'We could 'ave trouble gettin' out of 'ere,' said Mannion.
'We could,' said Gresham. 'Give the nod to Tom.'
Jane had not understood why three of the men were carrying bulky leather sacks on their backs, with a flap of leather over the top to protect their contents from the rain.
'It's to carry your pistol,' said Gresham.
Nor did she understand why a ninth man, the rather nondescript' looking Tom, very different from the man who had died on the Anna, had been parked as an extra in the boat, between the oarsmen, and confined to the pit, and banned from wearing the black and silver of Gresham's livery. Jane had heard him being told to lose himself, but to keep in touch. He kept turning round and staring up at the gallery with a fixed, white look, his hair plastered down on top of his head by the thin drizzle. Mannion waited until none of the Essex men seemed to be looking in their direction, stood up and snapped his fingers at a boy selling nuts and ale. As he bought them, he looked down at Tom, and gave a slight nod. Tom nodded back, and quietly and without fuss began to edge to the exit door nearest to him. No one paid any attention to him. Mannion's eyes followed him to the door. So far so good.
The cannon roared its blank shot from the roof, and the trumpet blast sounded for the last time to announce the start of the play.
They were rusty in the parts, the actors, but they were professionals and they warmed to their material. King Richard was a pathetic figure, a man more destined for a College than for a Court, while the powerful figure of Bolingbroke was shown reluctantly wresting a Crown he did not want. It did not take long to see why Essex's men had chosen the play. Bolingbroke talked of his, 'Eating the bitter bread of banishment.'
In Gresham's mind Essex kept recurring not in the figure of Bolingbroke, but in the doomed figure of Richard II. All the huge melancholia of the man, his vast capacity for self-pity, was there in Richard's lines:
'Of comfort no man speak:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, of epitaphs;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth;
Let's choose executors, and talk of wills.'
Gresham felt a chill in his heart as the actor recited the words:
'A brittle glory shineth in this face:
As brittle as the glory is the face.'
It was Essex's face he saw, and Essex's voice as the actor intoned:
'I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.'
The stamping and cheering at the end seemed to last for ever, and while it was at its height Gresham gave the signal and he and his men, gathered protectively round Jane, made their way to the door and the thin, narrow wooden passageway that led downstairs. It smelt of piss and worse, where men and women had used it to answer nature's call. Two men brought up the rear, facing backwards, in case of a rush from behind. They emerged into the open, muddy courtyard, the sound and smell of the river just before them.
A line of men, in the tangerine livery of Essex, stood before them. How ironic. There were twenty of them, about the same number as had attacked them on the boat. They were armed with knives and clubs, were soaked through, had clearly been waiting for an hour or more. Meyrick and Davies must have sent for them before the play had even started. The startling Essex livery had not been seen since the Irish campaign, its appearance on the streets enough to cause a riot and have the fortunate man wearing it feted and taken to every tavern within sight. Well, well, well, thought Gresham. How interesting that on this Saturday night of all nights so many men in the Essex livery were armed and ready.
His own eight men had drawn into a protective circle. There was a rustle from behind him, and he sensed rather than saw Meyrick and Davies come out from the same exit and into the fading light.
Gresham's gamble had failed: Essex had not come. Now on the eve of rebellion his cronies had seen the man who had argued against them, the man whose influence on their master they most hated and resented, infiltrating their clarion call to rebellion. Now, with their master absent, was the time for them to wreak their revenge on Gresham.
'Can you turn to look at me?' shouted Davies. 'Or are you too much of a coward?'
'I'll stay facing the greater threat, thank you,' shouted Gresham over his shoulder. Other playgoers had melted into the gathering gloom, sensing that something terrible and dangerous might happen any moment. 'But I've something I want to show you.' He clicked his finger.
Effortlessly, and as they had been trained, the men on either side of those with the strange leather bags took a step back, flipped a brass catch, lifted up the leather flap and drew heavy items out. One was tossed to Mannion, the others handed to the eight men.
Blunderbusses: a short-barrelled musket, its end opening out like a trumpet. Usually a cheap weapon, these had hardwood stocks and glinting muzzles, their firing mechanism a state of the art combination of flint and matchlock, the cover over the mechanism, waiting to be torn off in an instant by the men. Loaded with old nails and bits of scrap metal, it was a lethal short-range weapon. A weapon for when a body of men were rushing at you.
There was a mutter from the men in front of the Essex mob, and two or three took a step back. Mannion took advantage to reach into one of the bags, and draw out three pistols. He kept one and handed two to Gresham, who took one and stuck one in his belt, and, grinning, handed the other to Jane. She did not grin back but, pointing the gun up into the air, pulled back the hammer to half cock and checked the firing mechanism. Something in the cold, calculated professional way she did this seemed to unsettle the men facing them even more. They muttered among themselves.
Davies and Meyrick walked round the circle of men. Gresham risked a brief look behind him. Another thirty or forty men, the so-called gentlemen, had tanned out from the door. All were armed with swords and daggers. One or two even had pistols in their hands, though to walk through London armed with such was to risk attack rather than prevent it.
'There are fifty men here!' barked Davies, 'and for all your farmer's guns, we will overwhelm you.'
'Fifty-four, to be precise,' shouted Gresham. ‘Not including yourself and jelly brain there with you.'
There was a rustle from the men, and a roar from Gelli Meyrick, 'You bastard, Gresham!'
Gresham had achieved his reputation as a swordsman by answering insults such as that. He smiled. 'True,' he said, managing to sound almost cheerful. 'But that means this ball is for your stomach and not your head.' There was a moment's silence. Gresham knew these moments. Any second a man would leap forward, or one tiny imagined shout or movement would start the action. He spoke again. 'I reckon on two of your men taken out as a minimum by each blunderbuss. My men are trained to aim alternately. One fires at the eyes, the other at the balls. It'll be those in the front rank who get it, of course. Then there's three pistol balls before you can reach us. That's you in the stomach, Hay Rick and Davies there in the head. And whoever my ward chooses. That's nineteen at least on the ground, dead or screaming, and maybe more.'
'It's worth it to rid the world of one of Cecil's spawn!' said Meyrick, almost out of control.
Gresham didn't bother to deny it. He had something else to say, 'Your men might not think so. The ones who get killed or have their balls blown off, at any rate. But there is one other thing.'
'What other thing?' asked Davies. Gresham could sense that at any moment the man would make a rush forward. Davies did not lack courage, merely charm or any sense of humanity.
'The rather large number of men just emerging from the shadows behind you,' said Gresham. 'My men, actually.'
Davies turned. The houses round the Globe were mean things, low drinking houses or brothels with mud- filled jennels between them. Like ghosts or Irish soldiers emerging from the woods, thirty or so men had drifted out. Ten of them had been in Gresham's squad in Ireland, men who had come back and asked if they could serve him. Some instinct had told Gresham that in these of all times such men at his disposal in London might be useful. They stood a yard in front of the other men, the porters, grooms and servants, in a straight line, with the muskets Gresham had bought them held across their chests. They were impassive, staring ahead. Gresham had taught them to never see their enemy as human. As a result, they looked like statues, staring through the ranks of Essex's men. It had a chilling effect.
Essex's men began to shuffle, look to one side. Davies glanced at them scornfully, and moved towards Gresham. There was a click of a pistol being pulled back to full cock. It was Jane's. He stopped, spat on the ground,
