'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.