Martin Stephen: The Conscience of the King

'So what is my role in all of this?' asked Gresham, frantically working to process the information he had received.

'Sir Edward Coke is a lawyer, not a spy or a diplomat. Whoever has these letters needs to be found, then killed or bought off. Coke would kill readily enough, but he only knows how to do so by means of the law. He lacks the skill to find a secret package, and lacks the experience of dealing with its owner once found. Skills you have in plenty, Sir Henry. And you, of course, know Cambridge very well.'

Gresham's use of his father's wealth to refound Granville College in Cambridge was widely known.

'I am to mind Sir Edward? One of the people I despise most on earth?'

'You have worked with me plenty of times. In comparison, your hatred of Sir Edward is mere flash-frying, while mine has lingered long in the oven.'

'And why should I help?'

'Firstly, because for all your oft-expressed selfishness and lack of faith in anything, you know that peace, continuity and stability are the most important things for this country. These letters threaten all three. Secondly, because Sir Edward needs watching. He is a man of overweening self-importance and ambition. In his heart he does not believe in the absolute power of the king, but in the absolute power of the law — the law as defined and exercised by himself, of course. As things stand, he wishes to find these letters and destroy them. It would take little for him to use them instead to destroy the King. I think you would not wish your enemy to have such power.'

'So I am to find some letters that could blow the present King into hell, but do so while allowing a man I hate above all others to think that it is he who has found the letters. Then I am to watch him, and if needs be kill one of the country's leading lawyers in order to allow a sodomite king uninterrupted access to his pleasures for the remainder of his natural life. And at the same time I am to find stolen manuscripts of plays written by a man who betrayed the one man I truly love.'

'An admirable summary, Sir Henry,' muttered Cecil. 'You miss the final point, however. And by so doing, preserve peace and the reputation of the monarchy.'

'And do you trust me to do all this?'

'I trust you to do the right thing for all the wrong reasons. I trust you to take this whole sorry mess on board because it has the raw smell of danger, and for no other reason. I trust you to think it through after you have taken the decision, and to discuss it with your beauty of a wife and your clod of a servant, and then through the red haze of your excitement see some sense to it. And I trust you to survive, Henry Gresham. For that is your code, is it not? Survival as the prime virtue? For as long, that is, as God decides to spare you an illness such as mine.'

The raw hatred of Gresham, and of his own plight, that burned out of Cecil's eyes would have heated an ocean to beyond boiling.

Gresham took the decision that Cecil had known he would.

Til assist Sir Edward. It will be amusing to see how long he can cope with help from someone he loathes.'

'Sir Edward loathes everybody. And he would work with Satan if he thought Satan would help him win his case.'

'Well,' said Gresham lightly, 'you'll soon have the edge on us all. You'll be able to ask Satan yourself, face to face.'

'At least I believe in God, Sir Henry,' grated Cecil. 'At least I may intercede with Him. You, who have no belief, will surely go to hell.'

'If there is a God, He and not you will decide that. As for death, I prefer Master Shakespeare's vision of an "undiscovered country". Perhaps I'll be able to present the record of my life to an unbiased judge when I die. Perhaps, and God forbid, I'll meet the reincarnation of Sir Edward Coke. Perhaps I'll sense nothing except sweet oblivion. You're right, I've no certainty. I echo a line from Hamlet: "The readiness is all." There, you see, I do know Master Shakespeare's work.' He paused for a moment. 'I'm ready for whatever I meet, Robert Cecil. Are you?'

For a long moment Gresham thought he had killed Cecil. His head had slumped forward, his breathing had become inaudible. Just as Gresham was about to test to see if there was a pulse in Cecil's neck, Cecil raised his head.

'"The readiness is all"? We are ready in our different ways, I think, and I am certainly ready for what I will meet after death.' Cecil's voice seemed increasingly to be coming from a pile of stinking blankets and not a human being.

Gresham rose to his feet. 'I'll arrange to meet Sir Edward in London,' he said lightly. 'Goodbye, my lord. We shan't meet again, I fear. I could pretend regret. You'd see it as a lie. I wish you well on the journey you're about to take.'

'There is only one certainty, Henry Gresham. It is that you will take that same journey, sooner or later.'

'That's why I wished you well,' said Gresham as he left the room. 'And I intend, my lord, to make it later.'

He did not turn round to take a last look at Robert Cecil, First Earl of Salisbury. He wondered, as he slammed the door, whether the dust from the hangings would settle on Cecil, and how long it would be before someone thought to brush it off.

May, 1612 Sir Francis Bacon's Residence, London

Besides of the fire, outwardly companionable enough. Sir Francis, author of some of the greatest works of natural science ever written; Bishop Andrewes, prime component in the greatest translation of the Holy Bible ever published. The two men had waved the servants away, and brought two chairs closer to the blazing hearth. It was summer, but the old stone of the building kept the chill that was so welcome on a hot day but which could bite into the bones at night.

There was a wariness between the two men, something admitted by Bacon.

'We're old friends, my lord Bishop,' said Bacon, gazing into the fire, his hand loosely clasping the goblet of wine. 'Yet it shouldn't be so.'

A thin smile crossed the face of Lancelot Andrewes, Bishop of

Ely.

'And why shouldn't the King's Solicitor General and his Bishop of Ely be the best friends in the world?' Andrewes replied lightly. 'We've known each other for many years now. You certainly need someone to safeguard your soul, and at times I need someone to tell me about the way of the real world. We face a common threat, after all. We're both deemed by others to be men of wit. And we've both been disappointed, I think…'

It had been a year since King James had made another, weaker man Archbishop of Canterbury, when all the world and its priests thought Andrewes was the only candidate. As for Bacon, his lifelong battle for preferment seemed to have stalled on the rock of Sir Edward Coke, apparently the lawyer more trusted by King James.

'All of which is true,' said Bacon, not turning to look at his companion. 'But the real reason's elsewhere. You see…' And now he turned to look Andrewes full in the face. 'You, for all your ambition, are a main of morals. I, for all my ambition, have none.'

'All men have morals,' replied Andrewes mildly, his eyes amused despite himself.

'Perhaps. But mine appear to have been lost by the wayside at an early age. It doesn't make me an evil man, you understand.' Bacon spoke as if lecturing a child. 'Indeed, the fact that I've placed self-interest above morality, and made it my substitute, means I'm actually very predictable. Far more so than many who've been bitten by the illness of religion. For example, I'm quite likely to spare someone because they amuse me, rather than kill them because they have a different religion.'

'There's a difference between religion and faith,' answered Andrewes. 'Religion is the institution man erects around faith, and because it comes from man it must be fallible. Faith is what we're given from God. It's pure.'