‘Why has talking about last year reminded you of him?’ I asked. ‘And why do the Council want him to move to Surrey?’
‘Last year and Giles Frost are both part of the uneasy world of Catholic against Protestant, with Philip of Spain and Mary Stuart the two most dangerous people in it,’ said Leicester. ‘Frost is Catholic, though he keeps the law about attending Protestant church services. He’s a merchant whose goods are of high quality, and is permitted to show them at court sometimes. But we have learned that he gets paid by Philip of Spain for sending useful snippets of information to him. Walsingham,’ said Leicester, stretching his long legs, ‘has had an eye on him for some time. Walsingham seems to have eyes and ears everywhere!’
‘I know,’ I said. I did know. Via his web of agents, Walsingham received reports on all manner of people.
‘We put a watch on Frost,’ said Leicester, ‘and know that he only passes on snippets. He doesn’t have the contacts for anything more. He’s a minnow, not a shark, and doesn’t do much harm. The Council has therefore agreed to leave him in place and see if he can be used to transmit inaccurate information to Spain.’
‘I see.’ My uneasy feeling had increased. The warm afternoon was still there, wrapping me round with comfort and ease, as if I was in a hammock, a gentle breeze stirring the leaves of the rose bushes. But I was no longer at peace. ‘Why do you want to talk about this man Frost?’ I asked.
‘I thought you might be interested. You’re quite likely to come across him socially – now he’s settled into Knoll House he’ll no doubt want to meet his new neighbours.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
I found I was twisting my hands together in my lap. I deliberately relaxed them. It was all right. Surely it was all right. For a moment I had imagined that Leicester had dragged the unknown Giles Frost into the conversation on purpose. But no, I didn’t think so. Leicester wasn’t here to inveigle me into another alarming tour of duty. He was just gossiping.
‘It’s so pleasant, sitting in the sunshine and exchanging news like this,’ I said lightly. ‘You’re staying the night, of course? You’d only have to put up at an inn if you started off for Hampton Court now, and I can smell something tasty in the kitchen. I mentioned chicken pie to my cook this morning and I think he’s taken me at my word.’
‘Indeed, I was hoping to stay. What other news have I for you? Have you seen your former ward and her husband, Kate and Christopher Spelton, lately? They may have come across Master Frost since their farm is only three miles or so distant from Knoll House.’
‘I haven’t heard from them lately, no,’ I said.
‘Christopher has applied to resume his former duties as a Queen’s Messenger and occasional agent,’ said Leicester casually. ‘Apparently they are having a difficult time. They’ve probably lost their entire wheat harvest for this year, through wheat rust.’
‘Wheat rust? Yes, I’ve heard of it,’ I said. ‘It’s a disease that can attack a maturing crop. I’m so sorry. I must get in touch with them. They have a little girl and a new baby.’
‘Yes. Spelton has responsibilities these days,’ said Leicester. He looked up at the sky. ‘Time is getting on. Before supper, I would like to visit your stud and see for myself that the stallion I recommended you to buy is in good health and meeting with the approval of his grooms.’
‘He’s met with the approval of the mares,’ I said.
Leicester laughed and got to his feet. It was all right. There was no need for the troubled, sinking feeling down in my stomach. He had only come to see if his recommendation had turned out well and have a harmless gossip. There was nothing in that to worry me.
Yet still, the soft, warm green world around me was not quite as beguiling as it had been a little earlier that afternoon. I knew I was being unreasonable, but I felt as if somehow a shadow had fallen.
TWO
Queen’s Messenger
Before supper, Leicester duly inspected my stud and learned from my stud groom, Laurence Miller, that the new stallion – a good-looking chestnut with a satisfactorily high action, which I hoped he would pass to his progeny – was well cared for and performing as he should. His first crop of foals would be born next year. Then Leicester joined us at supper, and afterwards I played the spinet for him and Harry demonstrated how well he could play the lute. The next day dawned clear and sunny and Leicester, having broken his fast with us in the hall, mounted his Blue Leicester and rode away, attended by his groom, to rejoin the court at Hampton Court.
I stood in the hall doorway to see him out of sight, and when he was gone I put him from my mind, for there were, as ever, numerous things to attend to. I wanted to talk to Peter Dickson about Harry’s studies. Harry was not good at figures but if he were ever to be master of Hawkswood he would have to understand accounts. Also, I must speak to the gardeners about getting rid of some sickly rose bushes. Thinking of that reminded me of what Leicester had said about wheat rust and the trouble it had caused my friends the Speltons.
I was concerned. Kate Spelton had once been my ward, and I had once come near to marrying Christopher. I did not like to think of him returning to his former occupation – which was not just that of Queen’s Messenger but had at times involved him in the world of the secret agent, which on occasion meant running into danger. And Kate had had enough bad times in her life. Before she became my ward she had been through a catastrophic love affair, and although I had settled her in a happy marriage she had lost her first husband in very distressing circumstances. She had experienced quite enough calamities and I had in the end been glad to see her married to Christopher, just as I was glad to see Christopher safely out of what had been a risky way of life.
Just then, Sybil came to find me, wanting to show me the embroidery pattern she had been working on. She was a better designer than I was but we both enjoyed needlework. Before seeking out Peter Dickson, I sat with her in the hall to discuss ways of using the design and the best colours for it. We became so immersed in this that before we knew it half the morning was gone. I tore myself away with difficulty when I realized that if I didn’t stir myself I would never get to see Dickson or the gardener. I said so to Sybil and went off laughing. I had completely forgotten the curious sense of unease that Leicester had brought with him.
And then, as if thinking about the Speltons had conjured one of them into appearing, I heard hooves coming into the courtyard, and Adam Wilder was hurrying in to tell me that Christopher Spelton was here and asking for me.
‘Christopher!’ I said. ‘Well, that’s a coincidence. Bring him in. Into the little parlour, I think.’ And a moment later I was welcoming my old friend and shouting to Wilder to find us some refreshments.
Christopher sat down on one of the cushioned settles that made the little parlour so comfortable and smiled at me. Dear Christopher, I thought. He looked just the same as ever, a stocky man, a little older than myself, with a balding head and friendly brown eyes and an aura of reliability.
He looked, indeed, very much as he had when I first saw him, for he was wearing the livery of a Queen’s Messenger then and so he was now. ‘I’m happy to see you,’ I said, ‘but I’ve heard news of you that has made me anxious. I heard it from Leicester – he rode this way only yesterday. You’ve gone back to your old work, because you have had trouble at West Leys.’
‘Wheat rust,’ said Christopher with a grimace. ‘We’ve lost our entire wheat crop for this year. The livestock are all right, we will have plenty of salted meat for the winter and we have this year’s calves and lambs to sell. But we rely on sales of grain as well. It makes the difference between being comfortable and just getting by. West Leys isn’t so very big. I’ve been thinking of leasing another field … but that’s by the way. For the time being, I had to do something at once. So I applied to the court for my old post and was taken on. Kate is upset because it could mean getting into danger again. I was never just a messenger, as you know – and being willing to undertake, shall we say, other d
uties was the main reason why I was welcomed back so easily and offered such a good rate of pay.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said inadequately.
Wilder arrived with the refreshments, and conversation paused while he served wine to us and we helped ourselves to almond pastries and handfuls of nuts and raisins.
‘I came by way of the village and met your vicar, Dr Joynings, in the street,’ said Christopher once Wilder had gone. ‘He insisted on talking to me about the church, and even got me to dismount and go inside to see with my own eyes what he was talking about.’
‘Oh dear!’ I said.
Dr Joynings had been the vicar of St Mary’s in Hawkswood village for not quite two years. He was a short, rotund, jolly kind of man and, as I had already realized, he was very keen on making improvements. But I was beginning to cringe inwardly when he thought of further ideas – although they were always good ones – because he did it so often.
‘He’s saying,’ said Christopher, ‘that there aren’t enough benches and he dislikes the Judgement Window.’
‘Yes. He’s mentioned those things to me,’ I said ruefully. ‘He really detests that window, and he says there are always a few people who need to sit but can’t because there aren’t enough seats to go round.’
‘I don’t like to see old people leaning on walking sticks, and young wives with child and near their time, or with babies in their arms, having to stand,’ Dr Joynings had said to me. ‘I feel I must keep my homilies short, but how can I teach my flock about the teachings of Christianity if I haven’t enough time to explain things to them? And as for that Judgement Window, there’s too much blood and horror and it sometimes frightens young children …’
I agreed with him, but at the time I had had other things on my mind and murmured something about having to think it over.
‘In fact,’ I said now to Christopher, ‘I’ve been thinking about the benches and I do intend to do something about them. There’s a good carpenter in the village. That window is a different matter, though. Replacing it would be very costly. Also, some of the villagers do like it, even if some of the little ones don’t and the vicar doesn’t and nor do I. But surely, Christopher, you didn’t come to talk to me about Dr Joynings and the church? What did bring you here today?’ A depressing thought came into my mind. ‘Are you here as a Queen’s Messenger? Have you brought me word from the court? I know the queen is back from her summer Progress, but I am not due to take a turn at attending on her for another two months.’
‘I do bring a message from court,’ said Christopher, ‘but it’s not from the queen. It’s from Walsingham.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘I’m afraid so. He wishes you to pay him a visit. The court is about to move to Greenwich, will you please attend on him there. Not instantly – not until the move is complete. He wishes you to come next Tuesday. It’s Wednesday now, so you have nearly a week to prepare.’ He reached into the capacious leather pouch that he carried at his belt and produced a sealed letter. ‘Here it is, in writing.’
‘What can he want?’ I said, exasperatedly.
‘That I wouldn’t know,’ said Christopher carefully, ‘I daresay he has some task he wishes you to undertake.’
‘I’m sure he does!’
Probably, Leicester had known about this, though he had not attempted to speak of it to me until Walsingham had done so.
I had not imagined the curious sense of unease that Leicester had brought with him. The shadow I feared was not a figment of my imagination. It was going to fall.
THREE
The Shadow Falls
Christopher stayed to dine but then took his leave, wanting to ride back to West Leys without further delay. I saw him off with affectionate messages for Kate. From what he had said, I had realized she must be worrying, both about the disaster to their wheat crop and the tasks that would confront Christopher from now on.
‘We shall come through,’ Christopher said, when I spoke of this. ‘I am not living away from West Leys. I am on a part-time contract – I spend a month at court and a month at home, alternately. Even so, the pay is quite good and I am home quite often enough to be an attentive farmer and an equally attentive husband. I shall take care of myself and take care of Kate. I have told her so, and now I am telling you. Don’t fret about us. I hope that whatever Walsingham wants this time isn’t anything perilous.’
‘So do I,’ I said. But the sun was shining, the world seemed calm and bright, and I was inclined to be optimistic and did not want to think about shadows. ‘Good journey,’ I said and turned back into the house to deal, at last, with the importance of teaching Harry double-entry book-keeping. Then I would step into the garden to discuss the rose bushes.
After that, I had to acquaint my household with the news that I had been summoned to see Sir Francis Walsingham. As I expected, they all expressed candid and vocal disapproval except for Brockley, who just stood by shaking his head in regret.
‘It always means trouble, when that man Walsingham wants you to do things,’ old Gladys grumbled. And my maid, who was really Mistress Brockley but whom I generally called by her maiden name of Dale, said: ‘You’ll want me and Roger with you. Please can we use the coach? I just can’t abide sitting on a horse, these days!’
Sybil Jester, my companion, was usually a calm woman (though just once or twice I had known her explode into unexpected passion). Now she was still calm, but she looked concerned. She said, very gravely: ‘I will look after the house while you’re gone, but I wish you wouldn’t go. Gladys is right. A summons like this always leads to trouble.’
‘It can’t be helped,’ I told her. I thought of Christopher returning to work as a Queen’s Messenger, and probably at times as a secret agent, for the sake of the pay. Well, money was always useful. ‘I’ll be paid,’ I said.
‘Let’s hope it’ll not be with your life. It’s come near enough to that once or twice, look you,’ said Gladys.
I gazed at her with exasperation, mixed with a reluctant affection. She was a most unprepossessing old woman, bent now and lame, with a withered brown face and a marked body odour, while her few remaining teeth resembled brown fangs – and her habit of hurling lurid curses at people who had displeased her had brought more charges of witchcraft against her than the one from which Brockley and I had saved her long ago. But another factor that had aroused suspicions of witchcraft was her undoubted skill with medicinal potions, which infuriated professional physicians when they chanced to hear of it, especially when – and it had happened – her potions worked better than theirs.
I had several times been glad of that skill, which had often been a blessing. It was Brockley, not me, who now told her not to keep on croaking like a raven.
‘The mistress will do her duty as she always does, and there’s an end to it!’ he snapped.
‘Thank you, Brockley,’ I said. ‘I am expected next Tuesday, so we shall need to set off on Monday. We’ll have to use the coach anyway, as the letter that Master Spelton brought says I can have accommodation for only two horses. Besides, there will be a great deal of baggage. Court dresses become more elaborate every year. You will drive, while Dale and I will travel in the coach with the luggage. Dale, please look out the clothes I shall need to take with me. Suitable things for travelling and for wearing at court, as usual.’
With that, our conference was over. The day was still fair and sunlit. I kept my spirits up and hoped that Christopher’s good wishes would be justified and I would not be confronted with a task that would be worrying. Or dangerous.
The next morning, Roger Brockley came to me and said: ‘Madam, could I have the morning free today? I have some private business to see to before we leave for Greenwich.’
I looked at him with understanding. ‘Yes, by all means,’ I said.
We were talking, as it were, in code.
When Brockley asked for time off to see to private business, he always meant the same thing: that he was going to see his son, Philip.
Philip Sandley was his lawful son, but because he had been reared by foster parents called Sandley he bore their name. Brockley had learned of his existence the year before when Philip applied for the post of tutor for Harry, only to discover later that he was one of the conspirators who tried to use Harry to force me into committing a terrible act. That had been agony for Brockley. We had protected Philip from the law, but there was no question of his remaining at Hawkswood. I would not, could not, permit him ever to set foot in my home again and did not want to see him ever again. But for Brockley he still represented a wondrous revelation – he was the son my good manservant had not known he had.
If Brockley still wanted to be in touch with him, I could not object, provided that if and when they met it was somewhere else. Brockley respected that and avoided even mentioning Philip’s name to me. But when Brockley talked of private business he meant Philip, and I understood. So did Dale. Fran Dale wholeheartedly shared my opinion of Philip. She stood beside me at the door of the hall as we watched Brockley mount his handsome dark-chestnut gelding, Firefly, and ride away.
‘It was a sad day when that young man Sandley came to this house,’ Dale said, arms akimbo. ‘I couldn’t abide him from the start. Nothing’s been the same since. I understand how Roger feels. But young Philip always did make my hackles rise and when we found he was mixed up with a pack of conspirators, well, it didn’t surprise me. I wish I’d been able to have a son. Maybe then Roger wouldn’t be so besotted with that one. I suppose Dr Joynings would say it was the will of God. The will of the other party’s more likely!’
‘He’ll be back in the afternoon,’ I said. ‘I gather that Philip is now a tutor in Guildford. A place called Reddings House. I gave him a respectable reference – he was a good enough teacher, I must say. Try not to mind that Roger still sees him, Dale. He won’t be gone long. He never is.’
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