Because Raleigh had the two things that Cecil most dreaded in a rival; the capacity to hold a crowd, to be a popular leader, and the capacity on occasion to act on principle, and not simply through self-interest. Cecil would never make a crowd eat out of his hand, and he had always feared those who could cut direct through to the hearts and minds of the common people. Nor could he predict which way a man might jump if ever he stepped off the predictable path of self-interest, and on to the more dangerous road of principle, and Cecil hated those whose moves he could not predict. It needed only the tiniest push to separate Raleigh's head from his body, he knew. He had become a threat to Robert Cecil, a potential rival for the heart and mind of the King and the heart and mind of the people. Already with no charge to answer he was locked inside the strongest prison in the land. One slip, and Cecil would have him in his shirt on Tower Green, ready to kiss an axe in place of Bess.
Henry Gresham was a man's man as well, thought Raleigh, a born leader and someone men would die for. Yes, and women too. He too had caught Raleigh's habit of not only having principles, but occasionally letting them command his actions. Was that why Gresham now seemed to be Cecil's target? Perhaps in part, but it could not be the whole answer. It was Raleigh's potential to sit in Cecil's chair by the side of the King that made Cecil want him dead, and Gresham would never aspire to sit next to any throne, though he might condescend to underpin it. Was the long battle between Gresham and Cecil finally coming to an end, in Cecil's favour as it would have to be? Anger at the power the man Cecil was able to wield fought with black despair at his powerlessness to make things change.
He turned towards the Tower which lodged Phelippes, expecting to find the door locked for a less privileged prisoner. It was ajar, he saw, to his surprise. He quickened his pace. As he reached the ancient, heavy wood and iron door he heard a crash as of an object being hurled across a room.
He had no sword or weapon, but the old warhorse needed no second notice. He pushed through the door, ran to the cell, crashed through that half-open door. A tableau met his eyes, as if cast in wax.
A tall, powerfully built man in a rough jerkin with a hood pulled over his head was standing in the middle of the small room, a dagger in his hand. Tom Phelippes, his eyes wide-staring in terror, was hunched behind the trestle he had grabbed and was using as a shield, on his knees, his face pleading. Such scant furniture as the room offered was thrown around the room. Raleigh guessed the attacker had come in silently, perhaps behind Phelippes, whose animal instinct had alerted him in some way. He must have hurled the stool at his attacker, and then grabbed the trestle as his only defence.
'Halt!' Raleigh's roar of command had cut across the decks of Spanish galleons, brought drunken crews to order and quelled mutiny. In that small room it had the force of a cannon blast. Yet Raleigh was unarmed.
The attacker swung round, face half-hidden by the hood. There was silence, a triangle of people — Raleigh by the door, Phelippes crouched on his knees in the far corner, the attacker in the middle. Slowly, carefully, never taking his eyes off those of the attacker, Raleigh raised both his hands in front of him, and moved, one gentle pace at a time, to clear the way to the door. He could take the man on, but the dagger put the odds firmly in the attacker's favour. Yet if he tried to kill Phelippes and beat off Raleigh then he might be overcome, the dagger won from him and used against him. Raleigh moved aside two more paces. The path to the door for the attacker was clear. Raleigh nodded towards it, raising an eyebrow quizzically. Leave, it said, with your job undone but your body intact. Or stay, and fight two men, and run the risk of killing the Tower's most famous prisoner. The attacker returned Raleigh's gaze, glanced briefly towards Phelippes. Was there a hint of a smile on the half-hidden, unshaven face? The attacker drew himself up to his full height, gave a short, almost formal bow to Raleigh, and backed out towards the door. He was out through in an instant, the soft pad of his feet vanishing up the passageway. There was no shout of alarm, Raleigh noted, even though the warder trailing Raleigh could not help but be outside the tower.
'Well, well,' said Raleigh, stooping to help Phelippes to his feet.
The man was gibbering with fear. 'I had thought it was my misfortune to be tried and killed in public, but it appears we guests of His Majesty have more to fear from a private reckoning…'
'Can I get you out of here?' Gresham asked. He had obeyed Raleigh's summons to come to the Tower. 'You know it can be done, has been done…'
'No, I think not,' said Raleigh, I'm not at risk from a vagabond murderer. Even Cecil wouldn't dare have me murdered here, though I don't doubt even now he's thinking how to achieve the same end within what passes for the law. No, this was all about our friend Tom. He had one chance at Phelippes, and if it had been done silently and quickly it would have been a three-day wonder. He daren't try it again, and I'm safe enough.'
'But that's not why you refuse to escape?' queried Gresham.
'No, I suppose not. You know me too well. If I escape, where do I go? To Spain, and prove that I was a traitor all along? All I do by running is prove my accusers were right. My battle is here. As you have reason to know, I'm not a man who runs away from battles.'
'Yet you're suggesting that I should do just that?'
‘Not run away, no. Hide, yes. Go to Cambridge and lie low there, perhaps? It's such a small place you'd be bound to hear of any outsiders coming to the town who might pose a threat. Go abroad? You've enough hiding places there, haven't you? Cecil is all-powerful. He wants you dead, for what you might know, just as he wants me dead for what I might become. You can swear until Doomsday that you know nothing and he won't believe you. My advice is to take a leaf out of that girl Moll's book. Lie low, go away.'
'I accept half the advice,' said Gresham. 'Hide and lie low, yes. But not in Cambridge, nor in Europe. Here, in London, in Cecil's back yard, where I can still do my work, turn the tables on him. I have my battles, like you. Like you, I don't run away. I stay and fight.'
Chapter 6
Robert Catesby was riding through the gently rolling, lush-green pastures of Worcestershire. He had made good time on his journey to meet Ambrose Rookwood and enlist him into the conspiracy. He had cultivated the friendship of Rookwood for years, waiting for just such a moment. He needed Rookwood's wealth, and the horses that wealth would buy. No-one understood his genius, he mused. There was no-one else who could have had the vision he had, conceived of the plot and welded so many different individuals to it. Well, history would know.
They had abandoned the tunnel. It had come near to killing them, not their victims. It had to be God's will that just as the tunnel had proved impossible the lease on a house with cellars directly under the House of Lords had become available. It was stacked now with powder, hidden under piles of faggots and firewood. With one blasting roar of flame that would light up London and burn for years he would destroy all semblance of government in Britain. Into that vacuum of power he would ride with three hundred men. Horsed, armed and ready, they would first of all sweep up the Princess Elizabeth from her thinly guarded home at Coombe Abbey and offer her as the heir apparent. The same three hundred men, swelled by then with other Catholic supporters, would race through the Midlands and along the Welsh borders where Catholic support was at its strongest, gathering strength all the time. Meanwhile the 1,500 Spanish troops idling at Dover would throw off their pretended stupor and race in turn to Rochester. With no army to oppose them, they would sit astride the Thames and starve London into submission if it failed to support the uprising. Fawkes had promised it would be so, returning from Europe with secret assurances. Catesby and every Catholic who could ride a horse would by that time be streaming in their thousands to the gates of London, whilst Sir William Stanley would be bringing his English Regiment over from Europe, land them at Southampton to underpin the new regime, regardless of Spain's support. Again, Fawkes had confirmed that all they were waiting for was the excuse to move. With Percy acting as intermediary to the Earl of Northumberland, and the threat of all his power sweeping down from the north seemingly assured, God had to be on their side.