minute. There was a sudden burst of jeering, yells from the yard; then a sudden cheer.
'Go to the window,' said Gresham, 'or better still, help me up so I can see.'
Gresham was convinced that if he appeared unbound he would be killed. Nearly every man who came in cast a wary glance at him. With George's help, he hobbled to the window.
The Privy Council had sent a deputation to Essex. Their arrival had been the source of the jeers. The cheers had been for Essex. He was there with a host of the others — Southampton, Rutland, Mounteagle — standing in the yard.
'Open the bloody window!' urged Gresham, and George fumbled with the catch. 'My God they're trying!' Gresham said.
'Who's trying?' said George.
'The Privy Council, that's who,' replied Gresham. 'Look at who they've sent: Egerton with the seal. He was Essex's jailer when he first fell out with the Queen, and by all accounts tried to be as decent as he could. Then there's Essex's uncle, Sir William Knollys and Worcester — he's a friend of Essex's. Who's the other one?'
'Popham,' said George, 'the Lord Chief Justice. I suppose they had to send him.'
'Hush!' said Gresham. He could only pick out odd words. Egerton raised his voice over the noise of the crowd, asking what the reason for this assembly was. Essex shouted back, speaking to his own men more than to the Lord Keeper, that men had sought to kill him, murder him even in his bed.
The Privy Councillors all tried to speak, but Southampton burst in, shrieking about the assault on him by Grey. The men started to chant, cheer and jeer. Egerton suddenly rammed his hat firmly down on his head. His words were clear enough. Disperse, he said to the crowd, or be found guilty of treason. Now that was guts, thought Gresham. He only hoped the actual guts that had produced the order would not soon be laid out on the cobbles of the yard. There were howls, yells, obscenities. 'Kill them!' was the least violent. Essex swung round, marched into the house. The four Privy Councillors followed him, buffeted by the crowd. The tumult came inside the house. Essex's study was along the corridor, separated from the dining chamber by a vestibule. For a moment Gresham thought the Privy Councillors were going to be marched into the dining hall. There was an increase in the noise, shouted words, raised voices. A door slammed. The Privy Councillors had been locked in Essex's study. The noise advanced to the dining hall. The door was flung open, and Essex was caught in the light from the high windows. He looked ill.
Two of the men they had sent to Essex were his relatives. The third was his erstwhile jailer who he had outwitted on every occasion. This was not the action of a Council with armed soldiers gathered round the Palace of Whitehall. Gresham thought of the fifty fat and pampered men who supposedly guarded the Queen, the edge on their pikes blunted by the gilding applied to the blade. These were the guards who had allowed the Earl, on his own, to burst directly into the Queen's bedchamber. Cecil, who had done so much to allow this rebellion, scorned military men and warfare as the last resort of the incompetent. Perhaps now he was being hoist by his own petard. Had he underestimated the power of the Earl and the 300 armed men Gresham had seen in the yard?
If Essex ordered his men to the Court, he would win the power he had craved for so long. Gresham knew it, felt it. If Cecil had prepared for this, it would have been armed men who came to Essex House not conciliatory Privy Councillors. Gresham was feeling rather sick, and his head was swimming. There were five Georges, where for a brief and merciful period there had been only one. He felt the need to vomit.
Essex burst into the dining hall. George stumbled to his feet. Essex ignored him. Poor old George, thought Gresham irreverently. His greatest skill was to be ignored by important people. Essex stood over Gresham with fifteen or twenty people behind him, every one of whom wished Gresham dead. Cameron, thank God, did not appear to be among them.
'I see you've managed to move in the night,' said Essex.
Damn the man! Someone in his position should not have remembered where he left a prisoner the night before.
'So, Sir Henry,' said Essex, laying ironic emphasis on the 'Sir' and getting the laugh he had aimed for from his followers. He drew his sword, and placed it not on Gresham's neck but pointing straight at his crotch. 'I and my men move out now.' He half turned to those behind him. 'They have banished us, they have told lies against us, they have tried to kill us. And now we march to tell them the truth, and to bring back justice to the land.'
A huge cheer rocked the vaulted ceiling of the hall.
'But do I turn to my left as I leave my house? To the Palace of Whitehall, to the Court and to the Queen? Even to Cecil and Raleigh?'
There was a huge cheer at this, even greater than before.
'Or do I turn to my right, to the City where my support lies, to pick up the thousand men you tell me do not exist, the men who will let me take the Tower — to the armoury for London, the fortress that commands it and commands the river — and the Palace?'
The red ring was round his eyes now, the flaming mark of the Devil.
'What is your advice, Sir Henry?' Again the ironic cheers, albeit a little confused. This game was going on too long. 'Do I go to the left or to the right? Think carefully before you answer. Kingdoms might depend on it.'
Gresham tried desperately to concentrate on Essex's face, which was going in and out of focus all the time. The right answer was clear. Go to the Court. Turn left. Capture the Queen, kill Cecil. But what if other, undiscovered Spanish marksmen were lurking there to kill Essex as well as the Queen? The fate of a country might depend on this decision, whether to turn to the right or the left.
If Essex turned left, England might have him as its next King. The wild, uncontrolled Earl, less suited to be a King than any man Gresham knew. Or it might find its throne handed over to Spain, its oldest and most bitter enemy, whose last reign over England had, under Queen Mary, produced clouds of greasy, smoke smelling of burnt human flesh.
If England was to survive, Essex had to turn right. To the nonexistent thousand men of Sheriff Smith, away from the Court.
What to say to Essex?
'Turn left, my Lord,' said Gresham. 'Turn left to the Court. It's your only chance.'
There was the longest pause in Henry Gresham's life.
‘We turn right,' said Essex. ‘We go to the City.' There was a muttering from the men behind him. 'This man has no love for me. He has tried to deceive me, lied to me about my thousand men. If he tells me to go one way it is to deceive me. We go to enhance our forces. We go so we shall be marching by afternoon on the Court with a thousand men, and the Tower in our hands!'
There was a confused cheer, and Essex swept from the room. That same rather half-hearted noise emerged shortly afterwards from the yard and, after a great clattering of hooves, a sudden silence descended on Essex House.
Time passed.
Gresham was still seated on the floor by the window, his back up against the panelling. George had wandered off to the other end of the room, and Gresham was gazing up, despite the pain in his neck, at the winter sunlight flooding in through the glass. He was entranced by its beauty. There was a faint thud from the other end of the room, and the noise of a pot breaking. Dear old George, clumsy as ever. He never could stop knocking things over. It wasn't worth moving his eyes from the wonderful light. Gresham called out, 'Bring some food, will you? And take this bloody rope off my feet before they fall off!'
There was silence, and a terrible fear crept into Henry Gresham's heart. He turned his head, slowly, painfully.
George's mouth was open in an expression of total surprise, his eyes wide, gaping, empty. He had fallen over a table, and a bowl full of pieces of bread was jammed under his cheek and raised up against his eye at a ludicrous angle. The dagger in his back stuck out like an obscene crucifix.
Cameron Johnstone, sword in hand, looked casually at the body, wiped the hand that had plunged the dagger into George against his side, and advanced towards Gresham. There was nothing in his eyes at all. No feeling, no compassion, not even any regret.
He stood over Gresham, and stuck his sword under Gresham's chin, not caring that the point broke flesh, producing a little stream of warm blood.
'Pleased, are you?' He had grabbed a piece of stale bread on his passage to Gresham and was eating it casually. 'I take it my fifty men won't be there to meet Essex? Or Sheriff Smith, for that matter.'
