'The wisest fool in Christendom' an ambassador had called James. Son of Mary, Queen of Scots, he had been in his mother's womb when a group of Scottish nobles had murdered her lover, Rizzio, with cold steel in front of her. It was said he had a horror of naked blades from birth. Of no great natural beauty or form, his tongue was too large for his mouth and he was prone to slobbering as a result. He rarely washed, and seemed not to notice the filth that accumulated on the fine clothes he wore. Addicted to fresh fruit, his bouts of diarrhoea were legendary among those who had to clean his linen. Sweet wines were his other addiction. Few had seen him really drunk; even fewer had ever met him cold sober. Increasingly driving the late Robert Cecil, his Chief Secretary, to despair, James had spent more and more money as his reign progressed, perhaps a reaction to the poor, cold country of his birth and its famous poverty. And then there was his obvious lack of interest in women, and his attachment to young men.
Yet he must never be underestimated, Gresham reminded himself now. The King could order his and Jane's death immediately. This man had survived as King of Scotland, a country that ate its monarchs like others ate meat. While James was increasingly handing power to Parliament and the Puritans by his indolence and inaction, there was no hint of rebellion in the country. James was a writer and an intellect of no small merit. Like any king, he only enjoyed debates he was guaranteed to win, but the sharpness of his mind — when he cared to use it — had always been, clear. King James I had an instinct for survival.
But so did Henry Gresham. And he had no doubt that it was his survival that formed the agenda for today's meeting.
James did not stand as Gresham and Jane were ushered in through the creaking door, and Mannion forced to stand by the back wall by the armed guards. Deliberate rudeness? Indolence? Or simply the Scottish informality James was renowned for, when it suited him? He had the pair of them at an immediate disadvantage, of course. Gresham was dressed as a mason, Jane as a housewife. The guards had taken the weapons from both men. Their disguise, and the weight of their personal armoury, made it clear they were up to some dissembling, devious purpose. It was extraordinary also how poor clothes stripped away a man's — and a woman's — self-respect. Well, Gresham had the power to imagine himself dressed in a king's ransom of clothing if he so wished. He must not let it affect him! It was also crucial to know how drunk James was. Gresham blotted all else out for the moment, even the other figures seated by the King.
The glass of wine was there, of course, easily to hand. Yet the hand was not quivering, and the eyes — small, hard — seemed steady enough. Oiled, then, but thinking. Well in control.
Gresham let his eyes move to the others at the table. Dear God. On one side was the popinjay Robert Carr, Viscount Rochester. On the other was Sir Edward Coke. Was this to be his tribunal? Was his vision of hell, to be in a court chaired by Sir Edward, now a reality? If so, he and Jane were dead. But give nothing away.
Gresham walked to a position just in front of the two stools. He bowed deeply to the King. The other two he ignored. He sensed the curtsey from Jane by his side. He was so proud of her. No tears, no wailing. She felt the fear, of course. Yet she had the mark of real courage. Feel the fear and conquer it.
'Sir Henry… and Lady Gresham…' The accent was already quite thick. Under pressure, or when the drink was truly in him, James retreated to a thick Scottish burr. The 'Sir' had almost been 'Sair'. Pressure or drink?
James waved a hand, carelessly. 'Or is it Sir Henry and Lady Gresham? Or two stonemasons and a housewife?'
There were titters from Coke and Carr. Sycophantic idiots! Gresham calmed himself.
'I believe we follow in a tradition set by Your Majesty's illustrious forbears,' said Gresham, bowing to the King. 'Previous monarchs of this country have changed their garb and wandered unannounced through their realm as though they were mere subjects…' Or they had in folklore, at least. Most of them in reality wouldn't have lasted two seconds in a real bar room brawl. 'It is sometimes good for those of lesser worth, such as my wife and myself, to emulate the actions of our superiors, and by doing so learn from them.'
You clever bastard, thought Gresham. And, no doubt, thought King James. Yet it was good at this stage to not show too much fear.
James paused for thought. Carr, Gresham had time to note, was gazing vacantly out of the window. There was a long pause.
'Would you care to take a seat?'
'We thank Your Majesty for his courtesy,' said Gresham. A seat in front of a monarch was a privilege. Courtiers spent most of their time standing. Yet the delay in asking them to sit had made it clear just what a privilege was being offered. Neutral. Neutral. Nothing yet on which to base a ploy. Listen. Look. Learn. Personally Gresham would have preferred to stand. He sat.
'Perhaps ye may be wondering why I summoned you here, rather to your surprise I should not wonder? I do apologise, of course, for any disruption to your plans.' The 'of course' rendered the apology meaningless. The threat was clear, unequivocal. It breathed out from the evil stone and brick that surrounded them., No one was brought to The Tower for their pleasure. 'I'm sure I may have dragged ye away from more important things.' The accent again. 'Ye' rather than 'you'. Had it been 'more', or was it 'mair'?
'There can be no more important things than Your Majesty's pleasure,' replied Gresham. God, why do I hate this sycophancy so much? 'We are more than pleased to serve Your Majesty, and count it a privilege to be in Your Majesty's presence at any time.'
'Aye,' said the King, 'you do that well, Sir Henry, well indeed.' Was there the slightest hint of a smile beneath the bearded face? If so, it vanished almost immediately. 'Yet the reason for my ordering this meeting is a good deal more important than the exchange of Court pleasantries, however weel ye may do them. There's shite on the velvet of your reputation, Sir Henry. I fear you may be working against me, sir!' James's coarseness was legendary. In the popular eye it was one reason why he had felt uneasy at appointing the clean-mouthed Andrewes as Archbishop of Canterbury.
Time for a hard stab.
'I am mortified to hear so, Your Majesty. Yet I will say to you now, sire, with your permission, that I have never in my life knowingly stood against any crowned monarch, or sought to dispute the right of any monarch to govern and to rule. I believe the health of the nation lies in the health of the monarch. I have been willing in times past to put my own life down as my bargaining counter to support that belief.'
Well, thought Gresham, that's almost the truth. I actually believe better the devil you know, and better any devil than the devil of rebellion. I've seen where that leads.
There was a dignity and power to Gresham's simple statement that carried its own weight of meaning. There was a prolonged silence. James reached out and took a lingering sip of his wine. Then he looked, pointedly, at Sir Edward Coke.
Coke was the accuser! That look told Gresham his true enemy!
Coke also knew that he was on trial. Yet there was the flush of achievement in his face. He had manoeuvred Gresham onto his own choice of battleground. This was a court hearing. Coke was the prosecutor. Gresham and his impossibly beautiful wife the accused. But there was no jury here to call the prosecutor to order. Merely a half- sodden monarch, whose single word could mean that this man and his wife never left The Tower.
'Yet you would not deny, Sir Henry,' asked Coke in his most silky voice, 'that you were instructed by the late Lord Salisbury to find and return certain… papers. Papers that were of importance to His Majesty? And that you were instructed by the same good lord to work with myself in pursuit of that aim?'
Carr was gazing, his mouth half-open, at Coke. The distaste he felt for the wrinkled lawyer was clear. Did Carr have any brain at all?
It was an old lawyer's trick. Start reasonable. Ask questions to which there was only one, positive answer. Establish thereby one's desire as a prosecutor to be fair to the witness. And then screw him. Therefore, it was necessary for Sir Henry Gresham to stop the process somehow.
First of all, he looked to the King, his eyebrow slightly raised. Do I have your authority to answer this man? the eyebrow said. After all, in a room where the King of England (and Scotland, in this case) sits there is only one authority. Before speaking to a lesser authority, one should obtain the permission of the higher authority.
There was an almost imperceptible nod from James. Yet he would have noted the courtesy.
'I fear I would deny that, Sir Edward.'
Coke looked as if he had swallowed a prune stone. This was not according to the plan.
'It is possible that for you a summons from Robert Cecil was a new occurrence. I regret that for me, and indeed latterly for my wife, it was no such thing.' Gresham turned to James, speaking as if in confidence. 'Cecil used
