The man looked up at them stupidly from the floor. 'The Four Horsemen,' he said pathetically. 'The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I knew it was you.'
Gresham's hand released the hilt of his dagger. He tried not to release his breath like an explosion.
'Do you repent of your sins?' he asked the man.
'I repent of my sins,' the man gabbled, pushing himself in fear now back against the wall.'
'Then go in peace. And tell no one.'
He raised himself up from the floor, still almost paralysed with fear, and made the sign of the Cross. The four figures gazed silently at him. Gulping, he turned and ran.
'I thought you were going to kill him,' said Anna, back in the safety of Gresham's room. They had slipped back through the kitchen, the servant dismissed back downstairs before Anna was allowed out of Gresham's room. This was not how she had imagined it to be. The excitement and sense of adventure had been soiled beyond recognition. Somehow she felt dirty, mired, revulsion replacing the excitement she had felt on setting out on her adventure.
'So did I,' said Gresham. Suddenly he wanted this girl more than he had wanted any woman in his life. Wanted to fling her on her back and take her, prove who was master. That was foul! He had never taken any woman against her will in his life! What was working within him, what in this girl was getting through his impregnable defences? Tomorrow we must see if your fiancй is in Lisbon. Any longer and we will cause questions to be asked.' He sensed the savagery in his mind and marvelled at the civility of his tone. Had she been hoping he would say more? She gave no sign.
'He will not be there. I know he will not be there.' Was she trying to persuade herself? She sounded flat, exhausted, as if drained of all emotion. 'I feel it inside me. It is not yet my time.'
'Where is Mannion?' asked Anna, as they gathered to visit the house of Jacques Henri.
'He's some business to do,' said Gresham. 'It's best you don't know.'
Gresham confided everything in Mannion. At the mention of Santa Cruz something had darkened in his eyes. 'Will you give me leave to work alone for a day or two, perhaps a week, in Lisbon? To settle an old score?' Mannion had asked. He had agreed, as he knew he had to. Yet he missed Mannion, desperately. One night, tossing and turning in his bed, he had allowed the unthinkable to enter his mind. What Mannion was doing would inevitably be extraordinarily dangerous, however he set about it. Could he face life without that hulk of a man by his side? He prayed he might never have to find out.
Anna had continued talking. 'Oh, I agree,' she said. 'Women cannot be trusted with secrets. They need simply to be told what to do. Or sold to men with the pox. Or just used generally, for the convenience of a man.'
It was so close to his actual thoughts that he nearly let the colour flood into his cheeks. 'We're not out of danger. We must hurry to leave, in case the Italian changes his mind, pockets what gold he has and takes more for revealing us. If we're taken in and you're, asked about Mannion, you really won't know. There's nothing better than sincerity.'
She pursed her lips, a gesture making it clear that belief was at least suspended if not totally dismissed. George intervened.
‘I’m sure he's acting in your best interest,' he said, feebly. She flashed a brief smile at him, as if saying thank you to a big brother, and then turned again to Gresham.
'So you can lie to save a friend. I as a mere woman can do no such thing. That is fine. Now I understand.' She was clearly seething underneath.
Privately, Gresham doubted Jacques Henri was in town. Their arrival had not raised the clamour he had expected in Lisbon, there being enough clamour in that city as it was, but neither had it gone unnoticed. Jacques Henri would surely have heard of their presence by now, and come rushing to them. Either he was absent, or regretting his engagement. Anna had made it clear the matter had been arranged without her consent. Yet how clear was she whether the famous Monsieur Henri was a willing partner, or simply coerced?
The address they had been given turned out to be a vast ware-house with a presentable stone house attached. Yet it was as quiet as a mausoleum. They were quite an entourage, Gresham, Anna, two maids and seven of Gresham's servants, all on hired horses, with the two resplendent guards provided by the Governor General, and an interpreter. Several street urchins had gathered at a safe distance, offering their comments in Portuguese on the whole array, and the usual waifs and strays of any city had gathered to watch — maids out on errands, apprentice boys making a short journey last a long time, the occasional boy risking a thrashing by missing his lessons to be out in the sun. The man who had seen the Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse was not one of the guards. He was on sick leave, Gresham had been told as he had enquired solicitously.
The senior guard had tried to hide his horror at Anna riding with them. Clearly he thought it desperately improper for the girl to rush so to meet her intended. Surely the men should have met first of all, agreed what to do, and only then allowed the girl to enter into the scheme of things? 'Ah!' said Gresham, 'but she's importunate to meet her intended! I can hardly hold her back. I've no heart to stem the passion of her love for this man!' he declaimed, enjoying how annoyed this made Anna. Not that an outsider would have noticed her annoyance. Gresham was becoming adept at reading the tiny flickers on her face.
It soon became clear that the problem would not have to be resolved on that day at least. Furious hammering at the door of the house produced nothing but a wizened old man, his face darkened by the sun and cut through with tiny, deep lines, who eventually emerged through a postern gate carved out of the great door into the warehouse yard. No, the interpreter established, Monsieur Jacques Henri was not in residence, had not been so for some months now. It was not known when he was expected back. The warehouse was empty. The last consignment of goods from Goa had been sold before his departure, the last rolled Turkish carpets sold, the great bales of wool disposed of at less than full price. It was believed that the merchant was seeking new markets, new outlets, new products. He had gone north in June, to the Flat Countries, the interpreter said. Flat Countries? It could only be the Low Countries, the Netherlands.
'Why would the fat merchant go to a war zone?' asked Gresham. 'The whole area's been at war for years. Parts of it are like a desert, so I'm told. What profitable trade could there be there?'
'I hope he has gone there because he has realised that it would be sinful to take me as his wife,' said Anna, 'and because he is too much of a fat coward to shoot himself he hopes that one or both of the armies in the Netherlands will do it for him.'
'Do you say that about all your friends?' asked Gresham.
'He is not my friend,' she replied. 'Any more than you are. He is a fat pig.'
They saw nothing of Mannion for the remainder of that day, or that night, when Gresham, George and Anna attended a glittering reception held by the Governor General. Gresham had half hoped to see the legendary Marquis of Santa Cruz there, but no, he was told, the Marquis had too many pressing demands on him. Nor was Mannion there the next day, when they rode out to see Lisbon and its sights, or the day after when they were permitted to leave the city boundaries and ride out in the glorious countryside surrounding the city. It was on the fourth day that Mannion reappeared, quietly and without fuss, a strange grimness in his manner.
'And where have you been?' asked Anna, her insatiable curiosity finally getting the better of her.
'Presenting a visiting card,' was all that Mannion would say.
Chapter 8
October 1587 — May, 1588 Cambridge; London; Lisbon; the Netherlands
It was a tricky job, dragging the cannon out of a ship. Like taking out a tooth. Firstly the barrels had to be taken off the short wooden carriages and properly slung. Each weapon was massively heavy, but unevenly balanced, with more weight at the breech than at the tapered muzzle. The lifting tackle had to be exactly positioned to avoid the gun swaying and splintering the timbers of the vessel. Poorly tied knots, a frayed rope or a pole not seated firmly on the ground and you risked the whole thing crashing down onto the deck. Never mind the people, in one such incident only last year the gun had gone right through the hull and was resting on the sea bed. It was a miracle they had been able to save the ship.