Martin Stephen: The galleon's grave

The Queen hated any talk of death, had banished courtiers for seeming even to hint at it. It was the Queen who spoke next. The tone was harsh, condemnatory.

'Why did you risk your life? Your honour? You had been set up as a spy for Spain. Only one man knew the truth. With him dead, as you thought, you lose your lands, your wealth, the respect of your countrymen, everything a man lives for. Why did you go on?'

'I…' Gresham hunted desperately for the words. 'Your Majesty, you have brought peace to this country. There would be no peace in England under a Catholic King. And if I needed further persuasion, I saw the bodies of ordinary people, half-eaten by wolves, outside the walls of Ostend. I met the Duke of Parma, a great man, a great Prince and a great leader, and spending his whole life plotting the death and destruction of fellow men, turning the country he fights for into a desert.' He paused, trying to roll all his half-understood feelings into one tight ball of words. 'Sometimes a person has to take a very great risk, if he is to achieve a very great reward.'

'You took an unpardonable risk in offering my Crown to another, Henry Gresham. An unpardonable risk. A treasonous risk.'

Well, that was that. There was no jury in the bowels of the Tower of London. And no justice. Suddenly the tiredness hit him, his mind started to dissolve, his eyelids pressing as if a ton weight was forcing them to close. From somewhere he heard his own voice. 'So be it, Your Majesty. What's done can't be changed. Yet 1 acted for what I believed to be the best. I betrayed none of my countrymen. I beg your mercy to grant me a clean death. Give me my dignity, if I can't have my life.'

'Fetch me a sword.' There was a peremptory bark in the Queen's voice. A darkened blade was hurriedly pulled off the wall, a sword of a design that had been fashionable fifty years ago. Yet for all its dullness, the blade was sharp, Gresham saw. Heated until red hot and the flat of the blade placed on human flesh? Forced into men's bodies to tear and gnaw? There was only one reason for a sword in a room such as this.

He felt the blade prick into his neck, tensed himself. A moment of pain, and then blessed relief. Would they bury him here, under the stones of the Tower, he wondered, or bury him in the light and good soil?

The sword lifted, and touched one shoulder. It lifted again, and hung poised. It was heavy, but for all her age the Queen seemed to feel no discomfort with its weight. Why was her face blurring and the image of Henry VIII seeming to impose itself on her face?

'If this sword descends on your other shoulder, you are Sir Henry Gresham. The first to be knighted thus in this desperate place.' For a moment the Queen's hatred of where she stood showed clear, and then it vanished. 'Yet if it bites into your neck, then you are indeed the dead man you have thought you were these many weeks. The choice is yours. Do you give me your word that you will speak of these events to no one while I live, and to no one for the term of your life, howsoever long it might be, regarding your offer of my crown to the Duke of Parma? Do you give me your word that there is no written record of these events? And do you give me your solemn word that if you believe that servant of yours, who clearly knows all of your secrets, is ever likely to tell anyone then he will die at your own hand?'

'Of course,' said Gresham. What need had he to tell others? And Mannion would commit suicide rather than betray his master and his friend.

'And do you give your solemn oath that despite your hatred of my little pygmy here, you will not pursue him in vengeance but rather will work with him for my greater need if and when I so command it?'

That was harder. Far harder. Too hard to justify a life? 'I do so swear.'

The silence stretched into eternity.

'Then you are Sir Henry Gresham.' The sword touched his other shoulder, with intense lightness. 'I will forgive you for not standing. Yet you may kiss my hand.'

He struggled to get himself upright. No one offered to help. All those present could sense the importance of his doing it himself. Gasping, weary beyond belief, he found himself sitting on the edge of the rack, that foul thing of torture. He bent his head, and kissed the cold, white hand of the Queen. She nodded, matter of factly, and turned to Cecil.

'Your time will come, Robert Cecil. You have a usefulness for me, and before you protest your loyalty, I know it. Your loyalty is based on your seeing me as the route to power and influence. His…' she gestured to Gresham, swaying gently, 'is based on something different. Together, your hatred binds you to me. I can and will use that unity of opposites. And as I have bound Sir Henry to swear, so do I you. You will cease to pursue this man with your vengeance, and will work with him for my greater need if I so command it. Do you so swear?'

'I swear, Your Majesty.' Cecil knew when to shut up as well, thought Gresham with a strange, sneaking admiration. It sounded as if he was the one who needed the water now.

'Remember,' said the Queen, who had been declared illegitimate on the execution of her mother, looking appraisingly at Gresham, 'there is need in the world for bastards. And as for you, Robert Cecil,' she said, turning finally to him, 'it was not Henry Gresham who first called you my little pygmy. It was your own father.'

She swept out and up the stairs, the men bowing their heads.

September, 1588 London

Mannion and two servants from The House had come downinto the dank chamber, empty now of its high-born visitor and with only the jailer present. The two servants were shivering, with cold or fear, or with both. Mannion was simply tight-lipped, eyes narrowed to slits. He visibly relaxed when he saw Gresham still in one piece. He helped dress Gresham with surprising tenderness, saying little. He made only one sharp movement, when the jailer came close in an apparent offer to help. Mannion's snarl was that of a wolf defending its young. The jailer recoiled against the dripping wall. Minutes earlier he had been willing to turn the wheel that would have torn Gresham apart, and Mannion knew it. Only at the very end, as Gresham was standing, balancing on his legs as if learning how to walk anew, was there any sign of relaxation.

'Well,' said Mannion grimly, 'you could always walk without my help when you were plain Henry Gresham. Now you're Sir Henry Gresham, will you need a servant to help you walk as well?'

'I'd walk on water if it meant getting out of this place,' said Gresham, whose world still tended disconcertingly to swim round him.

The servants waiting for them at The House acted differently. Even more deferential. Scared, frightened at what they had heard — when a master was executed the servants had good reason to fear for their lives — yet proud of their master's knighthood, excited by the wild stories of how it had been earned. They gathered round in the courtyard, whether they had reason to be there or not, as the bedraggled figure of their master more or less fell off his horse, only just managing to stand upright.

Anna was different. Even in his present state he sensed that. Where had the girl gone? This was a woman now, with immense authority. She bowed formally to him, and he to her, as best his body would allow. Then, at last, the three of them were together again.

'When you told me all the truths I could not believe it! So much plot and double plot! And you so sure you would die!'

‘It's only luck that 'e didn't, Miss,' said Mannion, 'and 'e would have taken me along with him, of course. Not that that matters, of course. I'm just a servant.'

They were in the library of The House, Gresham's favourite room. At long last he could lick his lips or place his tongue on the back of his hand and taste no salt. He felt clean, scrubbed, rejuvenated. Soon it would be back to Cambridge, the battle with the Fellowship, the back-breaking task of rebuilding Granville College in body and spirit.