'They were dressed in gowns and hoods. Thirteen of them. White gowns. Strange. You would think it would be black, would' n't you? And the doctor, or whatever he was, myself and Southampton, we had to kneel while their leader talked to us. I never even saw his face.'
Gresham held his breath, frightened to interrupt in case he broke the fragile thread linking Essex to speech
'And he told me… told me that I had the Devil's illness, that Satan had claimed me for his own by the mark of this disease, that only those who sinned against… God's word fell victim, that lechery was one of the seven deadly sins and I must die for it. I owed Satan a death.' The Earl paused. It was as if there was a constriction in his throat. 'But he said his Master was merciful, unlike Him who men called God. He would allow a life to be bought back.'
'The price?' whispered Gresham.
'My soul,' said Essex. 'And a life to take if mine was to be saved. A life for a life.'
More silence. Then the Earl's voice again, devoid of life or emotion.
'They made me sign a deed. In blood, of course. They made the cut by my male organ, so it was hidden in the mass of hair. It's true what they say about the Devil's mark: it never heals, just weeps a little all the time. Like my soul'
'And after the signing?' asked Gresham. There was dullness in his heart, as if he already knew the answer.
'They brought in the child. Seven, eight years old. Blue eyes, blond hair — a street urchin. Drugged, I suppose. But his eyes were open. And he knew when they plunged the dagger into his stomach and twisted it to draw more blood. By his screaming, I knew he knew. And I drank his blood. I drank his blood. A life for a life.'
'When?' asked Gresham.
'Does it matter?' asked Essex blankly. His shoulders and then his whole body began to shake uncontrollably. He turned, his face distorted in agony like the thief on the cross. 'Help me, Henry. Help me!'
Henry Gresham clasped the quivering body of the Earl of Essex to him, like a mother with child, stroking the broad back, running his hand through the long hair.
Was there any way back for a man who had drunk a child's blood.
Part 3
Chapter 10
September, 1599 England
Essex's ride. The ride to hell. It could, perhaps should, have gone down in folklore, become a tale told to children by the fireside, a tale of heroism, of rash courage, of fighting for justice. Instead it became a symbol of folly, of selfishness, of time and talent wasted.
It was morning. Essex had finally fallen into a fitful sleep. Gresham had laid him carefully on the bed, covered him up and sat up all night, sleepless, pondering. Now Essex was awake and feverish. His eyes darted round the room.
'I ride for England,' he said to Gresham.*Now. Without warning.'
To meet the Queen?' said Gresham. 'Or to take her throne?'
Essex gave a harsh, brittle laugh. 'Her Majesty is surrounded by evil men, advisers who advise only evil and her own destruction. I have three hundred men, here, swordsmen all, who will ride with me. Ride with me to force Her Majesty to listen to the truth.'
'You haven't answered my question,' said Gresham. 'Do you ride to meet or to rebel?'
'Do you wish to know before deciding whether or not to ride with me?'
So it had come to this. A half-maddened Earl riding in thunderous haste half across England, dragging three hundred wild, excited hotheads along with him. If word got ahead, it would be seen as an invasion, troops would be mustered. At the very least there would be a pitched battle in London. Essex could not be King. But should he be allowed to ride like a lamb to his own slaughter, or be allowed to bring peace and good order crashing down around his ears in England?
And someone out there was wanting to murder Henry Gresham! There was a truth out there still waiting to be discovered. A truth important enough for someone to want him dead in order for it to remain buried. Someone who believed he knew something of crucial importance. His every instinct shrieked at him not to believe Cameron Johnstone. His accusation of Cecil was too clever, too convenient for it to be true.
'My Lord,' said Gresham softly, approaching Essex as one approaches a wild, slavering dog, 'three hundred men won't wrest the Crown from Elizabeth. Ride with fifty if you will. Ride with fifty, and ride into London as the Earl of Essex returned to right a wrong. Ride with any more, and you ride as the man who wants to be King Robert of England. And they'll destroy you — the Cecils, the Raleighs, the Howards, the other noble families. They'll not permit one of their kind to have precedence over them, and they'll fight you and yours to the death. Their death, your death and the death of England.' Gresham looked pityingly at Essex, whose eyes had shrunk to pinpoints. 'Don't unleash civil war in England.'
But if one was a true servant of the Devil, was not that precisely what one should do?
Essex looked long and hard at Gresham. He seemed a little calmer.
'You might not need to rebel, my Lord,' said Gresham, even more gently. 'Win over the Queen, persuade her of the rightness of your cause, and all you wish will be yours anyway.'
'Will you ride with the Devil?' asked Essex.
'I've done so all my life,' said Gresham.
And so the ride began that evening as the sun was setting over the battlements of Dublin Castle. Fifty men, Essex ordered, though seventy-five were there shouting and yelling at grooms, falling over each other. That was all right, Gresham thought. Only half that number would survive the mad dash to London.
The horses whinnied, clattered round the courtyard, rose up on their hind legs, their riders cursing and reining back hard. Last-minute orders were given to servants, too few baggage horses were loaded with too many stores. Young men were stuffing shirts, bits of food, leather water bottles and flagons into saddlebags. A servant ran to bring his young master his sword, scabbard and belt, put his foot in a pile of steaming horse dung and piss, slipped and fell headlong. The sword fell out of the scabbard, rattled along the cobblestones. The young man leant impossibly low out of his saddle, like an Irish horseboy performing tricks, scooped up the sword, left the inlaid leather belt and scabbard on the ground where another horse trampled on it, splintering it into two halves. Shouting. Everyone shouting. Yells and shrieks, tears and whoops of joy. With a rattling, groaning crash the great gates were opened, the flood of men piling out on the road to the harbour.
'You quite sure you want to be on this ride? You do want your 'ead on a pike on London Bridge, don't you?' said Mannion.
'If I can keep up with him and talk sense to him, it won't come to that,' said Gresham. 'And I'm the only one of this lot who can talk sense to him. Are you coming?'
He had not told Mannion about the child.
'Of course I'm bleedin' well coming!' said Mannion, outraged. 'I alius comes, don't I? Particularly when I think it's bleedin' madness!'
Strange how human life was so often cast in extremes. Light and dark. Heat and cold. Good and evil. Order and chaos. The mass confusion of their departure was met by supreme order at the quayside. With only a few hours to prepare, ships had been paid for, stored, made ready and extra vessels ordered for the horses. The calm of the embarkation did not silence the young men. All night on board ship they laughed, joked and diced, many swigging from jugs, as the sea hissed past. Essex moved among them, clapping backs, sharing jokes, laughing at things that were not funny.
Dawn. The lowest time for men, when the darkness has sapped the life from them, when the thin, cold light seems to offer no hope. More noise, more chatter.
They started to gallop through the North Wales countryside. The pounding hooves threw up huge clods of earth. Birds and animals squawked and fluttered out of their way in panic as the cavalcade rode remorselessly on, peasants and children standing back in the dreary villages of mud and looking in drop-mouthed wonder.