poised to explode. You're in danger of being seen as a lit fuse, and of being snuffed out.'
Something in the plain simplicity of George's affection bit into Gresham's heart, though no man and only an exceptional woman would have seen it on his face.
'Thank you,' said Gresham in a flat tone. 'I mean it. I really do. But you see, I don't care very much, quite frankly, about God or Mammon. I suppose I have to admit I care just a little bit about the rather bumbling force of nature that I know of as you. And rather less — indeed, a mere tiny fraction — about that great fat lump who's just polished off a flagon of rather good wine that's wasted on him' — Mannion grinned — 'but otherwise I don't care for very much, except survival.' And perhaps I am starting to care even less about that, he thought. 'Look, I'm not a fool. I've heard the rumours. I'm trying to keep out of it, away from the whole bloody Court, spend as much time as I can in Cambridge.'
'Fair point,' rumbled George, recognising the concession Gresham had made in admitting so much, 'but the College want to tear you apart as well, don't they?'
Gresham was well on the way to refounding the decrepit Granville College where he had studied as a youth. Refounding a Cambridge College, even with all the money he had, had shown that Cambridge had just as many knives as London.
'When you've never been popular,' said Gresham with resignation, 'you learn to do without it. To be frank, I'm trying to get out of the world of spying. When I was younger and it was run by Walsingham it was more exciting. Now, most of the time it just seems dirty.'
'It always was dirty,' said George. 'It's just that you didn't want to see it like that and were quite excited by the dirt. Well, you'd better be warned of something else,' said George. 'All the rumours are that you're popular with the Earl of Essex for a different reason.'
'You mean for more than my charm, devilish good looks and cutting wit?'
'That's what it is, is it?' said George, witheringly. 'The Earl must have weak sight and hearing, as well as weak judgement.'
'He's got all three, and more, — ' said Gresham, 'but at least he's got a bit of life and colour to him. Essex lives life at full speed, beyond full speed. He's exhilarating. Fun. And lots of the time he doesn't give a shit, which attracts me to him.'
Essex and Gresham did not spend a great deal of time in each other's company, but various occasions spent together had gone down in the folklore of the Court.
'Essex knows how to enjoy himself,' said Gresham, thinking back to the last time he had spent an evening with the Earl. As far as he knew, or could remember, most of those involved had recovered from their injuries. But my, it had been fun. 'And even I need that sometimes.'
'You know he's locked in mortal combat with Cecil?' said George.
'Of course I do, idiot. You'd have to be blind and deaf not to know. But calm down. You loathe Essex — fine.'
Was George jealous of Gresham's burgeoning relationship with the Earl? Or was it a basic puritanical sense that rebelled against the Essex set, where one member had gambled away a fortune on the throw of one dice? Or was it simple envy of someone who seemed to have been given so much by nature?
'I'm free to like anyone I wish — even someone you hate. Essex is an occasional social companion — I'm simply a bit of rough he likes to amuse himself with every now and again. I keep out of his politics, and out of everything except his social life. Actually I don't like quite a lot of the people he surrounds himself with as servants and advisers.'
'But you must have an opinion on the battle between him and Cecil?'
'Oh, it's a fascinating contest between the pair of them, I'll grant you that,' said Gresham. 'The Queen's favourite versus her most regarded adviser, who happens to look like a rag doll that's been boiled in the wash. Noble versus commoner. Best out of twelve rounds, winner takes all and the chance to decide the next King of England. I'm best out of it. Let 'em fight it out between themselves.'
'But you say you like Essex, and you detest Cecil. And you're not taking sides?'
'I keep telling you: Essex is an amusing companion. He pulls the curtains back in a darkened room sometimes. Which is what you need, old friend — you're getting far too glum far too often.'
'Essex only believes in himself,' said George rather pompously. 'And he yearns to be seen as a soldier after Cadiz and the Azores.'
'Not much military glory there for him,' said Gresham. 'I'm amazed at how much credit he got.'
George jumped in. 'My guess is that he hangs out with you largely because you're a hero of the wars. A positive veteran! You were fighting in the Low Country long before it was fashionable. And because he's paranoid about people asking him for money, because he hasn't got any, the fact that you're a true old soldier and have more money than you need is another recommendation. Take those two supposed virtues alongside your reputation for womanising, and you're everything Essex wants in a man.'
'At least I'm not everything the Earl of Southampton wants in a man. Now that would be embarrassing.' Southampton was Essex's closest friend — the Court referred to them and their circle as the 'fantasty calls' partly because of the extravagant nature of their dress — and rumoured to prefer young boys to women.
Talking of which,' said George, 'there's another reason why Essex is interested in you.' He grinned. 'Your favourite person. Your lovely ward.'
'My lovely ward!' spluttered Gresham, caught out for once in a show of emotion. 'You mean that bloody impossible girl who's driving me mad with her nagging and tantrums!' Gresham had spent a lifetime controlling his feelings, showing no emotion to the world. It was an art he lost at the mention of Jane. 'What's Essex done to deserve her?'
'You mean that bloody impossibly beautiful girl,' said George, laughing.
'I acknowledge her beauty merely as a detached observer,' Gresham said. 'I refuse to join those who pant after her like a dog in heat.' He had inherited Jane some years earlier when riding back from a long and debilitating campaign in the Low Countries. Inherited was perhaps the wrong word. Engaging in accidental conversation with a ragged, pre-pubescent girl in a village terrifying for its dirt and poverty, her guardian had rushed out and started to beat her. Gresham had broken his arm for him. For reasons hindsight could never quite properly explain he had found himself with the stick-thin little girl riding in triumph behind him, the young lady in question having screamed long and loud at any attempt to make her ride with anyone else. If Gresham had had any thoughts at all they were along the lines of bringing the girl to London and handing her over to some family who would give her a home as a servant, but instead she had wormed her way into the affections of his servants and by the time she was seventeen was virtually running The House and rescuing it from some of the neglect that Gresham had subjected it to. Why had he hung onto her? He told himself it was because only a madman would take her as a bride. More probably he saw in her someone whose background was similar to his own, someone who had dragged themselves up, someone for whom religion and morality were replaced by that simple virtue of survival. Jane was a survivor. Though whether Gresham would survive her was another matter.
'Essex apparently thought he did deserve her. Or that she deserved him. She's turned out to be a cracker, you know. A complete stunner, in fact.'
'I've got eyes,' said Gresham, 'and balls, for that matter. They tell me certain species of spider are made very attractive,' said Gresham, 'so they can lure the male to mate with them. And then eat them.'
'Well, Essex fell into her web. You remember you took her to that party Donne held?' The servants he most trusted, and the old nurse he had placed Jane with, had remonstrated that a young girl couldn't be kept locked up all day, and had to go out some time or other. Gresham had allowed her, suitably chaperoned, to attend a few dinners and one or two literary gatherings. She had taught herself to read in The House, and seemed to have her head in a book every time he passed her by. The Essex crowd, mostly drunk, had burst in on one such gathering held by one of Gresham's oldest friends, the poet John Donne.
‘I remember Essex bursting in,' said Gresham. ‘I was rather drunk, and I have a vague recollection that I had to threaten to fight that awful steward of his, that foul Welshman… funny name, hasn't he… Blancmange or something? And his dreadful mother's got another daft name, hasn't she? Lettuce.'
'Lettice, Lady Lettice Leicester, and Gelli Meyrick,' said George, trying to keep a straight face. 'Sir Gelli Meyrick, actually. In any event, Essex apparently took one look at Jane and started to fawn round her like a dog at a bitch in heat. You know how he does.'
If Essex's sexual organ was as large as his ego then intercourse with him must be very painful, Gresham
