the eldest born died young. Shuddering at the thought of a career in the Church or life as a hanger-on, they placed their faith in becoming a hanger-on to the gods of war. War offered excitement and the prospect of reward. And because they were young, they thought they were immortal, and it would be someone else who would die or be maimed. Ignoring the evidence of the older men around them, men for whom war had run its iron fingernails across the soft matter of their brains as well as their bodies, men whom war had corrupted and robbed of half their sensitivities, these young men hung around the edges of the group, the veterans deigning to notice them only if their clothing or equipment suggested they might be good for a free drink.
Gresham and Mannion chose their men finally, fifteen officers and 150 foot soldiers; it took them most of the day. A major factor was the men's kit: a rusty sword, a pistol not gleaming with oil, a leather sword belt that was torn and likely to fall off in battle, and the man was dismissed instantly. So too was anyone with a clearly new, gleaming and unused pistol which had probably been hired for the day. What Gresham and Mannion were looking for were pistols showing signs of usage, carefully oiled and cleaned. The braggadocios wore their pistols openly. The soldiers would even cover the wheel, flint or matchlock mechanism with a carefully cut piece of oiled canvas, to protect it from the weather. If in doubt, Gresham asked to look at the ammunition bag carried by each man. A number had no pistol balls or powder. An equal number had a few balk of different calibre, none of which fitted the gun they were carrying. The real soldiers had at least ten or twenty balls, all as perfectly round as the foundry allowed, and the true veterans would have cast the balls themselves. A misshapen ball could stick in the barrel, blowing up the gun, or simply roll out of it. The less round the ball, the less accurate its flight. As for the sword, it must show signs of use, be oiled and sharpened on one side only, and show no signs of a sudden application of the sharpening stone that morning. A blade that was lovingly tended every day revealed itself to an expert as quickly as some men can sense a virgin. Another key was the length of the blade and weight of the sword. The worst of the soldiers carried swords far too long and heavy for their size and build; carried it for show rather than for use. The true veterans matched their sword to their body mass, height and reach.
So much for the trappings. Then there was the man himself. There would be illness enough on the campaign — Ireland was riddled with a particularly virulent form of dysentry which seemed to eat up men's insides — so to take someone already ill or brewing a sickness was madness. Was the face pale from drink or a wasting sickness? How about the cough? Was the limp an honourable wound or a suppurating sore? Then there was the final and simplest check of all: did the man look you in the eye?
Gresham and Mannion made their way the short route down the Strand to Essex House where there was a level of apparent chaos that made The House look positively calm. Yet it was ordered chaos, Gresham noticed. For someone so mercurial, Essex could be a surprisingly good organiser. While he was a strange mixture, he had some good officers round him, and while his command decisions had been suspect in his few real experiences of warfare, his administration had always been surprisingly good.
They heard the Earl long before they saw him. Most of London must have heard him. He was sitting by a map-covered table and he was screaming. Not just shouting, but screaming, so carried away that spit was flying across the room from his mouth. 'God's blood!' he yelled, 'Am I to endure this? Can a man not breathe? Must I be thwarted at every move?'
None of his entourage were willing to deny him. That had always been part of Essex's problem. The loyalty he inspired was that of the Messiah to his disciples, and only Judas had disagreed with Jesus. Gelli Meyrick, over- dressed in a turquoise doublet and a hat that could have shaded most of Cheapside, was standing by the table, looking vaguely menacing with a dark scowl on his face. The Earl of Southampton was standing by Essex's side — a sensible place to be in the face of the flying spittle — and he and Gresham exchanged guarded nods. Southampton was a fey creature, with a rather languorous manner and an ivory complexion that always looked pale and damp. Gresham thought him a vicious little pimp and, on the few occasions they had met, Southampton had shown every sign of returning the feeling. It was noticeable that on his drinking and wenching bouts with Essex, Southampton had not been present. Also in the room was Sir Christopher Blount, Essex's stepfather. He was more of a mystery than Southampton. Anyone who could survive Essex's mother had to be saintly, and Blount had always struck Gresham as more straightforward than his reputation for deviousness merited.
'Good day, my Lord,' said Gresham.
Essex swung sideways to face Gresham standing in the door. 'I am tried beyond my patience!' he shouted, but this time it was a shout, not a scream.
'Why so?' said Gresham.
'The Queen has denied me, not once, but twice over! The Earl of Southampton here, who I wish to be my Master of Horse…' Good choice, thought Gresham ironically. Southampton, the devious little prick, was about on the same level of intelligence as a horse, though not nearly so beautiful.'… I am told cannot have that position, and nor will My Royal Pestilence allow Sir Christopher here a place on the Council for Ireland.'
The problem, thought Gresham, is that there is no reason whatsoever why Blount should have a place on the Council for Ireland, save that he was Essex's stepfather and his duties might keep him for a little longer out of the company of Essex's mother. Anyone in their right mind would want that. Essex's mother was the most dreadful person Gresham had ever met.
Essex stood up suddenly, and his stool flew back, skittering, across the room, to land with a bang against the wall.
'I am tied to my own reputation!' he shrieked again.
No one jumped up from their seats. No one had any. Essex had adopted the royal prerogative of having no one sit in his presence. It was a dangerous sign. This is not a man in control of himself, thought Gresham. This is a man driven by a demon, or perhaps by the pox. But why no other symptoms? The Earl's face was as unmarked and handsome as ever, the hair flowing without need of a wig and there was no sign of the high, prancing step forced on pox victims, who lost all sensitivity in their extremities and so could not sense where their feet were landing.
'They call on me,' the Earl ranted, 'because there is no other, yet when I go, it is to leave my enemies behind me to triumph.'
A tremendous sense of loneliness, that was something else Gresham had noticed about Essex. That and the melancholia drew them together.
'My Lord,' said Gresham, taking a deep breath, 'isn't it about time you stopped shouting? It fails to impress the men. It is not what a top commander does.' A top commander, thought Gresham, strikes poses and makes calculated speeches to win over the hearts and minds of simple men, before leading them to their death.
A look of stunned disbelief swept across the faces of those in the room, not to mention that of Essex himself. People did not talk to Essex in this way, particularly when his river was in full flood. His face suddenly fell, his body slumped as if it was a corpse full of corrupt air, bloated in the sun, which had suddenly collapsed at the prick of a spear. He still had energy- enough to scowl at Gresham.
'Come!' he said, imperiously. The others glared at Gresham as he went with the Earl into an inner sanctum. This fool of a man was the Earl's drinking companion! They were his officers! Gresham felt their hatred almost as a physical force beating at his body.
The back room had a bed in it. A retreat for seduction? Gresham thought not. It was a hastily erected thing, on three trestles. Interesting. Gresham wondered if it went wherever the Earl went. Why did the Earl of Essex need a bed? Was it the pox? Or was it some other illness?
Something Gresham did not wish to remember crept into his mind. There had been a Fellow at Granville College. A loud, overbearing and frequently drunk man, he let it be known that he dabbled in the black arts. Few believed him. Gresham had been forced to undertake servant duties for lack of money. It was either that or starve. He had gone into the man's room one morning thinking him gone, and only five minutes into his rudimentary cleaning had realised that the bundle of rags in the far corner was a man. It had stirred, groaned. Thinking him ill, Gresham had helped him to the bed, sat him on it.
'It takes its toll,' the Fellow had muttered, acting as if drunk but in some way that Gresham sensed not drunk at all. Confused would have been a better word, but this was a man of outstanding intelligence, one of the most fluent debaters in the College.
'What takes its toll, sir?' Gresham had asked innocently.
The Fellow had looked at him, and Gresham remembered the livid, red rings round the man's eyes. Eyes of fire. Then the man had said, 'When the cycle… has finished and the… the blood is… used — gone — then the… tiredness comes.' The man could hardly speak. He was looking not at Gresham but through him to something so
