Sam's head was aflame, his gut sick with the foul stench of rotting flesh that swept up from the black depths of the trap door.
'I know of no work for Lord Cecil…'
Mannion pushed his body an inch or two closer to the drop.
Sam screamed.
'You see,' Gresham responded conversationally, 'I remember faces. I remember being ushered out through the servants' hall of his Lordship's house some two… or was it three?… years ago. And you were there, Master Sam, with your red mop, holding court to most of the kitchen wenches. I recognised you as you walked through the door. Your voice, as much as your hair and face. You were shouting to the wenches, back then, telling them a bad joke as I recollect…'
Gresham grabbed the man's hair and pulled his head back, looking into his fear-crazed eyes. 'Now tell me, Sam Redmop, for the last time. How long have you worked for Lord Cecil?'
'Sir… my Lord…' Suddenly, the man's whole body sagged. 'Spare me. Spare me. Four years. No more. Four years only.'
'Break his leg. The left one.'
The body writhed in protest. The crack was sickening as Mannion's club smashed the bone into a clean break. Sam screamed again.
Mannion pulled the body back from the abyss and flung the trap door shut, bolting it securely. He turned then to the writhing and gasping body, cut loose the cord around its legs and with a practised efficiency set splints around the twisted limb.
Sam's body could only flutter now, on the edge of unconsciousness. Gresham yanked his head round, more gently this time.
'We'll pay for a surgeon to look to your wound. You'll walk again, and walk as good as ever you did if you're careful. The pain you'll suffer is your payment for daring to seek to spy on Henry Gresham. No one spies on Henry Gresham. No one enters his household as a spy.
'You'll be held, in a secret place, until you can walk. You'll be given money, enough to get you back to Northumberland, and a little more. After that, it's up to you. Your Lord Cecil will be told that you came to visit the House, and that you suffered an accident in which you were most 'unfortunately drowned. As far as Cecil is concerned you'll be dead. If he hears of your existence, he'll assume you've deceived him and turned to my service, and he'll kill you. I suggest a new name and a new livelihood. The old one is truly dead.'
Gresham let the head drop, and turned away. He stopped by the door. 'It's not good to seek to betray Henry Gresham. Remember my mercy in sparing your life and sending you on your way.'
He left, closing the door quietly behind him. Two porters entered and carried out the groaning, semi- conscious figure. Mannion growled a sentence of instruction at them. They nodded.
Mannion found Gresham in the Minstrels' Gallery of the Great Hall.
'Is it wise to declare war on Cecil?' he asked bluntly. 'Do you intend to send such a message to him?' 'Old friend, do you think I'm a fool?' 'Sometimes.'
'Well, rest assured. Master Sam believes his death has been announced to Cecil. That makes him truly a dead man if he seeks to return to Cecil's service. As for me, I'll send no message to Lord Cecil. Far better that he should wait and wonder what's happened to his spy, see his man vanish into silence. Let's keep his Lordship guessing, old man. And whilst we're so doing, let's find out what's truly happening out there. And why Lord Cecil wants a spy in my house. He keeps me guessing about Bacon. Now I shall keep him guessing about his spy.'
Mannion pondered this for a moment. 'Who'll tell your mistress that we hired a Judas?'
'I'll tell her. It wasn't her fault. It's only by chance I was able to spot him as what he was. Just as important, will you help me to tell Cook and your mistress why I ordered two rotting sides of beef?'
The trap door over which Sam had been suspended led to no well. It was a service chute, a straight drop to the ground floor where goods delivered from the river could be hoisted up to the top storeys of the House. A shutter at the bottom deprived it of light when closed. Two decaying sides of beef suspended on a shelf feet below the trap door provided the stench of the charnel house that so fixed the minds of those suspended above it.
A short distance away down the Strand, Robert Catesby's party was also breaking up, Thomas Percy still bleating to whoever would listen how hard done by he was.
Catesby marvelled at his own sense of relaxation, seeing and almost tasting the fear on the skin of the others. Even the delay in convening Parliament — it would not assemble now until
November 5th — could be handled. The cursed powder would be subject to its interminable decay. The risk of a chance discovery in the cellar, or drink or pillow talk from one of the conspirators revealing more than was wise, was ever-present and grew with each extra day. Yet they had come this far. They would prepare as well for November 5th as they had for October 3rd. God would protect them.
He began to hum the words from his favourite song of the moment:
'Thou art my King, O God…'
It had a springy, firm rhythm and a quick tempo, one of Tom Campion's best, he thought.
Through Thee will we Overthrow our enemies And in Thy Name I will tread them down. 1 will tread them down…'
Tom Wintour paused as he left the tavern. It had been a week or more since he had had a woman. The whores at The Duck and Drake were of the best kind, aimed at the fashionable clientele of the tavern. Even at this hour a handful were on duty, dressed like Court ladies. Why not, he thought, as his roving eye caught the glance of a particularly fine girl dressed in deep red. Why not? She was one of Moll Cutpurse's girls, he knew, and Moll's girls were the best there were.
Chapter 4
Gresham slipped out of the side gate of the House in the early evening. His doublet was worn and stitched in two areas, his hose washed out and his cloak threadbare at the edges. It was more and more difficult for him to act as an unknown in the city, or in Cambridge, but his change into the clothing of a gentleman fallen on hard times was not disguise, but caution. Where he was going, fine clothes were a call to robbery as well as a call to attention, and Gresham wished for neither. His sword hid its fine steel under a plain hilt and a weather-beaten scabbard. Behind him came Mannion, dressed in a rough jerkin.
'We walk,' he announced firmly to his rather sour-looking body-servant. 'You're getting too fat, and you need the exercise.' If Mannion muttered something under his breath, Gresham chose not to hear it.
It would have been far easier by boat, using the House's own vessels, the single bank manned by the vast- chested George, or even the magnificent four-bank of semi-regal splendour. Yet Gresham preferred to walk, despite the filth of the streets and the appalling press of the crowds. a restlessness came over him at times which could only be released by exercise, and in this instance there was the extra dimension of a need to feel in touch with the life and blood of the sprawling and corrupt city. And, of course, it allowed him to be rude to Mannion.
London was at its noisiest. The lawyers flushed out from Westminster were there in force, heading back into the City along the Strand, soberly dressed and bent forward to hear the muttered protestations of their clients. It was a long walk, from the Strand to Fleet Street, entering the City at Ludgate and skirting St Paul's. From Watling Street and Candlewick Street they turned right to cross London Bridge, joining the throng of citizens heading to Southwark for the playhouses.
They passed the stalls of the puppeteers in Fleet Street, each trying to shout above the din of the colliers, the chimney sweeps and the incessant din of the barrel-makers and every other worker who seemed to need a hammer above all other tools. The fresh-water carriers with their yokes and double wooden buckets, the strangely brownish water giving more than a hint of the River, the oyster sellers and the orange sellers all yelled their wares into the summer day.
They crossed London Bridge, its ancient piers supporting the half-timbered shops and residences that made it one of the talking points of Europe. Gresham eyed the pitted and mouldering stone, feeling the bridge shudder beneath his feet, wondering as he always did how much longer it could survive the neglect of its foundations and the thundering torrent of the Thames.
