'He nearly killed the other man and lost me a good girl for a while, so I was less than well pleased. I had him cornered by three of the lads and taken out round the back, to teach him a lesson, as you do. He caught one of the lads with a dagger he'd hidden on him, and it got serious. He was screaming at my lads something about this not happening to him, he'd God's business to do. It was so bad I came running myself. Before I could get there this Wintour catches one of my men in the neck, dives between the other two and gets clean away. It's bad for business, all round. One of my men might die. There should be no man who beats my ruffians. It's not good for my honour, you understand. The other man he went for on the night has a bad wound and won't walk straight again. And that's bad for custom. Keep it clean, keep it quiet.'
Robert Wintour. Tom Wintour. Wintour of Huddington Court. Gresham remembered now, as it all fell into place. The western Marches were a terrible area for the old religion, defying London to take its Catholicism away from it. He had been sent to enquire into one particularly crusty old Catholic, a Sir John Talbot, heir to the Earldom of Shrewsbury. It was feared he was plotting a rebellion. He was harmless, as it had happened, a fact which had not stopped the Government from locking him up on and off for over twenty years. Gresham had become fascinated by the network of blood relations, marriages and alliances which criss-crossed the great Catholic families of the area, binding them tight together like the finest cloth. Talbot's daughter had married Robert Wintour, Gresham now remembered. Tom Wintour was the younger brother, but the brains of the family. Their house of Huddington Court was rumoured to be riddled with more priest-holes than the Vatican.
'So a swaggerer beats a whore and wounds some men, and damns the King and talks about God's business… it's not much, Moll.'
'Not much for you, Henry Gresham, who has his inheritance, and no need to earn a daily crust by the sweat of his brow. Moll here has to work for his living.'
Gresham noted Moll's use of the word 'his' to describe herself. It was a trick she only fell into when she was at her most serious, or her most dangerous.
'Yet there is more,' she carried on. 'Does the name Catesby mean anything to you? Jack Wright? Kit Wright?'
The names echoed somewhere in the channels of Gresham's brain. Catesby… a handsome young man on the ill-fated march through London of Essex's supporters, fighting with useless courage as the supporters of the Crown closed in on him…
'Minnows that once swam in the great pond of the Earl of Essex?'
'Fools enough to march through the streets of London trying to rouse support for the Prince of Fools, when every girl in town could've told them it would fail!' replied Moll.
'What have these small fry to do with Tom Wintour?'
'A lot to do with Tom Wintour, judging by the number of times 'they all of them hire a private room a stone's throw away from you in the Strand.'
'And what is to stop a group of friends meeting for a good supper to reminisce over old times and how they nearly overthrew good Queen Bess?' said Gresham, playing Devil's advocate.
'With a priest in the next room to say Mass, and locked doors, and much swearing of oaths? And with young Thomas Percy as thick as a thief with the whole sorry crew?'
The Earl of Northumberland, leader of a significant portion of English Catholics, had recommended himself to Gresham by setting himself up as a firm opponent of Cecil and vilifying the stunted creature, decorously, at every opportunity. As ever, Northumberland's action revealed the capacity of the English Catholics to always back a loser. Thomas Percy Gresham remembered as a runt of a man who claimed more blood links with Northumberland than most thought he was heir to, and who for some inconsiderable reason Northumberland had apparently made steward of Alnwick Castle, the dripping pile of masonry hung on the bleak Northumbrian coast.
'Does Cecil know of this?'
Moll turned to her tankard, discomfited. 'I doubt it. And certainly not from me, if he does. Cecil and I are… not dealing with each other, as things stand.'
'Why, Moll,' said Gresham, the half-smile lighting his face, 'what did we do to his Lordship?'
Moll scowled, and then let a half-grin cross her face. 'Why, it was a good song. They loved it at The Swan. Here, it was so good I bought this in the street three hours after I had first sung it.'
Gresham looked at the crudely printed ballad sheet Moll thrust into his hands. He read the words with increasing astonishment and good humour.
‘I would believe almost anything of Cecil,' he said, struggling to keep even half a straight face, 'but surely not with a three-legg'd goat and a candlestick?'
'Aye, well, we poets must give free rein to our imagination, mustn't we? Careful — that cost all of a penny!' she exclaimed as Gresham pocketed the paper.
'Include it in the bill,' he said lightly.
'There's more,' she said. 'Will Shadwell was a man of yours, wasn't he?'
'He's no man's man now, except the Devil's, I suspect,' said Gresham, interested again. 'What of him?'
'I heard today of his death. He dined here a week before, in the Norfolk room.' Private rooms in the inn were named after the English counties, or so Moll said. Gresham believed they were named after noble lords who had bedded their whores there. 'He dined with Thomas Percy.'
'Did he now.' Gresham's face was stony, impenetrable. Did Thomas Percy have a string of rosary beads around his neck? wondered Gresham.
'Had you considered he might have been on his way with news for you?'
'I'd considered it,' said Gresham.
'Percy got drunk that night. Very drunk. Will was playing drunk, but I swear he was plain cold sober. He was on to something, I'll swear to that too. Will never refused a drink unless he was on to something. Did you know Will was a sentimental old fool?'
'It wasn't my most obvious conclusion, as far as character judgements go.'
'Well, he had a ring, a gold ring, he used to wear round his neck. No-one would know, unless you saw him with his clothes off. He bought it for the first girl he lost his cherry to. She died young — some story or other, I don't recollect the details and who cares? — but he kept the ring about him, always. It was his charm. Never took it off, even in bed.'
'Does this romantic story of young love actually have a point?' said Gresham, rudely.
Moll gazed at him levelly. 'It's always a wonder to me how you've managed to live so long. Yes, it's got a point. The point of a great ruffian in here a couple of nights ago, wearing Will Shadwell’s ring on his great hairy finger!'
Gresham was very still for a few moments. 'And this ruffian? His name?'
'Sam Fogarty, or so he said. Great lump of a man with red hair.' 'And a Northumbrian accent as thick as cake?' Moll looked startled. 'You know him?'
'I think we've met,' said Gresham. It was clear he was going to say no more.
'Well, you great ox,' said Moll, in one of the sudden mood swings that affected her, and turning on Mannion, 'does your master know what bills you run up in my houses?'
Mannion stood up with the lazy ease of a man half his age and delivered a mock bow to Moll. 'I go where my master sends me, Mistress Moll. If I'm to go undetected I can't stand out now, can I, and must blend into the background. Don't the learned say that when in Rome a man must do as the Romans do?'
'By that argument I wonder what you'd do if you found yourself in Sodom,' Moll replied tartly. 'I wonder a man such as you stands for such insolence,' she said, turning to Gresham.
'He has a very small brain,' said Gresham airily, 'which means he thinks with his rod, which is unfortunately much larger. I'll reprimand him, and no doubt he'll weep for his insolence.'
He pulled a purse out from under his cloak and tossed it on the table, where it landed heavily.
'Generous as ever, Sir Henry. Why do you who have so much play these dangerous games? You've no need, surely? Why play Lord Cecil's games?'
'Who's to say it's not Cecil playing my game? I play because I have to,' said Gresham, which was at least true. 'And because of all the things I might die from, I fear boredom more than any other. You above all others know that feeling, old Moll. We're two of a kind.'
She looked at him for a moment. 'That we are — and both likely to die on the gallows or on the rack.'
There was a brief, companionable silence.
