“God knows. Half Breton, half English, I have heard it whispered.”
Knollys caught Walworth’s eyes.
“Walworth has a plan. Let him speak.”
“Sirs, in Surrey, there is the King’s Manor of the Black Mere—the house set on an island in the midst of a goodly sheet of water, very solitary and very safe. Let him go thither, riding by night, and lie hidden there with a few men who can be trusted.”
“Aye, and let him grow a beard. It will cover up the kingliness.”
“There is much in a beard—a good lusty beard!”
“Then, when ’tis safe, we will launch this good falcon and his mate into the Spanish skies.”
Knollys put in a last word.
“I and ten of my men will ride with them to the Black Mere. Can you give us a guide, Sir Mayor?”
“Aye, one to be trusted.”