'Thank you,' said Gresham. They nodded. It was all that was needed. The talking had been done by their weapons, their bodies and their courage. 'We need to get young Harry home to some clean water and a bandage,' he said easily. 'And we needs remember that there could still yet be an enemy out there for us.'
That sobered them, the thought of the men they had fended off regrouping, waiting for them in the narrow streets outside.
The world had heard about the disturbance. There was excitement in the streets, women huddled in corners looking up quickly as they passed, pointing, gossiping. They put Harry in the centre of their group, with Jane, who saw no shame in helping to hold him up. The crowds, chattering, watching, curious, parted before them as they marched, heads held high, alert, towards the boatyard. They reached it without incident, followed by a crown of street urchins. Even they were silent for the most part, gripped by the stern, dark figure of Gresham and the startlingly blooded figure of Jane, who had only been able to clean off a portion of the mess in the theatre.
'D'ye want a man or two to help you back over the river?' asked the surly owner of the boatyard, moved to interest for once.
'Do we need help?' asked Gresham. His men stiffened, looked offended.*No, thank you. We don't need help.'
The wife of the owner rushed out, a dumpy little woman with three chins and rosy cheeks. She carried a jug of clean water and a surprisingly clean cloth. She was all flustered.
'My dear… mistress… I just wondered if you might want to… I mean, I don't know what's happened, but…'
Jane gazed down silently on the head of the woman, who was becoming increasingly sure she had made a dreadful mistake with the great lady. Fancy calling her 'my dear'! Why, what was she…
Jane put her hands on the woman's shoulders. Surprised, the woman lifted her head. Jane planted a kiss firmly on her forehead.
'You're the kindest thing I've seen all day,' Jane said.
'Oh, my lady!' said the woman, blushing from her roots, overwhelmed. 'Do keep the jug and the cloth…' At that she rushed off back into the timber-framed house she occupied with her husband. A few moments later, Jane's face and hands at least were clean.
'Can you helm a boat as well as fight off an enemy?' Gresham asked Jane.
'I'd build the bloody boat myself if it got me home and into a bath!' she muttered, gathering up her skirts and grabbing the tiller, a huge tract of her mind still numb, anaesthetised by shock.
Only three of the men were fit to row. Mannion and Gresham looked at each other. Gresham pulled off his doublet. There was a film of blood on his shirt where the crossbow bolt had grazed his ribs and the collar he wore was torn. Mannion took up the place by his side, replacing young Harry and the other most seriously hurt man. The men grinned, amused by their master taking on their role.
Gresham turned to Mannion. 'Old man, whatever you do — don't breathe over me!' Mannion belched contentedly and settled to his oar. 'Now row!'
And they moved out of the wharf, limping in comparison with the speed they had made when they left the jetty at The House only a few short hours ago. They were clearly a grand boat, of the sort to attract attention anyway. The presence of someone who was clearly a gentleman at an oar, wounded men at the back of the boat and, most of all, a glorious beauty manning the helm, got them more attention on the crowded river than the Armada had when it first entered the Channel. There were whistles, hoots and then cheers from professionals running the ferries back and forth, which in turn attracted the attention of all the other traffic on the river. Before long, they had an admiring escort of small and some quite large boats, intrigued, following them to wherever they were going.
Someone from The House must have spotted them, and spotted that this was not a normal return. Figures began to gather on the jetty. More and more joined them, until it seemed that every occupant of the warren that was The House was gathering to welcome its lord and its mistress. A hush fell on the assembled crowd of servants, from the might of the steward to the lowliest of the kitchen boys, when they saw their mistress's bloodstained clothes, and wounded men in the bay of the boat. They counted the numbers. Had everyone come back? Then young Harry raised his head and managed a grin, and one of the other wounded waved a greeting. There was an almost explosive roar of relief as the gathered crowd realised that all their team had returned, and that even the wounded were walking. A huge rolling cheer rocked the jetty.
There seemed to be hundreds of hands reaching out to grab the prow of the boat and ground it. Jane, her lips pursed in concentration, was determined to make no mistake. The boat kissed the jetty as lightly and as delicately as a mother kisses her firstborn. She's about to burst into tears, thought Gresham. That first quiver. It's there. She's had enough. He rose to his feet, rocking the boat.
'Next time,' he said loudly, matter-of-factly, 'steer a little finer, will you? Otherwise, that was quite good. For a woman.'
She looked at him and stiffened. The tremor vanished. Three weeks of words passed between them in an instant. Gratitude. Annoyance. Anger. Amusement. Understanding. Fear. Pride. Worry. Total exhaustion. Gresham went to her, took her hand. He looked over to what must by now be every resident of The House except, he dearly hoped, the gateman.
God, he was tired, he thought. As ever, there was the physical tiredness. But it was the mental exhaustion, the throbbing pain in his head, that was by far the worst. Yet he had to say something, didn't he? The whole house had gathered to welcome their master and mistress home. They would remember this for generations, tell each other stories into the small hours of the morning as the filched candles in the servants' hall guttered and died. He glanced at Jane. She nodded, imperceptibly. How not to sound pompous and vainglorious? How not to patronise these men and women, who had fought for him and shown every willingness to die for him. How to say the impossible?
'Thank you for your concern,' said Gresham, bloodstained, a thin line across his chest and on his arm where a glancing blow from a club had scathed his skin. Not for a moment did he realise what an extraordinarily violent, dark and powerful figure he cut.
The boat was bobbing under him, uneasy in the short, choppy waters of the jetty. He kept his feet easily.
'We went to the theatre, and a group of men liked us even less than the play. There were… how many of them were there, young Harry?' asked Gresham theatrically, looking at the bloodied figure still slumped on the deck.
'Fifty!' came the clear reply, to a cheer from the others in the boat.
'So we defended ourselves against a hundred men,' said Gresham seamlessly, to a roar of laughter from his assembled servants. 'And, of course, The House won.'
There was an uproar from the assembly. The reality of blood, and pain, and man's vicious inhumanity to man, excused by jokes and bravado. Unbidden, lines came into his head. Shakespeare. King Leir.
As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport.
He helped Jane out of the boat, and politely shook off the offers of help as he put both feet firmly back on dry land. They clapped them both as they alighted from the boat. Gresham turned, embarrassed, to his men in the boat, the ones who had done the real men's work. They were clapping him too. They were clapping him? Sweet Jesus, was there no justice in this world? He should be clapping them.
Jane was delivered into the hands of numerous women, with a clucking and fussing of vast proportion, and vanished up the jetty. For once, Gresham noted, she succumbed to it willingly. This was a woman who really wanted her hot bath. Young Harry was delivered into the arms of an equal number of women, though rather younger than those who had flocked to Jane, Gresham noted. Well, he was guaranteed a good night, one way or the other. The other wounded were ushered up the jetty, the hubbub of conversation diminishing with their progress.