Martin Stephen: The Conscience of the King

With hindsight, his failure to kill Shakespeare had saved him.

The man he had known as William Hall must know where the papers are, must have lied to Marlowe's spy when he said in his cups that they were stored at The Globe. His revenge would have been wonderfully byzantine, but the devil must be guarding him so that Shakespeare was still living. He would talk, again. And this time Marlowe would make sure it was the truth.

In the meantime, there were other debts to be paid. It would be too simple to kill Henry Gresham. Gresham must suffer, as Marlowe had suffered over the years. There was a most enjoyable way of achieving that end, he thought, as a grin seemed to tear his scarred face even further.

Late May, 1612 The Merchant's House, Trumpington, near Cambridge

"It stinks!' said Mannion. 'As usual, he hasn't told you half of it, and the half he hasn't told you is what'll get you killed.'

They were in the library. Gresham had had it built on when he had first bought The Merchant's House, with long windows set almost from ceiling to floor and a gallery. It was less splendid than the library at his London home, known simply as The House, but somehow it felt more like home. He loved the smoke-free sky of East Anglia and the glorious cacophony of light in its sunsets and sunrise. He loved the mist over the meadows in the morning, and the thrusting turrets of King's College Chapel, forcing themselves to dominate the Fenland on the ride from Trumpington to Cambridge. He loved his relationship with Granville College of the University of Cambridge. His college. His contribution to history. His only contribution until the arrival of Walter and Anna, his children after a lifetime when he had thought himself barren.

'Of course it stinks. Do you think I'm fool enough to believe that what Robert Cecil chooses to tell me is even half the truth?' Gresham was pacing the room. In front of him were Mannion and Jane, his council of war. Gresham had been a bastard son. He had never known his mother. The whispers had been there as long as he could remember. The fabulously wealthy but elderly banker widowed, his only child dead. The enforced guardianship of Lady Mary Keys, sister of Lady Jane Grey and victim of an imprudent marriage. There was no one left now to confirm or deny Sir Thomas Gresham's secret, the name of Henry Gresham's mother. At least the distant, cold figure of his father had taken the boy in, clothed and fed him, let him roam like a wild young puppy through the house. He was left to drag himself up in its entrails, adopted in a strange father and son relationship by Mannion, himself a boy just turned man. Mannion had been the only servant Gresham's father had trusted near him in his final days. Gresham had been a non-person, a boy with no real status, a servant yet not a servant, gentry yet not gentry. A bastard, but with noble blood. He had inherited the fabulous Gresham wealth when he was nine years old. The servants who had been there remembered the thin, wire-straight boy with round eyes gazing steadily into those of the ancient lawyer, eyes that did not flicker as the nine-year-old was told he was now one of the richest men in the country. Henry Gresham had learned very young how to withdraw into himself. He had first learned how to fight when, on his rambling through the night streets of London, street urchins had sensed the smell of money and set upon him. He had learned at times of crisis to force all other thoughts from his head, to develop a concentration of almost unnatural power and ferocity. He was showing it now, pacing like a wild beast up and down the room, almost unaware of the others in it.

'What do we actually know?' he asked, punching out the words.

It was Jane who answered. She could not keep the tension out of her voice, nor, to her regret, the fear. She knew fear was weakness, prayed that her weakness might not in some way reduce his respect for her.

'We know that whenever Cecil's entered our lives in the past, your life's been put at risk. The man's like some evil daemon, a harbinger of death, pain and suffering. He asked you to get involved in two things: these letters and the manuscripts.'

The tiny part of Gresham's brain that was always distanced from him, watching, waiting, picked up the tension and the fear in Jane's voice. A sharp pang cut across his heart. Fool! How easy for him to turn his agony of worry into the exquisite release of action. How terrible for her, condemned by the way men and women lived to be the passive recipient of his actions. His step did not falter. His eyes did not flicker. He would act, and speak to that fear. Later.

'Let's start with the incriminating letters. Would James be fool enough to write in explicit terms to his lover?' Gresham was acting as devil's advocate.

'Yes,' said Jane firmly. 'The ladies at Court say he kisses this Robert Carr full on the lips in public. They also say he fingers his codpiece as he walks along with him. Quite openly. That's not just a man taking his pleasure. It's someone who wants to fling what he's doing in people's faces, or who's simply forgotten to be discreet. Either way, it's hardly more of a risk writing letters. It's like when he fingers his codpiece, only he's getting pleasure from his pen.'

'Did you say his pen?' asked Mannion, confused.

'Yes,' said Jane with a look that would have frozen hell. 'Pen.'

'Ah…' said Gresham thoughtfully. 'Well, let's concede that King James could be so… blown away by passion as to put his experiences into writing.' He grinned at Jane, which annoyed her. As this had been his aim, he carried on with renewed vigour.

'But how damaging would such letters be?'

'Very damaging,' said Jane. She was in her stride now, given a role, certain of herself. She knew she was Gresham's eyes and ears, knew his total trust of her judgement. 'The Puritans get louder and louder as the Court gets more and more openly sinful. The Puritans are increasingly powerful in Parliament, and James needs Parliament to approve the money to fund his goings-on.' Jane listened to all the Court gossip and reported back, to Gresham. Just as importantly, she listened to the gossip among the booksellers at St Paul's, with whom she had long been a favourite and was almost a mascot. 'The Puritans are looking to Prince Henry to bring a new age of goodness and purity to Court. I suppose they could always try to speed things up and get James to abdicate.' 'So where does that leave us?'

'The manuscripts.' Jane was away now, allowing her mind free rein. 'The stolen play scripts. They have to be more important than Cecil's owning up to, however damaging these letters might be. That's how Cecil's mind has always worked. Always give a dog a bone, and hide the butcher's shop from him.'

'You know how crucial these manuscripts are to the players.' Gresham was unconvinced. 'It's not unreasonable for The King's Men to put in a plea to the King's Chief Secretary to get them back, particularly if the thief is linked to the letters. Yet their value only holds good for other players or rival companies — and the actors might get drunk and brawl but they've never killed each other before for a stolen manuscript. What's so important about these plays? I know there's a power in the theatres Cecil's scared of, something he can't control for once, something that could challenge his law and order.'

'We don't know,' said Jane. 'But Cecil did, and that's what matters. There has to be something we're not being told. They're always is with Cecil.'

'There's something else that bothers me. Why steal only two manuscripts? If you're going to go as far as to murder an old man for them, you may as well take the whole lot.'