The Secret World of Christoval Alvarez

by Ann Swinfen

  My heart leapt into my throat as Sir Damian’s wolf hound looked up and growled softly in his throat. I had forgotten the dog! I knelt down beside him and held out a trembling hand for him to smell. He had seen me about the house for a week, but not creeping into his master’s study in the middle of the night. The hackles bristled on the back of his neck and he sniffed my hand suspiciously as I held my breath. Then he sighed and lowered his head to his paws, but he continued to watch me closely. I got slowly to my feet, so as not to alarm him, and looked about the room. The thought that the dog might start to bark at any minute nearly paralysed me.

  The letters, after all, were probably in the strongbox.

  I looked at it helplessly. If that was where they were – if indeed there were any letters – there was nothing I could do about it. Perhaps there were no letters, and I was putting myself through this for nothing.

  I moved across to the desk. There was very little on the surface, just the usual collection of ink and quills and paper. In fact the study was quite bare. There were only two books laid on the side of the desk. Sir Damian, I was not surprised to discover, was not a great reader. I looked more closely at the books. An English Bible and The Obedience of a Christian Man, by William Tyndale, both worthy Protestant works.

  On a small table under the window there was an empty wine flask and . . . ah, this was interesting . . . three empty but used wine glasses. So Sir Damian had entertained two guests to a glass of wine here. Poley and his companion?

  Everything else was bare. There was no court cupboard where something might be concealed. The desk was in fact a writing table, without drawers. Nothing. If there were any letters, they must be in the strongbox or in some other part of the house. Even under Sir Damian’s pillow. Well, I had done my best. A sense of relief washed over me. Now all I had to do was make my way to the stable, saddle Hector, and escape.

  I do not know what prompted me to pick up The Obedience of a Christian Man. Something felt odd about it. I tried to flick through the pages, but they would not move. I opened the front cover and a cold sweat broke out on my neck and back. The pages of the book had been glued together and then hollowed out, to make a kind of box. Inside were three letters. I took them out with shaking hands. They were firmly sealed, but the addresses were clear. Two were addressed to Sir Anthony Babington ‘at His House Close by the Barbican in the City of London’, the third was addressed to the Baron de Châteauneuf at the French embassy. There was no indication of the sender. However, I knew that hand, having deciphered it often enough. It was the unmistakable handwriting of Thomas Morgan, the Scottish queen’s chief intelligencer in Paris.

  I could not unseal the letters to copy them, nor could I remove them, but perhaps I now had enough information for Walsingham. Carefully, despite the almost uncontrollable shaking of my hands, I replaced the letters in the fake book in the same order, and laid the book in exactly the same spot at the edge of the desk.

  I crept to the door, laid my hand on the latch and listened. Nothing. I blew out my candle, pinched the wick so that the smell of smoke would not give me away, and eased the door open. The dog stirred in his bed, stretched and started to cross the room to the door. If he escaped into the house, he would give everything away. I closed the door hurriedly behind me, aware that it make a noise, but there was nothing I could do. The dog whined and scratched at the door. Hastily I shoved my candle in my pocket and retrieved my belongings from under the table.

  The dim light in the hall enabled me to find the door which led from behind the stairs to the kitchens and pantries, but once it was closed I had to wait, despite my pounding heart, until my eyes could cope with the very little light that filtered through a small window from the outside. There were so many things one could bump into, making one’s way through here, that I must take it slowly. I thought I could still hear the dog whining as I crept along the kitchen corridor, past the fish room and the pastry room and the game larder. At last, here was the servants’ outside door. To my relief I found that the Fitzgeralds did not bolt their doors at night, out here in the country, for slipped bolts would have given me away as soon as the kitchen maid came down in the morning. I eased the door open, but the hinges on this door were not kept so well oiled as those on the inner doors of the house. It groaned loudly. First the dog, whining and scratching, now this. Someone was sure to hear me. I thought the youngest scullery boy slept in the kitchen. What if he were a light sleeper?

  I pulled the door to and ran across the yard to the stable, wincing as sharp stones cut into my feet. There was no time to put my shoes on. The stable door was partially ajar, for the thundery air had been heavy earlier in the evening, and I thanked Tom silently for leaving it open to give the horses air. It meant there was just enough light to find Hector’s tack. He whickered a welcome.

  ‘Ssh,’ I whispered, stroking the velvet skin between his nostrils. ‘Don’t give me away now, lad.’

  I fumbled with the buckles on the blanket, trying to hurry too much. Slowly, slowly. Otherwise I would never have him saddled. I laid the blanket over the partition at the side of the stall and lifted the saddle on to his back. Easy, now, tighten the girths. Hector stamped his foot. He seemed as eager as I to be off. He took the bit like a lamb and despite more fumbling I had the bridle on and my saddlebags strapped in place. Everything seemed to take hours. My heart was pounding so fast I thought I could hear it, through the rush of blood in my ears. Now to fit my pack into one of the saddlebags. I pushed my shoes into the other to balance the weight a little, and wriggled my shoulders into the strap of my lute case.

  Now came the most dangerous moment of all. I must mount Hector from the block in the yard, then ride him out of the gate, but the yard was cobbled and his iron shoes would ring loudly on the stones as I crossed to the archway at the back. Anyone not sleeping soundly would hear us, and many of the sleeping chambers overlooked the yard.

  The clattering of the hooves rang in my ears as loud as church bells. I scrambled clumsily up on to the horse’s back and rode him quickly out of the yard to the track at the back. There was nothing I could do to muffle the noise. The stirrups felt strange under my hose, but there was no time to worry about that. Turn right along the track.

  ‘Now, my lad,’ I said, leaning forward and giving Hector his head, ‘show me what you can do.’

  He stretched out into that lovely canter of his, then tossed his head and broke into a gallop. The first field was flying past as I glanced back. Was that a light in one of the upper windows of the house? Or the reflection of the moon? I sent a message of desperate speed through my knees to the horse.

  The second field and now the wood. I thanked God I had ridden this way already today, for I knew it was safe to keep up this speed as far as the lake. Afterwards I would need to be more cautious, for the track might hold dangers for the horse and there was little enough light. Some small creature ran across the path in front of us and Hector checked for a moment, so that I nearly flew over his head, but I slithered back into the saddle gasping and we galloped on.

  The lake shimmered like pewter on our left and now I would have to slow down, though every nerve cried out to me to keep going as fast as possible. It isn’t safe, I said, inside my head, or perhaps aloud to Hector. I gathered him in, despite his reluctance, for I could feel how he loved speed. At last we were down to a slow canter, while I strained forward, watching the surface of the track. All the way along the lake I could see clearly and although this part of the track was less used it was sound enough. When we reached the second wood, however, I held the horse back to an agonising walk. It was dark between the trees and there might be any number of hazards – fallen branches, protruding roots, holes. And I kept my head down, for a low hanging branch could sweep me off the horse’s back. That was the worst part of the journey, forced to creep along, screaming inside lest we were being pursued.

  When at last we emerged from the wood, there was the river and the mill. And there were lights on in
the mill! For I moment I was terrified, thinking that somehow they had forestalled me and reached the mill ahead of me. Then I realised that it was probably later – or earlier – than I realised, so that the miller was already up and about his work. I rode past the mill and saw that the track which led on from here was once again well used. Of course. I remembered the map. This stretch of the track connected the mill to the road, so this was the way the carts would come, bringing the sacks of wheat for grinding and carrying away the milled flour. I set Hector to a canter again, until we reached the road.

  There was nothing yet on the road, but I crossed it cautiously, searching for the track on the other side. I did not find it at once. Then I realised that a gorse bush had grown part-way across it. Once again this was a little-used portion. I thought of dismounting and hacking my way through, but then I realised I might find it difficult to mount again. Frustrated, I rode a little way along the road until I came to a place where the bushes thinned out, then worked my way back to the track. The next part was difficult. Bushes and bracken had grown across much of the way. I managed to break off a dry branch from an overhanging tree and used it to hack our way through. This was neither a wood nor farmland, but a neglected thicket of undergrowth which seemed to go on and on. I did not remember anything like this from the map and began to wonder whether I had missed my way, when at last we broke through and the track opened out again, fairly clearly, running alongside a meadow where cows stood knee-deep in morning mist tinted with gold. While I had been fighting my way through the thicket, the sun had just lifted its rim above the land at my back.

  ‘Good lad,’ I said, patting Hector’s neck. ‘Nearly there.’

  He threw up his head and snorted, as if he were happy to go on all day like this.

  After the meadow, a field of beans, then wheat. Then the track turned sharply to the right and headed for a run of low, half-timbered buildings rising out of the morning mist. Could this really be Barn Elms? What if Walsingham were not here, but in London? I would ask for refreshment for myself and my horse, then set out again for the city, though that would mean taking the road which led past the turn to Hartwell Hall, and that might mean someone would be on the lookout for me.

  I clattered into this other stableyard, happy to make as much noise as possible, in the hope of rousing someone. As I reined Hector in, a groom came down outside steps leading from the rooms over the stable, where he and his fellows probably slept.

  ‘Aye?’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘What do you want here?’

  ‘My name is Christoval Alvarez,’ I said, sliding down and wincing as my feet hit the ground. ‘I should be expected.’

  He smiled. ‘Oh, aye. You’re expected.’

  ‘Is Sir Francis here?’

  ‘Came last night,’

  ‘Jesu be thanked,’ I said.

  Chapter Eight

  I insisted on seeing to Hector myself, although it was clear that instructions had been given to the servants that I was to be treated with the greatest courtesy. Finally, when I was sure my tired horse was comfortable, I allowed myself to be led into the house, an elderly timber-framed building, sagging gently into a surrounding garden of old-fashioned flowers: hollyhocks and delphiniums and ladies’ bonnets, which sprawled up and around the house in a loose embrace. It was a world away from the urban formality of Seething Lane and from the new wealth of Hartwell Hall set within its geometrical gardens. I wondered how Sir Francis could bear to tear himself away from this place which breathed home from every corner and return to the rigours of London. Nothing but his unswerving devotion to his Queen, I supposed.

  By now the housekeeper was up and about.

  ‘I am Mistress Oldcastle,’ she said, ‘and Sir Francis left instructions last night that whenever you came, you were to be cared for like a son of the family.’

  She was showing me into a small parlour as she talked, a short bustling woman who carried her authority with the same ease as the keys on her girdle.

  ‘This is Lady Walsingham’s parlour, but her ladyship is with her daughter at present and this is much more comfortable than the master’s study.’ As I opened my mouth to speak, she continued, ‘The master will be down shortly. He rode in very late last night and he hasn’t been well, but he insisted on getting up.’

  She turned toward the door. ‘Put that here, Mary.’ This to a serving maid who was staggering in carrying a tub of steaming water, with camomile flowers floating in it. She put it down before a low cushioned chair beside a newly-lit fire.

  ‘Help the young gentleman with his hose,’ the housekeeper went on.

  There was no question who was in charge here. Meekly I sat down in the chair and allowed the girl to peel off my hose. My feet were filthy and bloody. The shock of the water made me jerk and slop a little of it over the edge, but then it began to soothe the pain I had started to feel in my feet as soon as I thought about it. The girl laid aside the rags which had been my hose and began to wash my feet gently with a soft cloth and soap. No one had washed my feet for me since I was a small child and once I had overcome my embarrassment, I found it comforting. All the while Mistress Oldcastle kept a sharp eye on the girl.

  ‘I had a fire lit for you,’ she said. ‘That storm yesterday has almost sent us back into winter again. Who would have thought it, after all this fine weather? I thought we were in for a warm spring, but no, I expect we’ll have another bad summer and poor harvest.’

  I smiled to myself. The English never seem to stop talking about their weather.

  She peered at my feet, which were now appearing from beneath the grime. ‘Look at the state of you! What were you thinking of? How old are you, Master Alvarez?’

  Startled, I answered submissively, ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘Sixteen! He’ll be employing babies next. You should be at home with your mother, not careering about the countryside barefoot. Why have you no shoes?’

  ‘I have.’ Defensively I pointed to my saddlebags, where my shoes were spilling out on to the floor.

  ‘Then why not wear them?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  She examined my shoes and gave a sniff of disdain. ‘Not fit to be worn anyway. They’re soaked through.’

  ‘That was yesterday, in the storm.’

  ‘Well, I’ll fetch you some slippers.’ She examined my feet, now out of the tub and resting on a towel, while the girl heaved the tub up and carried it out of the room. ‘You’ve a small enough foot, I see. I can lend you a pair of my own.’

  ‘Please,’ I said, ‘there is no need for you to trouble . . .’ but she was not listening.

  As soon as I was alone I dug into my pack for a fresh pair of hose and pulled them on, tucking them under the hem of my breeches. Washed and clean, my feet looked slender and much too feminine.

  She was back almost at once with a pair of slippers in soft felt which were an easy fit. A young manservant followed her in with a tray, bringing with it an enticing smell. He set it down on a small table, which he moved to my elbow.

  ‘Eddie,’ she said, ‘take these shoes and see that they are thoroughly dried and polished. Don’t put them too close to the fire, mind, or you’ll crack the leather.’

  She turned to me. ‘I’ll leave you to take your breakfast. The master has been told that you’re here and will be down shortly.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’ve been so kind.’

  Her face creased in a smile. ‘It’s nothing, lad. Now eat up.’ And she went out. As the door closed, I distinctly heard the muttered word ‘children’. I grinned and turned to the tray.

  It was simple, homely food and exactly what I needed. I lifted the lid on a dish of steaming porridge, with a pot of honey beside it waiting to be stirred in. There was a crusty loaf, still warm from the oven. Butter of such a rich yellow I guessed it came from the milk of those cows I had seen in the meadow. A tankard of warm, spiced ale. And, the one touch of luxury, three ripe apricots in a little basket lined with their own leaves. Mann
a from heaven!

  My long ride in the fresh air had sharpened my appetite, which had deserted me at table in Hartwell Hall the previous night, and I made short work of the contents of the tray. When I had eaten every scrap, I set it aside and leaned back in the chair. The fire had burned through now, and I realised that the housekeeper was right. The weather, in the aftermath of yesterday’s storm, had indeed turned colder. The warmth of that fire was welcome. I closed my eyes and rested my head on my hand. I had been up all night and it had been a hard ride in a state of fear.

  I woke with a jerk, immediately aware that I was no longer alone in the room. Sitting opposite me and regarding me with a quizzical smile was Sir Francis Walsingham.

  ‘Oh, Sir Francis!’ I started to scramble to my feet, setting the table with the tray rocking. I steadied it with my hand, just saving the pottery porridge pot from sliding to the floor.

  ‘Sit down, Kit,’ he said. ‘You’ve earned your rest, for you must have ridden through the night.’

  ‘Aye,’ I said, sinking back. ‘I had to wait up until everyone was asleep, then creep out in the dark.’

  ‘Hence the lack of shoes, which has caused such a stir.’

  I smiled uncertainly, unsure whether he was teasing me. He seemed a different man here in the country from the stern courtier and administrator that I was used to. He was even dressed differently, in a loose gown of fine wool, and he wore no ruff.

  ‘I took my shoes off to make less noise in the house, then there was no time to put them on again.’

  ‘You would not have left Hartwell Hall without good reason,’ he said. ‘You have found something?’

  ‘To begin with, everything appeared quite innocent,’ I said. ‘The Fitzgeralds seem like good people.’ I frowned. It was difficult to explain what I meant. ‘I liked them. Everything was very open. I could go where I wished. Nothing seemed to be concealed. They were warm and friendly.’