without the great battle we were all expecting.' A slight, pathetic note of pleading came into Essex's voice. Something was starting to chip away at his self-confidence as he got further and further away from Tyrone and his dissembling, flattering tongue. 'Of course, there should have been a great battle, a trial of strength, a feat of arms. But how could I put my thirst for glory before the needs of my men? How could I order such a battle knowing that it was not necessary, that I had the subservience of the rebels? Surely a good commander rests his reputation on the outcome of what he has done, not on the means by which he achieves it? Surely that is so?'
'What is the outcome, my Lord? What are the terms of our peace?'
'Why… I can remember, of course, I must remember…' A wild, hunted look came across Essex's face, but from somewhere he found some certainty again. 'We shall have a truce, a real truce. Tyrone has sworn an oath to it. Peace in Ireland. A glorious thing.'
'And what territories will the Irish give up? Which of their strongholds will they release to us? Which of our captured castles?' It was Blount who asked, almost gently.
Essex's horse moved restlessly, and the emblazoned hilt of his sword clanged against his finely polished breast armour.
'Why, none of course. Of course, none. There has to be concessions for any truce, reason on both sides, some give and take…'
A collective sigh went round the assembled group.
'I have agreed…' Essex began to gabble. 'I have agreed that we shall establish no new garrisons or forts to allow the truce to take root. But we have insurance! Yes, of course! Insurance!'
'What 'insurance', my Lord?'
'The truce will last six weeks in the first instance. Then be renewable, so we can test it, every six weeks. Renewable every six weeks. For a year. Yes, for a year. With fourteen days' notice if we decide to commence hostilities again. In case we are not happy with the truce.'
There was silence on the hillside, except for noise of the wind blowing through the wet grass, the occasional snort and shuffle of horses and the faint, babbling noise of river down in the valley.
Essex had gained nothing from the Irish. They had kept their advantage: they kept what they had and what they had won, and with so few weeks of the summer remaining the truce guaranteed no attack until winter closed in and the campaigning season ended. It was widely expected that a force from Spain would arrive in Ireland before the next fighting season.
Essex looked round the gathered men. He saw the truth in their eyes, though none spoke a word. Perhaps he sensed what this news would do to his reputation in England. His face crumpled, the dreaming expression leaving it to be replaced by the face of a frightened child.
'I am ill,' he said. 'Grievously ill. Get me back to Drogheda.'
The Queen refused to accept the terms of the truce. There was no truce. It did not exist, had never existed. Would the light of royal favour ever shine on Essex again?
Gresham waited until midnight to visit. By then Essex's cronies would have drunk themselves into a stupor.
Essex was in his nightgown, a rich cloak thrown carelessly round his shoulders, a half-empty wine jug on the table before the flickering fire.
'I've lost my senses, haven't I?' he said to the fire as Gresham entered the room. 'Bewitched…' He turned to Gresham. The red ring was in his eyes.
'Tyrone is a powerful man,' said Gresham.
'Not Tyrone,' said Essex. 'Lucifer.'
'Lucifer?' asked Gresham, confused.
'Will you swear on your most sacred oath never to reveal what I am about to tell you to any other human being?' There was no excitement in Essex's voice, rather a flat resignation.
'Yes,' said Gresham simply.
'It matters little how I met him,' said Essex, as if discussing the weather. 'Suffice it that I did so. He claimed to be a doctor, to have cured the pox. I was desperate. I believed him. And for a time his filthy cures seemed to have an effect.'
So Essex had contracted the pox!
'But then the early symptoms returned. I panicked. I went back to him. Yes, he said, there was a cure. Of a different kind. But it would require… commitment. He asked me to come to a gathering. I was almost insane with worry. I said yes. Took Southampton with me. I know what you think about him. But he was the only one of my rank I could trust.' Essex fell silent, staring into the heart of the fire. The silence dragged on. A log collapsed into its own ashes.
'And?' asked Gresham quietly.
'They were dressed in gowns and hoods. Thirteen of them. White gowns. Strange. You would think it would be black, would' n't you? And the doctor, or whatever he was, myself and Southampton, we had to kneel while their leader talked to us. I never even saw his face.'
Gresham held his breath, frightened to interrupt in case he broke the fragile thread linking Essex to speech
'And he told me… told me that I had the Devil's illness, that Satan had claimed me for his own by the mark of this disease, that only those who sinned against… God's word fell victim, that lechery was one of the seven deadly sins and I must die for it. I owed Satan a death.' The Earl paused. It was as if there was a constriction in his throat. 'But he said his Master was merciful, unlike Him who men called God. He would allow a life to be bought back.'
'The price?' whispered Gresham.
'My soul,' said Essex. 'And a life to take if mine was to be saved. A life for a life.'
More silence. Then the Earl's voice again, devoid of life or emotion.
'They made me sign a deed. In blood, of course. They made the cut by my male organ, so it was hidden in the mass of hair. It's true what they say about the Devil's mark: it never heals, just weeps a little all the time. Like my soul'
'And after the signing?' asked Gresham. There was dullness in his heart, as if he already knew the answer.
'They brought in the child. Seven, eight years old. Blue eyes, blond hair — a street urchin. Drugged, I suppose. But his eyes were open. And he knew when they plunged the dagger into his stomach and twisted it to draw more blood. By his screaming, I knew he knew. And I drank his blood. I drank his blood. A life for a life.'
'When?' asked Gresham.
'Does it matter?' asked Essex blankly. His shoulders and then his whole body began to shake uncontrollably. He turned, his face distorted in agony like the thief on the cross. 'Help me, Henry. Help me!'
Henry Gresham clasped the quivering body of the Earl of Essex to him, like a mother with child, stroking the broad back, running his hand through the long hair.
Was there any way back for a man who had drunk a child's blood.
Part 3
Chapter 10
September, 1599 England
Essex's ride. The ride to hell. It could, perhaps should, have gone down in folklore, become a tale told to children by the fireside, a tale of heroism, of rash courage, of fighting for justice. Instead it became a symbol of folly, of selfishness, of time and talent wasted.
It was morning. Essex had finally fallen into a fitful sleep. Gresham had laid him carefully on the bed, covered
