the most theatrical manner possible, begged forgiveness of Essex, who loved every minute of it.
Gervase Markham, one of Essex's young bloods, rode up to the head of the column, where Gresham was riding with Mannion and George at the head of seventy of his men and twenty-five of his horse.
'Sir Henry!' Markham called out. 'My Lord of Essex seeks your company!'
'Does he want me to write a victory sonnet?' asked Gresham.
Essex was sitting on a glorious grey, looking for all the world like a young god. Southampton rode by his side, instead of with the horse he was meant to be master of, looking like a sour lemon with mould on its skin.
‘I see you copy my horse,' said Essex. Gresham was riding a fine grey.
In London, Gresham would have replied that Essex copied his horse. Here, in Ireland, on campaign, he said nothing to his Commander in Chief.
'I need to draw the enemy out, give them a challenge they can't back away from,' Essex said. 'How many men do you have with you?'
'Seventy foot, my Lord, and twenty-five horse.'
'I am heading to the Pass of Cashel. You know of it?'
'I know it on a map,' said Gresham.
'It's ready made for ambush, I'm told. There are rough woods and bogs on either side of the roadway, excellent cover for the enemy yet providing a barrier on either side that we'd be ill-advised to try and cross.'
Essex reined in and looked at Gresham.
'I propose to invite the Irish to ambush us at the Pass of Cashel. I'll swing the army round with much noise and sounding of trumpets, take the road that leads only to Cashel. We'll delay subtly in our advance, so that those who're undoubtedly spying on us even now can ride or run ahead and gather a suitable force, if such a one exists.'
Gresham said nothing.
'Do you understand?' asked Essex. His horse was restless, as if sensing his rider's mood. 'I must see how great a force the enemy can muster, see how they fight, draw them into conflict.'
'And if they muster a large force, as at Yellow Ford? If they fight as well as the Irish appear to have fought there, beating over three thousand English troops?'
'That's where I need you.'
'Sir?'
'You've some of the best-trained and equipped troops in the army. I wish you to act as an advance party. Go to the pass ahead of the main army. Draw the enemy fire, allow me to gauge their strength, so that I know whether to attack with all my force or, if the enemy are too strong, retire before any proper ambush can be enacted.'
'What if the Irish read your mind,' asked Gresham, 'and hold their fire?'
'You're the experienced soldier,' said Essex. 'You must ensure they don't do so. Your force is large and threatening enough, I believe, to draw them out to reveal their full strength. Of course, if you're afraid I shall ask someone else. Or do it myself.'
It was the crowning insult, the one no gentleman could forgive. It had come out of the blue, shocking, unexpected and above all, unfair. The only saving grace was that none of Essex's other commanders were near enough to hear. Essex and Gresham had drawn away from the column and the slow-moving army moved on ponderously by their side. 'Of course I'm afraid,' said Gresham witheringly. 'Only fools feel no fear, and brave men are those who carry on despite it. But, my Lord, if you call me coward again, I'll kill you.'
He said it so simply that for a moment a listener might have let it pass by, before he realised not only that Gresham meant every word, but that Essex believed him.
'So be it,' said Essex. 'But if I call you it again, it'll be because you've failed me at Cashel, and if you've failed me there the Irish will have killed you long before you can kill me.'
Mannion was less than enthusiastic at the news Gresham brought.
''Act as an advance party'?' exclaimed Mannion. 'Fuck me! This ain't no advance party! This is a fuckin' suicide party!'
'Is he testing you?' asked George, worried more for his friend than for himself. 'Is this him seeing whether, when the crunch comes, you'll fight for him, or whether your priority here is to stay alive and spy on him for Cecil?'
'It could be,' said Gresham, 'or it could be that he wants me dead.'
'What?' said George.
'I didn't just come here to protect Essex. I came here because I sensed, have sensed for months that terrible things are brewing, plots within plots, wheels within wheels, twistings and turnings. And that in some way I still don't understand, Essex is at the heart of it all. It's entirely possible I've misread the whole situation. Suppose Essex just wants a few easy victories to boost his image. Then he'll return to England and either blackmail Elizabeth into giving him Chief Secretary on the back of his popularity, or go for broke, lead a rebellion and either make himself King or marry one of his sycophants off to Arbella Stuart. In either case he either rules himself or rules by proxy, and he knows I'll stop him. This is a brilliant way to kill me with no blame attaching to him at all, and no suspicion.'
'I read the Bible once,' said Mannion. The interjection was so unexpected that George gaped at him. 'Bloody difficult it was, too. King David fancied this woman, didn't he, and sent out 'er husband — Uriah the Hittite, warn't it? Daft name — to the front line so 'e'd get killed and King David could 'ave the wife.'
'The difference,' said Gresham patiently, 'is that I'm not married.'
'No, but 'e don't half fancy Jane, don't 'e?' said Mannion. 'With you out of the way, she might be best off 'opping into bed wi' 'im. Better than bein' out on the streets.'
'I've left her money,' said Gresham, 'if I die. Leave the thinking to me, will you? If Essex wants me dead, it's not because he wants to bed Jane. It's because I might stop him doing what he wants to do.'
'Or it might be that we've got the best bloody company in the army to do it,' said Mannion.
'Well,' said Gresham, 'let's get them together and see if that's true.'
'We've got a little job to do,' said Gresham with the men gathered round him.
Gresham had asked to keep his men hidden in the centre of the column until their dash out. He had no desire for the Irish to guess his intentions, or see what some of his horsemen carried on their saddles, nor did he want his men picked off by Irish marksmen before the battle itself. He, Mannion, George and the three sergeants rode to the front of the column, still quite a long way from the start of the pass, but with much of its length visible.
'Round that bend, there,' said Gresham, pointing, 'that's where they'll drop the barricade. Trees, I guess, probably lashed together lengthwise so the whole thing can only move as one. Right. We know what we've got to do.'
It was uncanny, the way the same feeling always came over him before battle. It started with him seeming to go cold, yet not with a cold that would ever provoke a shiver. His sight became. sharper, his senses peaked so he could smell every nuance on the wind, hear every twig crack. Doubts, fears, uncertainties — all started to erode, until all that was left was a single-minded, ruthless vision.
There was a shouted order, and trumpets blared. The column staggered to a halt, just as it would if a commander had suddenly sensed the chance of an ambush ahead of him and needed to take time to assess the situation. The road itself was firm enough, but Essex's Irish horseboys had told him the truth. On either side of the pass was a boggy, rough terrain, bordered by thick woodland that could conceal a whole army. The woodland was in musket range, just, or the range of a man throwing the short spears or 'darts' favoured by the Irish.
Suddenly Gresham's seventy foot soldiers emerged from the middle of the column. They had taken off their heavy coats, were in their shirts, to the amusement and laughter of the rest of the army. Forty of them had muskets in their hands, the other thirty swords and bucklers, with muskets slung securely over their shoulders. They were jogging, moving surprisingly fast over the stony ground of the road, faces set in fierce determination, breath starting to come hard. The men looked lean, wiry. Gresham had trained them well.
'There!' said Gresham, at the head of the column. Shadowy figures had risen up from the very edge of the woodland, sunk down again quickly as if to a warning order. But it had been enough. Gresham looked at Mannion.
'Good fifty or so on each side. Mebbe more.'
Gresham nodded. The timing was crucial. The rebels would have their musketeers close by the trees. The heavy weapons would slow them down, make it harder for them to melt back into the trees unless they were close.
