Martin Stephen: The galleon's grave

The Ambassador had entered now, as ragged as George had pre-dieted, and was standing awkwardly with a stupid smile on his race as a lackey gave a formal speech of welcome.

Walsingham speared Gresham with a glare. 'Come,' he said. 'The speeches will drag on for ever. Her Majesty will not appear for another half an hour at the least, when for all our sakes we ought to be here.'

Walsingham motioned to a door. Once through, another door opened into a small room furnished with a blazing fire, candles, and a small table with two chairs. Clearly Walsingham had made plans in advance. He drew his old-fashioned, long, fur-lined cloak round about — how thin the man was looking, thought Gresham — and motioned the young man to sit down.

'I thank you for what you have done; For what you are doing. It is not without danger.'

There was mulled wine on the table, steaming hot, though no sign of the servant who must have placed it there only minutes before. Walsingham took a goblet, claw-like hands stretching round to draw out the warmth.

'The danger I accept, my Lord,' said Gresham. 'What concerns me is how little I know about why I'm asked to do what I'm asked.'

'I have spent my whole life acquiring knowledge, believing it to be the root of all real power,' said Walsingham.*Now I realise that sometimes ignorance is a great safeguard. Too much knowledge can cloud our judgement, make us think too much. Restrain your youthful impatience, to know everything. If indeed any of us can ever know everything.'

Gresham was clearly getting no further. One did not debate with Walsingham. One listened to his reasoning, and either did what he asked or failed to do so. And rather too many of those who refused his instructions were washed up face down in the Thames a couple of days later for any of Walsingham's agents ever to feel secure about their freedom of choice.

'My reason for seeing you tonight is this. We have at last begun to move against our enemies with the death of that damned charlatan.'

Walsingham's voice was calm, but Gresham knew the depth of his hatred for Mary Queen of Scots. Not for Walsingham the fear that her death would provoke Spain to invade England. For him, Mary had been a glaring invitation for every Catholic in England and Europe to rise up against Elizabeth and Protestantism. 'One does not deal with the canker in one's body!' he had once said to Gresham. 'One cuts it out!' Throughout his life he had been an implacable champion for the three things he most believed in: the Protestant faith, England and Queen Elizabeth, in that order.

'However, the Queen suspects my involvement and I am out of favour, as are all who sought the death of Mary.'

Walsingham out of favour? One of the men who had most bolstered Elizabeth's reign?

What passed for a smile crossed Walsingham's lined face. 'It is in the nature of ministers to lose the favour of their monarch at times. It is a show. The Queen fears for her own survival when a fellow Queen is executed, but it will pass. The Queen is a realist above all. Yet temporarily my access to Her Majesty is reduced. Also, I am ill. Her Majesty does not like to be reminded of mortality.' He turned to Gresham, brisk and business-like. 'How much do you understand the politics of the Court?'

'Very little, my Lord, if the truth be known.' It was like being lectured by George, only far more threatening.

'Then take a hurried lesson,' said Walsingham. 'My Lord Burghley has been the dominant presence in the Queen's Court since her accession — and if you were considering stupid flattery, do not embark on it. I know and have accepted from the outset my secondary role. Yet he and I are both old. Our days are limited, mine more than Burghley's. The Earls of Leicester and Essex see themselves as taking over Lord Burghley's role, as perhaps might even that pirate Raleigh.'

'Surely a recipe for civil war?' blurted out Gresham.

'Quite,' said Walsingham. 'Yet Burghley hopes his second son, the cripple, Robert Cecil, will succeed him as the Queen's Chief Minister. The battle between Essex and Cecil is intriguing. Breeding against ability. Extreme physical beauty against a deformed body.'

Why was Walsingham telling him this? And whatever this unfathomable man's unfathomable reasons, Gresham's heart sank. Despite Robert Cecil being older than Gresham, they had crossed swords at Cambridge and at Court. Cecil, Gresham sensed, was not his natural ally, nor even a friend.

‘I’m not favoured by Robert Cecil,' he said.

'Cecil believes you were responsible for suggesting the nickname by which the Queen refers to him,' said Walsingham. 'Not a wise move, if it were true.'

A warning? Was this a warning? The Queen referred to Cecil as her pygmy. With a crooked back, short build and warped body, Cecil's smile when the Queen used the term was painful to behold.

'I swear I didn't do so,' said Gresham. It was true, though he might have done if he had thought of it. Yet out of such stupid misunderstandings came the hatreds and feuds that filled the tiny, claustrophobic world of the Court.

'In any event, we are ready to strike a second blow at the Catholics,' said Walsingham. ‘Despite my being in disfavour, I have managed to persuade her Majesty to authorise Drake to strike at Lisbon or Cadiz. It is our only hope. We have no army to resist Spain if they land the Duke of Parma and his forces on these shores. Our only strength is our ships, and we must strike at the Spanish vessels before they can launch an assault on us.'

Gresham loathed the sea. 'What role do I have in this?' he asked.

'I need eyes and ears abroad. I have booked you passage on Drake's expedition. He will land you ashore on some dark night so you can make your way to Lisbon, give me the information about Philip's fleet that we so desperately need. Yet after the attack, I want you also to report on the fighting qualities of our men and our ships. I need to hear at first-hand how they cope in battle. And how their leaders lead them.'

'It won't be easy to be an Englishman in Portugal, or Spain, at this time,' said Gresham.

'Few things that are easy are worthwhile,' Walsingham replied. 'And it is easier for you than for many. You speak Spanish like a native. And you have acquired Spanish friends. On my behalf, of course.' There was no expression in Walsingham's eyes. Was Walsingham becoming concerned about Gresham's links with Spain? 'Will you… accept this errand on my behalf?'

'My Lord.' Gresham bowed his head. Well, well, well. How nice to be treated like a package. Gresham was glad that he was not sensitive. He did not want to go to sea. He thought he was worth more than counting ships in a foreign harbour. It was dangerous, what was being asked of him, but without the glamour or excitement that made the danger palatable. And why the mention of Cecil? 'Yet our earlier conversation? About Robert Cecil…?'

'The matter on which you embark is sensitive. Too sensitive for your instructions to be entrusted to a messenger. Expect to be contacted by Robert Cecil in the near future. He will give you my final orders. While my illness persists, he is useful to me. You will forget your childish differences and take him as my representative.'

Robert Cecil was a man clawing his way up the ladder of preferment, helped by his father's great power but also sometimes hindered by the enemies his father had built up over his lifetime. Which side was Walsingham on? Did he see Robert Cecil as the new order, the order George had seen as imminent?

'We must return to await the Queen's entry. And by the way, restrain your vanity. It was not the Queen's lust for your fine legs and the rest of your body that made her summon you here. It was because I asked her to do so. I have that much influence left, it would seem.'

As Walsingham rose a staggering pain seemed to hit him in the gut, and he doubled up. If Gresham had not suddenly been there to support him he would have crashed to the floor. The old man's lips were drawn back in silent agony, his eyes screwed shut, hands clutching at his stomach.