he had anything to say, but was intentionally leaving him clear to do. Jane’s hand crept into Gresham’s, resisted the urge to look at the door which she knew would not have moved from her side since she last looked.
If Raleigh were to confess his guilt, throw himself on the mercy of the Court and claim that the whole thing had been the brainchild of Henry Gresham, that he, Raleigh, had been corrupted by Gresham just as Cobham claimed to have been corrupted by Raleigh, then in all probability Raleigh would buy his life. It was his only hope.
And it was so perfect! Gresham was thought to be a Spanish sympathiser ever since sailing with the Armada. Those who were not jealous of his wealth were jealous of his good looks and his woman. He had a dark reputation as a spy-master, and albeit in a lesser way than Raleigh, had never dealt easily with fools nor joined the toadying sycophancy of Court. He was a bastard son, and that to a man of no breeding, which meant he was scorned by the hereditary aristocracy. Gresham was everyone’s choice of a person to be found right at the heart of a rebellious plot.
Raleigh looked up, straight into the eyes of Cecil, whose fist suddenly clenched in his lap. Then Raleigh swung his gaze round to lock on to Gresham’s. A slight smile took to his lips, almost invisible, and for a brief moment he turned his gaze to Jane, who flinched. He seemed to give her the faintest of nods, before turning back to stare at Cecil.
He said nothing!
He said nothing! Jane’s heart leapt. What had that nod to her meant? Why had the man she hated for the threat he posed to Gresham and the advances he had made on her so smiled at her? Who cared? It was as if the full sun of summer had come out from behind winter clouds.
The sentence was pronounced, Cecil perhaps a little paler than before, and midst much hubbub the Hall emptied.
‘I might need that hand again to fight with one day,’ said Gresham. Jane realised she was clutching his left hand with the intensity of a drowning woman.
‘Sorry!’ she said, half-laughing, half crying.
Gresham looked down on her.
‘And how much do you hate my Raleigh now?’
*
At least Gresham did not have to visit Raleigh in The Tower again, its awful stench a reminder of the evil that had been done there. Its squat power had been a clear signal from the Norman conquerors of their mastery over their new kingdom. Raleigh had not yet been taken back to the Bloody Tower, to await his execution. His prison was a light and airy room in the Castle, a guard outside but no chains or manacles.
Raleigh seemed calm, content even.
‘We gave them a show, I think,’ he said, with evident satisfaction. ‘You know several of the jurors have begged my forgiveness? And that I am praised for my dignity, wit and courage as fast as word can be spread? And it’s reported that Cecil had tears in his eye when discussing the verdict?’
‘He’d probably dropped a farthing down the privy, and just been told he couldn’t get it back,’ said Gresham unsympathetically. ‘But yes, you did put on a show, and it is the talk of the country, and will be the talk of history for years to come.’ said Gresham. ‘I’m sorry about that last letter from Cobham. I’d had no word of it.’
‘It made no difference,’ said Raleigh. ‘It may have saved them a little face, but actually I suspect for most of the people it simply confirmed what a snivelling little shit Cobham is.’
Gresham helped himself to half a tankard of the small beer that was laid out on the rough wooden table.
‘Well, the shit is still snivelling. I’m told his latest snivel is to accuse you of conniving to land a Spanish army at Milford Haven.’
‘The bastard!’ exclaimed Raleigh, visibly shaken. ‘Does anyone believe him?’
‘Well, it’s been known for years that Milford Haven would make the ideal landing site. Even the Irish recognised that. What I don’t understand is why Cobham is still gabbling. He’s sentenced and dead, so are you. What’s in it for him? Some deal with Cecil? But what has Cobham got to bargain with? What aren’t you telling me?’ Gresham asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘And don‘t try the oldest trick in the book, seeking not to answer a question by asking one back. You knew what Cobham was, yet still you talked to him. Why? Why? Even your over-weaning arrogance could see what a man he was – or rather, what a man he wasn’t.’
‘A man can think too much. You see a conspiracy in a vagabond’s fart.’
‘Perhaps. But I’ll ride out of the Tower, and you won’t. So who’s way is best?’
‘Well,’ said Raleigh, ‘there’s always that way of looking at it.’ He livened up. ‘Now, tell me, were you scared? Did even the famous icy composure of Sir Henry Gresham start to crumble.’
‘Yes, and no,’ replied Gresham. ‘Yes, I was scared, and no, the famous icy composure of Sir Henry Gresham did not start to crumble. Why didn’t you betray me?’
‘The girl,’ said Raleigh, ‘your girl.’ He looked up suddenly. ‘I tried to seduce her, you know. Why didn’t you jump up and down, challenge me to a duel?’
‘Firstly, you try to seduce every woman you meet,’ said Gresham. ‘You can no more stop than the hawk can stop diving on the sparrow. Your friends accept you for what you are. Secondly, I never for a moment thought Jane would succumb to your endeavours.’
And it was true. Somehow, in a world where nothing could be certain, this was one of his few certainties.
‘You were right,’ said Raleigh, a smile flickering over his worn features. ‘Did she tell you what she said to me when I made my play for her favours?’
‘She told me you’d tried,’ said Gresham, ‘but said no more.’
‘Well,’ said Raleigh, ‘one could safely assume from the words she used that she’d not been brought up in a nunnery. I think it was fair to say I was left in no doubt as to where her loyalties lay, and they certainly weren’t in my lap.’
‘So how did that
effect your decision not to betray me? I don’t see the link between an old man trying to get more than his hand up a pretty girl’s skirt and a refusal to hand someone over to the executioner in exchange for his life.’
‘Not so old,’ rumbled Raleigh. He was 50. ‘Young enough to give you a run for your money still. But I will tell you.’
‘Do so, please.’
‘I was tempted, Henry,’ said Raleigh, not looking Gresham in the eye, ‘sorely tempted, as it happens. Life is precious, and I knew mine was lost, except for one chance.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I looked at you, and thought, yes, I could betray him. I would hate doing it, and hate myself for doing it, but think it worthwhile if it meant holding Bess in my arms again. And then I looked at her, that extraordinary vision who you appear to have captivated.’
‘And?’
‘And I thought, is Sir Walter Raleigh, the great Sir Walter Raleigh, going to be taught about loyalty and fidelity and holding true by a chit of a girl, a low-born foundling and product of a foul coupling in a stinking village hovel? And I realised that if I did indeed betray you, I’d be no better than Cobham, Cecil and all those other steaming turds who ordered my death.’
‘And the minor point that Cecil would probably betray you anyway?’
‘Minor point,’ agreed Raleigh.
‘There’ll be no death,’ said Gresham.
‘What do you mean?’ said Raleigh, his moment of noble confession spoilt. ‘I’m a dead man.’
‘No. You’re not, actually,’ said Gresham. ‘I can save your life, as you’ve now saved mine twice.’
A thin smile crossed his face.
‘Your life is all I can save. I can’t overturn your verdict, or get you out of jail, but I can keep you alive. And who knows? Governments change, things happen, nothing is certain in life – except that if you’re alive, you can profit from events.’
‘And from whence do you draw this mystical power?’ asked Raleigh, his face drained. He dared not have hope.
‘Given the threat I’ve been under from Cecil, I’ve devoted myself to obtaining certain … insurances. One of those insurances, given what took place at your trial, will convert to your case very well, and preserve your life as under different circumstances it might have preserved mine.’
‘And you’ll give this to me?’
‘I’ll give it to you,’ said Gresham. ‘But I won’t tell you what it is.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’ll not believe me, because you want to believe me but daren’t hope, and I want you to agonise as much over that uncertainty – does Gresham really have the power to save my life? – as I agonised – without the famous icy composure of Sir Henry Gresham starting to crumble – over whether or not you’d betray me. Call it revenge, in kind.’
Gresham realised why he loved Raleigh when this man, brought down from a great height, facing the loss of all he had lived for, convicted for treason, burst out laughing.
‘You’re a bastard, Henry, in every respect of the word!’
Raleigh seemed to delight in the game they were both playing, despite the fact that the stakes were their lives.
Cecil had returned to London immediately after the trial, flown to his base in the Palace at Whitehall. Gresham sent Mannion ahead of him. Mannion was on good terms with a number of the women who worked in the kitchens. Such relationships offered Mannion two of the most important things in his life, namely sex and food.
Mannion met Gresham by the main gate into the palace.
‘’E ain’t in his usual rooms,’ said Mannion. ‘E’s ‘aving a private dinner in a small room on the east wing. I’ll show you.’
The guards outside the room not only had weapons, but seemed willing to use them.
Gresham became cross.
There were four guards outside the private suite of rooms Cecil occupied. As was always true with servants, they afforded themselves the same level of importance they believed their master held. Their Captain swaggered over to Gresham, directing a warning glare at Mannion.
‘My master is dining, in private. Tonight he receives no-one. You must leave.’
Gresham thought about being polite, but discarded the idea. He looked at the Captain, and smiled. Then, in the blink of an eye, the Captain had a different view of Gresham. The view one had of a person lying on one’s back, with a very sharp blade delicately poised on one’s throat. And a foot pressed down hard in the middle of one’s chest.
The three other guards rushed forward. Mannion stood between them and Gresham, his own sword in hand.
‘My name is Sir Henry Gresham.’
There were advantages in having a name mothers used to frighten their children. The guards shuffled to a halt. It was not Gresham’s dark reputation as a spy that halted them. It was his reputation as a swordsman.
‘I need to see Cecil. If needs be, I will kill your Captain …’
Gresham leant a little forward, and the tiniest blob of blood appeared on the Captain’s throat as the point of Gresham’s blade made ever such a tiny penetration into his flesh.
‘And then, sadly, I’ll have to kill you.’
The three men looked at each other.
‘Just in case you didn’t know,’ said Gresham, ‘I sailed with the Spanish Armada in 1588, and helped destroy it. Just before that, I’d got involved with Mary, Queen of Scots, and I destroyed her, God help me. I was one of the Earl of Essex’s friends, and, God again help me, I helped destroy him.’
The guards knew the growing myth of Henry Gresham, and it scared them, particularly as it had grown marvellously in the telling. They also clearly did not like the look of Mannion, whose whole body language breathed old soldier.
‘And if I have to,’ said Gresham, ‘I’ll destroy you. Though I’d rather not. Frankly, after Mary, Spain and Essex, you’re not much of a challenge.’
There was a squeak from the floor.
‘What do you want from us?’ croaked the Captain.
‘Just a knock on the door. And tell your master that Sir Henry Gresham needs immediate conference.’
The Captain tried to nod, and then realised that he had a very sharp sword at his throat. Gresham withdrew the point, slightly, and smiled encouragingly at him.
‘Do it!’ hissed the Captain, still pinned to the floor.
Reluctantly, one of the three men retreated to the door that led off the passage, and knocked. There was an angry mutter, and the door flung open. The man gave his message, in a low voice, adding embroidery to it judging by the length of time he spoke.
Cecil appeared from behind the man, wrapped in his huge cloak with fur collar, clearly angry.
‘Release the Captain of my Guard immediately, or I shall call on the full guard and have you arrested.’
Gresham’s sword point did not waver from the Captain’s throat.
‘Do so,’ he said, ‘if you’re prepared to lose all that you’ve fought and lied for. Believe me, my Lord, I pose a greater threat to you than you do to me. And,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘we need to talk alone.’
There was a long moment while Cecil looked at Gresham. He was too proud to say anything. He just nodded, and went back inside the room. Gresham took his foot off the Captain, motioned him up on to his feet. He gestured with his head for him to leave.
The Captain rubbed his neck, and said surlily to Gresham,
‘We can’t leave. We have to guard our Master. If you kill him, we’ll get the blame.’
‘If I kill him, I’ll get the blame,’ Gresham responded. ‘And, to be frank, I’m going to be in a room alone with him, which means I could kill him long before you were alerted. And since the list of suspects would be the shortest in legal history, do you really think I came here to
commit suicide?’
The logic was inescapable. The four men turned away, as Cecil’s two guests emerged in the doorway, making their exit too. Howard, the closet Catholic and Wade, Raleigh’s jailor. Both directed baleful glances at Gresham, but said nothing.
‘Go with the guards,’ said Gresham to Mannion, ‘make sure they don’t listen in.’
In the absence of an invitation, Gresham walked into the chamber. The remnants of a meal lay on the table, three stools round it. This was not a room furnished by Cecil. It was too simple for that, and the fire (Cecil felt cold badly) far too small. The conclusion? This meeting was one Cecil did not want known about, so he held it outside his chambers with only four of his most trusted guards to see it. Gresham would place odds that the guards had collected the food from the kitchens, themselves.
Cecil wanted to bluster.
‘What is the meaning of this …?’
‘Shut up,’ said Gresham. ‘You will commute Raleigh’s death sentence.’
Cecil actually laughed. It was a horrible, barking noise, but it was clearly a laugh.
‘Of course I will,’ said Cecil merrily. ‘And is this why you have come to see me?’
‘In a sense,’ said Gresham, ‘though you might be more interested in this.’ Gresham drew out a single sheet of folded paper, sealed with wax on a half-fold.
‘Another last poem from Sir Walter? Or another letter from him to Cobham?’ said Cecil scathingly.
‘More important than that,’ said Gresham. ‘This is a statement from a Spanish nobleman, one of the most ancient of Spanish noble families and closest to the King. It states that for at least three years Spain has been paying you a pension of £1,500 a year. The statement is witnessed by a Papal Nuncio.’
The colour left Cecil’s face. He actually fell back against the table.
The Coming of the King: Henry Gresham and James I (The Henry Gresham Series Book 3) Page 19