Perhaps because they had only started on him that day. Unfortunately, they could find out no more, including who paid him and why. He killed himself.'
'That was casual of your secretary,' said Gresham.
'They were moving him from being chained to a wall, to chaining him on a table, so I understand.' Gresham noted that Essex had not denied the presence of Gelli Meyrick. 'They thought he was unconscious, let him drop to the floor and turned round for a moment to prepare the table. It gave him enough time to grab a blade that was nearby — one of the one's they had been heating up for him, in fact — and stick it under his own ribcage. He died immediately. Warmly, but immediately.'
'Well, he would, wouldn't he?' agreed Gresham.
'Now tell me about Cameron Johnstone,' said Essex, who was proving full of surprises that day.
'What do you already know?' asked Gresham.
'That he has been at Court claiming to have the ear of King James. That he has recently come from Scotland courtesy of a trip on your ship. And that he has been commanded by the Queen to accompany me to Ireland, for reasons Her Divine Majesty has not seen fit to tell me.'
'He's a Scottish spy who was of use to me in Scotland, and came recommended from Northumberland,' said Gresham, 'and he masquerades as an advocate. He's spying on me and on the Court and will undoubtedly send reports back to King James on both you and on Elizabeth. Except I'm not so sure it can be called spying if you own up to it. He's attractively transparent about the whole business, and very good on Italian poetry.'
'Well,' said Essex, putting the goblet down, 'it'll make a difference to have someone spying on me for King James, bearing in mind that half my army is spying for Cecil, for Raleigh, for the Pope, for the King of Spain, for the King of France, for the Queen, or for all of them. I take it you've been able to find out no more than I about who is loyal in this army of knaves?'
'I don't think I'd tell you, my Lord, even if I had. I'd view it as my business. Unless, of course, it transpired that the plot was against you. You see, I've always valued our relationship as personal, rather than one soured by politics or anything other than a shameless interest in pleasure.'
'There's a plot against me,' said Essex. 'At the same time as you were despatched to Scotland, the Queen sent a messenger to HardwickHall.'
Hardwick Hall was the present residence of the Lady Arbella Stuart, resting prior to what many saw as her inevitable call to the throne.
'From which you assume what?' asked Gresham.
'That the Queen is selling her Crown,' said Essex bluntly, and the redness of rage began to rise again in his face. 'She will take the blood line of that damned woman and sell it to a foreign power. England will have a Queen in name but a King in reality. What will happen to this country if another Queen ascends the throne, tied by marriage to one of the crowned heads of Europe? What if terrible history repeats itself, and Arbella Stuart is used to legitimise the new King of Spain as King of England? What if the King of France is her choice? England conquered by a turncoat Protestant whose allegiance to his faith is based simply on the Crown of France being worth a Mass?'
'A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, my Lord,' said Gresham quietly.
'A little knowledge? What do you mean, a little knowledge! How can you claim to know more than I?'
The arrogance was there again. You could see this man as Icarus, full of vaulting ambition and in his heart of hearts believing that he was greater than the sun. You could also see him craving the sun's blessing, and as an arrested child desperate to do the right thing.
Gresham gazed levelly at Essex. 'Spain's plan isn't for the new King to marry Arbella. Or at least it wasn't when I last heard. Even they recognise how the memory of Mary's marriage to Philip of Spain has ruined the prospect of repeating such a thing for many years to come.'
The two men Gresham paid in the Escorial Palace reported a new outbreak of realism among those who advised the Spanish monarchy.
'The plan rather is for the Duke of Parma to ascend the throne. He has a blood claim. He's a powerful figure. He'll make a treaty that allows Protestantism to continue in England. The Spanish believe that Parma will be an ally of Spain, but be sufficiently divorced from it to justify to the English a strong, male ruler. More importantly, the plan for Parma to be next King of England has the support of the Pope.'
Essex was looking horror-struck at Gresham. There was also an element of petulance in his face. Gresham had stolen his fire.
'And how can you claim to know this? You, a mere… gentleman at Court?'
'I may be just a gentleman who is an occasional attender at Court,' said Gresham, 'but I did once offer the Duke of Parma — the present one's father — the throne of England on Elizabeth's behalf. I have… contacts… in France, in Spain, and in Rome.'
'You did what?' said Essex, aghast, disbelieving yet drawn to the sheer cheek of the idea like a moth to a flame. 'You offered the English throne to the Duke of Parma?'
'Yes,' said Gresham, 'it's long story.'
'And Elizabeth agreed to this?' asked Essex.
'No,' said Gresham. 'There was a slight problem over that, now you mention it. A slight problem that involved the Queen, Cecil, the Tower of London and being put on the rack. As I said, it's a long story.'
'What have you done in your life?' asked Essex. 'What else do you know?'
'I know the rack's bloody uncomfortable, even before they start to yank the handles!' said Gresham.
'You're the greatest fool I've ever known!' said Essex, exasperated. 'What else do you know about the present situation?'
'The King of France is actually the main contender for the hand of Arbella. He's been led a merry dance by the Queen. She's spent her whole life giving suitors for her hand a merry dance.' Careful. Essex had probably been proposing to the Queen once a month on principle for the past ten years. 'Now she's doing the same thing with the suitors for a stupid girl who has royal blood. France has high hopes for chaos on the Queen's death, chaos into which it can step. I know letters have gone to Hardwick Hall from the King of France, and that so far there's been no response. I know Elizabeth is determined to have no woman succeed her. I know the Duke of Northumberland has swung behind the candidacy of King James, on the understanding that James will allow him 'to hold a Mass in a corner' and not persecute Catholics. Cecil thinks he has it all under control, playing with Spain, with France and with James, worming his way into the favours of all three of them until he makes up his mind. Elizabeth also thinks she has everything under control: believes she has Arbella under her power, and is playing her usual game of encouraging both France and Spain to think they might be granted Arbella's hand, endlessly spinning out the secret negotiations. Most of the time, I couldn't judge who the
Queen will anoint as her successor, if she can ever bring herself to do it. Sometimes, I think it could be the Earl of Essex she anoints, and that her anger at him is a measure of the gift she knows she might give him.'
Essex's head shot up. There it was. A distinct, red ring round both his eyes. There was a long, a very long silence.
Gresham drew a deep inward breath.
'And just as Elizabeth wants no woman to succeed her, so I believe your gorge, my Lord, rises at the prospect of any man other than yourself becoming King of England.'
'On what grounds do you say that?' asked Essex, eventually. 'And who are you saying it to?'
'I say it on the same grounds that lead me to believe Elizabeth will allow no woman to succeed her. Instinct. It rarely lets me down. You're tied to the Queen by your oath of loyalty, and tied down by your dependence on her for the majority of your income. As for who I say it to — no one else, as yet.'
There was another very long silence.
'And by the way,' added Gresham, 'I believe there is a plot against you, though not one with Arbella Stuart at its heart.'
'You tie me in tangles!' said Essex, the colour even more marked in his face. 'You are worse than the Queen! Whose is this plot? What is this plot?'
'Cecil's,' said Gresham bluntly. 'Cecil doesn't care who gets the throne, as long as he can control whoever it is. He'll never control you. Therefore what he's trying to do is very simple: he's provoking you to rebellion. He's feeding your anger, your resentment of the Queen, in the hope that you'll rebel. When you do, you'll destroy yourself, and do his job for him. Cecil wants your body in two pieces on a scaffold on Tower Hill.'
