There was a long silence. The frightening thing was that Gresham was entirely inclined to believe the whole story. He had never believed that hell was warm. Fire could burn, true enough, as he had cause to know. Yet warmth, light and heat were also the source of life. No, hell was cold. Burningly, bitterly cold, the cold of death, of exhaustion. And throughout his life he had sensed that cold in Robert Cecil, ice to Gresham's fire.
'I can see,' said Gresham, 'that such a story might be politically embarrassing. And, by the way, I've seen no hint of any such behaviour in Essex. As for that whingeing little turd, Southampton, I can't speak for him.'
Cecil looked at him, almost pityingly.
'I do not need a vote from the populace to carry on in my role,' he said scathingly, telling a lesser man the obvious truth. 'I do not care what stories go round the taverns, or even the Church. And I am close enough to the Queen to defend myself should she hear these rumours.'
'So what part do I play in all this?' asked Gresham. 'If what you want is for me to sell my soul to Satan and use my newly acquired powers of access to visit him and plead your case, I'm afraid the answer is no. You see, I'm not sure he really exists. At least, not as an outside figure. If he is there at all, he is there as part of everyone. Rather a central figure, actually, in anyone claiming humanity.'
Gresham did not shiver. He had trained himself better than that. Nevertheless, the fact remained that a cold wind blew down the room as he spoke, fluttering even the heavy hangings and causing the fire to billow and smoke to come out into the room.
'I do not require you to visit that gentleman. I do require you to take a secret message to another,' said Cecil.
'Who?' said Gresham, suddenly bored with the game. He sensed this was why he had been brought here.
'King James of Scotland,' said Cecil, calmly. 'To deny these rumours. To show him they are false.'
Damn it! Gresham knew he must have registered his shock on his face! Cecil had just announced his own death sentence. No wonder he had placed no listeners behind the hangings. Cecil wished to communicate with the King of Scotland, the most likely heir to Elizabeth's throne. If it were known he was writing secretly to James his comfortable lodgings would be exchanged instantly for the lowest and darkest dungeon in the Tower.
And that would be a kindness compared with what would happen to the messenger entrusted with such an embassy. Elizabeth had just sent off a foul and abusive letter to James, reprimanding him for making it known in Europe that he would be the next King of England.
'My Lord,' said Gresham, his manner now composed, 'can I with my poor muddled wits try to make some sense of this? You've just admitted to me, someone who's admitted that they hate you, that you wish to communicate secretly with the King of Scotland. Such an admission is sufficient to lose you your job and probably your life, and to condemn me, were I fool enough to act as your messenger, to a very painful and probably very sordid death. So you've given me on the one hand a chance to destroy you, and on the other a death warrant for myself.'
'I have told you the truth. As in so many cases, the truth does not justify itself. It is justified by its surroundings. If you left this room and said I wanted to communicate with James of Scotland, no one would believe you — you, who are implicated in every plot, and rapidly becoming an eminence noir in all who seek to replace our present Queen. Instead, they would believe you to be the person working for King James, and damn you accordingly for trying to bring the Queen's minister into disrepute. You know the truth of what I need. For once, that truth will remain with you. People might believe I am secretly in correspondence with James of Scotland. They will not believe it if their source of information is you.'
Gresham sighed. 'What you're saying is that I'm your only safe messenger. Anyone else you asked could use the information against you. I'm the only person no one would believe if I betrayed you. No one believes or trusts in me. I'm damaged goods. What a brilliant idea! How on earth would anyone believe that you would trust a damning message to someone who clearly hated you so much and was inherently untrustworthy?'
Cecil was silent.
Gresham spoke again. 'You're making me your messenger because no one believes you'd be stupid enough to do so. You've instant deniability. I can perfectly see what's in it for you. I'm rather less clear as to what's in it for me.'
'The survival of your friends,' said Cecil.
Gresham's heart missed a beat. He said nothing, always the greatest challenge to an interrogator. Cecil fell into the trap. People always did.
'You have only three true friends. I discount Essex — a drinking companion and a mere amusement. You care truly for only three people: that man-mountain of a servant you seem to have afforded the role of a father; Lord Willoughby, your friend and ally since you were at school; and that peasant girl you picked up on your way home from the wars.' Cecil paused for effect.
A tornado was raging in Gresham's head. He of all people should know the cost of loving another person. As the dying screams of someone he had loved had torn into his soul, just as the red-hot metal had torn into his friend's body, he had vowed never again to expose himself to this terrible pain. Jane, his ward, he could live without. Yet life without Mannion or George…
'So,' said Gresham, in the quietest possible voice, 'it's actually come to this, has it? No politics, no manoeuvring for position, no wheels within wheels. A simple, straightforward threat. Serve me, and work against a lesser friend, or be the agent of the destruction of those who are my real friends.' There was almost pity in Gresham's voice, behind the hatred. 'You must be truly desperate.'
Cecil said nothing. This time Gresham chose to fill the gap.
'George. It must be George,' he said. 'I don't care a rat's arse for the girl, and knowing how and where Mannion spends his spare time it's always a gamble whether he'll ever come home.'
Cecil remained silent.
'George told me someone was buying up the bills he had taken out on some of his land to feed his peasants through the famine years. Would that person be you, my Lord? And would it perhaps be the case that poor, soft old George over-extended himself to keep his miserable tenants alive, and mortgaged nearly all his estate, rather than the small portion he has always owned up to?'
'Lord Willoughby inherited an estate that was already two-thirds promised to the moneylenders,' said Cecil, in a calm, passionless voice. 'His father was a pleasant man, and wholly incompetent at managing his estates.' There was a shout from beyond the thick wooden door, a servant calling. Cecil's eyes flickered briefly towards it, as if expecting to see the door burst open and reveal a rampant Mannion. Gresham's eyes never left Cecil's.
'So you could ruin my friend at a moment's notice? Cast him, and his wife, and their screaming brood out onto the streets?'
Gresham hunched forward a little, the academic starting to study the question in depth. It was as if he was playing a game. 'But surely that's not threat enough? You know I've enough money for the both of us, if needs be. No, there must be something else.'
'There is,' said Cecil smugly. 'I needed evidence to show that Willoughby was so desperate for money he would do anything to get it. As for you, it is known, has been known for thirteen years, that you sailed aboard the Armada, were actually seen on its flag-ship, standing alongside its commander. Since then, you have been tainted by Spain. Indeed, many saw your military involvement in the Low Countries simply as a way to wash from your reputation your link with Spain. I will be clear with you, Henry Gresham.'
'Well,' said Gresham, 'that would be novel.' Cecil ignored the flippancy.