'You've decided to take a large party to the southern counties,' Gresham said flatly.
'How did you know?' asked Essex.
'I guessed it a week ago. It'll let you "sense" Ireland, as you wish and need to do. It will reassure the settlers. It might allow you some easy combat to bed in the army and test the opposition. It'll mean there will be rich pasture in the more barren north when you do move there after Tyrone.'
It will also let you prance ahead of your army on your fine horse and receive the cheers of the settlers as you come into their towns, thought Gresham.
'You've summed up what was said at the Council meeting admirably,' said Essex. 'And still you think I'm wrong?'
'Yes,' said Gresham. 'But when people tell you you're wrong you dig your noble heels in and become even more stubborn, and determined.'
'Your plan? What would it be?' asked Essex.
'Head for Tyrone, force him to fight or to flee. Our intelligence is that he can call on up to twenty thousand men, but they're scattered over the country. If he's sent his men to the south then he's weakened his northern force even more. Yellow River proved how good his men are. But they aren't used to formal battle. Ours are. Now is our time to strike.'
'I dare not.' There was a tone of finality in Essex's voice. 'There you have it. England's noble commander dare not head straight for his enemy. I daren't because I come here to our Irish friends as a man given command firstly only by his link with the Queen and his position as her favourite, and secondly as a man with a reputation for rash and imprudent action. Someone has done their work well,' he added darkly. 'If I'm to retain the support of my Council I have to show that I listen to them.'
It would be Cecil, Gresham knew. Ireland was divided by the English who came over when there was war to be fought or new land to be grabbed, and the resident Anglo-Irish, some of them from the Norman stock that had originally invaded the country. No power from England could be sustained in Ireland without the support of the Anglo-Irish, those who lived in Ireland, farmed its lands and had based their whole future on their continued occupancy. Someone had done a good job in advance of poisoning many of the Anglo-Irish leaders against Essex; the rumours had been spread that he was a philandering popinjay. It had all the hallmarks of
Cecil's work. Essex had worked hard to show he was a steady hand, had done well. There had been no rages, no illnesses, no retiring to his bed. The only extravagance had been the strange business with the page.
‘I’d like you and your company to come with me on my expedition; to be the vanguard.' Gresham bowed. It was an order, not a request.
George emerged from one door, wiping his mouth, as Gresham emerged from another. Mannion soon made a third and together they enjoyed the warmth of the sun in the courtyard.
'Did you mention Wallop?' asked Mannion, after Gresham briefly told them the gist of his conversation. 'Or Kildare? Or Ormonde, for that matter?'
'No,' said Gresham, 'and I'm not sure I will.'
'What about Wallop and Kildare?' asked George, confused. 'Have you been keeping secrets from me?' *Not deliberately,' said Gresham. 'I've been doing some research. Now I have found but as much as I can, I can bring you in on it.'
'What research?' asked George.
'Sir Henry Wallop was Treasurer to the Irish Council and one of its most experienced people,' said Gresham.
'He's the one who died, didn't he, the evening we got here?' said George. 'Everyone said it was a bad omen.'
'Yes,' said Gresham, 'he did die, in agony, spewing his guts up. Mannion found out that two of his servants left the next morning, haven't been seen since.'
'What's odd about that?' asked George. 'Servants know their job goes when their master goes. They often clear off, after seeing what they can steal, of course.'
'Servants who are closely connected with preparing their master's food?' asked Gresham.
'Ah,' said George. 'I see what you mean. And Kildare? I take it you mean the Earl of Kildare?'
'Yes. Drowned in a storm in the Irish Channel. There's a strange amount of confusion surrounding the Earl's death. He was another stalwart supporter of us English, the good Earl. No one quite seems to know why he was out in the Irish Channel at the time, or understand a drowning in what one sailor described as "just a little bit of a blow". And no one seems to know for certain if he fell overboard, or even if his ship sank, or what. There's a rumour on the quayside that he was pushed.'
'Rumours on the quayside!' scoffed George.
'Perhaps,' said Gresham, 'but isn't it odd that two of the steadiest and wisest people in Ireland are suddenly out of the way — permanently — when the new Lord Lieutenant arrives? And then the wisest of the lot, the Earl of Ormonde, gets called away just when the Council is deciding whether to hit Tyrone in his lair, or go gallivanting off to the counties we already control for a beauty parade?'
'Well,' said George, 'these things happen. Trouble at home, trouble with the estate…'
'It'll be interesting to see when Ormonde returns whether or not the summons was genuine, won't it?' asked Gresham.
'Look, dear boy,' said George in his most annoying avuncular manner, 'are you sure you're not seeing conspiracy under every bed? I know I was the one trying to warn you in London about plots and plotting, but here in Ireland — surely it's simpler here?'
'Could it be as simple as Cecil trying to guarantee the failure of this expedition?' asked Gresham bluntly. 'Thereby helping to destroy Essex and his reputation? And since this army will undoubtedly fight at some time or other, and Essex will undoubtedly be unable to keep out of the fighting, and commanders in Ireland have an unfortunate habit of being killed in action or dying in agony in their beds, what might you do if you were Cecil, and wanted to destroy your chief rival for good?'
There was a long silence. George, subdued at last, spoke to his booted feet. 'I'd have Essex killed,' he said, in what was almost a whisper.
'Precisely!' said Gresham. 'Best way? Bribe one of our men to
"accidentally" fire a ball into his back in the heat of action. Friendly fire. Happens all the time. The great hero killed in action, falling as he would have wished in action facing the enemies of his Queen! It would probably never even come out that he had been shot by one of his own men. Get rid of Essex while he's safely out of the country, give him a magnificent state funeral to make the mob feel better. Back-up plan? Have him poisoned. Less glamorous for Essex, same result for Cecil. Oh, and take all the right people out or away to ensure the campaign's a failure.'
George was refusing to look at Gresham.
'Come on, George. Spit it out!'
'Henry…' he started clumsily. He hardly ever used Gresham's first name. 'Is… is this your way of telling me that Cecil has ordered you to kill Essex?'
Gresham looked aghast. 'Me? Kill Essex? Of course not, you great booby! Exactly the opposite in fact. I came to protect Essex!'
George smiled thinly, wanting to be convinced.
'Summat else you must 'ave worked out,' broke in Mannion. 'If Cecil wants 'im dead, he'll most likely 'ave to kill you too, gamble on finding that letter you forged before it did any 'arm. And if he wants this campaign to fail, 'e's gonna go for you on that score as well, seein' as 'ow you're the only person talkin' military sense to im.
George looked at them both.
'So we assume that even now someone paid by Cecil is out there looking to kill you and Essex?'
'Seems reasonable,' said Gresham casually.
'And you knew that before you agreed to come out here?' asked George disbelievingly.
'Why else do you think I came?'
There was a long silence.
'I've been doing some research on Tyrone as well,' Gresham broke the silence. 'Do you know the one word that comes out time and time again when people talk about him? Dissembler.'