Martin Stephen - The Desperate remedy

'Good heavens!' said Cecil softly. 'Such wickedness!'

'I know, my Lord,' said Gresham, shaking his head in sadness, 'such wickedness is almost beyond the imagining of men of good conscience such as you and me. However, I am reassured in my heart. You see, I have weapons against such villainy.'

'You do?' enquired Cecil, his voice caressing Gresham.

'I do, my Lord. You see,' he leant forward to whisper the information near to Cecil's ear, 'I have letters from Sir Francis to the Infanta of Spain offering his support to her claim to succeed Her Majesty the Queen upon Her Majesty's most untimely death — whilst at the same time he was expressing his total loyal service to His Majesty King James when His Majesty was King of Scotland! Can you imagine such infamous double-dealing from a servant of the Crown! And what is more, these letters have Sir Francis's very own personal seal on them, the seal he never lets off his hand. They are potent proof, beyond the wit of even the best forger.'

'And how,' said Cecil in a voice that was almost also a whisper, 'did you acquire these letters?'

'I murdered the messenger that was taking them to Spain, as he sought to board a ship in Dover,' said Gresham flatly. 'You will understand, I am sure, my Lord. We servants of the King have sometimes to take drastic action to preserve the peace. They are good letters, remember. The hand and the style are unmistakable, and, as I said, they are sealed with… Sir Francis's seal. His special signet. I believe he uses it still.'

Gresham did not glance at the signet ring on Cecil's finger, the ring containing his personal seal. Nor did Cecil.

'Yet Sir Francis could still do you great harm, Sir Henry. The Papist threat is ever with us. You would do well not to be implicated.'

It had taken very little time for Cecil to pick up the code.

'That is true, my Lord. But were you ever familiar with the work of that great rogue, Kit Marlowe? The lines are from his Doctor Faustus. I believe it is Mephistopheles who speaks them.

"It is great consolation to the damned to have companions in distress."

If Sir Francis succeeds in implicating me, I know of course I would have your Lordship's support in any charges brought against me. Your Lordship has always supported his friends.'

Take that in Raleigh's name, and for his sake!

‘Not to mention the support of several Bishops in the House of Lords who know my fervent Anglicanism. Even were that mighty support to fail, I would at least have the comfort of knowing that I would drag my accuser down to Hell alongside of me.'

'So many secrets, Sir Henry. So many secrets,' mused Cecil. His eyes swivelled back from the window where they had rested their gaze, and fixed on Gresham. There was no change in the tone of his voice, or the posture of his body.

'Tell me, does Sir Francis know that you once sodomised a young man in the Low Countries, and that the young man in question was executed in a most gruesome manner when you refused to acknowledge your crime? I am sure that your… niece knows what happened. I understand you are very close to her. And that servant of yours… and the students in the fine College you have endowed in Cambridge, and its Fellows. It is in the nature of academics to be forgiving, of course, and they and students never gossip or laugh at a man… how could they, when their studies bring them so close to God? No, I am sure those who have cause to love you will find forgiveness in their hearts, should this thing become known…'

The sinking feeling, as if given a sudden blow to the stomach. He had known it would come. This was what had been in the papers Cecil had stolen from Walsingham, in the paper that Cecil had produced in order to blackmail him into going on that stupid mission overseas so long ago. He had steeled himself for it, knew that Cecil would not be able to resist playing his final card. It was a victory over Cecil, after all. It was Cecil declaring his hand, when he, Gresham, had cards in hiding still. Victory; yet it hurt still like the pains of Hell.

No-one looking at Gresham's neck would have seen the tick of his pulse increase. There was no film of sweat on his brow. Knowing that the human eye could sense the tiniest tightening of muscle — it was the sense that had kept him alive on several occasions — he forced his muscles to relax, kept himself draped nonchalantly over his chair.

'You are kind in your concern for my past, my Lord, and for my future. As it is, I told Sir Francis Bacon of the incident to which you refer.'

The tiniest, tiniest flicker of a muscle in Cecil's eye… Always start a lie with a truth…

'And my niece and servant know everything I know and everything I have been…'

Which if I have knocked you off your guard you will not realise does not include everything I have done… Now. Now was the time. Now he signed his death warrant, or arranged a little longer life for himself, for Jane and for Mannion…

'Yet you are correct, my Lord. I know my secrets are safe with such as your Lordship, yet it would cause me grief if some were to know of what you speak. There is a further matter.'

It was vital that Gresham injected the right blend of bitterness, near-shame and worry into his voice if he was to be believed.

'I am… ill, my Lord.'

'You are?' said Cecil, coming to life, and with a gleam of hope in his voice. 'I am saddened to hear it.'

For only the briefest moment Gresham was tempted to confess to the plague, if only to see how fast Cecil could run.

'It is… a growth, my Lord, here in my side.' It was actually a penny loaf, strapped to his side whilst still warm from the kitchens, but producing a suitable lump just under his ribcage, bulging under his satin doublet. Thank God Cecil did not keep hounds in his hall. They would have sniffed at the doublet and in all probability tried to drag the bread from under his shirt.

'I am told it is serious. It would have been most interesting to pursue Sir Francis, to enact revenge for his assaults on my person, but unless I obtain total rest I am assured that I will do to myself what Sir Francis's men tried to do to me. I am leaving London, my Lord, with those closest to me. It will be difficult for Sir Francis to find me out. I am practised in hiding. Should I be pursued or harried any more I have made arrangements for the letters I mentioned to be delivered to someone who hates him, and who will guarantee sight of them to the King.'

That would set Cecil dunking. The list of men with good cause to hate him would stretch three times round Whitehall and still reach all the way to the Tower. And they did say the King liked younger men, men with straight bodies and golden hair…

'I wish you a full and speedy recovery, Sir Henry. You are master of your own affairs. But if indeed you propose to "vanish", as you put it, I am sure Sir Francis would not over-exert himself in finding you. He will feel, I am sure, that his point has been made. Men such as he hate meddlers, do they not?'

'It would appear that men such as Sir Francis Bacon do not just hate meddlers, my Lord. It would appear they try to murder them.' Gresham drew a deep breath. 'Which leads on to my final question, my Lord.

'Why was Will Shadwell killed?'

Gresham put the ragged edge on his voice, forced the sweat to coat his forehead. A man required to control too much, a man for whom serious illness and the ordeal of a growth being hacked from his side was pushing him over the edge, a man desperate to clear his affairs in the knowledge that he might not be of this earth for too much longer — all these Gresham tried to cram into his question.

‘Shadwell?' said Cecil. 'Shadwell? I do not think I…'

'My Lord!' Gresham interrupted him, made his breathing heavy, short, let his hand creep to his side as to contain pain. 'Enough of this play-acting! It was a game I played once. I am not the person I hope to be at this time. I lack patience. Time is not my friend. Will Shadwell was murdered, on your orders. The murderer has sworn this is so. Will Shadwell was my man. Foul thing he may have been, but he was bound to me as my servant. He who kills my servant stains my honour. I have redeemed that honour by killing the man who killed Shadwell. Can we for this once speak plain? Why did my man have to die?'