it. At Court. Simple, really. He planned to move forward at the start of the procession, when Elizabeth first marched from her bed chamber through the antechamber, fire a pistol at her head from the closest range and presumably back that up with a dagger. I'd been watching him for a week, and sensed something was different in him.'
'Why was there no scandal?' asked Gresham incredulously. 'Why didn't we hear about this?'
'Luck, mainly,' said Cameron. 'I grabbed him at the back of the crowd, as he was making to break through, tumbled him through an arras and an open door. I hadn't realised how much all eyes are on the Queen at moments like that. Anyway, we got away with it. Only a few guards saw the disturbance, and they were easily settled.' 'And the assassin?'
'Dead, unfortunately. He fought like the Devil, and it was him or me. Which meant we never did find out who he was working for.' 'So why did you decide to stop him?'
Cameron sighed. 'It was damned difficult. For all I knew James wanted her dead. But the truth was, the boy was Scottish. I can't help but believe that if he'd been paid by the Scots I'd have heard somehow. The father didn't know who the boy was working for, just knew he was planning to do something dreadful in England and had said goodbye to them all in a letter. He only wanted the boy's life saved. Which we failed in as well.'
Gresham said, 'But even if the boy wasn't working for the Scots no one would believe it. James would have been seen as setting up the murder, and the effect might have been to rule him out of the succession. So you decided that your King's chances of becoming King of England would actually be lessened if the murder succeeded, and so stopped it.'
'Summed up like a professional!' said Cameron. 'And then I decided that we might as well get as much advantage from the situation as possible, and told Cecil, having disposed of the body. I told him the boy was Scottish, told him how we'd heard, and was very forcible in my denial that James had any part of it. He believed me, I think. After all, the assassination would have turned people against James. Cecil told your Queen. I suspect that letter was her thanks. And possibly even a promise.'
'The promise of a throne?'
'It seems likely. You see, I'm a cynic. Most Scots are, and if you look at our history you'll see why. I think Elizabeth hates James. I think she wants him as the next King to throw her reign into glory. I think she's starting to hate her country for letting her die, and making James her heir she sees, in a perverted way, as her revenge.'
'My, my,' said Gresham.*You are cynical, aren't you?'
'All too likely to be bloody true, though,' said Mannion. 'She's always been too much of a bloody woman. Can't make her mind up, changes it all the time when she does. It'd been all right if she'd had babies. Babies makes women stop being selfish.'
Mannion's summary of half of humanity was at least clear and simple.
'So that's why you like giving women babies so much?' asked Gresham. 'You see it as your social duty to help out womenkind?'
'Well,' said Mannion, 'you upper-class bastards — beggin' your pardon — spend enough time ensuring the line doesn't die out. You can't deny the same privilege to the working classes.'
There was a slight expression of confusion on Cameron's face. He had not heard too many interchanges between Mannion and his master before, and clearly had much to learn.
'All of which leaves the interesting question of who it was tried to kill the Queen,' said Gresham. 'The Pope? Spaniards?'
'They've tried before,' said Mannion glumly. It was common knowledge in the Court that King Philip of Spain had tried up to ten times to have the Queen killed.
'Or one of the English factions wanting to put a puppet Queen on the throne?' Gresham continued.
'Unfortunately for my credibility, you miss one other candidate out,' said Cameron. 'The Scots.'
'But you said it would be political suicide for the Scots to try and assassinate Elizabeth now,' said Gresham.
'Political suicide is what my kindred have been best at these past five hundred years,' said Cameron. 'We have nobles who can't think beyond the end of their bonnets, are even stupid enough not to see the consequences if a Scotsman murders the Queen. And some with memories of the last time one Queen murdered another. A Scottish Queen.'
'You were at Court,' said Gresham. 'Someone must have authorised that. Someone like the Queen.'
'I believe she knew of my presence. Unofficially,' said Cameron, sniffing.
'So you were the intermediary between Elizabeth and James? Placed in her Court with her consent to take that role? And when you had to go back to report to James because guards had seen you and your cover had gone, she was left with no messenger… which is presumably why the role descended on me.
'You'll be pleased to stay as my guest in The House,' said Gresham. Cameron started to demur, but Gresham held up his hand to silence him. 'The price of your passage is having you where I can keep an eye on you. And knowing an instant messenger is there should I need to write to King James myself. And,' Gresham continued, 'think how convenient it will be for you to keep an eye on me. And be so near to Essex.'
Cameron stayed silent. He realised this was an order, not a request.
Part 2
Chapter 7
January to March, 1599 London and Ireland
Jane had bought books in her brief foray into Edinburgh. She seemed to have an instinct better than any homing pigeon for them. The journey back to England had been as idyllic as any such journey could be. The sun had shone, the wind had blown just enough to give them good speed but no scares and Gresham had found Cameron to be knowledgeable in both Italian and French poetry, as well as the works of Machiavelli. Gresham and he were careful to keep off issues relating to their mutual existence as spies, talking poetry and politics instead. Jane was buried in a book, and Mannion listened to the exchanges between Gresham and Cameron pretending not to understand. Every now and again, he would stagger the remaining crew of the Anna with his nautical knowledge.
The journey proved to be the calm in the middle of the storm.
They came back to an England in uproar. The Earl of Essex had been banished to the country after the Queen had boxed his ears and he, in high dudgeon, had drawn his sword on her! The fiendish rebel Tyrone was sweeping through Ireland and English bodies littered every river and every ford in Ireland! Essex was ill! Essex was dead! Essex was not dead, but seriously ill — really ill this time, not the pretend illnesses he usually contracted when the Queen was piqued with him. Essex was better! Essex had been murdered on the orders of Cecil! Essex had been called to raise and command a new army in Ireland, the army that would sweep the rebels into the sea!
'You are in total neglect of your duty!' said Jane to Gresham, standing defiantly in front of him. Things had rapidly got back to normal. 'You will not replace your steward, who is in his dotage, and you will not order repairs to The House! The result is that the roof of the west wing will collapse unless something is done soon.'
'It is my house, and I will do with it — or not do with it — as I wish!' said Gresham stingingly.
'It is something you hold in trust, as does any man who owns a great house, and you are betraying that trust!' said Jane equally vehemently.
He had been too nice to her when she was young. It never did. Treat them rough and they grew up respecting you, Gresham thought, denying the fact that every shred of his actual experience proved the contrary.
'And how about the people who will die when the roof collapses? Do you own them and their souls, as you own this House?'
'You are impertinent!' said Gresham. 'Leave my presence immediately.'
