‘And yet he is not quite English,’ said Thomas. ‘There is an accent and a certain Latin look about him.’
‘He is as English as you or I, and I have complete faith in him. As must you if you are to see this mission through.’
‘Trust has to be earned, Sir Robert. It is not a commodity to be freely given. ’
‘Then you had better get to know Richard as soon as possible. Sir Francis, fetch him in.’
Walsingham’s eyes flashed with a glint of irritation at his superior’s peremptory manner but he rose swiftly and crossed the room. As Thomas watched, the soft tread and fluid movement reminded him of a cat, an apt demeanour for the man who stalked and killed his prey with no compassion.
When Walsingham had disappeared through the door there was a brief silence until Thomas leaned forward and spoke quietly.
‘I have no need of a squire. It would be better to entrust this matter to me alone. If I give you my word to return the document without reading it then your spy can remain here, out of danger.’ There was an amused look on Cecil’s face as he shook his head. ‘A considerate offer, but while you may have no real need for a squire, my need for a trusted pair of eyes and ears on the spot is very real to me. You must take Richard with you and that is an end to it.’
Before Thomas could reply there came the sound of footsteps and a moment later Walsingham re-entered the room, followed by the young man Thomas had seen earlier. They approached the table and Walsingham resumed his seat while Cecil’s agent stood to one side.
‘Richard, I gather you have already met our guest,’ said Cecil. ‘We only exchanged a few words, master.’
‘Then it is time for a formal introduction. Sir Thomas, I give you Richard Hughes, your squire.’
Thomas rose and walked over to the young man, stopping at arm’s length to look him over thoroughly for the first time. Hughes was tall and broad-shouldered. His doublet fitted him well and there was no unnecessary adornment to the sleeves, no ruff collar, and his hair was neatly cut and free of the oils and pomades that were fashionable amongst young men of a certain social status in London. Thomas approved of that, then looked straight into the man’s eyes. His gaze was met unflinchingly, and yet there was something else there besides boldness, Thomas sensed. A coldness, and a simmering degree of resentment.
‘Whatever the true nature of your orders may be, you are to be my squire first and foremost. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘When I give an order you will obey it without question, just as would be expected of any squire.’
‘Yes, sir. Provided it does not conflict with my instructions from Sir Robert.’
‘I have little idea what your instructions are, but if we are to succeed in convincing the knights of the Order that we are what we purport to be then it must be as second nature for you to do my bidding. I take it you have been instructed in the duties of a squire?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Thomas arched an eyebrow. ‘Really? And when exactly did Sir Robert inform you of your mission?’
The young man’s gaze wavered and he glanced over Thomas’s shoulder towards his master. Cecil nodded. ‘Speak the truth.’
‘Two days ago, sir.’
‘I see. And you have learned all the elements of this new position in that time?’
‘I have been extensively briefed by the squire of the Queen’s champion, sir. The rest I can learn on the road to Malta. If you will instruct me.’
Thomas shook his head and turned to the others. ‘It is folly to use this man.’
‘Nevertheless, you will take him,’ Walsingham replied firmly. ‘You will train him in what he needs to know and do. I grow weary of your truculence. Were you not the only individual with a chance of serving our needs then I would readily pick another. You will go to Malta, with Richard as your squire. The matter is settled.’
Anger flared in Thomas’s heart and for a moment he was tempted to confront Walsingham and refuse the mission, whatever consequences followed. The satisfaction of denying him, and perhaps challenging him to back his arrogance up with his blade was almost too tempting for Thomas.
‘He has agreed to our request,’ Cecil intervened. ‘There is no more to be said. Come now, we are all on the same side. There is no call for ire. All that remains is for Sir Thomas to settle his affairs and arrange for the good management of his estate in his absence. Such is the nature of his mission that he need not spend an undue amount of time preparing whatever baggage he requires for the coming campaign.’
‘How long do I have to prepare?’
‘Two days.’ Sir Francis smiled faintly. ‘There is a Danish galleon loading at Greenwich. She sails for Spain in two days’ time. You and Richard will be on that ship.’
‘Good luck,’ Cecil added, and then, with more feeling, ‘God be with you . . .’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bilbao, Spain
New Year’s Eve, 1565
Thomas looked on in frustration as his squire engaged in a fraught conversation with the port master. It had been many years since he had spoken the tongue, albeit imperfectly even then, and he was only able to catch a few words that passed between Richard and the official, and little sense of what was being said. Meanwhile he stood on the glistening stones of the quay as a chilling drizzle beaded his cloak. They had disembarked from the Danish vessel at midday and were immediately confronted by a patrol. The Spanish sergeant in charge of the men had demanded to know his business and refused to let him proceed unless he could provide documentation that proved Thomas had leave to travel across Spain. The letter from Sir Oliver had been brushed aside and a man had been sent to find the port master.
Thomas, Richard and the soldiers of the patrol had been forced to wait on the blustery quay while behind them the fishing boats and cargo ships bobbed and swayed on the grey swell rolling into the harbour from the Bay of Biscay. After a while the sergeant had retired to a nearby inn and left orders that the two Englishmen were to remain under guard and no one was to move until the port master’s will was known. So the small party had settled down to wait, Thomas and his squire sitting on their bags hunched in their capes while the Spaniards leaned against the mooring posts, the rain dripping steadily from the rims of their morion helmets.
As it was winter, there was little activity in the port and the cargo of glassware from Denmark and wool from London was quickly unloaded into a warehouse before the crew hurried below deck to the relative Comfort of their hammocks. All was quiet along the quay, except for the hiss of rain and the sweep and swirl of the wind when it picked up. A handful of locals passed by, casting suspicious glances at the two Englishmen under guard. For his part, Thomas was glad to be ashore. In the years that he had served on the Order’s galleys he had rarely been to sea in winter, and never in waters exposed to the seasonal fury of the Adantic Ocean.
The Danish galleon had emerged from the mouth of the Thames and crossed the Channel before hugging the French coastline. A violent storm had blown them out to sea and for five days the crew had had little sleep as they battled the heavy sea, losing the main spar and sail in the struggle. Icy sea water sluiced across the deck and soaked through their clothes as the vessel shuddered under the impact of each wave and soared and swooped from swell to swell. The seasickness was the worst that Thomas had ever experienced and after he and his fellow passengers — Richard and three priests returning to Spain from Amsterdam — had thrown up the last contents of their stomachs, they had retreated to the tiny communal cabin they shared. Thomas sat with his back to one of the thick compass timbers and hugged his knees to try and keep warm. Richard did the same a short distance away, head tucked down, while the priests clutched their rosaries and prayed until their voices gave out and then fell to muttering as they beseeched the Lord for mercy.