Martin Stephen - The rebel heart

Then, with a massive, grinding and wonderfully expensive crash, Essex's boat drove into the Queen's gilded plaything, smashing its own bow fully halfway into the final quarter of the other boat. Shards of wood like daggers flew through the air. The boat heeled over with the shock, so much so that its mast nearly touched the floor of the jetty, and then half-righted itself, filling with water and still enmeshed with Essex's boat. The rest of Essex's men were flung forward, Essex the only one with the sense to wrap his arms round a stanchion and stay more or less where he was. His popinjay friend was hurled forward, caught himself a nasty blow in the crotch on the guard rail, and catapulted over it into the river.

What a pity, thought Gresham, grinning now it was all over. That fine velvet, satin and silk would not survive a ducking. Was it that awful man who acted as secretary to Essex? The unfortunately named Gelli? The vicious Welshman?

The mast of the Queen's boat had not snapped as it heeled over, but must have cracked on impact. Suddenly, and without warning, there was the sound of tearing timber, and the mast wobbled, then snapped its rigging, tumbling down onto the jetty.

The boy was still there, his thumb still in his mouth, bemused, even more wide-eyed as the great men and women crashed into each other. He must have seen or sensed the mast headed towards him, but was frozen to the spot. The chunk of timber landed two, maybe three feet to one side of him. One of the planks it hit flew upward under the boy's feet, like a see-saw, catapulting him into the water. He could have hit another boat, knocked his brains out. Instead he flew straight as an arrow into the only clear patch of water left in that area of the Thames, and started to drown.

Shit! Gresham's world narrowed down to the small figure in the water. Two stupid men doing man things and fighting over their honour and who won a parking place on the river, that was one thing. No real harm done, except some broken heads, some wounded pride and a lot of work for carpenters. Gresham never thought if this whole farrago was worth the life of a worthless child. People do not think in these situations. Either they do, or they step back. Gresham was incapable of stepping back.

The finery on his back, understated though it was, would have kept a peasant and his family in food for a year. Oh, to hell with it. Life was about more than possessions.

To the amusement of his men, guffawing now at the ease with which they had bested the Earl of Essex and oblivious to the boy in the water, Gresham mounted the stern and dived cleanly into the water, his hat flying off as he did so and bobbing gently behind him.

His breath left him as the cold of the water bit through his clothes and into his flesh. The boy was going down for the third time, and sank just before Gresham reached him. Mentally bisecting the angle, Gresham kicked his heels and dived under, hand outstretched, knowing the murk of the Thames would hide the boy from him. His flailing hand grabbed hold of something — cloth? Gresham drove upwards. He drew in a huge gasp of air as he reached the surface, and saw with relief that it was indeed the boy he had grabbed. Flipping himself over on his back, he rested the child, spluttering and struggling feebly as he was, on his chest. He reached the jetty to a rousing cheer from a hundred or so bystanders, shouting partly because they were impressed, but also because they were ashamed that they, who had seen the drowning boy, had not felt inclined to risk themselves in the water. Reaching the scarred and tide-scorched rough wood of the jetty, Gresham heaved the boy onto dry land by sheer brute force. Overcome temporarily by exhaustion, he waited before heaving himself out, a ludicrous, drenched figure in Court dress, and hatless.

'Are you all right?' he asked the boy, who was wild-eyed with terror, and wetting himself. The boy's eyes connected with his rescuer.

'Fuck off, mister!' he said with a squeak, and repeated it for good measure. 'You fuck off, you!' He picked himself up, and ran off with a shambling gait into the crowd, a master of urban disguise.

Gresham felt a hand grab the back of his sodden doublet and, with surprising strength, haul him out of the water. His own men had formed a protective cordon round him, once they had realised what was happening, but they had obviously let someone through. Was it Mannion? No. It was the Earl of Essex.

A hand plonked something on top of Gresham's head. It was his hat.

'Well, Sir Henry,' said the Earl of Essex, 'at least you're wearing something that's partly dry. I picked up your hat from the water just as you dived in.'

'Thank you, my Lord,' said Gresham, spluttering a little.

However hard one tried, water always seemed to get into the lungs in escapades like this. 'It wouldn't do to be seen hatless in company.'

'Quite,' said the Earl, as if the conversation they were having was the most normal thing on earth. 'Now you must tell me, how did you train those men of yours to be so superb? Outstanding. Quite outstanding. If Philip Sidney had had men like that around him he'd be alive now. You must tell me how you did it.'

As the realisation of the stupidity of it all hit him, Gresham could no longer restrain his laughter. It burst out of him.

And to his surprise, Gresham heard Essex join him in the laughter. After all, life was a farce, wasn't it? A bad joke played on humanity, their punishment for feeling pain? Was Essex the only other man in the world who saw how ludicrous it all was?

Gresham allowed himself to be helped to his feet. The laughter subsiding, he looked at Essex. 'Forgive me, my Lord,' he said, with a formal slight bow. 'You are most gracious, and I am very silly.'

Essex looked at him, something glancing behind his eyes, lighting them up. 'Fuck off, mister,' he said.

And both men collapsed into yet more uncontrollable laughter.

Gresham was leaving visible puddles behind him as he walked with Essex into the courtyard of the Palace. Mannion followed a dutiful few paces behind, clucking like an ancient hen over a lost chick. He made it clear, without saying a word, what he thought about people who dived in to rescue a child no one would miss. From behind came various gurgling and sloshing sounds, and a torrent of swearing. Gresham glanced over his shoulder. An incandescent Gelli Meyrick was being hauled out of the river, his extravagant dress reduced to a sodden sponge, ruined.

'Shouldn't we wait for your… secretary, my Lord?' asked Gresham.

'He will look after himself,' said Essex carelessly. 'Gelli is very good at that. It's actually what he does best. If he needs me for anything, you can be sure he'll ask.'

They walked on in silence for a few moments, past the guards at the water gate, who drew their pikes up to attention in a salute to Essex. He pretended not to notice. Gresham suspected that had they not shown him this sign of respect they would have had the roasting of their lives. That was the trouble with real aristocracy, thought Mannion: treat you like a brother one minute then have you up for being too familiar.

'I've a room here in the Palace, and some old rags,' said Essex airily. 'I'm taller than you, but they'll fit you passably, I imagine, and I'm sure we can rustle up a towel.'

They walked on for a few more yards. Only Gresham would have noticed the slightest of changes in Essex's step.

'An urchin,' said Essex casually. 'A vagabond of no worth, destined to grow up a thief or a villain, or worse. Why did you risk yourself for him?'

Gresham's tone was the only dry thing about him.

'He is of no worth to us. I suspect to himself he is worth quite a lot.'

Very few people other than the Queen's servants kept a room in the Palace, particularly a large, beamed room with a generous fireplace and splendid views out over the river. Even fewer kept a stock of clothing that would have doubled the wardrobe of many a gentleman.