The Conscience of the King

The King would not return to London, not for his son's funeral, nor for his new Baron. He hated London anyway, and now it was tainted with the death of his son. So it was that twenty-four chaplains, Prince Henry's pages, his gentlemen, his solicitor, his counsel-at-law, his groom porter, the grooms of the privy chamber and the bed chamber, his sewers, carvers, cup-bearers, his secretary, his treasurers and the Comptroller of his Household, his Master of Horse, distinguished nobles, friends, ambassadors from all Europe, four thousand mourners, servants, gentry and noblemen, took four hours to wind their way from St James's Palace to Westminster Abbey for the most ornate funeral service anyone could remember. Prince Charles, now heir to the throne, was chief mourner. Of his mother and father there was no sign.

Nonetheless, it was vital for Gresham's plan to have Coke, Bacon and Andrewes there with him when he met the King. Gresham's messengers took on new horses. The final agreed meeting ground was ironic. Granville College, Cambridge. Near to James's favoured hunting grounds at Royston and Newmarket. Fitted out with rooms built for a king.

They held another feast, of course, but it was a strange, subdued affair, the students hardly daring to speak in the presence of the black-garbed and black-faced King of England. Even the Fellows were quiet, respectful. James drank heavily, but remained taciturn, the wine failing to lift his mood. It was, the announcement had said, a 'private visit*. As if the King of England, with his hundreds of retainers and the noise and bustle of a whole household, could ever go anywhere privately.

They met after the meal in the Combination Room, the five of them. King James, Gresham, Bacon, Coke and Andrewes. And Mannion, of course, slipping in behind them all. It was the same room Gresham had had built for the Fellows of the college. The fire was blazing to impossible proportions. The fine, oaken table, designed to hold the whole Fellowship with space to spare, had a high-backed chair made into a throne by the adornment on its back of the royal arms. The other chairs along that side had been removed. On the opposite side were four lesser chairs. A beautifully decorated silver jug sat by the King's throne, full of the King's favourite sweet wine. By it sat a golden goblet. One of the goblets James had given to Gresham in The Tower. Gresham had thought about the symbolism. The servants to their King are as silver to gold. What the King has given he can just as quickly take away.

Gresham bowed James to his seat, and motioned the others to go to their allocated places opposite him. Coke was fuming, angry and uncertain.

Gresham retreated to the opposite side of the table from James and motioned Mannion forward. He handed Gresham a bound package, which he opened. Inside it, written on fine paper, were two letters. Gresham brought the letters out and showed them to James. The letters from the King to his lover. The explicit, detailed letters.

'Your Majesty,' said Gresham, 'three days ago my servant here' — he nodded in the direction of Mannion, who bowed his head to the

King — "heard that these letters had been, so to speak, placed on the open market. I assume that Nicholas Heaton released them, expecting to profit from his treachery. The new owner saw no reason in Heaton's death to postpone a sale. I sent my servant to purchase these letters.'

'And did he pay good coin for them?' asked James, staring at his own handwriting in the flickering light from the great fire and the candles.

'He paid in a different way, Your Majesty,' said Gresham. 'The owner paid with his life. Your Majesty, these are the letters, are they not? The letters Your Highness wrote? It is only Your Majesty who can confirm them for what they are!'

Gresham thrust the letters towards James. He let his eyes run down them but made no offer to take them. It was as if he felt distaste at touching them.

'They are the letters,' said the King, his lip lifting. ‘I thank you for doing at least what others seem unable to do.' He did not look at Coke, but Coke squirmed. 'You may leave them on the table.'

Gresham threw the letters on to the wooden surface. 'Might I make a suggestion, Your Majesty?' Gresham asked.

James did not agree, but neither did he deny the request.

'Some time ago now, the Bishop of Ely asked if he could be given these letters. Were they to be found.'

James looked up at that, with a sharp snap of his head.

'The letters are dangerous. The Bishop asked that he be given them, I do believe, so that he might destroy them. Because if such a man as he stated he had destroyed them, then he would be believed. While, I regret to say, a man such as myself might not be so believed. These letters are a threat, Your Majesty.' Something approaching a pleading tone was there in Gresham's voice. 'As their finder, might I ask in all humility that the Bishop be allowed his request? To burn these letters? Here, in the fire in this hearth.'

James had still not touched the letters. He looked at Gresham, and then to Andrewes, who gazed levelly back at him. He nodded. No words. Just a nod.

Andrewes bowed his head, stood up and took the letters. He did not look at the writing. He walked slowly over to the great hearth. He held each page near the fire until it caught alight, let it burn almost through and only then cast it into the fire. No unburnt scraps would float up through the chimney to land on Cambridge's streets.

‘It is finished,' said the Bishop. 'Thanks be to God.'

'You set me another task, Your Majesty,' said Gresham, standing beside his still unoccupied chair. There was a pause, it is my belief that your son died of natural causes.' James's mouth dropped open at that, and he took the golden goblet and emptied it. It was Mannion who came up and refilled it, as silent as night, ‘I have written for you here the opinion of several leading doctors.' He" drew more papers out of his pocket. 'One of the opinions is from the apprentice to Simon Forman. No man knew more about poison than Forman, who died recently. His apprentice believes there is no poison suitable to these symptoms. The fever of which Prince Henry died has a known progress. Moreover, events in the Prince's life prior to his tragic loss would have made it nigh on impossible for a poisoner to do his work. There is no one who might have contemplated such a deed who would reap benefit from it sufficient to justify the appalling risk. It is my belief that no human caused your son's death. Rather, it was God who called him.'

‘I thank you, Baron Granville,' said James. 'You have resolved yet another problem. And do these three wise men here' — the King motioned to Bacon, Andrewes and Coke — 'agree with your conclusion?'

Bacon glanced at all three, and made to speak, but it was Coke who got in first, ‘I agree with Gresham on nothing.'

James raised an eyebrow. Bacon started and Andrewes remained still. 'Except, Your Majesty, on this.'

Four bodies relaxed, three of them noticeably.

'My third task from Your Majesty remains to be achieved,' continued Gresham. 'The play scripts relating to yourself. Marlowe is still at loose, Shakespeare also gone to ground. They will be found. When they are, so will any other papers in Your Majesty's hand. They will also be destroyed, Your Highness. I give you my word.'

'Why were ye so insistent on these three others being gathered here tonight?' enquired the King, eyes resting on the ashes of the letters to his lover. He rose and went over to the fire. Taking the iron poker that sat by its side, he poked at the ashes until they were dust, caught by the heat and sent swimming madly up the chimney.

As the King had risen, so had Andrewes, Bacon and Coke. They stood by the table like naughty schoolboys told to stand in class.

'There has been much bad advice, Your Majesty, in these matters in which I have become involved,' said Gresham, standing by the other three and turning towards the King. James was backed by the fire now, the hellish red flames silhouetting him. 'Much bad advice, deceit, intrigue and lobbying for position.' Neither Bacon nor Coke shifted. 'It is better for me, and for Your Majesty, if any resolution I might bring to your dealings is done if not in public, then at least in front of a sworn audience. So there is no misunderstanding.' He paused to let the meaning of his words sink in. 'I was put on to these letters by Sir Edward. I resolve the issue in front of Sir Edward. I was put on to this play by Bishop Andrewes and Sir Francis. I hope to resolve the issue in front of them. If such can be allowed, as my fancy if nothing more, then I believe there will be no room for deceit, intrigue or jockeying for position.'

'Ha!' said the King. 'You would have done well in Scotland, I think. You have a mind for it. Would you take a peerage from me now from the land of my birth, on condition that you reside there and be my agent in sorting out that troubled country's deceits and intrigues?'

'Your Majesty,' replied Gresham, 'allow me first to sort out the deceits and intrigues of which I know here in England.'

'Yet you ask for these issues to be resolved in front of those who set you on to them in the first instance,' said the King. There was a small stool by the side of the fire, left in the hurried clearing of the room. James took himself to it, sat down. Half his face and body were lit by the flickering flames, half in darkness. An emblem for this man, thought Gresham. James motioned impatiently for the others to sit. They did so, turning their chairs towards the King. Gresham remained standing. 'There was another person present when you were first "set on" to these issues by Sir Edward. Sir Thomas Overbury. You did not call for him to be here tonight…'

'Your Majesty,' said Gresham, 'you have a rare jury here tonight.' He pointed to Andrewes, Bacon and Coke. 'A saint, a sinner and a solicitor. And myself.'

'Come, come,' said James, chuckling. He flicked his hand and as if by magic the golden goblet full of wine appeared in his hand. Mannion had been waiting for the signal and was the only one to understand it. "'Myself is hardly enough to describe you. "A saint, a sinner and a solicitor", eh? Well, what word do you use of yourself, Baron Granville?'

'A dangerous word to use in front of a king who has shown his power so recently to the person in question. But if commanded, as I have been, I would add a fourth word. A saint, a sinner, a solicitor and a survivor. Which, Your Majesty, might perhaps make two of that latter kind present here tonight.'

The fire crackled in the grate and a log collapsed down, throwing up a series of sparks.

'Be warned, Henry Gresham.' The King spoke in level tones, looking directly at Gresham. 'You push things to their limit. And sometimes the survivor survives only at terrible cost to himself.'

'I know,' said Gresham simply. He let the silence work, then spoke again. 'I despise Sir Edward as much as he despises me. He was wrong when he said he agreed with me on nothing except one thing. There are two things on which we, as sworn enemies, agree.'

'And what is the second?' asked the King.

'It relates to the subject of your first question. Sir Thomas Overbury. You have a Privy Council, Your Majesty. On it sit the highest in the land.' And Robert Carr, thought Gresham scathingly. 'Yet will you accept the advice of this, your extraordinary private council, tonight?

'I will hear it,' said the King. 'For this once.'

'We are united in one thing, other than loyalty to Your Highness,' said Gresham. 'We think it a wonderful thing for those in Your Majesty's court to have experience of serving Your Majesty abroad. Thus does a man prove himself. Sir Thomas Overbury is ripe for advancement. Yet he lacks something in the skills of diplomacy.' Something like a snort escaped from Coke. Bacon merely smiled, as if at a huge joke. 'A wise king might well seek to school such a man in these skills, as well as bind him even further in loyalty to His Majesty. What better answer than to appoint him as ambassador for His Majesty. Ambassador to a foreign country. A very far distant foreign country.'

There was silence from the fireplace. It was followed by another deep chuckle. 'You have another work in my hand that you must find, do you not, Baron Granville?'

'I do, Your Majesty.'

'Then find it,' said the King, with a sharpness that stung the air. 'Reward my largesse, as so few seem to do. And be my hawk, Baron Granville, as Cecil was my beagle.' The King had often referred familiarly to Cecil as his 'little beagle'. 'As for the rest, I have heard. I am a king, beset by more quandaries than ever a mere mortal conceived of. Yet still I listen.'

He stood, and the others stood with him.

'My saint.' His gaze lingered on Andrewes. 'The problem with sainthood is the trials those who receive it have to endure in order to earn it. They become too good, too divorced from the politics of power. My sinner? Well, all of those here are that.' He gazed at Bacon. 'Sin can be forgiven, if the quality of service merits the forgiveness. My solicitor? Well, there are two of those, are there not?' His gaze flicked between Bacon and Coke. 'And my survivor?' He looked directly at Gresham. 'There is a bond between those whose gospel it is to survive. And a special bond between those who believe that mere survival is not enough, and that to survive with honour is all that matters. Do you wish that bond to be cemented, Henry Gresham, First Baron Granville? I doubt it. Your survival has always been linked to your independence. Yet if my hawk is to return to my gloved hand, it needs to know I am its master. Perhaps the best way is to ensure that our survival is linked.' He paused for a moment. 'Thank you,' he said. His eyes were on Gresham. 'We will reconvene, I hope. My private council. When the business is concluded.'

He swept out of the room. The fears of those present were rep-resented by the depth of the bows they offered to the departing monarch.

Later that night, Gresham lay with Jane. The house was silent, the flames dying in the hearth, the light that of one single candle.

'So the letters are destroyed…' She breathed, feeling easy in her mind for the first time in months. She lay with her head on his chest, arm flung over him, unconsciously seeming both to clutch and protect. She was naked. He could feel her breast pressing against his side, and the first signs of arousal.

'Well… sort of,' replied Gresham, shifting his body.

'Sort of? Sort of? What do you mean "sort of?'" The alarm was clear in her voice and the stiffening of her body.

'Well, the King and two of the country's leading lawyers saw them burned by one of its most respected bishops,' said Gresham meekly, fearing the storm to come.

'But?' said Jane.

'That's why the meeting took so long. I needed to slow the timing for the work to be done properly. It was so important for James not to hold the letters close, which is why we needed to meet in the Combination Room after nightfall. The light in there is always bad.'

'Why did you need bad light?' asked Jane darkly.

'The letters that were burned were forgeries. Brilliant forgeries, I might add. I doubt the King would have seen them for what they were even in broad daylight, but I wanted to lessen the risk.'

'But why burn forged letters?' asked Jane, confused now beyond all belief.

'So that I can retain the originals, merely as a bargaining counter, should the King decide to set his hounds upon his hawk. One never knows when such things might become useful.'

Was there no end to the lengths this man would go? Exasperated, Jane rolled on to her stomach and hit her pillow. Unwittingly it revealed more of the length of her body to her husband.

'Are they safe?'

You are not, he thought, looking at the sweep of her back and the tantalising hint of what lay beneath. Out loud, he said, 'They're safe. Where they can never be found, and where they'll be destroyed instantly if any hand other than my own turns the key.'

'Isn't this betraying the King? The King who's ennobled you, given you his trust?'

'I'll serve the King better than any,' said Gresham, 'and I'll give him my total loyalty. I'll risk my life in his affairs, if needs be. But what one must never do with kings or queens is give them your trust. Never. Not to them or to anyone, as it happens, if you wish to live. The only person to hold complete trust is oneself. His Majesty knows that of me, as I know it of him.'

'And do I have your complete trust? Am I the breaking of the golden rule? Or is there a part of you that's withheld from me?'

He swung round to face her, eyes taking in the glorious curve of her body. 'I intend to prove conclusively in a moment that I withhold no part of me from you,' he said, grinning. 'And the answer to your question, damn you, is yes. I've weakened myself in the way I swore I would never do. By allowing you into my heart. Now, enough of this prattling! Will you allow me to weaken myself a little more?

She shivered as his hands began to move. 'Well,' she said, gazing at him with the innocence of a child and her eyes half closed, 'I don't suppose it'll do me very great harm.'