Martin Stephen: The galleon's grave

A slight grin crossed Gresham's face, infuriating the two other men. He had never hurt a woman in his life. But he had had an awful lot of mutual pleasure with them. 'What the eye doesn't see, the heart can't grieve for…' he said.

'Mebbe not,' said Mannion, 'but there's three or four Lordships with young wives who're putting one and one together and seein' you in bed with their women!'

It was George's turn now. 'It's known that you've meddled on Walsingham's behalf. Not the details, of course, or you'd be dead in a side alley. Walsingham's old, dying. His star's on the wane. No one knows what'll happen when his empire collapses with his death. But for too many at Court you're a young upstart who's been too involved in every shady activity of the past few years. And now you've caught the fancy of the Queen. God knows what you might be whispering to her. On all counts, you're a nuisance. And a nuisance with no friends except me and this man mountain here, God help us.'

'So what's your advice?' asked Gresham, swilling a residue of wine around in the bottom of his goblet. 'Thanks for telling me all the dangers. Now tell me a way to get out of them!'

'Kill yourself!' said George. 'At least then you can make it quick and clean and get there before they do!' he added cheerfully. A beaming grin lit up his face, followed by another great, booming laugh. One of the things about George was that at a certain level of stress his brain cut out, and he retreated from serious matters to the solace of the bottle and friendship. 'Except you'll think of a way, one I couldn't have dreamt of, and I'll stand back in wonder at your achievement! You see, I'm really good at working out the odds. Funny, really. Most people think I'm a fool, except you. Problem is, when I've worked out the odds, I believe them. You… well, you decide to get the better of them. Betting man's nightmare, you are.'

'You know what Walsingham's made me do,' said Gresham. 'You and Mannion. Are you telling me I should have refused him?' 'I don't know,' said George. 'I wish I did. Do I think it's clever to attend secret Masses, on Walsingham's instructions? Of course not! Not in this climate. It's madness! Particularly as I've never been sure how much your affection for the Catholics was an act, or whether it's the reality.'

'I've told you,' said Gresham. 'My first nurse was a Catholic. When I couldn't suck her breasts I sucked her rosary beads. It leaves a mark on a man, you know…'

'I could tell you how extraordinarily irritating your flippancy is,' said George, 'but as you do it in order to be extraordinarily irritating it would only add to your pleasure. I'm just telling you to take care. Too many people of power go silent when your name's mentioned. And there's new talk. Can I ask you a question?'

'Of course,' said Gresham.

'Are you taking Spain's money? To be frank, rumour is that you're a Spanish spy. I know you'd never betray England,' said George gamely, 'but I can see you'd get involved with Spain just for the excitement of it. Well? Are you?'

'Am I what? You asked two questions. Whether I was a Spanish spy? Or taking Spanish money?'

'Stop playing games! I'm your oldest friend. I deserve an answer.'

'Well, now,' said Gresham, after a moment's thought. 'The answer is yes to one and no to another. It's more fun to leave you to work out which answer fits which question.'

George roared in exasperation, and within seconds the two men were rolling on the floor like two schoolboys in a fight.

'Well,' said Mannion. 'I'm just a working man.' He was used to conversations between George and Gresham ending in blows. Sometimes they actually hurt each other. 'But I don't doubt if your head goes on the block, mine will too. And I just wish you'd tell My Lord Bloody Black Arts Walsingham to bugger off. Then I'd feel safe.' Having got George in a neck hold, Gresham declared himself the winner.

They went by boat to Whitehall, eight liveried oarsmen making light of the Thames. The landing area was ablaze with torches, their light spearing out like fiery lances onto the rippling, black surface of the water.

'Is this wise?' asked Gresham as they were about to disembark.

'Your being here?' asked George.

‘No, you great idiot. This whole event.'

'If you mean is it wise for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth to host a Grand Reception for a very minor noble from the Netherlands who calls himself Ambassador and doesn't have enough money to put linen and cloth between his arse and the wind… probably not. After all, it makes it perfectly clear that we are supporting a rebellion in a country claimed as his own by King Philip of Spain. That same King Philip who, by all accounts, is set to invade England and end its Protestant heresy once and for all… No, it's probably not wise. But you have to admit, it does require guts.'

The Protestant Low Countries had been in revolt for years against Catholic Spain, which claimed them as a province. English money and English troops — neither of which were in plentiful supply — had stopped Spain from winning total domination over the Netherlands. Yet Spain had the most powerful army in Europe stationed in the Low Countries, under the command of the undefeatable Duke of Parma, an invincible army that many thought King Philip of Spain would send to invade England once his patience finally ran out. And now Elizabeth was holding a grand reception for an Ambassador from the Protestant part of the Netherlands. Kicking Spain in the crotch, or taunting the bull to charge at you when you had nothing with which to kill it? Was it brinkmanship on the part of the Queen, or stupidity?

Nothing was as it seemed in the Court of Queen Elizabeth. The light from candle, lamp and lantern seemed to laugh at the dark until one realised that significant areas of the Palace were blacked out. The food seemed to offer course after course after course, until one looked and realised that there were really very few examples of each, and that the Chamberlain had relied on announcing a late serving of the food so that guests would have eaten at least something before they left their homes. Choice was great, the quantity of each choice meagre. As for the wines, the servants promised the best, but pleaded they had just emptied the bottle. Would the honoured guest accept something a little less impressive as a stop-gap?

Gresham gazed ruefully at the cat's piss in his goblet, having to decide whether or not he wanted to get drunk at all costs, or whether he still had some standards. The Queen had refrained from slobbering all over him, though presumably that treat was reserved for the dancing.

As they moved into the Great Hall for the speeches and the dancing, they were surrounded by a throng of people desperate to be seen and to see who else was there.

'That's the Earl of Leicester who cut you dead, and Essex tried to walk over you as if you were a dog's turd,' said George.

'They're jealous, that's all,' said Gresham, who was not drunk but starting to feel detached in a merry enough sort of way. 'Jealous the Queen'll find out what a lover I am in comparison to them.'

He had just decided that his aim for the evening would be to get historically drunk when he became aware of someone standing by his shoulder.

'Avoid drinking too much this evening,' said a gravelly voice, as if someone had read his thoughts. 'You may find that you need your wits about you.'

Sir Francis Walsingham was an old man now, but the intensity in his dark black eyes had not diminished, nor the sense of raw energy held back within the confines of polite behaviour. Gresham was shocked. Walsingham had no time for frivolities such as this evening, preferring to spend his time in the quiet of his house in Barnes.

'Sir Francis!' Gresham sought to cover his confusion, bowed his head. George had melted away subtly, Mannion withdrawn to where he could see but not hear what was happening. A giggling lady-in-waiting with a young man in hot pursuit thrust between the two men, then saw Walsingham and turned pale, stuttering an apology as she backed away, eyes suddenly downcast. Few men had such a reputation as Walsingham. Few men could inspire such fear.