The first the Queen must hear of her general's return was when he walked in to confront her! Anything less and Cecil and his crew would have time to hide the Queen away, marshal troops outside her palace. Speed was essential!
Essex had never seemed braver, more sure of himself, more in command. If only they had seen this in Ireland! Single-handedly he kept up the spirits of his men, as if the force of his personality alone could drive them to London. They laughed and joked, shouted at each other as the wind tore through their hair. The tiredness crept in slowly, the bone-aching, tortured-muscle tiredness, and they talked and joked less, hunched down over their mounts more, rode on even into the darkness. Essex seemed as if he was not of this world, not possessed of muscles and sinews like ordinary men. They grabbed an hour, two hours' sleep in wayside inns, in hovels where they threw gold at the occupants, through the North Wales valleys, past the Earl's estates at Chartley without thinking of stopping. Pain, the whole journey now becoming a matter of simple endurance. They rode, savagely hard, through a history of England — the Vale of Evesham, the northern Cotswolds, the Vale of the White Horse. As their horses faded and faltered, they threw more gold in the air and took nags, anything that could bear them and had breath in its body. Through the Chilterns, London almost in their sights.
Four days and nights. Four days and nights with hardly any sleep, four days arid nights of a breathless, mindless race through England, four days and nights where Gresham wondered if they had the Devil behind them or the Devil as their leader.
Dawn on Friday. They had left Dublin on Monday. The last few days of September, the nights drawing in, the sun losing its heat. Already the smoke from the early morning fires was gathering over London, its wooden buildings creaking with the change in temperature, a thin line of condensation on the cobbles at Westminster. The Court was at Nonsuch Palace, eleven miles south of London. They had to cross the river using the Lambeth ferry. Someone saw a group of horses tethered on the other side of the river. God was on their side! They could get all of those who had survived the ride, some thirty or forty, onto the ferry, commandeer the other horses, then send it back to bring their horses along in the rear. Gresham and Mannion piled in with the others. No one looked at them with hostility. Simply by being there at the end they had proved something.
The cold and damp morning gave no relief to their aching limbs. It had rained in London overnight. The man in charge of the horses was reluctant to release them. Even gold did not sway him. One of Essex's acolytes, Tom Gerard, hit the man a sharp blow to the side of his head, knocking him over. Had anyone else passed this way? Anyone in a hurry?
Yes, the man stuttered. The great Lord Grey had ridden by only moments ago, in a great hurry.
Grey. One of Cecil's men. Had he heard of Essex's return? Was he even now riding to tell the Queen? This was no time to relax!
They piled onto the horses, Essex shouting instructions for Gerard to wait behind and bring up their other horses after them. But the road was slippery. Autumn leaves covered it, and fell on the men. Dead things, Gresham thought. Dead leaves. An omen? Mud was everywhere, the clods of earth they had thrown up in Wales matched by lumps of sodden clay and earth, besmirching them, marking their faces. A man took his hat off, wiped his brow, showing the line on his forehead where the mud had not penetrated beneath the hat. There was a clatter behind them. Troops? They swung round. It was Gerard, bringing the spare horses. He had ignored the treacherous road and the state of his mount, had ridden at full pelt to catch up. Throwing the reins to another man, he gal-loped on ahead. Minutes later, he was back.
'I caught up with Grey!' he spluttered, spitting mud out of his mouth. 'Asked him to parley with you — to wait for you. He rode on even harder. My horse is blown or I would have knocked him off his mount.'
'My Lord!' shouted another man, 'I'll ride ahead, kill Grey, get to Cecil before he can be warned!' There was a roar of approval from the others.
Suddenly Essex was aware of a figure by his side. Through the caked mud he could just make out the features of Henry Gresham, calmly taking a swig from a water bottle. He offered it to Essex, who shook his head.
'Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?' muttered Gresham, and let his horse fall back.
It was a gamble; Essex was an educated man and knew the story of how rash words from King Henry had sent rough knights off to murder Thomas a Becket, the crime from which Henry's reign had never quite recovered.
'Hold!' said Essex, the old Essex now, flamboyant, alive, radiating energy and command. 'Let the old man warn the little man! My business is with the Queen!' He dug his spurs into his horse, and the exhausted beast picked up its feet and lumbered into an apology for a gallop.
They thundered into the courtyard of Nonsuch. There was no sign of Sir Edward Grey. Essex jumped off his horse, threw the reins to an astonished soldier and barked at him, 'Show proper respect to an Earl!'
The pikeman drew up his pike, stood to attention, his other hand holding the reins.
Essex half walked, half ran into the Palace. He simply walked through two startled guards on the main gate who were unsure whether to cross their pikes to bar the intruder or bring them to attention. Everyone who served in a royal palace, and most of London, knew the Earl of Essex. Sweat had drawn little rivulets of white through the mud caking his forehead, and patches of mud marked his path through the Palace.
On he went without halting, his spurs jangling, sword scabbard flapping against his thigh. He stormed through the Presence Chamber, a dark expression of determination on his face. Again he brushed the guards aside. He grasped the rough wooden handle of the door at the end of the Presence Chamber, swung it down and to one side. The double doors crashed open. He was in the Privy Chamber. Facing the Earl was the door to the royal bedchamber. If any man had ever been invited in there, the world had never been told.
'Stand aside!' roared the Earl of Essex, and the two guards fell back. Essex raised his foot, with its mud-stained and blackened fine leather boot, and kicked at the door. It flew open with a great crash and rending of wood.
The Queen was standing by her bed, looking as if she had just got up. Without her wig, her head was nearly bald, some thin, wispy strands of grey marking all that was left of her once pride and joy. With no make-up, her face was like a sand beach across which the wind has blown, ridged and wrinkled with the scars of time. Her neck was like a plucked chicken's, and her breasts hung down inside her nightdress like the drooping dugs of a worn-out sow.
Essex advanced towards her. She could not know his intentions, must have assumed that a man who broke into her room might easily be there to kill her. Yet to her credit, she did not flinch.
Essex flung himself to his knees before her, bowed his head, and reached out for her hand. He smelt foully of the road, of mud and sweat and of horse. His clothes were dank, dripping, and like a slug he had left a trail across the floor where he had advanced towards her.
'Welcome, my Lord,' she said without a trace of irony. Essex started to babble, some speech of mixed excuse and self-justification that could hardly be heard as he sought to cover his Queen's hand with kisses.
Incredibly, Essex had not realised there was a man standing in the doorway. Henry Gresham, the colour of earth, stood there, outstretched sword in one hand, the other hand clutching a dagger with which he was warding off the guards.
If there is a noise, if he thinks he is being attacked, I do not know what he will do. Could he kill the Queen? Yes, in extremis. Best by far if he was not given an excuse.