The Secret World of Christoval Alvarez

by Ann Swinfen

At that I gave a huge sneeze, which startled the horse as much as me.

  ‘You get away in now, master,’ Tom said kindly. ‘Horse’ll do fine now. You be getting them wet clothes off afore you gets the ague.’

  ‘You’re right, Tom.’ My voice was fuzzy as if I was already sickening. ‘Thank you for your help.’

  I crossed the yard to the house and chose to go in by way of the back premises. That way I was less likely to meet the newcomers. It had already occurred to me that if I had taken the leisurely ride Lady Bridget had clearly had in mind and not been driven back by the storm, I would have arrived at the house well after the two men. Still, I could have noticed their horses, though her ladyship might not realise that I always saw to Hector myself.

  I reached my room without meeting anyone. In fact the house seemed strangely deserted, although I thought I caught a faint murmur of voices from Sir Damian’s study, which was on the ground floor nearest the stairs. In my chamber I stripped off my wet clothes, offering up thanks once again that I had a room to myself. I rubbed myself dry with a towel and dressed again in dry clothes from the coffer, though I had but one doublet with me. In its place I pulled a woollen jerkin over my shirt. It was somewhat inappropriate for Sunday wear, but there was no help for it. The Barn Elms map had fallen to the floor as I took off my doublet and I found it was wet through. Carefully I peeled it apart. It was still legible. I laid it flat on the table and blotted it with the towel. My wet clothes I hung over the back of my chair and from my bed posts, in the hope they would dry eventually, though it was far from warm in my room. Next I lit a candle and passed the map above it. The paper began to dry out, though it browned a little and curled at the edges.

  There was a noise from the schoolroom. The door opened and closed softly. I caught my breath. I did not want to be discovered with the Barn Elms map in my hand, so I folded it and shoved it down the neck of my shirt, then blew out the candle. Just in time, for there came a tap on my door. I pinched the smoking wick, then crossed to the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Master Alvarez? It is Cecilia. I heard you return. I wondered whether we might play some music together.’

  I opened the door reluctantly, for I had no wish to see any of the family just then. She smiled when she took in my appearance, in my stocking feet, my doublet replaced by a plain jerkin.

  ‘You were caught in the storm?’

  ‘Aye.’ As if to prove it, I sneezed again and turned aside to hunt for a handkerchief. She followed me into the room. This, I was sure, would not have met with the approval of her parents. During the entire week I had been at Hartwell Hall, I had never been alone with my female pupil. Always we were discreetly chaperoned by the rector or the steward or even Edward. I looked over her shoulder. She was alone.

  ‘I do not think you should be here,’ I said, urging her back into the schoolroom. ‘Alone.’

  ‘Oh, there can be no harm in our making music together.’ She laughed and looked boldly into my eyes, then modestly down again. ‘I have a galliard for four hands on the virginal. No one else has the skill to play it with me. Will you not try it? I should be so pleased.’

  This was a dilemma. I had been trying all week to win her confidence and acceptance. I did not want to offend her and cause those initial barriers to be raised again. On the other hand, I did not like that she stood so close to me, so that I could smell the raspberry scent of the pastilles she sucked to sweeten her breath. Nor did I like the way she laid her hand on my arm. It conveyed more than a simple request. It was more a caress. She slid her hand down into mine and drew me towards the virginal.

  ‘You see?’ She open a printed folio of music and propped it up above the keyboard. ‘It is far too difficult for Edward, or even Mama, but I am sure you could play it.’

  She drew a second stool up to the virginal.

  ‘Will you take the lower part?’

  She sat down and patted the stool to her left. I had no option but to sit down. Even at first glance I could see that the music would be beyond Edward’s capabilities. I had never heard Lady Bridget play, but I suspected she might well be as competent as her daughter. Why this pretence? Although I had been out of practice when I came to Surrey, I had played every day since and felt the bass part was not too difficult for me. I turned over the page. Yes, I could manage this. If the girl wished to be friendly, I must not be churlish.

  We began to play. She was certainly talented. Her delicate fingers flew over the keys and I could sense how much she loved the music. I was aware, however, that as my hands ran up and down the keyboard, weaving the two parts together, it would be clear to anyone who looked closely that my hands were also too fine to belong to a man. I could only hope that she was too absorbed in the music to notice.

  As she reached up to turn over the page, she moved closer to me, so that our sides were touching, and I heard her draw in her breath in a tiny gasp. Her lower lip was caught between her small white teeth. I tried to move away, but it was impossible without shifting my stool and my hands were full of notes. At last we reached the end of the piece. She sighed and dropped her hands into her lap.

  ‘Is it not beautiful?’ she said. ‘I would love to play with you every day.’ She let her head fall lightly on to my shoulder.

  ‘The music is beautiful,’ I said, aware that my voice sounded choked. ‘And we do make music together every day, both during your music and your mathematics lessons.’

  I tried to sound like the stern tutor, but a suspicion was growing in me.

  ‘Oh, Master Alvarez,’ she said. ‘Christoval.’ She rolled the syllables of my name over her tongue as though she were licking them, and laid her hand on my thigh. Through my hose I could feel that it was not cool, as I had expected, but burning hot.

  ‘Do you not like me, Christoval?’

  She buried her face in my neck and ran her hand further up my thigh. A gust of laughter was forcing its way up my throat. The girl was trying to seduce me! Perhaps the previous tutor had not left because she gave him trouble in her lessons, but for quite different reasons. Or for a different kind of trouble. From the moment I had arrived she had been provocative. As a girl, not thinking of myself as an eligible young man, I had not immediately understood what was afoot, but it was clear now. She might be but fifteen, but she was not inexperienced. The laughter in my throat was forced back by a warning rush of caution. I must be very careful. If I rejected her advances too unkindly, she could cause me serious trouble. But I could not encourage her.

  I leaned forward to remove the music from the stand, managing at the same time to slip her head gently from my shoulder, although her hand still lingered on my leg, which it began to caress. A kind of hysterical panic seized me.

  ‘Shall we play one of our lute and virginal duets now?’ I asked, in what I hoped was a casual voice. She knew that I had felt her physical advances, but nothing had yet been said which needed to be unsaid.

  She opened her mouth to speak – and I was afraid of what she might say – when we both heard from downstairs the very faint tinkling of a bell. She flinched as if she had been shot, sitting up and withdrawing her hand.

  ‘I must go.’

  She got up from the stool, suddenly dismayed and flustered, looking more like an embarrassed girl and less like a young seductress. ‘I had not realised it was so late.’

  She hurried from the room, taking care to close the door very softly behind her.

  Curious. I had not heard that bell before in this house, but I had heard bells like it before. In the Catholic church at Coimbra, during Mass.

  When we all sat down to dine that night, I was not surprised that the two strangers were absent. I had donned my doublet again, although it was still damp, and forced my feet into my wet shoes, for I had brought but the one pair with me. Lady Bridget asked about my ride and commiserated with my soaking. Sir Damian offered me one of his spare doublets, which I declined, for it would have gone round me twice. Edward promised to take me fishing soon.
Now that I had seen the lake I would surely want to try my luck. The steward and the secretary were engaged in a discussion about the management of the home farm. Only Cecilia was silent, her eyes demurely on her plate, though from time to time she glanced across the table at me and smiled secretively.

  There seemed to be a little too much eager conversation.

  I wondered where Poley and the other man might be. I was sure they were still in the house, for I had kept a watch from my chamber and no horses had left the stable. Were the servants aware of their presence? They must be. Tom Godwin, for example, had mentioned their visits quite casually. But if there was nothing to hide, why were they not at table with us? In such a large house it would not be difficult to lodge them and feed them somewhere out of sight, but to do so was as good as an admission that their business here was secret and possibly unlawful. How was Poley involved? That was what kept running through my mind.

  Sir Francis had told me that Poley posed as a Catholic sympathiser and was thus able to insinuate his way into the confidence of the men who ran the web of conspiracies which were wound around our country and our Queen. But perhaps it was not a pose. Perhaps he was a traitor to Walsingham and really loyal to men like Thomas Morgan in the Bastille, begetter of treason, and William Allen, trainer and master of priests who doubled as assassins.

  I found it difficult to maintain my normal attentive but modest demeanour during the meal with all these thoughts chasing themselves round in my head and with the knowledge that Poley and his companion were somewhere in the house. Was the other man a priest, smuggled into the country? I had instinctively imagined him to be a cleric from his sober garb, but would a secret priest not try to pass himself off as secular? I remembered that one man that Phelippes regarded as particularly dangerous, whose real name was (probably) John Ballard, called himself Captain Fortescue, a swashbuckling soldier of fortune. Although it was possible that a priest coming to this remote country house – having just landed, perhaps, on the Sussex coast – might see no need for a disguise. He would not have expected an agent of Walsingham’s to be in residence. More than ever I was certain that I must not let Poley see me. It had always been Walsingham’s plan that I should tell as few lies here as possible (his words), so I retained my own name and admitted to my Portuguese ancestry. In which case, someone in the household might have mentioned to Poley that one Christoval Alvarez was acting as tutor to the young Fitzgeralds.

  As that thought crossed my mind, I found the food sticking in my throat. If anyone had told Poley that I was in the house, he had only to reveal that I worked for Walsingham and my life would be in danger. For I had convinced myself by now that some form of treason was at work here. The risk to my own life depended entirely on which side Poley chose to play at the moment.

  I tried not to show my palpable relief when the meal came at last to an end. It seemed to have gone on for hours, though it had probably lasted no longer than usual. It might have been my heated imagination, but I felt that the others around the table were equally glad to finish. I excused myself and said I would retire to my chamber, that I felt a cold coming on, which seemed reasonable enough, for I had sneezed several times during the meal.

  Only Edward objected. ‘Oh, but Master Alvarez, you said yesterday that you would start to teach me to play chess this evening.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Edward, but I would probably just give you my cold.’

  I did feel sorry, for I liked Edward, and I had promised. He was too young to be part of whatever treason was being plotted in this house. It was like a knife in my conscience. If I reported the family to Walsingham, what would happen to them? Would the children suffer? Would Master Alchester, whom I had also grown to like? And Tom Godwin, the groom? This was an unpleasant business, being an informant. Working with Phelippes, solving ciphers and transcribing letters, I had felt distant from it all. Now I was trapped in the midst of it, amongst people who had been kind and welcoming to me. For the first time since leaving Portugal, I had been living amongst a normal family in a home which was not unlike an English version of my grandparents’ estate.

  ‘Now, Edward,’ his mother chided him, ‘you can see that Master Alvarez is not well after his soaking. Let him retire early tonight and perhaps he will be able to play chess with you tomorrow.’ She turned and smiled warmly at me. ‘I will have a hot posset sent up to you. I always find that very comforting.’

  I thanked her and climbed the stairs to my chamber, feeling guilty and ashamed, as if I were the one at fault.

  After one of the maidservants had brought me the posset, I closed my door and sat down to think while I spooned it up. It was sweet and delicious, rich in cream and spices and laced with brandy. And it did seem to clear the stuffiness in my head and throat. I must decide what to do. Tom Godwin had said these visitors normally stayed only one night, which meant they would be off tomorrow, probably early, to avoid being seen. I was almost certain that a Catholic Mass had been celebrated somewhere in the house this evening, but was that the only purpose of the visit? Had they also brought letters? And if so, were they letters for Sir Damian, or would they be passed on to someone else? How?

  My mind went round and round as the light faded and my chamber began to grow dark. When it became too dark to see across the room, I lit a candle, first looking out over the stableyard to make sure there was no activity there. Finally, I came to a decision. I could not risk the possibility that Poley had discovered I was in the house and had told Sir Damian. I must leave. But I must leave deep into the night, when I was sure everyone was asleep. I started to pack up my belongings, which did not take long. I also wrote a short note to Lady Bridget, thanking her for her kindness and saying that I had received word that my father had been taken seriously ill so that I must return to London at once. It seemed wise to explain my departure in case my connection with Walsingham had not been exposed. They must wonder how I had received word, but that could not be helped. I would leave the note under the silver posset cup, so that the maidservant would see it when she tidied my room in the morning.

  When this was done, I sat on the edge of the bed and began to chew my thumbnail. I could hardly return to Sir Francis with so little information. I guessed that Poley was up to no good, but I might be wrong. And the evidence for an illegal Catholic Mass rested on nothing more than the distant sound of a bell. I knew what I must do, but I was afraid to admit it. I must search for any letters Poley and his companion might have brought. The thought started me shaking, so that I bit my nail so firmly I broke a piece off. That would affect my lute-playing, I thought, with a rueful inner laugh.

  If there were any letters, it was likely they would be in Sir Damian’s study, so I must go there after everyone was abed, and search. I knew that they might be locked away. Or perhaps he would have taken them to his chamber when he retired, but despite all the excuses I might make for myself, I would have to try.

  Once I was sure that all my belongings were secured and the note weighed down with the posset cup, I blew out my candle and sat down again to wait. I positioned myself on the hard chair beside the window overlooking the stableyard, for I feared if I sat on the bed I might gradually sink down and fall asleep. Also, from here I could keep a watch, in case Poley and the other man left earlier than I expected. I would have to go out that way myself, to saddle and bridle Hector, and I shuddered at the thought I might bump into Poley in the dark.

  The hours dragged by. Once or twice I saw one of the servants come out into the yard, to empty slops or fetch firewood. Once I heard footsteps pass along the corridor outside the schoolroom and not return. That would be Master Alchester going to bed. His room was further along this wing. The family had rooms in the opposite direction, and the servants slept on the top floor. In this solidly built modern house, it was difficult to hear people moving about.

  I possessed no timepiece and I was too far away to hear the chimes of the clocks in Lady Bridget’s parlour or Sir Damian’s study. The heavy clouds that
had covered the sky during the storm had rolled away and now there was only a scattering of cloud, through which a quarter moon began to rise. I decided that when it was above the tall elm I could see out of the other window, which stood beyond the formal garden, then I would act.

  The moon rose at last and I could put it off no longer. I decided I must take my possessions with me now. There was a large heavy table opposite the front door in the great hall. I would hide my pack and lute under it, where I could pick them up quickly after leaving the study. I dared not come back upstairs again. I removed my shoes and knotted them to the strap of my pack, then, taking a deep breath I eased open the schoolroom door and listened.

  The silence was like a thick blanket over my head, but it was not quite dark. Two tall candles were always left burning in the hall at night, in case a servant was summoned and needed to find the way to the kitchen or the back premises. I ducked back into my chamber and put my own candle in my pocket. I could light it and use it to find my way round the study.

  Silently I blessed the builder who had constructed a staircase so solidly that it made no creak as I crept down to the hall. I paused at the bottom of the stairs. Everything seemed still. I laid my pack and my lute under the table with infinite care, holding my breath with apprehension lest the strings of the lute might give me away. I should have padded them with a shirt, but it was too late now.

  I lit my candle from one of those burning on the table and slipped to the door of the study on my stocking feet. No light showed from beneath, but I lifted the latch slowly, feeling sick with fear. What if Sir Damian should be inside?

  All was darkness. I closed the door behind me, slowly, slowly, held up my candle and looked around. I had been in here only once, on my first evening, when we had briefly discussed the children’s lessons. Like his wife, Sir Damian had been willing to leave most of it up to me. There was his vast writing table, even more impressive than Sir Francis’s, several comfortable chairs, a heavy strongbox secured with iron bands and two locks, and, beside the hearth, a dog’s basket.