Martin Stephen - The rebel heart

'You're probably right,' said Gresham.

'I should come with you,' said Mannion.

'It wouldn't work. Even you can't fight off all Essex's men, and they'd separate us immediately. Probably torture you to find out if you knew anything. Or just for the fun of it. You know it's got to be me. And why.'

Gresham had told Mannion what he thought was the truth as they had ridden down towards Essex House. To his relief, Mannion had not laughed, but had agreed.

'Yeah,' he said with a vast sigh. 'That figures. It's just what them bastards would do, isn't it? Clever, though. You got to give them that. Well, that's it then,' he said. Then he did something extraordinary. He got off his horse, came up to Gresham and enveloped him in a vast bear hug. Gresham gasped. It was like being clutched by a large hairy carpet. Mannion let go, and the breath returned to Gresham's chest.

'You bloody well survive!' said Mannion, 'or I'll never forgive you.' He rode away with both horses into the dark. It was, of course, a trick of the light that suggested the phlegmatic Mannion had tears in his eyes.

Some soothing influence must have been released into Gresham's blood as he walked up to the gates of Essex House. He felt nothing, no fear, no tension. Calmly he said to the man on the gate, 'My name is Sir Henry Gresham. I am an ex-friend of the Earl's and I have vital news for him.'

A startled look came over the man's face, but he opened the small gate cut into the huge wooden one, ushered Gresham in and shut it quickly behind him. The scene in the yard was like a vision of hell. A furious fire was blazing, sparks flying up into the night air, and all around men were walking, talking, doing exercises, oiling weapons or sitting silently in corners, guns and swords laid carefully on their laps. The guard whispered to another man, who waved a hand and called two others over.

Now it begins, thought Gresham, tensing himself for the first blow. Instead, the three men took him across the yard, spoke briefly to the man acting as a sergeant, handed him over and went back to their stations. The sergeant listened politely to his story, motioned him to sit on one of the crude boxes littering the yard, and called to a man whose long cloak concealed the dress of a gentleman.

It was Gervase Markham, the young officer Gresham had struck up a friendship with in Ireland. He did not look nearly so happy to see him now.

'Are you mad?' he hissed. 'Meyrick and the rest of them are saying you're Cecil's creature, one of the causes of the Earl's disfavour. The rumour is you outwitted them at the theatre, and they're spitting. Get out while you can! You're only still alive because I've got my men on duty, and they still have some semblance of training.'

For the first time in this awful business was God smiling on him?

'Firstly, can you get me in to see Essex? Or at least into the room he's in? I promise I won't harm him, or cause harm to him in any way. Secondly, get out of here, Gervase. This is no place for a real soldier. You're being used, all of you, used in a foul plot. It's you who should get out while you can. You can't win. And even if you seem to have won, you'll have lost. Believe me.'

Markham looked at him for a moment, gave a brief nod and said, 'Keep your hat low down over your brow. They're having a Council of War. All the good men and true.' Markham's sense of irony had not left him. 'I'll open the door for you. I doubt you'll ever get out.'

'That's my choice, isn't it? And thank you.'

'It's a pleasure,' said Markham lightly. 'Things are always more fun when you're around. More dangerous, but more fun.'

Another strange echo, this time of what Gresham had always said of Essex.

They skirted the edge of the yard, hiding in the gargantuan shadows thrown up by the fire, and climbed two sets of stairs. Men hurried past them, all heavily armed, but set on their own business.

Markham opened the door, and suddenly they were in the dining hail of Essex House, a long, imposing room with a vaulted ceiling and portraits along each wall. The fire was piled high with huge logs, so high that flames must almost be pouring out of the chimney. Huge, flickering shadows were being thrown round the room with ten or twelve candles in one spot, then yards where there was no light at all. A sudden silence descended.

Davies stood up, knocking his stool back with the force of the movement.

'Kill him!'he said.

'No!' said another voice. It was Essex. He was wild-eyed, seemed to have lost weight since Gresham had last seen him, and was dressed in full Court rig. Was he planning to break in on the Queen again? Or did he simply feel one ought to be properly dressed to ride to one's death?

'My Lord,' said Gresham, hoping these would not be his last words, 'I have something you must know. Something that affects this enterprise and yourself most crucially.'

The silence lengthened, unbearably.

'Tell me,' said Essex finally, his voice thin.

'The thousand men. The militia. The men summoned by Sheriff Smith — the men you are counting on for tomorrow — they do not exist. They have been disbanded. Sheriff Smith has been warned off and told that the Crown knows of his disloyalty.'

'And who has done this?'

'I have,' said Gresham. A rumble as of thunder swept round the room. Two or three of the twenty or so men gathered there reached for their swords. Essex held out his hand to stay them.

'And why did you do so?'

'To save you and your honour. Because I know who is behind those thousand men, know now who is forcing you into rebellion. My Lord, you-'

The blow to the back of his head was savage. He had heard nothing. As his conscience splintered and then broke, he had just one glimpse of his attacker as he slumped to the floor.

Cameron. Cameron Johnstone.

It was dark when he came to, his head split by pain, his doublet sticky with blood. He was being cradled by someone, a damp cloth wiping his face and head. He reached for his sword and the hidden dagger. Both gone. He had been disarmed. His feet were tied together, cruelly tight. There were fragments of rope round his wrists.

'Your hands were blue,' said George, holding him like a baby. 'So I cut through the rope when they stopped talking before your hands fell off.'

Gresham tried to struggle up, but pain lanced through his head, pierced his eyes, and he fell back into George's arms.

'And for once, you've got it wrong,' said George, continuing to sponge gently, ever so gently, at his wound. 'The great Henry Gresham, master spy and master of all intrigue got it wrong. Completely wrong. Those thousand men, Smith's militia. They weren't designed to win Essex the rebellion. They were designed to make him lose it.'

'Were they?' said Gresham wondering if this was a dream. They seemed to be in the dining hall still, the fire half banked up and flickering, candles and lamps around the room, some of them out. There were men asleep, snoring, round the walls. That would be why George was whispering, so as not to wake the men. Gresham had not lost his hearing after all. 'How is that so?' he managed to mumble.

'Cameron made me the go-between with Smith. Oh, don't worry. Cameron's working for Cecil still. Actually, he's working for James, but Cecil wants James as King, so it's the same thing. But Cameron's clever enough to make Essex think that James is on his side. I wasn't tarnished, you see, with any of the Court intrigue. People thought I hated Essex so I could see Smith without any suspicion being raised. Cameron told Essex I was a double agent — that he'd cultivated me for years. That's why I'm here. Essex thinks I'm one of his men! Cameron hates Essex as well. So does James. Essex thinks Cameron and James love him. Do you understand?'

Gresham managed to move a little this time, and get his head above his chest. Maybe if there was a little less blood going to his head it might hurt just a little less.