released Gresham and went back to his chair that looked suspiciously like a throne.
'Sound the trumpet!' Essex announced grandly. It was the signal for a full meeting of the garrison, and Essex had used it once or twice before. The blasts on the trumpet were squeaky and out of tune — the trumpeter was clearly not expecting to be called and had to wipe beer and cheese off his mouth before he put his instrument to it — but effective enough. In ten minutes the hall was crammed with every officer in the garrison, and many of the men. The remainder gathered outside to wait for whatever news was to be passed out to them. Where were George and Mannion, Gresham wondered, with a slight twinge of worry? Cameron was one of the first to arrive, looking both studious and eager.
Essex stood up, and struck a pose, one leg out in front of the other, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other on his hip.
'I have reached a decision,' he said as loudly as he could without shouting. The acoustics in the hall were good, something a born actor such as the Earl knew full well; they gave his voice a slight echo and resonance, deepening it. If Essex heard the sotto voce mutter of, 'About fuckin' time!' from a man at the back of the hall, he did not show it. 'We march on the foul traitor Tyrone, march to bring the infamous rebel to his knees!'
There was a faint cheer at this, enough of a flame for Essex to fan. Gresham had heard so many of this type of speech that he more or less ceased listening, having learnt over the years when to cheer, stamp his feet or clap his hands. Essex's decision meant, presumably, that in a relatively short space of time men would be hacking each other to pieces. It was going to happen, and nothing could stop it. Why bother if a few words from the man who ordered it made the men feel a little better, even if only for little while?
He left the meeting feeling strangely light-headed. Perhaps only he fully realised what a lucky escape he had had.
'The strangest thing just happened to me on the way to the gallows — Oh, and Essex is off after Tyrone at last, now he's lost two thirds of the army and-'
Then he saw who was sitting at the back of his room, flanked by George and Mannion — Jane.
'What the hell are you doing here?' he exploded, disbelieving, shocked almost out of his mind. 'I gave you express orders to stay behind!'
'My Lord, I-' she began.
'How dare you defy me! Is this my reward for having taken you in to find my wishes flouted in this shameless manner? I explained to you the appalling difficulties if you joined me on this campaign. I actually took the time and trouble to explain to you, tried to treat you as an adult-'
'My Lord-' Jane was desperately trying to speak.
'I want none of your words!' ranted Gresham. 'You will turn straight round and-'
'You better listen to 'er,' said Mannion flatly. 'You really 'ad.'
Gresham looked at him.
'What?'
'You better listen to 'er,' said Mannion.
Angry beyond belief, Gresham heard something in Mannion's tone. Gritting his teeth, he glared at Jane. 'For his sake, and for his sake only, I'll let you speak. But make it short. Very short. And then turn round and head straight for England.'
Jane was thinner than when he had last seen her, with bags under her eyes, eyes which had dark rings round them. She wore a mud spattered riding dress — was clarted in the stuff. There was also a wild look in her eyes, a look he had not seen before, a look of total desperation. She seemed suddenly very vulnerable. He moderated his tone. Was he going soft in his dotage? 'Sit down. Now, tell me your story.'
Was there a flicker of gratitude in her wild eyes?
'It's so… stupid,' she said.
Why had he not noticed that her voice was a slight register lower than most women's?
'I was in the stables. I go there sometimes. I like the horses, and they know me now, at least the ones you left behind do.' She sensed herself rambling, visibly took a grip on herself, and carried on. 'There was a commotion outside in the yard. Your breeder had sent you three new horses, they were just being taken in. One of them was rearing up, he must have been spooked by something, I don't know, and there was a man almost pinned up against the wall, a man I'd not seen before. He looked terrified. Two grooms calmed the horse down, and the man, instead of walking, sort of ran. The horse had his back towards him by then, must have caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, lashed out with his back legs. One hoof caught the man on the side of the head…' She was living the horrific sight in her head now, almost talking to herself. 'His head was like — like an eggshell. It just… cracked open.' There were tears running down her face. 'I went to try and help, but it was too late. Everyone was shouting and screaming. All I wanted to know was who he was, if he had a wife or someone we had to tell about the accident.'
She stopped to compose herself.
'I asked everyone. One of the grooms said he'd seen the man before; he'd been to The House once, maybe twice before. He'd come in by the stable door and asked the groom to take him to Cameron Johnstone's servant. The one who keeps going over to Ireland. I didn't know what to do. You weren't there, Mannion wasn't there and Mary just screams all the time when anything happens. The steward's drunk by late afternoon, and because you were away we'd let half the servants go home for the harvest.'
'So what did you do?' asked Gresham, gently.
'All I could think of was how we could make the man look presentable for his widow or his family, with his head… so horribly smashed in. I ordered people to take the body inside, thinking perhaps at least we could wash it. They took it into the kitchen, dumped it on one of the slabs we use to carve up meat… I told the men to leave, and sent orders for two or three women to come and help me wash and dress the body. And this… this letter fell out of his clothing. Onto the floor. The kitchen floor.' She stopped for a moment, eyes wide now, full of the horror of the moment. 'The horse must have caught him twice, once in the head and once on the chest. His ribs were all broken as well, and the letter must have caught the full force of the hoof. The seal on the letter was broken. As I picked it up the top fold bent outwards and… and…' She looked up at Gresham. 'And I saw your name. So without thinking I started to read. I thought perhaps it was a letter for you, a letter that needed to be sent urgently to you in Ireland — I don't know!'
'And?' said Gresham as if talking to a child.
'And I read the letter. Decided you had to see it. But I couldn't trust anyone else, not after I'd read it. So I made Jack, Dick and Edward agree to ride with me to Ireland, the ones who'd been with us on the Anna. I felt I knew them, and they knew and sort of trusted me, and Dick is in love with me, sort of, and will do anything I ask… and I asked Jack, because he's the oldest and the wisest, to pick three other men they could trust. I remembered what you said about — rape, and other things. And I knew it was terribly important that you see this letter, and I thought six of your men would fight off anything other than an army and if we met an army it would all be lost anyway…'
She sensed she was starting to ramble again, and made a massive effort to control herself.
'I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to disobey your orders, and I took six of your men and lots of your horses without asking you, and it cost a fortune for Jack to get us on board a ship, though I'm sure he got the best deal he could, but we rode as fast as we could and hardly slept.' All the tension, the emotion and the horror was rushing out of her now, uncontrollable. 'And all the time I was convinced that if we got here you would be dead.'
'Can I see the letter? Please?'
She leant forward, the paper clutched tightly in her hand so tightly that the paper was screwed up and wrinkled where her thumb and forefinger had held onto it. She had to make herself let it go. Gresham thought she would have died rather than release it to anyone else. Mannion had clearly been told of its existence, but equally clearly, from the eagerness with which he crowded forward to lean over Gresham's shoulder, had not seen the thing itself. In some way the girl had driven herself to cross an ocean by the belief that this letter could only be handed over to him.
He gently prised it from her grasp, opened the folds and read.
It was a curt, peremptory letter. It blasted Cameron, to whom it was addressed, for staying out of contact for too long. It reminded him that he who pays the piper calls the tune. And it ordered him, quite clearly and unequivocally, to kill Henry Gresham. It was even more specific than that. It ordered Cameron to kill Henry Gresham 'Before my Lord of Essex can return to England from his Irish folly.'
