'Apart from your personal involvement,' continued George, emptying half the remainder of the bottle into the delicate Venetian glass cradled in his vast hand, 'there's many who say executing Mary Queen of Scots was a disastrous move. Politically speaking, that is.'
'Walsingham was very firmly of the other opinion. He believed having a Catholic queen with a legitimate claim to the throne was to invite the overthrow of Elizabeth, "to nurture a canker in our breast",' said Gresham. 'I think I'm quoting him direct.'
'Quote him all you like,' said George, 'but remember, fewer and fewer people are listening to him now.' George stood up, endlessly restive, as if the ideas in his head could not be contained while his body was sitting. 'You've never understood the Court,' he said to Gresham, like a father admonishing a child. 'And what's been certain for so long is dying, uncertain. The Queen is old, Henry, for all that saying so is instant death for a courtier! Burghley is old…'
An outsider would have been surprised to see Gresham rise and the two young men make a formal, deep bow to each other. It was their ritual whenever they mentioned Lord Burghley, Chief Secretary to the Queen. Of worthy rather than noble stock, Burghley had the exaggerated respect for protocol and formality that came with nouveau status.
'Laugh on,' said Mannion to the pair of them. 'But just remember the man you're laughing at, is the most powerful man in England.'
'Is? Or was?' said George. 'Rumour has it he's losing his wits. Let's face it, the old guard are dying. Walsingham's seriously ill, doubled up by pain sometimes. The Queen has no heir, there's no clear succession… is it any wonder the Court's in turmoil? We've enough threats from within without adding more from outside!'
'Adding?' asked Gresham, interested despite himself.
'By executing a Catholic Queen! There's real panic in the Court,' answered George. 'It's odds on executing Mary will tip Spain over the edge.'
King Philip of Spain had once reigned in England as husband to Queen Mary in her disastrous time as Queen. That, and the tortuous Tudor lineage, gave Spain several claims on the English throne. More important to Philip, who had countries enough to rule, was the standing outrage of a Protestant England defying the one rule of Roman Catholicism.
George roared with laughter at a remembered joke. The plaster just about remained attached to the brickwork. 'The Bishops are shitting themselves! Apparently one of them fainted when someone burned some meat on the fire. Said it reminded him of the smell of human flesh burning!'
'Rumour has it that half the Bishops have started to learn Spanish,' said Gresham, grinning.
'Most of 'em can't speak bloody English!' growled Mannion. Clergy and Spaniards were his two least favourite breeds.
'What are the serious minds at Court saying about the succession?' asked Gresham. George would know the latest word if anyone did. Elizabeth had resolutely refused to marry. The nearest thing to an heir was probably James VI of Scotland, son of the executed Mary Queen of Scots.
'Very divided. Some say Spain. Some say the King of Scots. Others want the Queen to marry an English nobleman, even now, someone younger than herself so we get a King.'
'Wonderful!' exclaimed Gresham. 'What a choice! Our' next monarch is either Spanish, which means the country torn apart by religious war, or the King of our oldest and bitterest enemy — oh, and someone whose mother we've just had executed! — which means civil war. Or it's Leicester, Essex or even Walter Raleigh, any one of whom would guarantee the other two and every other noble family at Court launching immediate civil and religious war!'
The Earl of Leicester was the Queen's old favourite, increasingly being put in the shade by the young and extremely handsome Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex. Sir Walter Raleigh was a permanent joker in the pack.
'Never mind the danger the country's in,' said George. 'Think about the danger you're in.'
"E's right,' said Mannion. 'I know bugger all about the politics, but even I can see they're mad jealous of you. Jealous of your money. Jealous of your looks. Jealous of how you do with women. Jealous o' the Queen taking notice of you. And you haven' exactly been… discreet with some o' those girls you've serviced, 'ave you?'
A slight grin crossed Gresham's face, infuriating the two other men. He had never hurt a woman in his life. But he had had an awful lot of mutual pleasure with them. 'What the eye doesn't see, the heart can't grieve for…' he said.
'Mebbe not,' said Mannion, 'but there's three or four Lordships with young wives who're putting one and one together and seein' you in bed with their women!'
It was George's turn now. 'It's known that you've meddled on Walsingham's behalf. Not the details, of course, or you'd be dead in a side alley. Walsingham's old, dying. His star's on the wane. No one knows what'll happen when his empire collapses with his death. But for too many at Court you're a young upstart who's been too involved in every shady activity of the past few years. And now you've caught the fancy of the Queen. God knows what you might be whispering to her. On all counts, you're a nuisance. And a nuisance with no friends except me and this man mountain here, God help us.'
'So what's your advice?' asked Gresham, swilling a residue of wine around in the bottom of his goblet. 'Thanks for telling me all the dangers. Now tell me a way to get out of them!'
'Kill yourself!' said George. 'At least then you can make it quick and clean and get there before they do!' he added cheerfully. A beaming grin lit up his face, followed by another great, booming laugh. One of the things about George was that at a certain level of stress his brain cut out, and he retreated from serious matters to the solace of the bottle and friendship. 'Except you'll think of a way, one I couldn't have dreamt of, and I'll stand back in wonder at your achievement! You see, I'm really good at working out the odds. Funny, really. Most people think I'm a fool, except you. Problem is, when I've worked out the odds, I believe them. You… well, you decide to get the better of them. Betting man's nightmare, you are.'
'You know what Walsingham's made me do,' said Gresham. 'You and Mannion. Are you telling me I should have refused him?' 'I don't know,' said George. 'I wish I did. Do I think it's clever to attend secret Masses, on Walsingham's instructions? Of course not! Not in this climate. It's madness! Particularly as I've never been sure how much your affection for the Catholics was an act, or whether it's the reality.'
'I've told you,' said Gresham. 'My first nurse was a Catholic. When I couldn't suck her breasts I sucked her rosary beads. It leaves a mark on a man, you know…'
'I could tell you how extraordinarily irritating your flippancy is,' said George, 'but as you do it in order to be extraordinarily irritating it would only add to your pleasure. I'm just telling you to take care. Too many people of power go silent when your name's mentioned. And there's new talk. Can I ask you a question?'
'Of course,' said Gresham.
'Are you taking Spain's money? To be frank, rumour is that you're a Spanish spy. I know you'd never betray England,' said George gamely, 'but I can see you'd get involved with Spain just for the excitement of it. Well? Are you?'
'Am I what? You asked two questions. Whether I was a Spanish spy? Or taking Spanish money?'
'Stop playing games! I'm your oldest friend. I deserve an answer.'
'Well, now,' said Gresham, after a moment's thought. 'The answer is yes to one and no to another. It's more fun to leave you to work out which answer fits which question.'
George roared in exasperation, and within seconds the two men were rolling on the floor like two schoolboys in a fight.
'Well,' said Mannion. 'I'm just a working man.' He was used to conversations between George and Gresham ending in blows. Sometimes they actually hurt each other. 'But I don't doubt if your head goes on the block, mine will too. And I just wish you'd tell My Lord Bloody Black Arts Walsingham to bugger off. Then I'd feel safe.' Having got George in a neck hold, Gresham declared himself the winner.
They went by boat to Whitehall, eight liveried oarsmen making light of the Thames. The landing area w
as ablaze with torches, their light spearing out like fiery lances onto the rippling, black surface of the water.
'Is this wise?' asked Gresham as they were about to disembark.
'Your being here?' asked George.
‘No, you great idiot. This whole event.'
'If you mean is it wise for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth to host a Grand Reception for a very minor noble from the Netherlands who calls himself Ambassador and doesn't have enough money to put linen and cloth between his arse and the wind… probably not. After all, it makes it perfectly clear that we are supporting a rebellion in a country claimed as his own by King Philip of Spain. That same King Philip who, by all accounts, is set to invade England and end its Protestant heresy once and for all… No, it's probably not wise. But you have to admit, it does require guts.'
The Protestant Low Countries had been in revolt for years against Catholic Spain, which claimed them as a province. English money and English troops — neither of which were in plentiful supply — had stopped Spain from winning total domination over the Netherlands. Yet Spain had the most powerful army in Europe stationed in the Low Countries, under the command of the undefeatable Duke of Parma, an invincible army that many thought King Philip of Spain would send to invade England once his patience finally ran out. And now Elizabeth was holding a grand reception for an Ambassador from the Protestant part of the Netherlands. Kicking Spain in the crotch, or taunting the bull to charge at you when you had nothing with which to kill it? Was it brinkmanship on the part of the Queen, or stupidity?
Nothing was as it seemed in the Court of Queen Elizabeth. The light from candle, lamp and lantern seemed to laugh at the dark until one realised that significant areas of the Palace were blacked out. The food seemed to offer course after course after course, until one looked and realised that there were really very few examples of each, and that the Chamberlain had relied on announcing a late serving of the food so that guests would have eaten at least something before they left their homes. Choice was great, the quantity of each choice meagre. As for the wines, the servants promised the best, but pleaded they had just emptied the bottle. Would the honoured guest accept something a little less impressive as a stop-gap?
Gresham gazed ruefully at the cat's piss in his goblet, having to decide whether or not he wanted to get drunk at all costs, or whether he still had some standards. The Queen had refrained from slobbering all over him, though presumably that treat was reserved for the dancing.
As they moved into the Great Hall for the speeches and the dancing, they were surrounded by a throng of people desperate to be seen and to see who else was there.
'That's the Earl of Leicester who cut you dead, and Essex tried to walk over you as if you were a dog's turd,' said George.
'They're jealous, that's all,' said Gresham, who was not drunk but starting to feel detached in a merry enough sort of way. 'Jealous the Queen'll find out what a lover I am in comparison to them.'
He had just decided that his aim for the evening would be to get historically drunk when he became aware of someone standing by his shoulder.
'Avoid drinking too much this evening,' said a gravelly voice, as if someone had read his thoughts. 'You may find that you need your wits about you.'
Sir Francis Walsingham was an old man now, but the intensity in his dark black eyes had not diminished, nor the sense of raw energy held back within the confines of polite behaviour. Gresham was shocked. Walsingham had no time for frivolities such as this evening, preferring to spend his time in the quiet of his house in Barnes.
'Sir Francis!' Gresham sought to cover his confusion, bowed his head. George had melted away subtly, Mannion withdrawn to where he could see but not hear what was happening. A giggling lady-in-waiting with a young man in hot pursuit thrust between the two men, then saw Walsingham and turned pale, stuttering an apology as she backed away, eyes suddenly downcast. Few men had such a reputation as Walsingham. Few men could inspire such fear.
The Ambassador had entered now, as ragged as George had pre-dieted, and was standing awkwardly with a stupid smile on his race as a lackey gave a formal speech of welcome.
Walsingham speared Gresham with a glare. 'Come,' he said. 'The speeches will drag on for ever. Her Majesty will not appear for another half an hour at the least, when for all our sakes we ought to be here.'
Walsingham motioned to a door. Once through, another door opened into a small room furnished with a blazing fire, candles, and a small table with two chairs. Clearly Walsingham had made plans in advance. He drew his old-fashioned, long, fur-lined cloak round about — how thin the man was looking, thought Gresham — and motioned the young man to sit down.
'I thank you for what you have done; For what you are doing. It is not without danger.'
There was mulled wine on the table, steaming hot, though no sign of the servant who must have placed it there only minutes before. Walsingham took a goblet, claw-like hands stretching round to draw out the warmth.
'The danger I accept, my Lord,' said Gresham. 'What concerns me is how little I know about why I'm asked to do what I'm asked.'
'I have spent my whole life acquiring knowledge, believing it to be the root of all real power,' said Walsingham.*Now I realise that sometimes ignorance is a great safeguard. Too much knowledge can cloud our judgement, make us think too much. Restrain your youthful impatience, to know everything. If indeed any of us can ever know everything.'
Gresham was clearly getting no further. One did not debate with Walsingham. One listened to his reasoning, and either did what he asked or failed to do so. And rather too many of those who refused his instructions were washed up face down in the Thames a couple of days later for any of Walsingham's agents ever to feel secure about their freedom of choice.
'My reason for seeing you tonight is this. We have at last begun to move against our enemies with the death of that damned charlatan.'
Walsingham's voice was calm, but Gresham knew the depth of his hatred for Mary Queen of Scots. Not for Walsingham the fear that her death would provoke Spain to invade England. For him, Mary had been a glaring invitation for every Catholic in England and Europe to rise up against Elizabeth and Protestantism. 'One does not deal with the canker in one's body!' he had once said to Gresham. 'One cuts it out!' Throughout his life he had been an implacable champion for the three things he most believed in: the Protestant faith, England and Queen Elizabeth, in that order.
'However, the Queen suspects my involvement and I am out of favour, as are all who sought the death of Mary.'
Walsingham out of favour? One of the men who had most bolstered Elizabeth's reign?
What passed for a smile crossed Walsingham's lined face. 'It is in the nature of ministers to lose the favour of their monarch at times. It is a show. The Queen fears for her own survival when a fellow Queen is executed, but it will pass. The Queen is a realist above all. Yet temporarily my access to Her Majesty is reduced. Also, I am ill. Her Majesty does not like to be reminded of mortality.' He turned to Gresham, brisk and business-like. 'How much do you understand the politics of the Court?'
'Very little, my Lord, if the truth be known.' It was like being lectured by George, only far more threatening.
'Then take a hurried lesson,' said Walsingham. 'My Lord Burghley has been the dominant presence in the Queen's Court since her accession — and if you were considering stupid flattery, do not embark on it. I know and have accepted from the outset my secondary role. Yet he and I are both old. Our days are limited, mine more than Burghley's. The Earls of Leicester and Essex see themselves as taking over Lord Burghley's role, as perhaps might even that pirate Raleigh.'
'Surely a recipe for civil war?' blurted out Gresham.
'Quite,' said Walsingham. 'Yet Burghley hopes his second son, the cripple, Robert Cecil, will succeed him as the Queen's Chief Minister. The battle between Essex and Cecil is intriguing. Breeding against ability. Extreme physical beauty against a deformed body.'
Why was Walsingham telling
him this? And whatever this unfathomable man's unfathomable reasons, Gresham's heart sank. Despite Robert Cecil being older than Gresham, they had crossed swords at Cambridge and at Court. Cecil, Gresham sensed, was not his natural ally, nor even a friend.
‘I’m not favoured by Robert Cecil,' he said.
'Cecil believes you were responsible for suggesting the nickname by which the Queen refers to him,' said Walsingham. 'Not a wise move, if it were true.'
A warning? Was this a warning? The Queen referred to Cecil as her pygmy. With a crooked back, short build and warped body, Cecil's smile when the Queen used the term was painful to behold.
'I swear I didn't do so,' said Gresham. It was true, though he might have done if he had thought of it. Yet out of such stupid misunderstandings came the hatreds and feuds that filled the tiny, claustrophobic world of the Court.
'In any event, we are ready to strike a second blow at the Catholics,' said Walsingham. ‘Despite my being in disfavour, I have managed to persuade her Majesty to authorise Drake to strike at Lisbon or Cadiz. It is our only hope. We have no army to resist Spain if they land the Duke of Parma and his forces on these shores. Our only strength is our ships, and we must strike at the Spanish vessels before they can launch an assault on us.'
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