world of the Court Just as Gresham only really felt at home in Cambridge and its tiny battles, who was in favour and who was out of favour, who was a rising star and whose star had fallen were meat and drink to George. It was odd that a man so simple could take so much pleasure in charting the shifting sands of the Court.
'But rarely as dangerous as this. And doubly so since we decided to execute Mary Queen of Scots.'
Gresham said nothing.
Mary Queen of Scots. A Queen in her own right twice over — of France and of Scotland. With sufficient English royal blood in her veins to make her not only the obvious successor to Queen Elizabeth, but her present rival for the throne. She had fled to England when Scotland had rebelled against her, and found herself imprisoned for her pains by her cousin Elizabeth, yet remained the centre of continual plotting. And now she was dead, at last. Executed farcically at Fotheringay Castle in February. One Queen murdered on the order of another. A Catholic Queen murdered on the order of the bastard Protestant Elizabeth. The executioner had botched his job. Only at the third attempt had he severed the woman's head from her body. Mary had worn a wig to her execution. When the executioner bent down to grab hold of her mangled head to show it to the audience he had been left with the false hair in his hand, while the obscene, bald coconut of the Queen's head bounced and rolled off the staging. And Henry Gresham would regret to the end of his days the part he had played in that death.
'Apart from your personal involvement,' continued George, emptying half the remainder of the bottle into the delicate Venetian glass cradled in his vast hand, 'there's many who say executing Mary Queen of Scots was a disastrous move. Politically speaking, that is.'
'Walsingham was very firmly of the other opinion. He believed having a Catholic queen with a legitimate claim to the throne was to invite the overthrow of Elizabeth, 'to nurture a canker in our breast',' said Gresham. 'I think I'm quoting him direct.'
'Quote him all you like,' said George, 'but remember, fewer and fewer people are listening to him now.' George stood up, endlessly restive, as if the ideas in his head could not be contained while his body was sitting. 'You've never understood the Court,' he said to Gresham, like a father admonishing a child. 'And what's been certain for so long is dying, uncertain. The Queen is old, Henry, for all that saying so is instant death for a courtier! Burghley is old…'
An outsider would have been surprised to see Gresham rise and the two young men make a formal, deep bow to each other. It was their ritual whenever they mentioned Lord Burghley, Chief Secretary to the Queen. Of worthy rather than noble stock, Burghley had the exaggerated respect for protocol and formality that came with nouveau status.
'Laugh on,' said Mannion to the pair of them. 'But just remember the man you're laughing at, is the most powerful man in England.'
'Is? Or was?' said George. 'Rumour has it he's losing his wits. Let's face it, the old guard are dying. Walsingham's seriously ill, doubled up by pain sometimes. The Queen has no heir, there's no clear succession… is it any wonder the Court's in turmoil? We've enough threats from within without adding more from outside!'
'Adding?' asked Gresham, interested despite himself.
'By executing a Catholic Queen! There's real panic in the Court,' answered George. 'It's odds on executing Mary will tip Spain over the edge.'
King Philip of Spain had once reigned in England as husband to Queen Mary in her disastrous time as Queen. That, and the tortuous Tudor lineage, gave Spain several claims on the English throne. More important to Philip, who had countries enough to rule, was the standing outrage of a Protestant England defying the one rule of Roman Catholicism.
George roared with laughter at a remembered joke. The plaster just about remained attached to the brickwork. 'The Bishops are shitting themselves! Apparently one of them fainted when someone burned some meat on the fire. Said it reminded him of the smell of human flesh burning!'
'Rumour has it that half the Bishops have started to learn Spanish,' said Gresham, grinning.
'Most of 'em can't speak bloody English!' growled Mannion. Clergy and Spaniards were his two least favourite breeds.
'What are the serious minds at Court saying about the succession?' asked Gresham. George would know the latest word if anyone did. Elizabeth had resolutely refused to marry. The nearest thing to an heir was probably James VI of Scotland, son of the executed Mary Queen of Scots.
'Very divided. Some say Spain. Some say the King of Scots. Others want the Queen to marry an English nobleman, even now, someone younger than herself so we get a King.'
'Wonderful!' exclaimed Gresham. 'What a choice! Our' next monarch is either Spanish, which means the country torn apart by religious war, or the King of our oldest and bitterest enemy — oh, and someone whose mother we've just had executed! — which means civil war. Or it's Leicester, Essex or even Walter Raleigh, any one of whom would guarantee the other two and every other noble family at Court launching immediate civil and religious war!'
The Earl of Leicester was the Queen's old favourite, increasingly being put in the shade by the young and extremely handsome Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex. Sir Walter Raleigh was a permanent joker in the pack.
'Never mind the danger the country's in,' said George. 'Think about the danger you're in.'
'E's right,' said Mannion. 'I know bugger all about the politics, but even I can see they're mad jealous of you. Jealous of your money. Jealous of your looks. Jealous of how you do with women. Jealous o' the Queen taking notice of you. And you haven' exactly been… discreet with some o' those girls you've serviced, 'ave you?'
A slight grin crossed Gresham's face, infuriating the two other men. He had never hurt a woman in his life. But he had had an awful lot of mutual pleasure with them. 'What the eye doesn't see, the heart can't grieve for…' he said.
'Mebbe not,' said Mannion, 'but there's three or four Lordships with young wives who're putting one and one together and seein' you in bed with their women!'
It was George's turn now. 'It's known that you've meddled on Walsingham's behalf. Not the details, of course, or you'd be dead in a side alley. Walsingham's old, dying. His star's on the wane. No one knows what'll happen when his empire collapses with his death. But for too many at Court you're a young upstart who's been too involved in every shady activity of the past few years. And now you've caught the fancy of the Queen. God knows what you might be whispering to her. On all counts, you're a nuisance. And a nuisance with no friends except me and this man mountain here, God help us.'
'So what's your advice?' asked Gresham, swilling a residue of wine around in the bottom of his goblet. 'Thanks for telling me all the dangers. Now tell me a way to get out of them!'
'Kill yourself!' said George. 'At least then you can make it quick and clean and get there before they do!' he added cheerfully. A beaming grin lit up his face, followed by another great, booming laugh. One of the things about George was that at a certain level of stress his brain cut out, and he retreated from serious matters to the solace of the bottle and friendship. 'Except you'll think of a way, one I couldn't have dreamt of, and I'll stand back in wonder at your achievement! You see, I'm really good at working out the odds. Funny, really. Most people think I'm a fool, except you. Problem is, when I've worked out the odds, I believe them. You… well, you decide to get the better of them. Betting man's nightmare, you are.'
'You know what Walsingham's made me do,' said Gresham. 'You and Mannion. Are you telling me I should have refused him?' 'I don't know,' said George. 'I wish I did. Do I think it's clever to attend secret Masses, on Walsingham's instructions? Of course not! Not in this climate. It's madness! Particularly as I've never been sure how much your affection for the Catholics was an act, or whether it's the reality.'
'I've told you,' said Gresham. 'My first nurse was a Catholic. When I couldn't suck her breasts I sucked her rosary beads. It leaves a mark on a man, you know…'
'I could tell you how extraordinarily irritating your flippancy is,' said George, 'but as you do it in order to be extraordinarily irritating it would only add to your pleasure. I'm just telling you to take care. Too many people of power go silent when your name's mentioned. And there's new talk. Can I ask you a question?'
'Of course,' said Gresham.
'Are you taking Spain's money? To be frank, rumour is that you're a Spanish spy. I know you'd never betray England,' said George gamely, 'but I can see you'd get involved with Spain just for the excitement of it. Well? Are you?'
'Am I what? You asked two questions. Whether I was a Spanish spy? Or taking Spanish money?'
'Stop playing games! I'm your oldest friend. I deserve an answer.'
