The galleon's grave

Chapter 6

July, 1587 London

‘I came as soon as I received your message,' said Robert Cecil. Well, that was true at least, thought Walsingham. Cecil had come by boat to Barnes from Whitehall, against the tide if the sheen of sweat on his boatmen was anything to go by. The journey would have pained Cecil, Walsingham knew. His warped back made no travel easy, not even by boat. It was intentional, of course. The more pain Cecil underwent before their interview the more Walsingham might catch him off guard.

The room was small, but overlooked the garden at Barnes through a long, latticed window that was disproportionately large. Walsingham had avoided the garish decoration that was suddenly the fashion, and stayed with sombre, dark panelling, while a feeble fire gagged in the grate and gave out no heat.

'How may I be of assistance?' asked Cecil. He was young still, thought Walsingham. In a few years he would shear his last comment of the slight note of ingratiation it now contained, but in his inexperience, he managed to make a straightforward comment ever so slightly patronising.

His family had no breeding. Walsingham was sure that in some way this was Cecil's weak spot. He needed to know for certain.

Insurance. Knowing where this man was vulnerable was important if Walsingham was to be allowed to bow out of power, instead of being kicked out The vicious battle for power that was taking place at Court was between breeding and ability. Men like Cecil had wits enough for ten, and a supreme sense of politics derived from always having to guard their backs. Their opponents, Essex in particular, had breeding, charm and the easy nonchalance of those bred to power.

'It is possible that I might be of assistance to you' said Walsingham, with a smile neither of them believed. 'I learned long ago that men of sense acknowledge debt, and ensure that it is always repaid. I am a poor man.' Well, that was true. What money he once had had gone into financing his network of agents. Therefore I can give only knowledge, in the hope that one day those to whom I give it might be in a position to return something I need in payment back to me.'

Cecil had to think about that one. Undoubtedly he was thinking that he should beware the Devil bringing gifts. Yet he was a young man, and the curiosity and rashness was there in him, even if it was not vented in wine, women or gambling like most young men. Cecil would take the bait.

'What knowledge is it that you have, and think might be of interest to me?' asked Cecil carefully.

There! He would swallow the bait! 'I can hardly help but be aware of your interest in the young man Henry Gresham,' said Walsingham. Was there a slight colour come into Cecil's face? A slight tightening of the skin round the lips? Only the most suspicious person would have thought so. 'I wonder if you are aware of a most amusing story regarding that young man?'

Cecil shook his head, his leaning forward betraying his interest.

'You know his background?' asked Walsingham.

'I believe so,' said Cecil, on firmer ground now. 'His father was immensely rich, a fortune made largely through moneylending. He apparently conceived a bastard. It was not until quite late in the bastard's life that it was realised his father had left him a vast fortune, having neglected him while he was alive.'

True, as far as it goes,' said Walsingham. 'But have you ever wondered why such a highly respected man should acknowledge a by-blow at all? A bastard may be a… a regrettable fact of life for such a man. Yet we both know the river hides many such secrets. I wonder why Gresham's father took the trouble to acknowledge him? And, moreover, why he chose to make him such a wealthy bastard?'

'I had assumed… a sense of duty,' said Cecil. 'And the father died childless, after a boy born in wedlock departed this life, did he not? Perhaps the father felt it preferable that the line continue, even from such flawed seed, rather than it die out…'

'It may well be so,' said Walsingham. 'It may well be so indeed. Yet the birth of a bastard was not the only extraordinary thing to happen in the life of Sir Thomas Gresham. You are too young to remember, yet some years ago, he was made guardian to a young lady. A quite extraordinary young lady. The reasons are lost in time. Perhaps they were as simple as a young woman needing a guardian and an old, wealthy man being deemed the most suitable candidate.'

'And the outcome?' asked Cecil, engrossed.

'The young lady in question was a nightmare. Beautiful, independent, possessed of a will entirely of her own. And of very bad judgement. They clashed, violently, from the outset. The servants recollect him complaining that unlike most men he had been made to suffer Hell here on earth by this woman placed in his care, instead of waiting until after his death. In any event, the lady left his household after a period of time.'

'Is that all?' asked Cecil, disappointed.

'In public?' said Walsingham. 'Yes. Except if one listens to the servants, a very different story emerges. A story of a wild young girl deciding to make an old man rather happier than he claims to have been. Of a child born some six months after the lady I have mentioned left Sir Thomas Gresham's house. Born, I might add, in conditions of strictest secrecy. A child later acknowledged by Sir Thomas as his own, and named Henry Gresham. With no mention, now or then, of the mother, her origins, her background or who she was.'

'And are you sure of this?' asked Cecil.

'Yes,' said Walsingham. 'I am.'

'And who was the girl?' asked Cecil.

'Lady Mary Keys,' said Walsingham flatly.

The colour drained from Cecil's face. Interesting, thought Walsingham, very interesting.

'Lady Mary Keys… the sister of Lady Jane Grey?' asked Cecil, his voice almost a whisper.

'The same,' said Walsingham. 'Lady Jane Grey, whose blood-claim to the throne of England was sufficient for her to be declared Queen for nine days, placed there by unscrupulous relatives before being removed by Queen Mary and executed for her folly. So you see, the blood of Tudor Kings flowed through Lady Mary Keys, enough of it to make her sister Queen for nine days. In that sense, if in no other, I suspect Henry Gresham's first name was chosen with some care.'

'And why have you told me this, Sir Francis?' asked Cecil, his eyes staring now.

Why, thought Walsingham? Because breeding is the one thing you will never have, and the lack of it frightens you. Because I do not know if you are acting for your father, for yourself, for the Queen, for Leicester, for Essex or for someone whose existence I am not yet aware. All I know is that Henry Gresham features in your plans, and that this news will make you fear him that little more, and in your youth and inexperience that fear might make you reveal just a little more.

'I have told you,' said Walsingham, 'because men of our position should trust each other. Were you to find out from other sources what I have just told you, you might consider that I had been withholding information from you. You are a rising star. I would wish to have your complete trust.'

'Does Gresham know who his mother is? That he is… distantly related to monarchy?'

'That I do not know. Yet it would not surprise me. Henry Gresham is a rather deep young man, who may know more than even I suspect.'

Cecil had emphasised 'distantly related', Walsingham noticed. Good. He suspected that Cecil already resented Gresham's good looks and fine body, as well as the independence his money brought him. Only in intelligence were they a match for each other, Cecil's superiority resting simply on his awareness of Gresham being a bastard. And now Walsingham had taken that away, and as well as unsettling him had perhaps gained an inch more of Cecil's trust.

'Are there others who know the truth about his birth? Others at Court?' asked Cecil.

There! Walsingham had sensed it. The tremor, the flicker of something behind the words. Walsingham sensed that for Cecil much rested on this answer.

'It is possible,' said Walsingham, appearing to think the question over for a few seconds, as if it had never occurred to him before. 'But if you were to ask me to guess, I would say… no.'

Cecil visibly relaxed. His parting was as quick as he could make it, only just the right side of civility.

So what did Walsingham now know, he mused as the dust settled after Cecil's departure? Cecil was involved in a plot of some sort or another, and Henry Gresham was probably little more than a pawn in it. Yet for Gresham to play his part it was necessary for those who wielded power in the Court not to know that Gresham had been born not just on the wrong side, but on the wrong side of a very expensive blanket. Well, Walsingham was a long way from an answer, but in the slow, measured and remorseless manner that had served him so well over the years he was gaining a little more information all the time. And Henry Gresham? Walsingham had no doubt that he had lessened Gresham's chances of survival, but Gresham had been a volunteer to join the murky world of espionage. He would sink or swim, as plain luck and merit dictated. Just as Walsingham had had to do when he was a young man.

*

The Merchant Royal had mercifully sailed to London, berthing at Deptford. Gresham felt as if the journey from Plymouth to London would have succeeded where a Spanish galley and Drake and his enemies had failed, and killed him at last. He had pleaded with the Captain to be first off. Their arrival on deck would be the talk of every tavern in London the first minute one of the Merchant's sailors made it ashore. He had tried to explain the situation to Anna, felt that he owed her that at least.

'Someone wanted me killed on Drake's ship. I can't be certain of who it is. The minute the ship docks the story will be out in London, and for all I know whoever wants me dead will try again. I can't use my own house in case it's being watched, and George's house in London will be as well watched as my own. We have to smuggle ourselves to an inn, and not even a good one. It has to be one where people don't always want to be recognised…'

'What death warrant is out on me?' asked Anna. 'Apart from the social death of having nothing to wear, no servants to care for even my basic needs and no home to go to. Nor any parents to find in this nonexistent home!' Her tone was cold. 'You tell me that my… guardian is rich, a person who speaks with the Queen of England.' She gave a sharp laugh. ‘Yet he and his ward have to disguise their passage through London as if they were criminals. I believe this is a rich person,' her voice was loaded with scorn, 'a friend of the Queen!' She cursed the hot tears she felt rising up in her eyes, turned her back on both of them quickly before they could see.*1 think you are both criminals, and liars.' Her voice was steady.

Gresham was losing what little patience he had. Mannion looked as if any moment he would take the girl and put her over his knee.

'My being made your guardian and your stupid coming aboard the Daisy means that we are now associated, seen as being together. Any enemy of mine will be an enemy of yours!'

'This is a poor country, where honest women cannot safely walk the streets,' she said scornfully.

'It's a country fighting for its existence,' said Gresham, 'and I'm sorry you've been caught up in that fight. Either way, my life is at risk if when we leave this ship I am recognised, or if I am recognised by your presence. We're lucky. We'll land after the sun's gone down. We can shroud you in a cloak…'

'There is a simpler way,' said Anna in a matter-of-fact voice.

'There is no simpler way,' said Gresham. Needle shafts of pain were beginning to shoot through his head, and he had never felt more tired, the exhaustion a physical presence pressing down on him. 'I've already-'

'Dress me as a man,' said Anna simply. 'Or as a ship's boy. They have clothes on board, clothes that will fit. What news is there in a ship's boy leaving a ship? Particularly if his hair is crammed under a cap and his face blackened with dirt.'

There was a stunned silence. Gresham and Mannion looked at each other aghast.

'Don't be ridiculous!' exploded Gresham. 'Young girls can't go around in trousers, for Heaven's sake!'

'Please stop talking like a father when you are only the age of a son. And a very young son at that,' said Anna, her voice as sharp as a sword being taken out of its sheath. Why were these men so… stupid. How long did it take them to see the obvious? 'If you really think we're in danger, two seamans and a boy going ashore will attract far less attention than two men and a woman.'

'Seamen. Not seamans.' Gresham looked her over. He guessed her hips were quite boyish, pleasantly rounded for sure but nothing like the vast, child-bearing mountains some women carried. But her breasts

… even under a loose-fitting linen shirt…'

'Now you've inspected the goods at length, do you want to buy?' Anna's voice was acid, stinging, having been insulted by the mental undressing to which her body had been subjected. 'Shop can't stay open all day…' It was a phrase her favourite nurse had used. Gresham controlled the flush that threatened to creep into his face. Damn! Had he been that obvious?

'I was thinking…' How do you tell a well-brought-up seventeen-year-old female Spanish aristocrat that her breasts were too big? Mannion interrupted.

'It's not as daft as it sounds. She's right, it'll be less dramatic if we're just a lad and two men. And we sure ain't going to get a woman's dress on board this ship. Getting some clothes for a lad'll be a doddle.'

Feeling that he was being ganged-up on, Gresham faltered, losing the battle with the redness in his cheeks. 'But what… what about concealing… how do we hide… you know…' He felt like cupping two imaginary breasts to his chest. To Hell with it! 'You know your… female bits?'

Was there the faintest glimmer of amusement in the girl's eyes at Gresham's discomfiture? Mannion had turned to the tiny window. Why was he silently shaking?

'They can be strapped back, wound with tape, as a long as it's not too long,' she said, as if discussing her breasts with a man was an everyday commonplace. Perhaps it was, thought Gresham, for all he really knew about the girl.

Gresham found himself stirring, against his will, at the prospect of someone taking on that job, and brought himself round by imagining that he was jumping into the cold, clear water of the Cam on a winter's day. Sex was like food. It was an appetite. You didn't let it touch your heart.

Leng had been useless in providing them with information. Gresham and Mannion had bided their time, then cornered him one evening aboard the Merchant Royal.

'All I did was look in your belongings! As I was told to do!' he gabbled. His nervousness was not surprising. Mannion was holding a dagger none-too-gently to his throat. 'And make what I found public! I was told if I agreed they could get me passage with Drake — a real chance to make my name.'

'And so have me killed?' asked Gresham, a total lack of emotion in his voice. Something froze in the heated cauldron of Robert Leng's mind at the tone of that voice.

'Well, perhaps not so… in reality not so!' Leng's spirit picked up a little as he realised what he was saying. 'EvidentlyDrake didn't kill you, even when I did what I did. In fact he damned nearly killed me…' That wasn't a helpful path to go down, Leng saw immediately.

'The only reason I stayed alive was that no one had instructed Drake to hang me. If they'd squared that with him, he'd have done it to a Spanish spy without a thought. That and the fact the girl touched something in Drake, and he'd given his word. And he spotted you as a mercenary, of course. Someone whose only loyalty is to his own self-interest. You lied to him, you see, which is more than I ever did. You didn't tell him why you were on board, not the real reason. So he left us both to God. So before I send you to Satan,' said Gresham, his voice like a pistol shot, 'tell me! Who gave you your instructions1.'

'A clerk! A stupid clerk! At Whitehall!' gibbered Leng. 'He gave me a letter guaranteeing a passage on Drake's ship, then a letter giving me… instructions. Said it was on the orders of higher authority, for God's sake!'

This was not helpful. He was probably telling the truth. For all Gresham knew, the order to set him up could have come straight from the Queen. Or Burghley. Or Walsingham. Or Cecil. Leicester. Essex. His mind started to reel. He did not know who. He did not know why.

'What are you going to do with me?' asked Leng, panic in his eyes.

'This,' said Gresham, and rammed a stinking piece of cloth in the man's mouth. No point in waking the ship. There was a sudden movement from Mannion, a sharp crack! and Leng's eyes opened wide in fear as he tried to scream.

'It's a clean break,' said Mannion, letting Leng drop to the deck. 'Between the knee and the hip, so it'll hurt more and cost you more to get round on. But if you're sensible and you don't mind waiting, you'll walk just like normal. Quite a long time from now, mind. Time for you to think about what happens when you betray people. Leastways, when you betray people like us.'

Tears were streaming out of Leng's eyes, the enormity of what had been done to him hitting home as the torrents of agonising pain screamed into his brain. His every urge was to wriggle and move, yet each time he did so more unbelievable pain shot through his body.

Gresham looked down at him. There was no emotion in his voice. 'I'm a bad one to betray,' he said quietly. 'Never do it again or it'll be your neck, not your leg.'

Shortly after sunset, Gresham stood on the shore thinking back to the moment over three months ago when he had stood on the Plymouth quayside. Then he had several changes of clothing, chests containing essentials for a sea voyage and barrels with his own private food store, a load that had cost him a small fortune to get taken on board the Elizabeth Bonaventure. Now all he had was what he stood in. And Mannion. And, of course, the girl, who was shivering in excitement, disguised in a loose shirt, heavy leather jerkin that was two sizes too big for her and trousers gathered under her knees. Worsted stockings did nothing to hide the shape of her calves, though boys could look good there too. Her luxurious hair was crammed under a working man's cap, and from far enough away she looked for all the world like a lad out for his first night in the big city. It was a cold night for July, the wind driving lances of rain intermittently, shutters banging on the poor houses and warehouses lining the waterfront. He and Mannion looked round, waving the boat off to muffled good wishes from the four crew. They were at an obscure jetty. Stepping back against the wall of the nearest ramshackle, crazily-leaning house and out of the half moonlight, they listened for a full five minutes. All seemed quiet. Carefully, quietly, hugging the side of the streets, they made their way to a hovel a quarter of a mile away in Deptford, used more commonly by smugglers and pickpockets than by gentlemen. In this part of town people averted their eyes from passers-by. Anna did not ask why Gresham and Mannion knew of the inn. At least his knowledge of its normal clientele meant that the landlord let them in. To his surprise, the room was reasonably clean, and there seemed to be no tiny creatures scuttling over the bedding.

Though neither of them said it, the girl was a burden. It should have been Gresham and Mannion who went to beard Cecil, but they dare not leave the girl on her own. Take care, now,' said Mannion, gruffly, grumpy about having to stay behind. The girl said nothing. At least for all her pride she seemed to recognise that Mannion posed no threat to her virtue. If she still had it, of course.

Gresham used more of the money sewn into his doublet to hail a boat, a lantern swinging from its bow and stern. Up through the dangerous arches of London Bridge, the tide helping them, the river surprisingly full of bobbing lights. There was more shipping moored below the bridge than Gresham had ever seen. England was gathering its forces for the final battle, as Spain had been gathering hers. Yet London's efforts seemed puny by the side of the power they had seen assembled in Lisbon and Cadiz. There were no galleys moored in the Thames, no trained fighting vessels. There were ships aplenty, fine ships, but they were merchant vessels with merchant crews, not warships.

Gresham shivered. Drake may have 'singed the King of Spain's beard,' but beards grew again, and even without his beard his face and body were of immense strength. They would talk about Cadiz as if it was a great victory, yet it might be that all they had done was waken the sleeping giant. And Cadiz had been a raid. Just a raid. For all the noise that would be made, the English had made a quick dash into a weakly defended harbour, with no warships of any significance there to protect it except some galleys, and dashed out again. How would those raiding ships fare when faced with the massed lines of Spanish and Portuguese men o' war?

The city was dangerous at night, men rich enough being led by torch and lantern light, men placed fore and aft. Individuals about their private business slunk in the dark under the leaning houses, burying their heads in their cloaks, seeking the anonymity of the night. Cecil's house was silent, dark. The pounding on the door would have woken the dead, but took longer to wake the servant.

He was an old man with a ludicrous sleeping cap covering his bald head. He peered through the small, square viewing panel set in the door, squinting to outline the figure outside.

‘I come with news from Cadiz, straight off a ship of Drake's squadron!'

Was the Merchant Royal the first back? Almost certainly not. But there was no chance Drake's main squadron would have returned yet, its speed dictated by the lumbering hulk of the San Felipe.

'I have vital news for Robert Cecil! I must report to him on my mission!'

Would it work? Yes! The door was opening. The man had recognised him! It would take some years yet for Henry Gresham to realise just how many people did remember him once they first set eyes on him. He followed the old man along gloomy corridors, the only light that of the lantern. 'Wait here,' the old man grunted. They were in what was little more than a slightly widened corridor, with a poor bench along one wall, inset in a window. The old man vanished, the dancing light of the lantern following him as he stumped along yet another hallway, finally turning a corner. Gresham found himself in a darkness broken only by the feeble glimmer of a single candle in a wall sconce. Heavier footsteps came down the hall, two sets of them. The men were clearly servants, thick-set and expensively dressed in the Cecil livery.

'Come with us,' said the taller of the two men, and turned away. Gresham made no move.

'In the house I own, The House, as it happens, on the Strand here in London,' Gresham stressed, 'I am accustomed to the servants addressing visitors with courtesy.'

The man coloured, seemed uncertain. He was clearly unwilling to recant his rudeness at all — after all, Gresham's dress and his body had been three months at sea — but also unwilling to detain the guest from his master.

'Perhaps the easiest thing would be to send someone with good manners,' said Gresham helpfully.

The man finally muttered something which could have been, 'If you'd care to follow me… sir', and Gresham decided to take the olive branch. Judging by the look on the man's face Gresham was likely to find the same branch sticking out of his own back later that evening.

'Do by all means sit down,' said Cecil. The room was lavishly panelled, and to gild the lily expensive French tapestries hung on two walls. They showed mythical beasts pursuing men. One of them had human flesh hanging from its bloodied fangs. Perhaps it was an emblem for the Cecil family.

Cecil's chair was high-backed, with ornately carved arms, one of the few luxuries Gresham had seen in the house. He was in full day dress, the single, fur-lined vestment of an older man rather than the fashionable doublet and hose of the gallant. The remains of a meal, simple by the look of it, lay in front of him on an oaken table, polished so that the light of the many candles reflected back from its surface. Cecil gestured, and the two ungainly men made haste to clear the table.

'Will you take some wine?' asked Cecil civilly. If he had felt any shock at Gresham's being alive he had not shown it.

The jug and goblets were of gold. Was Cecil one of those who needed to see his family wealth in order to believe in it? Or was this supposedly solitary dining simply a show to impress?

'What a pleasant surprise to see you so soon on your return. Do tell me about your mission,' said Cecil smoothly, as if asking after the progress of someone's summer vegetables in their kitchen garden. 'I have heard some news, of course. But a first-hand account always has some value.'

Gresham gazed levelly back into Cecil's eyes. There was no response there, no emotion. Just a blankness.

'A major victory was achieved.' Gresham's tone was intense, full of importance. He even leaned forward to make his next statement. 'The Battle of the Barrel Staves was well and truly won by England,' said Gresham. 'We proved ourselves the world's masters in destroying unassembled pieces of barrels. Positively ignoring the many dangers. Splinters, for example, or tripping up over the bits of wood. I'm sure you would have been proud of your sailors. And their commanders.' There was the tiniest tightening round Cecil's eyes. Anger. Not amusement. Gresham leaned back, spoke in his normal tone. 'Oh, and several hundred Spanish fishing families will die this winter as we wiped out their boats, their livelihoods. And the contents of Cadiz harbour were emptied out of Spain's pocket and into those of Sir Francis Drake. And Her Majesty, of course.'

There was silence, for what seemed a very long time.

'That is all you have to report?' said Cecil finally.

'Well,' said Gresham, examining his fingernails, much torn by rope and canvas, 'that's all the important stuff. Oh, and Drake's so-called fleet is like a pack of mad hounds with no training, and he has as much control over them as a bear over the dogs that bait him. Not much else happened, actually. He refused to let me land ashore. It's surprisingly boring being at sea for three months. Oh, and someone planted false letters in my belongings making me out to be a spy for. Spain, and arranged to have them discovered,' he said casually, as if the thought had just struck him. 'Or, to put it bluntly, someone tried to kill me. By proxy, of course.'

'Kill you?' There was no tone in Cecil's question.

'Yes. Gives a new meaning to the pen being mightier than the sword, doesn't it? But we… spies don't bother much about that sort of thing. All in a day's work, you know. In fact we get quite upset if someone doesn't try to kill us.' Gresham beamed a broad smile at Cecil. 'Can I have some of that wine now?'

'Will you still be flippant in the grave?' asked Cecil. His tone was still measured, easy, conversational.

'Well, I doubt I'll be flippant after it,' Gresham answered. 'But I'm quite keen to know who it is who's trying to send me there.'

The silence stretched to an eternity. Cecil did not move. Even with support from the high back it must hurt him to sit so still, thought Gresham. If that was so, he was hiding his pain as well as he was hiding his feelings.

'I know nothing of these matters,' he said finally.

'Quite so,' said Gresham easily. 'Though I'm forced to point out that whoever is responsible went to extraordinary lengths to cover their tracks, and so is hardly likely to admit to the fact in open conversation.'

'You show your lack of breeding by coming to a gentleman's house and accusing him, without evidence, of murder,' said Cecil carefully.

‘You show your lack of judgement by insulting a man in a manner that gives him the right to challenge you to a duel. A duel you would lose,' said Gresham flatly. 'So your comments have handed me either your life, or your honour.' Cecil realised the mistake he had made. No member of the Court would challenge Gresham's right to challenge Cecil after the comment he had made. He would lose his life if he fought Gresham, and lose his honour if he refused to fight. 'Luckily for you,' said Gresham, 'this would probably be a bad time for me to kill the son of the Queen's Chief Secretary. Or dishonour him.' If Cecil was relieved, he did not show it.

Damn! Gresham had to play this so carefully. Cecil was as attractive to him as rotten meat, but he was a prime contender for the new power in the land, could well become the leader of the pack after the death of Walsingham and his father. In the world of politics, it should be almost irrelevant to Gresham if Cecil had indeed tried to kill him. What mattered was that Gresham found out why, and that he was stopped from doing it again. With those two key facts in place, an alliance between the two men was perfectly possible. Half of the Court had tried to harm the other half at one time or another. It was part of the game they played. But still Gresham was no closer to knowing the true identity of his enemy. And if the truth be known he had come to Cecil, of all the suspects, not because he was foremost in Gresham's suspicions but simply because of all the suspects Cecil was the only one he could approach. Burghley, the Queen, Essex and Leicester's servants would provide a far greater barrier than the Cecil's relatively modest household.

The pain finally scored a small victory over Cecil. He shifted, and his lips tightened over his thin mouth.

It was time to get serious. Even if Cecil was his would-be murderer Gresham would not find out tonight. Ail he could do was plant snares, blocks, so that if he was the culprit he would pause before trying again. Like the poacher, Gresham had to set his traps over a wide ground, wherever the animals might tread. Yet he was now the hunted, not the hunter. 'We live in complex times, Master Cecil,' said Gresham.

'How so?' There was the tiniest hint of a sneer in Cecil's voice.

'You are a man in the midst of making, or breaking, your career. Your main rival for the Queen's favours is the Earl of Essex. Beauty and the Beast, in fact.' Cecil stiffened at that, but said nothing. 'Or more accurately, ancient breeding versus self-made man. You see, for all your father's power and wealth, you have no noble ancestry.'

Why did Cecil bridle at that? Gresham stored away the weakness for possible future use.

'I make no insinuations,' said Gresham, 'against the son of the Queen's Chief Minister. Perish the traitorous thought! Why men have been killed for less.. not that that was an insinuation, of course. Merely a slip of the tongue. But I do have one more thing to mention, in passing, as it were.'

'And what is that?'

'Your illustrious father is out of favour because he is seen as having expedited the signing and the sending of the death warrant of Mary Queen of Scots. The Queen is claiming her ministers acted without her authority.'

'Gossip,' said Cecil easily. 'Idle Court gossip. If you had-attended Court more, you would learn how to treat such tittle-tattle.'

'I'm so glad it's just that,' said Gresham, sounding relieved. 'You're obviously secure in your power and influence. Me? I have someone trying to kill me, someone who doesn't want me to know who they are. So I need a little insurance on my life. And from a number of people, until I identify my real enemies. We're two very different people. I've have no dependants, no family as such, no one to cry for my death.'

'How sad,' said Cecil, with earth-shattering insincerity. I suspect that even this early in my career there are many who would cheer up dramatically if I were to die,' said Cecil, with a dry humour that was the nearest he ever got to laughing. *You miss the point,' said Gresham. 'I'm not interested in who would cry if you died. I am interested in who you would cry for if they died. I'm in love with only myself. That's my strength. They tell me you are in love with someone else. That's your weakness. If I determine that you attempted to kill the person I most love — me — I will activate my insurance, and the person you most love will die.'

'You have a window into my soul, do you, Henry Gresham?' asked Cecil mockingly.

'No, but perhaps the beautiful Elizabeth Brooke has one.'

Cecil shot to his feet, and the candles all round the room flickered as if in anger.

'How dare you?' Cecil roared, There was a scurrying at the door, and the two servants appeared, bursting in and halting only when Cecil raised his hand.

Cecil could have tried to kill me then and there, thought Gresham. Outnumbered three to one, disadvantaged by being seated, a quick thrust of a dagger and a lifeless bundle in a weighted sack thrown to join the other bodies in the Thames that night. He could see the thought passing through Cecil's brain. 'You don't know what arrangements I have in place should I not return from this house. It'd be gratifying to kill me. It wouldn't be intelligent,' he warned Cecil.

Cecil motioned the men away with his hand.

He was terrified of women, fearing their scorn of his body. Elizabeth Brooke was the daughter of Lord Cobham and would bring him social respectability as well as a dowry of two thousand pounds. It was also said, extraordinarily, that Elizabeth was both a lovely girl and one who felt some love at least for Cecil. There was no accounting for women.

'As I said, attachments such as this are a weakness of yours. My lack of attachments is my strength. No harm need come to the woman you love. All that's required is that you are proven to have done no harm to me, and attempt no such harm in the future.'

'I do not respond to threats,' said Cecil with acid in his voice. 'And what is most certain, above all other certainties, is that those who threaten me need look first to the threat to their own lives.'

'Wonderful!' said Gresham, suddenly infinitely relaxed. 'Marvellous! You realise what's happened of courser Cecil did not realise, clearly. He was wrong-footed by the ebullient cheerfulness of Gresham's tone, confused. 'We've acknowledged that we're enemies. At last the slimy protocol of Court has been replaced by some real human feeling. My desire to kill your fiancee if you're the person seeking to kill me. Your desire really to kill me if I make that threat.'

'If my reaction to our relatively brief acquaintance is any guide, there must be many who wish you ill, Henry Gresham,' said Cecil.

'But few who will say it so clearly,' said Gresham with immense cheerfulness. 'How strange, yet how admirable, that from dislike can come honesty. Now we know each other.'

'You will never know me,' said Cecil. *Nor you me,' said Gresham, 'but we can both know enough to get by.'

'Why did you come here tonight?'

'To see if it was you who tried to have me killed.'

'And have you?'

'Our meeting has prompted interesting thoughts,' said Gresham, smiling, relaxed now. 'And there is something you could do as a gesture of goodwill.'

Cecil shifted uneasily in his seat. Was it physical pain, or mental uncertainty?

Tou talk of goodwill after making bizarre threats against me?'

'It was rumoured before I left that there was to be a diplomatic mission to the Duke of Parma, to see if peace could be negotiated between Spain and England. Has it happened?' Gresham asked.

‘You are well informed,' said Cecil. It was actually George who had been well informed, but Gresham saw no reason for Cecil to know that. 'No, the mission has not yet taken place. It will not do so for some while.'

'The rumour also had it that you were to be a member of this mission. I need to accompany it. Your influence in allowing that to happen would be helpful.'

‘I would have thought Sir Francis Walsingham's influence was sufficient to ensure you your passport? Why not approach him?'

'I may well do so. Yet his influence is not necessarily so massive as to resist an objection from, say, Lord Burghley. That same man who might seek to oppose my presence on this mission in the face of, say, an objection from his son.'

'I repeat, you have just threatened to kill or maim my fiancee,' said Cecil, a vicious anger still in his voice, 'and now you are asking for my help. Do you not recognise a certain irony in your request?'

'I prefer to think of it as pragmatism,' said Gresham. 'You would happily kill me without a moment's thought if I stood in your way. I reciprocate the gesture. The pragmatism comes in because all your climbing of the greasy pole at Court comes to nothing if our country collapses to an invasion and Spain rules in London. My presence on the diplomatic mission might help avert that.'

'And how can I be certain that you work for England, and not Spain? How can I be certain that letter you say was forged was not genuine?'

'You can't. But if I was a spy you would have an excellent chance to catch me out in the close company we would be forced to keep on such an expedition.'

'And what would you do on such a mission? I do not relish one of our members being caught spying when we are in effect in enemy country. I care not if you lose your life, but it would be a sadness if in losing your own life you threatened the lives of the others on the mission.'

'Nothing is certain. Yet I give you my word that what I plan to do will not harm England, nor the members of the diplomatic mission. It is essential that I visit the Duke of Parma's court. To do so openly would be the best cover of all. But there's more.' 'More?' echoed Cecil.

'I also need permission to travel to Lisbon. That permission will have to be openly applied for.' Visits to foreign countries by a gentleman required the issue of a Queen's passport. 'I can obtain such permission, under normal circumstances, either in my own right or through my Lord Walsingham. I would not wish it to be blocked. By anyone with influence at Court, for example.'

'Your… relationship with the Queen suggests you might gain most things that you ask for.'

'My relationship with the Queen leaves me with a head on my shoulders simply because alone of those at Court I never ask her for anything. It's not your support I need. It is your word that you will not block my request.'

Cecil looked witheringly at Gresham. 'You understand so little about the world in which I live. My father is entrusting more and more to me, certainly, but my position is by no means secure. The Queen is… uncertain of me, though not hostile. The Earl of Essex frantically seeks every advantage he can gain. I have more influence than I do authority.'

Was he asking for Gresham's sympathy? He eased himself back into his chair, though it seemed to increase rather than diminish his pain.

'I will show you-my… goodwill. There will be no need to trouble Sir Francis. I will not block your proposed trip to Lisbon. You can accompany me on the mission to Flanders simply as a member of my household. You will have the status of a servant on the papers, if your honour can bear it.' He paused. 'Yet I do so not because you threaten those I love. If I believed that lay within your power I would have you stamped on with no more compassion than the filthiest fly under a man's boot. I will do so because I have learned that sometimes a man has to work with scum, and because I believe our country is threatened. And because, despite appearances, you might be useful in averting that threat.'

'I've learned to work with scum as well,' said Gresham, smiling again at Cecil.

The two men nodded briefly to each other before Gresham left. Outside Gresham found a drunken boatman asleep in his ferry, and got himself rowed erratically downstream, flashing past the stone of London Bridge with only inches to spare. It was late now, and even back at the the inn all was silent, with only the occasional howl of a dog disturbing the night. He gave a gentle tap on the door, their signal. Mannion had got a chicken from somewhere, and was picking at the last remaining bits of flesh, a large jug of ale by his side. The girl was asleep, fully clothed. Mannion had placed the coverlet over her, a rough woollen blanket. The thin plaster daubed} between the wooden uprights of the wall was flaking off all the time, and a fine layer of white plaster dust had already settled over the girl's hair and the dark covering. It looked like an omen of death. Gresham tried to dismiss it. Mannion spoke in a whisper.

'I 'ad an 'unch. Got a boy to go and see if George Willoughby was 'ome. 'E is. What's more, 'e's sending his carriage round now. Messenger says 'e's convinced no one's watching the house.'

'George? How on earth is it that he's back?'

They found the answer after the bone-crushing ride in the cumbersome carriage kept at the Willoughbys' London house to transport George's elderly parents on their infrequent visits to town. Much as Gresham scorned this as transport for old people, it could convey all three of them out of sight, and if the clattering passage of the vehicle disturbed anyone in the small hours of the morning they made no sign.

The girl seemed dazed when woken up and bundled into, a carriage, and just as dazed when they arrived and she was hurried upstairs in the company of a hastily awoken housekeeper and two maids.

'How-' Gresham began to ask, but George held up a hand and cut him short.

'The stuffing was knocked out of me, seeing you go off in that sieve of a boat. I lost heart for the voyage, to tell you the truth, so when Drake sent a pinnace off to give the good news about the San Felipe next day I cadged a ride on it. I suppose I hoped it might catch you up, tell the truth. Drake'd have said yes to anything, he was so fired up with his capture. We had the wind behind us all the way. I got here three days ago.'

'How did El Draco respond to the girl going missing?' asked Gresham.

'Hardly noticed, to tell you the truth. Ranted and raved a bit, accused several sailors of rape and murder, then someone suggested she was madly in love with you and had smuggled herself aboard the Daisy, and then he went back to counting ducats.'

'Someone?' asked Gresham raising an eyebrow. His friend was an appalling liar, and had gone red as he had spoken.

'Well, me, actually. Guessed she might have gone with you. Didn't want to see a sailor hanged — you could see the one Drake went for loved his mother and wouldn't have harmed a flea, never mind a fly. Anyway, never mind that. Tell me about your journey…'

Gresham gave the details, with occasional guffaws, and interruptions from Mannion, and then relayed his conversation with Cecil.

'Interesting,' said George, his great brow furrowed with thought. 'Let's be logical about this. Someone's been trying to kill you. We need to find out who. So let's work through the suspects.'

Gresham stood up, and started pacing the room.

'Obvious first suspect: Cecil.'

'Obviously a suspect,' said George, 'but it's not conclusive. All we know is that he's taken an interest in you. You could be a pawn in a much bigger game. He could be a pawn in a much bigger game. No. It's not conclusive.'

‘Few things ever are in my world,' said Gresham, 'but let's move on.'

'Walsingham has to be a suspect,' said George. He revelled in this politicking, thought Gresham,

'How so?' said Gresham. The thought had occurred to him, but it seemed less blasphemous coming from someone else's mouth.

'Walsingham was Mary Queen of Scots' enemy as much as Burghley and Cecil. He's out of favour because of the execution. Perhaps he set you up as the villain to get himself off the rack of the Queen's disfavour?'

'It's possible,' said Gresham, 'but I doubt it. He's survived far worse than this, and anyway, I think he's dying. I doubt if killing me to speed up the end of the Queen's displeasure would be a priority in his present frame of mind.

'There's something you 'aven't thought of,' said Mannion. He had acquired a shoulder of lamb and a tankard from somewhere, but was sufficiently impressed by what he wanted to say to put them down, though only momentarily. 'Walsingham's been setting you up as a spy for Spain, 'asn't 'e? Getting you to go to Mass, letting you give bits of information to them as what we know works for Spain?'

'Has he?' asked George, aghast. 'I didn't know that!'

'You weren't meant to,' said Gresham, looking meaningfully at Mannion. He waved the objection away, with a hand that had magically repossessed the leg of lamb.

"S'no matter,' he said with his mouthful. 'You can trust 'im. I'll lay my life on it.'

'You lay your life where you want. Just leave me to decide where I lay mine!' said Gresham ruefully.

'Well, don't you see?' said Mannion. 'Suppose word got out that you're a spy for Spain? Nothing stays a secret for very long in London! Walsingham could always try and explain that he set you up as a double agent, but at best 'e's goin' to appear a bloody fool — one of his spies working for Spain, sent by Walsingham as a crewman on Drake's bloody expedition to Cadiz no less! At worst they might think old Walsingham was trying to ride two horses at the same time, and set 'imself up with a nice pension if Spain did invade and take over, with one of 'is men on the inside track. Easiest thing is to have you knocked off, safely out at sea, and claim the credit for giving rough justice to a bloody spy. Alright, he loses a good agent, but maybe he saves his own bacon.'

Gresham had stopped pacing now. The first light of dawn was flooding London, sunlight falling through the latticed window lighting half of his face, leaving the other in deepest shadow. Could it be true? Could Walsingham have sacrificed him because one of his men was about to be revealed as working for Spain?

'Next suspect, then,' said Gresham firmly, starting to pace up and down again. He had reached a conclusion himself, but clearly was not going to share it.

'The Queen,' said George flatly.

'The Queen?' Gresham laughed. 'Come off it! I didn't trip her up, I didn't let on that her breath smelled like a latrine pit, and I didn't ask her for money. Why would-'

'You're a very rich man,' said George.

Gresham sighed. He was fed up with people telling him how rich he was. It got boring. 'Yes, I am,' he said tiredly. 'And what's more, I'm even richer than I was when my father died, meaning I haven't run through my inheritance like wild young men are meant to do — and, yes, I do have a business brain in my head despite the business of growing the fortune being even more boring than being told by people like you how rich I am!'

'Who are your relations asked George quietly, ignoring the tirade.

'Why… there are none,' said Gresham. Something was starting to tighten in his stomach as he began to perceive George's point. George carried on, relentlessly.

'What happens to the estate of very rich men who die with no family, intestate. I bet you haven't even thought about a will…'

'Leave it all to me, if yer like,' muttered Mannion. 'God knows, I could use a bit extra…'

'… and what happens to a vast estate when a man dies as a traitor!' George continued.

'The Crown inherits,' said Gresham, turning to sit down. Suddenly he felt very tired. The Crown inherits.'

'The Crown is about to face an invasion, and is fighting a draining war in the Netherlands… how many ships could your estate buy the Queen? How many soldiers could it equip to fight the all-powerful Duke of Parma?'

'And no one, except a poor fool like you, would mourn the death of the young upstart Henry Gresham,' mused Gresham.

'The Queen's never been under more pressure for money,' insisted George.

'Possible,' said Gresham. 'It's such a terrifying prospect, and for this reason it has more credibility than it should have, as distinct from when it's looked at logically. So I'm going to rank it as a possible. No more.' The Queen was ruthless enough to do what was suggested, that was certain. But was she desperate enough?' 'Well, let's see where we stand,' he said. 'I've warned off Cecil. If he is involved he knows I suspect him, so at least he'll be more careful than he might have been. If Burghley's behind this he should get slowed a little by his baby boy; I'm damned sure if Cecil thinks his bride-to-be is in danger he'll have cautionary words with Daddy. Walsingham… well, I'd better see Walsingham and scout out the lay of the land. And if it's the Queen…'

'And if it's the Queen, we're fucked,' said Mannion morosely.

'Until she gets bored, or thinks of something else,' said Gresham. 'Or does actually get dealt with as you suggested with your usual subtlety, in which case it might take her mind off us.'

'Female spiders let the men do 'em,' said Mannion, 'and then they kill them. I've seen it. In the garden,' he added ominously.

'You are a little sprig of cheerfulness, aren't you?' said Gresham. 'I've got a great idea: shut up.'

Mannion subsided, though words like 'ignorant' and 'can't face truth' passed just on the edge of hearing.

'I think it's time for some sleep,' said George, yawning and rubbing his eyes like a baby. 'And a bath for both of you, if you don't mind my saying so. It's taken me three days to get clean, and both of you are seriously anti-social.'

Gresham could have washed in his friend's house, borrowed some clothes and ridden off to his own house in a semi-decent state. Instead he decided to ride to The House in his salt-stained, ship-wrecked and stinking clothes.

'I can't understand,' said George to Mannion. 'He's normally so… fastidious.' George usually complained about this obsession with cleanliness, believing that too much water took away the skin's natural oils and preferring to drench himself with perfume. Yet the change, even if only this once, was so extraordinary as to be alarming.

Mannion grinned, but kept silent. He knew why Gresham wanted to ride through the streets of London as he did. Those filthy clothes, and even the ripe scent of a man who had been at sea for three months were a badge of honour for a young man, a symbol of someone who had taken part and fought in a great adventure. Just for once Henry Gresham was simply behaving like a normal young man. He wanted to show the world that he had been in battle. He let Anna sleep for a couple of hours, then led her, side-saddle of course, draped in a huge cloak unearthed at George's house that must have been made originally for either a woman carrying triplets or a refugee from a freak show, but which hid adequately for the moment her ship's boy's tunic and breeches.

He gained his admiration. Four of his own servants from The House had brought horses over for him, for Anna and for Mannion. Mannion stationed two of them in front, ostensibly to clear the way through the crowded streets. He also made it clear to the servants that they were free to tell passers-by that here was a hero of Cadiz, returned ahead of the victorious and glorious Sir Francis Drake. Let him enjoy his moment of glory, thought Mannion. He had fought well, shown hardly a flicker of fear despite what he must have felt, and kept his spirits when many a good man would have given in to despair. He deserved to be cheered through the streets, cheered by a populace dreading the sound of Spanish cavalry riding up Cheapside and only too pleased to celebrate an English triumph.

Gresham enjoyed the cheering, but also became embarrassed by it. What was a man to do? Wave like the Queen distributing the largesse of her approval to her loyal subjects? Or ride on through haughtily, ignoring the crowds disdainfully and being very proud? At a loss, instead he let himself draw alongside Anna, with whom he had hardly exchanged a word since disembarking. She was still extraordinarily beautiful; the perfect oval of her face, her dark eyes and full lips, high cheekbones and the glorious mass of blonde hair. Yet there were shadows under her eyes. Was another reason why the crowds were cheering that they were thinking in this superb pair they must be seeing a Prince and a Princess? She held herself proudly on the horse — she had a superb seat, her head held high Gresham noticed — but he had spent enough time with her now to know that she was totally exhausted.

'Are you rested?' he asked, grinning nervously at a passer-by who had yelled 'God bless you sir!', and in so doing making himself look very young indeed.

She said nothing for a moment, though the ground was soft and there was no clattering of hoofs on the unpaved road to drown out her words. 'You realise I am ruined now, twice over? As a wife, I mean.' There was an eternity of tiredness in her voice.

'What do you mean?' said Gresham, shocked. Why were girls so unpredictable?

'Who will believe I retain my virtue after having spent days at sea on a sinking ship with only men around me? Then a night with two men, in a stinking inn where men bring women for… business. You think I am blind as to where you took me last night? I am… how do you say it… ploddy goods? My fiancй will not wish to buy second hand, I think. So, guardian, the value of your package is nil.'

'Shoddy goods…' he began to murmur, then realised it sounded as if he was confirming her judgement. Gresham's first reaction was to feel deep offence at the thought that he or Mannion would ever damage a girl's reputation. Dammit, no married or single woman would ever sleep with a man if they thought he would blab on her! It was the basic rule of seduction, wasn't it? His second thought was that there was no one to tell the story, the other men on the Daisy being dead. Then, his heart sinking, he remembered Robert Leng, Drake, and all his crew, all of whom would know how Anna had reached England once they heard she was alive. He started to justify himself then.

'As far as I’m concerned,' said Gresham, 'whatever state you're in now is the same state as when I met you. I…'

His eye caught the movement of the girl's arm as it swung round incredibly fast to slap his face. The survival instinct cut in, beyond his control, and the girl let out a gasp as a steel-hard hand caught and stopped her swing.

'Do not laugh at me!' she cried at him, eyes sparkling with anger. The pride of her Spanish ancestry rose in her, and the devilment of her Irish. 'I am no whore, even if you try to make me one! How dare to imply that I had lost my virtue! It is not so! I tell you, it is not so!'

Here was a seventeen-year-old girl, who had never lived beyond the watchful eye of her loving parents and paid servants, cosseted and protected as all girls of her class were, protected because their virginity was their greatest asset. Suddenly this untutored creature found herself losing her father and then her mother too, left friendless in the company of her country's enemies, hurled by her mother into the hands of a wild young man who she probably hated and whose power over her she found humiliating. Shipwrecked, hauled across half the world with one dress and no servant, with no one to love her, her first night in a foreign country had been spent in an evil-smelling tavern with two men.

Gresham refused to let his heart be moved by her looks. But was she… brave? Gresham had never met a girl who was brave. Oh, girls were fun, and quite mysterious, but they were never brave. They never had to be, really, did they? Until it was too late, and the men had lost the battle, and the castle or the house was invaded. And then all their bravery was good for was to make them scream a little less than the others. He relaxed his grip, she fiercely resisting the overwhelming urge to rub her arm where his grip had left it white and burning with returning circulation. There was no sign of tears. He only vaguely understood and refused to listen to what his own brain told him it must be costing her simply to keep control, not to break down, not just now in this extraordinary environment but ever since her mother had died.

'Your honour is intact because we know it is so. We would both of us die before allowing anyone to impugn your honour’ he said grandly.

'And what's more,' interrupted Mannion, who Gresham did not recollect asking to speak but who had ridden up beside them, 'we'll kill anyone who says any different.'

'We'll protect you,' said Gresham. 'I have to. I gave your mother my word. That's what the dumb ox means. You're safe with us.'

She looked at Gresham, who suddenly seemed unforgivably innocent.

'I will never be safe again. Ever.' There was a terrible finality in her voice.

Gresham looked at her, matched her despair with his own at not being able to say the right thing, and spurred his horse on.

It seemed to take an age to reach The House. The facade was striking, imposing, magnificent even for London and even for the Strand. Such scurrying, such movements of people, such excitement at the return of the master! The ancient porter, seeing the young man, bowed his sleep-ridden head so low as to bang it against the cobbles. A cry of welcome sprung from the old man's throat, and then he caught sight of the man-mountain and… a girl. A very, very beautiful girl. Dressed in a vast cloak. The porter bowed to her, as deep as he had bowed to his master. Then came the hustle and bustle of a great household waking up to its duty, a neglected and forgotten household suddenly being given its purpose back. Henry Gresham, arms akimbo, stood foursquare in the courtyard, bellowing to a flocking horde of servants. *Now, hear this! I introduce to you the Lady Anna Maria Lucille Rea de Santando!'

It was the first time he had shocked her. Until now, he had not used her name. How had he learned her full name?

'The Lady is my ward, placed by the sacred word of her dying mother in my care and protection, off the Azores, after her fine vessel had been captured in fierce combat by Sir Francis Drake!'

My ward. My care, thought Anna. This was not about her. It was about him.

'She has survived sea battle, shipwreck and deep family loss! Now who will show her, a stranger on our shores, true English hospitality?'

The flutterings among the assembled servants! The talk in the servants' hall tonight!

Now this was a real challenge to The House. Young Gresham had never quite come to terms with his inheritance of one of London's most desirable mansions. Its cavernous cellars had too many memories of a childhood he would be all too happy to forget, of a person he regretted he had been. Yet The House had never lost its loyalty to him. So how could its formal hierarchy do justice to its young master, and welcome the romantic Spanish princess in a manner that would do him due credit? At this crucial moment, an elderly woman swept forward, hauling her skirt with practised ease above the muck of the courtyard. She had been chief maid to the late wife of Sir Thomas Gresham, retained in service as was the way of great houses long after the said lady had taken her sad parting into the next world, along with the two under maids. And now, the assembly of servants seemed to say with one voice, her time was come again.

'Madam,' she pronounced with kindness to this strangely foreign creature, 'will you care to follow me?' The woman had meant to be more formal, but the sight of the girl had made her realise how young she was, for all her grand name.

Silence fell over the courtyard. They were nearly all there now, albeit stunned by their early awakening and in varying states of dress. The steward, of course, and the manciple. The chief cook and the under cooks, the scullions from the kitchens, the porters, the parlour maids, the men who maintained and crewed the six boats dressed in the livery of The House, the ostlers who looked after the stable that was one of Henry Gresham's few real interests in the place, even the carpenter and the mason who from the outset Sir Thomas Walsingham had retained to carve out and care for his beautiful home. There were over fifty of them there now, the people who kept the complex organism of The House running even in the absence of its master. The truly frightening fact was that to maintain its fifty inhabitants and its huge fabric was but a pinprick in his wealth. And now these inhabitants were looking in the cold light of dawn to a girl dressed in working man's clothes on a dreadful horse. The Lady Maria Anna Lucille Rea de Santando.

It was the kindness that did it. All those defences, put up and so fiercely defended over so many months, crumbled away in the face of a few kind words. A single tear welled up, and hung poised over her extraordinarily long eyelashes. 'I thank you for your kindness,' she said, and curtseyed to them. Even the irritating bird that had sung welcome to the dawn as she had descended had decided to shut up.

One man started to clap slowly, and gradually it took off until a torrent of applause was echoing round the courtyard. Anna dropped exhausted from the horse, the old lady put an arm round her and the line of servants parted, cheering starting now over the applause.

'Isn't it about time you stopped playing the field?' Mannion asked, unexpectedly, of his master. 'That one there, she's got the body and she's got the brains. She'll keep you in order. Give you what you want, on both counts. Why not get something going that'll last for more than a few nights?'

'So I have to apologise to someone all the time?' said Gresham. 'Say sorry because I can't guarantee being there when they want me to be? Sorry because someone claiming to love me has actually just become dependent on me? So dependent that I can't move, breathe or even live? I don't want attachments!' The passion in his voice was almost frightening. 'Don't you understand? I don't want people to depend on me! I want to be free!'

'We're none of us free,' said Mannion. 'It's just that some of us like to pretend we can be.'

Gresham looked into Mannion's eyes, for several long seconds. Then he turned away, and stormed into his living quarters. There were no dramatic gestures from Mannion. He had an attachment, one willingly entered into, though it was not with a woman. And he did not intend to depart from it.

The figure that met them several hours later was unrecognisable. Anna swept in, escorted by three women, paused to allow herself to be admired, then curtseyed to her guardian, who bowed a deep and appreciative bow back. Her hair had been brushed back to a lustrous frenzy, worn down as an unmarried girl's hair should be. The dress they had found was a deep black velvet, opened at the front with an intricate linear design picked out with tiny pearls, hugging the upper part of her figure and blossoming out gloriously in an excess of material from its high waist, the flowing sleeves seeming to emphasise rather than hide the fragility of her slender arms. Was it the looks, the perfect face, the promise of the figure beneath the velvet that made her look so hugely edible, wondered Gresham? Or was it the sense of raw energy, an uncontrolled life force that radiated from her?

'I need to talk with you.' His eyes took in the accompanying women.

'You may leave us,' said Anna regally. And then, reverting to the young girl, she flung out her arms to them. Thank you!' she said. 'Thank you for helping me!' Several hours of hugging and mutual female support then took place, most of which Gresham tried to ignore by looking out of the window. It was a pity he did not look more closely. It would have revealed a different woman to the one he thought he knew.

'Do you think of yourself as wholly Spanish? Or is there a part of you that is English?' asked Gresham. He spoke bluntly, told himself he did not care.

Anna looked at him as if he had started to burble like a madman.

'I hate Spain. It rejected my father, sent him to exile in filthy Goa and so brought about his death. My mother was taunted as a foreigner from the moment she set foot in Spain. What do I owe Spain? And England? At least Spain gave me warmth and sunshine when I was a child. England gave me nothing, except a mother whose family was rejected by their own country as my father's family was rejected by Spain. I despise them both.'

Gresham was uncertain. He was going to get no more help from her. But he plunged on.

'I need you,' said Gresham. 'I need to go to Lisbon, to spy on Spain. To do certain things that will help my country, England, survive an invasion by Spain. To destroy that invasion.'

She eyed him as a cook might eye a fish to see if the fishmonger was lying about its freshness. 'And how could I stop Spain destroying England?' The irony was so thick it could have been laid on with a trowel.

'Because I could use you as my cover. As your guardian I could claim to be visiting Lisbon to reunite you with your fiancй’

'You could,' said Anna simply. 'He is based in Lisbon, despite the fact that he is French. And what would be even more convenient for you would be that you could spend a long time finding him. He travels from June, sometimes until as late as December.'

Gresham took in her 'you could' comment. It was not an assent, merely recognition that his journey would be theoretically possible with her as cover. No surprise at his request. No shock even.

'What does he travel so long for, and part of it in the winter months?' asked Gresham.

Anna looked at him levelly.

'He is a stupid merchant. A stupid, fat merchant. He deals in spices. He sails out in June to Goa, where he spends a month, maybe two months, despatching what he ordered last year, agreeing his sordid purchases for the next year. Then he travels back by land, because he buys much wool from the far south, where they do not shear the sheep until October. And carpets. He buys carpets, from the Turks.'

The silence lay thick between them.

'Don't you still have family in Spain?'

'I have family, yes. Some very distant cousins. All my father's estates, they are gone, sold. My cousin has a large family, very many daughters. Another one will not be welcome, particularly if she already has a fiancй’ And my English family? What few of them are left cut my mother off completely.'

So the firebrand really was alone. No father, no mother, no family worth the name. In much the same situation, as it happened, as

Henry Gresham. Yet Gresham had wealth, the freedom of a man to plot his own destiny. She, in her own words, was just a package, a woman to be disposed of to the best bidder. A fat French merchant.

'Why do you want to stop this war?' asked Anna.

Why? The question, calmly asked by this ice maiden, shocked him more than anything else she had said or done. Since he was risking his life for the answer, surely he should know it? Yet he found himself having to produce an answer for the first time, fumbling with the unfamiliar words.

'Because… because we can all of us find reasons for doing nothing, for giving up. The easiest decision to take is that we're victims. I have to believe I can make a difference. That I can make things better.' He was surprised by the strength of his own passion. 'Otherwise fate makes cowards of us all, and we're little more than dumb beasts in the field who take the life they are given at birth, but can give nothing back to it. My life must be more than mere existence.'

'And?' said Anna.*You missed something out.' 'What?' said Gresham, startled.

'You are excited by the risk. By the fact that you might be found out, killed. Only when you think you might lose your life do you realise how valuable it is to you.'

'How can you say that? You who knows so little of me?'

'Because my brain works in the same way as yours!' she snapped back at him. For the first time there was raw, jagged emotion in her voice. 'Do you not think a woman fears that she is one of those beasts in the field you so despise, there to breed, with no other justification for her having been given life?'

'But… but the greatest fulfilment a woman can have, her bounden duty, is to have children…' Gresham replied in amazement.

'It may be so,' said Anna, 'but before that duty can a woman not feel she is properly alive, be inflamed by danger? Want to make a difference of her own! She swung away, looked out of the window. She spoke without turning. 'Yes,' she said suddenly. 'I will come with you to Lisbon.'

'Despite your being Spanish, in name at least? Despite the fact that your own country could execute you if we are found out? Despite the fact that you might end the trip… conjoined with your fat French merchant?'

She spun round. 'I will not ask why you do what you do, Henry Gresham. In return grant me the favour of not asking me why I do what I do!'

'As you wish,' said Gresham. There was respect in the short bow he gave her. So much the better. Mutual respect would help them do business. But who really knew what went on in a girl's mind? Wasn't it that very mystery that made them so attractive? The mystery that could appear to be present even in the most stupid? 'Do you like horses?' asked Gresham suddenly into the silence, and then wished he had not spoken. He had felt an almost uncontrollable urge to visit the one place in The House where he was fully at ease. Why on earth had he asked her to join him?

'I love horses,' she answered. Yes, thought Gresham, as so many women love horses — until they rear and bolt, or snort too close to a fine dress, or develop sores that need washing and dressing…

'Then come with me to the stables of The House,' he said, making it an order rather than a request. It would have been better if he had slept with her, he thought. Then she would have been just like all the others. Perhaps he ought to bed her, to prove to himself that she was. But he had given his word to her mother. In his arrogance and his youthfulness, he did not consider that she might not be willing to bed him.

The stables had always been a different world to Gresham. As a young boy when all else had failed he would come here, sometimes just to nestle in the corner of a stall, saying nothing, feeling the companionship of the animal. That strange smell of horse, part musty, part acrid, yet warm and comforting, the smell of a world without lies and deceit, a world where the boundaries were finite and understood. The scuff of a hoof, the sound of easy breath through nostrils. A horse knew what it was on earth to do.

They entered the stables as a grinning lad bowed and opened a door. The sunlight dappled the stalls, and the smell of fresh straw hit them as the light suddenly faded and became warmly encompassing. There was a wide path between the stalls, raised and built out of the same brick as the walls, almost an avenue. The beasts had just been exercised, the rubbing-down just finished. They were superb animals. The older mares and geldings were put out to a farm near Cambridge, left to end their days peacefully rather than die in distress at the slaughter yards of Deptford. Every animal in the stable, from those who could haul Sir Thomas Gresham's cumbersome carriage if ever it were used again, to the finest hunters, seemed at the peak of their condition.

'I have never seen so many fine horses,' said Anna. Gresham sensed that she was moved, was not being sarcastic.

'The stables at Cambridge are even bigger,' Mannion spoke to her, in a low voice. People never raised their voices in the stables, not so much for fear of frightening the horses but rather out of respect for them in their temple.

'Choose one,' said Gresham, on impulse.

'May I see some of them walk out, please?' she asked. Of course she could. Particularly as it was the first time he had ever heard her use the word 'please'. The ostlers were bored, their master hardly ever there, and were pleased to have something to do. The lady was good to look at, and it would be another story for the servants' hall. As for the horses, it would do them no harm to do a little gentle parading. Would she go simply for looks? Or choose the most placid?

First of all she walked the length of the stalls. She waited by each boarded door for the inquisitive head to pop out and examine this new human. She did not flinch when the massive heads bucked and shook from side to side, nor when one animal let out a whinny of protest at some perceived insult. Firmly, and with no hesitation, she put out a delicate hand to stroke several of the heads, muttering words inaudible to Gresham and Mannion. Then she stepped back.

'Can I truly choose any horse?' she asked.

'Yes,' said Gresham.

'Then may I see the big dappled grey walk out, please?'

Gresham and Mannion looked at each other, and grinned. ‘Now that,' said Gresham, 'is a real pick.' The grey was not an obvious choice for a woman, a high seat and a big animal, and it had seemed restless as she approached. Yet it was a glorious creature, a thing of pure beauty, and with a wild look in its rolling eyes. Something unpredictable, a character and a spirit yet an intelligence too.

'Be warned,' said Gresham, who knew every horse in his stable better than he knew himself. 'She can be stubborn, and demands that you talk to her, and while she will let any man or woman sit on her back she will only show her true spirit to the person who masters her. Yet when she is ridden properly, she rides like the wind.'

Walking placidly round the yard, it suddenly stopped, dragged its halter and started to paw the ground.

'Whoa, whoa!' said Gresham gently, walking over and taking the horse from the boy at her head. He dropped the halter to the ground. 'Stand back,' he said quietly.

The grey looked at him for a moment, bobbed her proud head, and then with only the faintest clip-clop of her hoofs turned and walked, with a gentleness at total odds with her bulk, up to Anna. The horse stood by the girl for a few seconds, as if not interested, and then unexpectedly turned its head and nudged her gently under the chin. She turned, at ease, and the horse dropped its great head, nuzzling her again. She stroked it, her own form tiny by comparison. *Well,' said Mannion, 'that's something as I ain't seen before.' 'Would you like to ride out? There's still light, and time,' asked Gresham.

'What, now!' said the girl, and there was an excitement there, a passion. 'What is the horse called?'

'You may rename her,' said Gresham,*but I called her Triumph, because 1 could imagine her hauling a Roman Emperor's chariot as he entered Rome in triumph too;'

The girl looked at the horse, and smiled. Her face changed when she smiled. Another first. 'It is a good name. I will call her Triumph.'

They had found an old riding dress, the maid told him, when they had gone through The House for its female wardrobe, and had just then finished some minor restitching and repair. It was an old dress, they said, but expensive and well preserved. Anna dashed back in to be changed, and in a length of time that made Gresham swear he would never complain again about how long it took a woman to dress, was back in the yard, the cheap, battered sidesaddle she had acquired since arriving in England transferred to the new horse. Gresham stood looking at his ward, clothed in the old dress. The colour had drained from his face.

'I am so pleased we could find a riding dress,' said the elderly maid to Gresham with pride. 'I think it belonged to the Lady Mary, when your late father was her guardian.'

Gresham felt a spasm cut through his body. How annoying. He thought he had cut any link of emotion with his mother. Was this how she had looked as she prepared to ride from The House? An elfin-like shape standing proudly by the bulk of a dappled grey, two things of great beauty united?

Gresham was not fearful for his life, at least not for the present, but it would be inconceivable for form's sake that he and Anna should ride out unescorted. Four men dressed in the dark blue and silver livery of The House accompanied them, one to ride ahead and clear the street, the other three as escort. And Mannion, of course, scorning to wear livery, dressed in a tunic and trousers that made him look either a very well-paid member of the working class or a very badly off member of the middle classes. That was the way he liked it.

Gresham had taken them left out of The House, up along the river to Whitehall rather than into the City. Partly it was through his nervousness at the girl riding an unknown horse through the frenzy and noise of London, partly because the Strand was one of the few paved roads in the city. He need not have bothered. Her seat was superb, and she and Triumph looked to be united in their fluid, easy movement. The horse could be restive, Gresham knew, and, if you could ever ascribe human emotions to animals, seemed to get bored at times. There was no sign of it now. Triumph was concentrating on carrying her new mistress as if she were the only person who mattered in the world. Every person in the prosperous street leading to Westminster and the country's seat of power turned to look at the extraordinary pair, the handsome young man on his superb black mount, the glorious girl controlling effortlessly the great dappled grey. One passer-by started to cheer, as they had on his salt-stained journey earlier, thinking that so dashing a young man must be the Earl of Essex. Then his friend put him right, and he started to cheer anyway. The effect was rather spoilt by. Mannion, riding a nag that looked as if it would die of shame before entering Gresham's stables. Yet Mannion knew that it had the heart of a lion, could gallop all day and would not shift aside if a barrel of gunpowder was blown up before it. Mannion liked appearances to be deceptive. But there was nothing they could do to deceive the next person whose attention they attracted. They were about to turn back when there was the rumbling, trundling roar of a great, heavily escorted carriage from behind them.

The Queen was quite capable of gracing a horse, though usually travelled by water in London on one of the great state barges. Today, however, she had chosen the vast, lumbering carriage that must have been a nightmare for the coachman to control in the narrow streets of the capital. They pulled the horses up and drew them to the side, Anna having the sense to realise that someone great was passing by, even if she did not realise that it was the greatest person in the land. Instead of speeding by, spattering them with mud and dust, the coach slowed and then stopped some yards ahead of them. Its escort, in the Tudor colours of green and white, drew up, their horses snorting. They waited, uncertain, and men leaped down from the roof of the carriage. The door was opened, a carpet laid on the road. Queen Elizabeth stepped out on to the street.

Oh no, thought Gresham. Not the Great Bitch Incarnate! His murderess? Please, dear God, preserve me from this!

A ragged cheer went up from the bystanders who had stopped to gawp. Gresham and Anna froze on their horses, then made deep obeisance from the waist, before leaping off their mounts — Gresham bowed low, very low indeed. Anna bowed her head and bobbed down, holding the curtsey at its lowest level. Thank God someone had brought her up to know what to do, thought Gresham.

'Here!' The voice was imperious. When the daughter of Henry VIII wanted something, no one was left in any doubt. 'Cease your bowing and scraping! Come here. And bring those horses with you.'

Gresham had been about to hand the reins to one of his men, but moved forward now, to the edge of the carpet the Queen's men had laid to preserve the hem of her dress. And what a dress. Deep, deep red, bejewelled as if to rival the night sky, and slashed, the ruff extravagant, the sleeves so puffed as to have life of their own. The Queen eyed Henry Gresham up and down appreciatively.

'Young Henry Gresham, unless I am very much mistaken!' she exclaimed.

'Your Majesty,' said Gresham bowing deep again, hat in hand. Alive, he thought. Just in case you wondered, or had wanted me dead.

'Young Henry Gresham who absents himself from my Court, I see,' said the Queen, dangerously. Correction; every word she spoke was potential danger, thought Gresham, including these.

'Your Majesty, I have until yesterday been at sea for several months, with the forces of Sir Francis Drake. Nothing except the urgency of serving Your Majesty overseas would otherwise take from me the pleasure of attending Your Majesty's court.'

'Hmph!' said the Queen, in a most unladylike grunt, 'so I hear that you picked up a prize of your own on your recent sea voyage. Show yourself, girl. Come forward now!' She motioned to two men to take Gresham's and Anna's horses. Eyes lowered, Anna advanced, curtseyed again.

Oh help, thought Gresham, had she been listening? Does this silly girl know who this is? Does she think it's some dowager aunt of mine who's accosted me in the street?

'Well,' said the Queen, 'I could see they would fight over you. Is it true, girl, that your mother died on board ship? That she cast you on the mercies of this young wolf here?'

'Your Majesty,' said Anna, eyes still decorously lowered, 'it is true that my dear mother departed this life at sea. As your all-knowing Majesty will know, I was placed in the guardianship of your subject here.'

'I am sorry for your mother, and for you in your loss,' said the Queen, not unkindly. Anne Boleyn, her mother, had been executed for adultery before she knew her, thought Gresham, and called a whore ever since. It must give her a limited line in sympathy for dead mothers. Of all people on earth she had been dealt a Devil's pack by her breeding. Yet she had survived. Against all the odds. The Queen looked at the beautiful girl and her horse, the striking young man standing beside her. They were an embodiment of good breeding, for all that Gresham was born on the wrong side of the bed. Like their respective horses, they were the summit of their species. The Queen stared at the young bastard in all his glory, and the young girl, the splendour of her beauty shining out despite the riding habit twenty years out of fashion.

'It will end in tears,' she said, but with the slightest of smiles playing on her make-up smeared face, her eyes dancing with fierce intelligence. She looked directly at Anna. 'I of all people know how hard it is to be a woman in a man's world. They would rather own us than obey us, these men. So you, young lady, can I come to your rescue?' Suddenly Gloriana appeared rather tired, and above all old. 'Is this young man terrorising you? Is he haunting you? Would you wish that I make you a ward of Court — though, God knows, I have enough expenses to my charge already!'

Had the Queen looked at Gresham as she spoke?

Anna risked her own tiny smile. 'No, Your Majesty, not terrorising me. He is trying to be very distant,' and here she chanced the smallest of looks up at the Queen and into her eyes, 'as he tries to be very distant from everyone. But he is perfectly proper.'

The Queen laughed out loud, an unashamed belly laugh that would have done a fifteen stone man in a tavern proud. 'Well,' she roared, 'if you keep them distant you've won your safety! Well, my offer stands.' She was clearly becoming bored, and the wind was starting to blow up the street, the crowds increasing by the minute. 'If you wish me to take you in, find you a good English husband even, you may contact me. And as for you, Henry Gresham…' She turned to him. 'Come and see me in my Court! There are enough who would die for such an invitation. Do not be so arrogant as to refuse one from your Queen that others would give their lives for. And one other thing. Lay a finger on that girl and it won't only be your head stuck on a pike on London Bridge!'

And with another roaring laugh, she ascended into her coach. Gresham's shoulders were beginning to sink back in relief as he let out his breath. Then, as she was almost in through its vast door, she turned and motioned to Gresham to come close. His shoulders pulled upwards again. Her teeth were black and Gresham was surprised her breath could not be seen like a putrid brown stain on the air. She leaned close to him.

'Tell me,' said the Queen, 'is it true that Drake said he intended to swinge the King of Spain's beard, and then changed it when that damn fool Secretary of his put him right?'

You never knew with royalty, that was the problem. They could be your best friend one minute, and then have you up for treason for telling a bad joke or being over familiar. And this one could be chatting away knowing full well she had just ordered him killed. Gresham gambled. He leaned forward even closer to Elizabeth, wondering if at that proximity his trimmed beard would catch fire at her breath.

'As a mere subordinate, Majesty,' he said, 'and someone who Sir Francis saw fit to take a shot at…' she would have heard that story for certain, 'you would expect me to be the soul of discretion. Yet I can confirm that a certain rather unconventional assault on the King's beard was proposed, somewhat sotto voce, before a correction was issued and a rather different threat was made fortissimo.' He leaned in even further, almost touching her face. Had he got the mix of deference and the conspiratorial right? 'However, Your Majesty, what is not widely known is that when the first threat was made I was the only person looking away to Cadiz harbour. I swear two additional Spanish vessels sank the minute our commander uttered his unique threat to the King of Spain.'

He had got it right, thank God. An appreciative snort of laughter emerged from the unnaturally red royal lips, wrapped now in a grin of positively malicious enjoyment. Then her face darkened. Gresham's heart sank with it.

'And what does the young man who I hear such things of…' Such things, Gresham's mind raced. Talk of good things, or bad things? 'What does he think about the prospect of Sir Francis Drake commanding the only wooden walls that stand between my kingdom and Spain?'

This could not be happening, not in a street with nearly a hundred people watching, pushed out of earshot by the mounted guard. Not happening to a man barely out of nappies, given from nowhere the chance to influence events that he had thought only Cecil would be able to take advantage of. Perhaps he should go to Court more often. At least it would be more comfortable.

'Your Majesty,' he said, his thoughts a bare second ahead of his words. 'I have no concept of defending a kingdom such as Your Majesty must have. In all honesty, most of my life has been concerned with defending myself. Yet your wooden walls are not one line of masonry, but ten, twenty or thirty separate walls, each capable of going its own way.'

'What are you telling me?' The tone had no humour in it now. It was flat, merciless, the voice of her father who had ordered the murder of her mother.'

Well, Gresham thought, it had not been an altogether bad life, and, after all, the only certainty about life was that it would end some time or other.

'I wish to continue serving Your Majesty. My loyalty to you goes without question, as it does with every subject.' One had to put these things in with royalty, Gresham remembered. They tended to remember what had been said with appalling selectivity. And accuracy. 'And my loyalty to Your Majesty is even further secured by the fact that your reign has brought peace to this country. Peace, and an end to bonfires.'

Which was true. Queen Bitch was mercurial, infuriating and unpredictable, not knowing at times whether she was King Henry VIII or Anne Boleyn, and at times trying to be both. Yet ploughman Jack and milkmaid Jill cared little for the goings-on in London. Their life was hard enough, a bad winter killing a third of their village, rain at harvest guaranteeing unfilled bellies for their children and themselves, not to mention the relentless, random tide of plague and illness that haunted every man alive in Elizabeth's England. Yet they were human beings, as human as the Earl of Essex and Robert Cecil. As human as Henry Gresham. Did the peasant in the field not feel pain and loss like other men, were the hot tears absent when wife or child died? With what they had to bear already, what need had they of armies tramping over their fields, driving down their crops, taking their women and burning their pathetic, stinking little huts? What need did their men have of being hauled off to war, a weapon thrust into their ill-trained hands, simple cannon-fodder? She had brought peace to England, and stopped for the most part humans being burned alive because their God differed in meaningless respects from that which their monarch claimed to worship. All of this flickered through his brain in an instant.

'Your Majesty, this young, inexperienced and badly born man would be happy to have Sir Francis Drake fighting for him, and believe himself lucky to have such a man on our side. Yet to fight and to lead are not the same thing.'

The Queen looked at him, waiting for him to say more.

'You would have made a good politician, Henry Gresham,' she said. 'Too many say too much, and too many say nothing at all with many words.' She looked at him, waiting for him to speak, to say too much. It was she who broke the silence. 'Lord Howard of Effingham will command my fleet. Drake will be second in command.' Then, in his silence, she nodded, a neutral gesture, climbed into her carriage, gave one cursory wave at the crowd, and drove off amid rolling cheers and roars.

A little girl was squatting by the roadside, rough shift drawn up over her scraggy knees, peeing into the dust with her thumb firmly stuck in her mouth. Her eyes were wide, transfixed by the sight of the two beautiful ladies and the handsome man.

'Have I just met the Queen of England?' asked Anna, who appeared to be standing upright but was actually leaning against the bulk of Triumph, exhausted. It was a dangerous thing to do with a horse, but Triumph seemed resigned to being used as a leaning post.

'It's amazing how quickly it changes from being a matter of excitement to something to be avoided at almost all costs,' said Gresham. He turned to Mannion. 'Did she try to kill me?'

'You wouldn't know if she had,' said Mannion.

They rode back to The House.

The others, the outsiders, thought that the plottings and the machinations of Sir Francis Walsingham were concerned with the overthrow of monarchs, the sowing of discord and the undermining of states. How wrong they were. He had only ever sought to bolster and confirm one state, the England of Queen Elizabeth. He had chosen her from the outset. The Protestant Queen. How could any thinking man make any different choice? He was aware of his innate homosexuality, aware how men of his kind were prone to worship powerful women as icons. Yet it was not his sexual urges, as much under control as the rest of him, that had driven him, but something altogether more logical. He had seen the vanities, the arrogance, the corruption and the decadence that was Rome and its religion. He had fled to Padua when Queen Mary, in a bungled succession, had tried to impose on Englishmen the Catholicism they had learned to do without. He had shuddered as the news of the burnings reached him, known that the true heir of Henry VIII, and the best man in the country, was Elizabeth. He had thrown his weight behind her from the outset, given his fortune to the support of her monarchy, given her information to counter the troops that the wealth of the Spanish and the French enabled them to have. Well, Elizabeth had reigned for twenty-nine years now, and Walsingham thanked his Protestant God that he had been spared this long, to enter into his final battle for the continued reign of Queen Elizabeth.

Pinpricks, Walsingham thought as he gazed unseeing through the mullioned window, the servant clearing the remnants of his solitary meal at noon. That was all that he had managed so far, pinpricks, important, but in the final count little more than that. He would have to strike harder and deeper, not just at the Armada, but at the whole concept of the Enterprise of England, as his spies told him it had now been christened. But how to do it?

Then there was that damn fool Burghley, as if he did not have enough to worry about. The Queen's long-term ally was increasingly deaf, suffering from gout and losing his edge. What had Burghley said when they had met the Queen? That her vessels should, must be cut down as soon as possible, skeleton crews only, to save money. 'Two thousand, four hundred and thirty-three pounds, eighteen shillings and fourpence!' the old fool had intoned, as if it were "some magic catechism instead of the sum the Queen would save by reducing the Navy to half-manning over the winter. 'Two thousand, four hundred and thirty-three pounds, eighteen shillings andfourpence’ he had repeated, saying the figure with all the pride of a midwife holding up the first-born male child. The King of Spain could launch his ships at any time, was fanatic enough to take even the mad risk of sailing in winter. And if he did? If his vessels got through? With even five thousand soldiers he could hold a decent town, even somewhere such as the Isle of Wight, and either advance from there in the Spring or hold it until Parma's troops could be ferried over. There was nothing to stop them, except those ships. If Burghley had his way, would it be the first time that, a country had been sold for two thousand four hundred and thirty-three pounds, eighteen shillings and fourpence?

I will die with my mind as sharp as the pains that afflict me, vowed Walsingham. The irony of the situation hit him then, perhaps for the first time. We are all of us ill and dying, he thought, the men playing this great game for the survival of a country, what the religion and the philosophy of the world will be for the next hundred, two hundred or even five hundred years. King Philip of Spain is sixty-six years old, his circulation failing, Walsingham thought, an age which would make him a mythical, almost God-like figure in any English village. The Marquis of Santa Cruz, commander of the fleet, was spitting blood if Walsingham's informants were to be relied upon, though not fast enough. Recalde of Spain was sixty-two, the same age as Santa Cruz. Burghley was a failing sixty-seven, Elizabeth herself fifty-four. Parma, he thought. The Duke of Parma. The youngest of all the players, on the Spanish or the English side. Was it his youth that made Parma the greatest threat to England?

In the final count, it might all depend on his throw of the dice with Parma. Walsingham was well aware that the prize was not just the sovereignty of England, not just his own life, which would soon be forfeit anyway, but his honour, perhaps even his place in history.