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

by Martin Stephen

  Gresham snapped back into his surroundings. There was no point in trying to report the plot to the authorities. Cecil was the authorities. Court and City were united. If Gresham tried to go public, he doubted he would be believed and would find himself rotting in The Tower on a trumped-treason charge. No, the Captains were the key. If they could be bought or frightened off, that only left one or two thousand mercenaries to deal with. Only? Gresham brought a grim sense of humour to his mental use of the word. It was a measure of how serious the situation was that two thousand mercenaries occupied second place in his priorities.

  Gresham glared at Captain Billy. ‘These men, the Captains who’ve been hired for April, do you know who they are? Can you get me to meet them?’

  Billy’s eyes flickered to over Gresham’s shoulder, ‘I know who most of them are. And I don’t have to get you to meet them. One of them has just walked in.’

  Gresham swivelled on his stool. A group of some twelve or so men had pushed the door of the inn open, sailors by the look of them. A hush fell on the crowd. A more villainous crew Gresham had never seen. Long, unwashed hair straggled down faces marked by the pox, by sword or dagger or powder burns. Greasy, filthy clothing was offset for most of them with a rich leather belt, from which hung a forest of weapons. Some gave away their trade by a peculiar, top-heavy walk. Topmen, whose battles with heavy canvas developed their upper bodies disproportionately.

  Gresham turned to Mannion. ‘Money,’ he said. ‘I need money. Get back to The House and bring me money. Be quiet about it!’

  Billy’s mouth gaped, and he made as if to protest. ‘Silence!’ barked Gresham. ‘I’ve no time to argue.’ He turned to Mannion, ‘You know where the great chest is?’ He whispered a few directions to Mannion, who suddenly took himself off not through the front door, blocked by the new party, but through a side door behind the bar. At a nod from their leader, two men turned sharply and exited on to the street.

  The leader in question strode over to where Gresham and Captain Billy sat. There was actual gold lace on his jacket, where it was not obscured by dirt or salt stains. The man’s left hand rested on an ornate sabre, over decorated and in terrible taste, a blunt, savage, slashing weapon for close quarter combat. The man had one, comically white front tooth in a mass of blackened stumps, and Gresham smelt the rot feet away.

  ‘Captain Billy!’ sneered the man, in a tone of utter contempt. Billy sweated even more, and started to shake.

  ‘I did what you asked!’ he said. ‘I brought him here, didn’t I, with only one man to guard him. Now pay me, and let me go!’

  ‘You betrayed me,’ said Gresham, levelly. ‘Didn’t you?’

  Billy’s terrified eyes refused to meet Gresham’s.

  ‘I did what I had to do!’ he said.

  ‘As I will do what I have to do,’ said Gresham quietly.

  ‘You,’ said the leader, raising his hand to strike Gresham, ‘are not required to say ...’

  There was a blur of movement, a flash of steel and Captain Billy sat on his stool, a look of wonder on his face. Then blood started to well from the line across his neck, and with a gurgle he fell forward, the blood already pooling the floor, his head half-severed and lying at an odd angle to the rest of his body.

  Gresham looked up at the leader, dagger in his hand.

  ‘I didn’t want to say much. I did want to do that, though.’ There was a moment of silence. It had all happened too quickly. Some of the sailors, those at the back of the group, did not even realise what had happened and were craning forward in curiosity.

  Two things happened simultaneously. Gresham stood up sharply and flung the table with every ounce of strength he had at the sailors. The crude, heavy table caught the leader full in the face, and Gresham heard the satisfying sound of a nose breaking. He screamed obscenities. At the same time, the main door to the inn burst off its hinges and a blood-stained Mannion, with four of Gresham’s men, came full-pelt into the room. There was a clatter from behind the bar, and Travis and four of his men rushed in through the rear door Mannion had left by. Gresham’s forces were outnumbered, but had one advantage, Gresham’s men were each pointing a pistol at the pirate. Travis’s men had muskets.

  It started to go wrong because of one of the customers in the inn. A wrinkled, monkey-like little man crouched in a corner where he had gone at the first sound of trouble, he looked up, mouth agape, at the stand-off. Suddenly he started to scrabble on hands and knees for the door Mannion had come through. Startled, one of Mannion’s men fired an over-hasty shot. It missed, and the ball sent up a furrow of splinters from the floor.

  Mayhem. The pirates were used to looking down the barrels of guns, and the customers lost Gresham’s men some of their advantage. In the gloom and chaos, it was easy to mistake a customer for a pirate, and at least two received wounds from a musket or pistol ball intended for a pirate. Their wounds were not serious enough to stop them leaving the building. Perhaps four of the pirates were brought down by the volley, but there was no time to reload and the smoke from the discharges meant the hand-to-hand fighting took place in a virtual fog. With a roar the pirate leader flung the table to one side, and advanced on Gresham, viciously swinging his sabre. He was a terrifying sight. Blood covered his face, and he was screaming with demonical hatred. It was the red mist, Gresham had seen it before, experienced it once himself. A man lost all control, all fear and it was as if his strength tripled. Gresham had seen men fight one even though obviously their leg was broken, oblivious to pain.

  There was no finer blade than Gresham’s in London, but he wondered if even it was proof against the smashing, remorseless blows of the sabre. Gresham grabbed a stool, used it to ward off the first three or four blows. Even without steel meeting flesh, the jarring shot cruel pain down his arm into his shoulder. One massive blow more, and Gresham was left holding a splintered stool leg in his right hand. His sword hand. Through the mask of blood did Gresham see a glint of triumph in his assailant’s eye? His eye followed Gresham’s right hand, new waving the splintered wood as if weighing up for a last frantic lunge, perhaps at the attacker’s eyes. He raised the sabre for a final, downward skull-splitting blow. Then the glint of victory was replaced by the glazed, shocked look of death, as Gresham’s sword neatly penetrated his neck, on the left-hand side. Gresham was left-handed.

  There was a sharp cry from one of the other sailors, and three men broke off, grabbed their dead Captain’s collar and started to drag and bump his body across the floor. Another cry, and the remaining sailors too broke off, and formed a circle with swords and knives pointing threateningly outwards, like a human porcupine. Some of the Gresham’s men made as if to attack, but the sharp cry came from Gresham this time, and his men fell warily back. The circle of pirates reached the door, broken off its hinges by Mannion’s rush. There was a jeer, and they vanished into the night.

  Gresham and his men were alone in the inn. Landlord and customers had fled.

  ‘No point in goin’ after them?’ asked Mannion.

  ‘None,’ said Gresham. ‘They’ll know every back alley near this dump.’ He gazed at the floor, where the bodies of four pirates lay. ‘We’d better report this,’ said Gresham. ‘Unprovoked attack on a wealthy man, all that, the usual stuff ...’

  ‘Want me to find out who these men are?’

  ‘I doubt you will,’ said Gresham, ‘and even if we did it’d be the same story. Pirates. Men for hire. Killers. It’s the Captain I need to talk to. And I killed him.’

  ‘Best be going then,’ said Mannion. ‘Either the Watch’ll be on to this, or the Landlord claiming money off you for repairs.’

  ‘Those who can be going,’ said Gresham sadly. Two of Gresham’s men were dead, one of them someone Gresham had known when he, Gresham, had been a child. Travis had lost one of his men.

  ‘Fought with him for three years,’ mu
sed Travis. ‘Good man.’

  ‘We all know what the risks are,’ said Gresham, as if mentally shaking himself. ‘And better a quick, clean death with a blade in your hand than a slow and lingering one from wounds, or a fever.’

  ‘You fought well,’ said Mannion, approvingly, ‘Impressive, you leading him on like that. So did that faggot, come to that.’ The new boatman had felled a pirate.

  Gresham had rather seen himself in full retreat before the savage blows of his enemy, but if Mannion was content to see it as Gresham leading him on ...

  He toyed with simply not telling Jane of the night’s exploits, but men who have been fighting for their lives need to make a noise and let off steam, and tell the other men and their women what has happened. The death of two servants also meant that few people would have much sleep in The House. They were a close-knit bunch, and would mourn the loss. The only blessing was that neither had been married, so Gresham had no weeping widow to confront.

  He hated telling Jane of events such as had just happened. She was composed, but he could see the red flush under her skin, the fear. She had thought he was simply going to meet an informer. Did this mean that every time he left his home his life could be under threat?

  They were in The Library, Gresham’s favourite room in The House. Apart from anything else, it was always warm. Jane had ordered a fire there twenty four hours a day in Autumn, Winter and Spring, arguing that the books needs a constant temperature, or they sweated and as a result formed a corrosive mildew.

  ‘You must have known there was going to be an ambush,’ said Jane. ‘You’d arranged for men to be nearby.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Gresham, ‘I just thought it might be a possibility. But to be honest, I was caught out. I thought the whole thing might be an attempt to get me on enemy ground. Informants don’t usually demand to see you on their territory, they’re usually delighted to come and see you. Firstly, it’s usually better than the dump they occupy, and it lessens the chance of them being seen talking to me. I couldn’t understand why Captain Billy was so insistent I go to that Thieves’ Kitchen. Did he really want the scum who drink there to see him in close conversation with someone known to work for the Government at times? It didn’t feel right. But to be honest, I thought any attack would come in the street, out of sight of most people, and I thought it might be three or four men, not a dozen.’

  ‘Why were there so many?’ asked Jane.

  ‘I think it’s simply because pirate crews like that are used to sticking together. They’re some of the cruellest killers in the world, but like all fighting men they develop a bond. They like to act together. But I was wrong somewhere else as well.’ Gresham sounded far from pleased with himself.

  ‘I thought they’d take me to a ship, then drop me overboard out at sea. In fact, I still think that’s what I would have done in their shoes. Far better that a well-known man disappears, rather than his body found on the street. It’s much harder to do anything concrete in a murder case if you haven’t got a body. I think that’s what they planned. When I saw how many of them there were, I realised our side had a better chance of keeping me out of their hands inside, rather than fight a running battle in streets they knew and we didn’t. So I had to send Mannion out to gather the men, under the excuse of getting money. The plan had been that they’d attack my kidnappers out on the street, grab their leader and find out what ship he ran, and any other information he might have.’

  ‘Would you have tortured him?’ asked Jane with a shudder.

  ‘No,’ said Gresham, ‘though I’d have made him think I would, to see if it got to him. But torture, the real thing, doesn’t work. Men don’t tell you the truth. They just tell you whatever they think’ll stop the pain.’

  ‘And you killed that man. Captain Billy.’

  ‘Yes, I did. That was different. It’s a dirty world I work in, and part of the reason I’m still alive is the widespread belief that if you betray Henry Gresham you die for it.’ There was no apology in Gresham’s voice.

  ‘And who decided to kill you this time?’

  ‘Spain,’ said Gresham firmly. ‘You see, I think what Captain Billy told me was true. I’ve a hugely unreliable spy in the Escorial Palace, a drunk and a rascal, but the only one I’ve got. He reported over hearing a conversation about a thousand crack troops being assembled for a new project. That’s one of the words they used to describe the 1588 Armada: ‘the project’. I thought it was mere tittle-tattle. There’s rumours of a new Armada every year. Billy was clearly panicked when he was talking to me. I thought it was the risk he was taking, or fear I wouldn’t pay. Now I think the pirates were late. That would explain why he kept looking over his shoulder. He wasn’t just a fool. He was scared witless of the pirate Captain. So were most of the customers, judging by the silence when they saw him. The only story dramatic enough to keep me there was the true one.’

  ‘What makes a man like that want to lure another man to his death?’

  ‘Money, in part. And faith. Captain Billy was a Catholic. I’m sure it was a rosary beneath his tunic.’

  ‘So why does Spain want to kill you?’

  ‘Because I did quite a lot to stop the Spanish Armada, and sent their troops down river on the ebb tide two years ago. Very similar plan to this one, and a good plan. It could have worked, until I stopped it. So this time the Spanish are going to make sure I don’t put a spanner in their latest works.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘I have to. I just think that if they use the Spanish to put Arbella on the throne they’ll find themselves with a permanent Spanish garrison in The Tower. If the English don’t fight it, we’ve become a Spanish colony. If we do, it’s civil war. The Catholics will surely support Spain if they have to.’

  Jane looked worried. ‘One thing I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘James wants peace. He’s even planning a conference. Why can’t the Spanish be content with that?’

  ‘They see him as a Protestant Scot who will never give fair treatment to Catholics in England. They don’t trust him. If they do it this way they get control. Leave James in place and they get at best neutrality. There’s far more in it for them to try and get a puppet queen on the throne of England.’

  ‘But what about this peace conference?’

  ‘Oh, they’ll go along with that, if only to lull suspicion. But it’s planned for May. The takeover is scheduled for April. I thought it was April because that’s the earliest they could hope for good weather. It’s also conveniently before the Peace Conference. Even the Spanish wouldn’t have the nerve to start a rebellion while their people were negotiating for peace.’

  ‘So how will ... how can you stop it?’

  ‘I don’t know, honestly.’

  And there it was. He was Henry Gresham. Henry Gresham always knew what had to be done. Except that he had confessed to a girl that he did not know.

  ‘Or you do know, but you’ve done your usual thing and designed not to tell me because you’re too proud to admit you’re wrong if it doesn’t work out as thought?’

  Ouch. He looked at her, wide-eyed, innocent.

  ‘What on earth gave you the idea I would ever behave like that?’

  She would undoubtedly have thrown something at him – she was massively respectful to him if anyone else was in the room, gentleperson or servant, but sometimes more than made up for it when they were alone. Fortunately for Gresham, books were too valuable to use as missiles and the only other handy objects were a large brass candlestick and heavy wooden furniture, both of which if thrown were likely to do serious damage.

  ‘Has it occurred to you,’ she said, ‘that it needn’t always be you who Saves England?’

  One of her more annoying habits was to speak in capitals.

  ‘I mean, just for once, can’t someone else Save England? What about Howa
rd, or Suffolk, or one of the other great families? Why does it always have to be you?’

  ‘Because I’m here, I suppose,’ said Gresham, strangely troubled by the question. Why was it him? Why did he seem always to be the person laid out on the Rack, his life and loves threatened, his friends murdered?

  ‘Because the majority of the ‘great’ families are either in Cecil’s pocket or received a whopping pension from Spain, or both, in which case they probably know about and support the plot anyway, or wouldn’t believe me or are suffering from too many years of inbreeding.’

  ‘I can’t understand Raleigh in all this. He hates Spain.’

  ‘It’s where you see the weaknesses of the man. His execution is postponed, not cancelled. As far as he’s concerned he’s a dead man, so he might as well take a massive gamble. Raleigh’s a gambler, to his very core. What’s he got to lose, apart from a life he’s probably in his eyes going to lose anyway? Also, he’s supremely arrogant. I’ll bet he believes he can use Spain and then get rid of them, probably has some hair-brained plan to do so heroically. He’s wrong, of course. The first thing the Spanish will do is execute him – well, the second actually: I’ll be the first.’

  ‘So what can you do?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ said Gresham. ‘It won’t be as simple as it was for the fleet intended for Essex. They had no idea anyone knew they were there, were far too lax as a result in the guards they posted. No, this time they’ll have boats with armed men rowing round all night, swivel cannons loaded with grape ready to go ... and even if the best mercenaries hadn’t already been taken, even I couldn’t raise an army of two thousand.’