The Secret World of Christoval Alvarez

by Ann Swinfen

  He nodded. ‘There are good Catholic families in England, Kit. Those who honestly trust in their faith and believe at the same time that they can be loyal subjects of the Queen. They choose to turn a blind eye to the wickedness of the Pope, to the corruption of the Catholic church, and to the exiles who would bring a foreign army to invade and despoil this land. However, if it should come to a choice between Pope and Queen, who shall say which way they will turn?’

  ‘Sir Francis,’ I said, ‘I have been thinking a good deal about this since I came to work for you.’ I looked down at my hands, twisting them together. ‘I know what it is to be isolated and persecuted. And the history of the church in England . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My father and I worship at the church of St Bartholomew, and there is a very old man I see there every Sunday. Someone told me he is more than four score years old.’

  ‘A goodly age.’

  ‘Yes. But.’ I cleared my throat. I thought my cold was returning. ‘When that man was born, more than eighty years ago, England was a Catholic country. Then, when he was a young man, the Queen’s father broke with Rome, pulled down the monasteries, and told people that England had a new church, of which he was head.’

  Sir Francis was watching me closely now, as though he though I might be going to speak heresy. I went on hastily.

  ‘Then in the boy king Edward’s time, the church was pushed towards Calvin, and those who had kept to the old faith were hunted down and persecuted. Then our Queen’s sister Mary, married to Philip of Spain, brought back the Pope and the Catholic church and it was the Protestants who were burned. By now, my old man would have been middle-aged. And surely confused. But he survived. Do you suppose he turned Catholic again under Mary?’

  ‘Who is to know?’

  ‘Now, under our Queen Elizabeth, England is Protestant again, Catholics are hunted, and our neighbour attends the Protestant services faithfully every Sunday in his old age. What do you suppose he believes?’

  Sir Francis steepled his fingers and looked at me over them. ‘All of us over a certain age have had a difficult time, Kit, finding our way through conflicting faiths. And I believe a man should worship as his conscience bids him. Personally, I believe each of us should go directly to scripture, without the intervention of a priest, read Christ’s words and deeds for ourselves, and on that basis make up our minds. What cannot be tolerated is a papacy that blatantly urges foreign powers to invade our country, even providing them with funds, and gives its blessing to any assassin who promises to kill the Queen.’

  He turned away from me and looked out of the window, where a fresh shoot from a rose bush was tapping against the glass.

  ‘If the Fitzgeralds are a decent family who keep their Catholic faith quiet and bother no one, then I hold nothing against them.’

  He turned back towards me and his glance sharpened.

  ‘However, if that were the case, I do not believe you would be here.’

  I sighed. Of course, everything that he said was true.

  ‘Yesterday,’ I said, ‘the entire household attended morning service in Great Hartwell church, conducted by the Reverend Conings exactly according to Elizabeth’s Prayer Book and the rites of the English church. In the afternoon, I went for a ride. Looking back, I think that Lady Bridget, who suggested it, wanted me out of the house. I welcomed the suggestion, because it gave me an opportunity to spy out the first part of the route to Barn Elms.’

  He nodded. ‘Was that when you were caught in the storm? We had it in London too.’

  ‘Yes. I had just reached the lake when the skies opened and I hurried back, sooner than I would have done had it remained dry. As I drew near the house, I saw two men arrive and I kept out of sight.’

  Now it was my turn to watch him closely. ‘One was soberly dressed. I thought perhaps he was a clergyman of some sort. The other was Robert Poley.’

  Surprised flickered across his face but was quickly suppressed. It was enough. I was sure he did not know Poley would be there.

  ‘I kept to my chamber for the rest of the afternoon, until the daughter of the family came and asked me to play some music with her.’ I felt myself blushing and hoped he would not notice. I was reluctant to tell him about Cecilia’s advances.

  ‘We had just finished playing a piece when we both heard a bell ringing softly in the distance. I had not heard it before in the house. But it sounded to me exactly like the bells rung during Mass in Portugal. The girl sprang to her feet as though it was a summons, and left at once.’

  ‘You did not follow?’

  ‘No.’ Suddenly I wondered whether I should have done. The Fitzgeralds knew I was Portuguese. Perhaps they suspected I was Catholic. It had not occurred to me to go after Cecilia, I was so relieved to be rid of her. ‘No, I did not follow. Should I have done?’

  ‘Difficult to say. Go on.’

  ‘When we sat down at table that evening, there was no sign of Poley or the other man, though they must have been somewhere about the house, for their horses were still in the stable. They were still there when I left.’

  ‘And you decided to come because of Poley and this possible Mass?’

  ‘No. Yes. Partly. I thought Poley might learn I was there and tell the Fitzgeralds that I worked for you. I feared for my life, Sir Francis. Perhaps that was foolish.’

  ‘Not necessarily. It is probably as well that you came away.’ He moved, as if he was about to rise.

  ‘Oh, but that is not all!’ I put out my hand to stop him. ‘I packed up my belongings, and crept down to Sir Damian’s study. I thought, if there were any letters, as you suspected, that was where they would be. I hadn’t realised that his wolfhound slept in there.’ I shivered. ‘He nearly gave me away.’

  Walsingham’s glance sharpened. He sank back into his chair but leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees.

  ‘The study was very bare and tidy. I thought the letters must be in his strongbox. Then I picked up a book from his desk. Tyndale’s The Obedience of a Christian Man. It had been hollowed out to make a box. And there were three letters inside.’

  Now his eyes were fixed on my face and I thought he was holding his breath.

  ‘I recognised the handwriting at once, though the letters were all sealed anonymously. It was Thomas Morgan’s hand.’

  ‘And they were addressed to?’

  ‘One to the French ambassador. The other two to a man called Sir Anthony Babington.’

  He let out his breath in a long sigh. ‘Babington! Excellent, Kit, excellent!’

  ‘Then I saddled my horse and came here,’ I said, dismissing in a few words that terrifying ride through the dark. ‘I could not take the letters, or they would have suspected something, and I could not unseal them, not having Arthur Gregory to reseal them for me.’

  ‘No, no, you did quite right.’

  ‘But the letters may be on their way again already.’

  ‘I’ll have them followed. It’s still early. But they will soon miss you.’

  ‘I left a note, saying my father was ill, as you suggested. Though they will wonder how I received word.’

  ‘Let them wonder. If they have no other suspicions of you.’

  ‘There was something else, Sir Francis.’ I found myself turning red again.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘While we were playing music together, the girl Cecilia . . . she tried to seduce me.’

  ‘What?’ He burst out laughing. ‘A well brought up Catholic girl of fifteen!’

  ‘I think it may not have been the first time. She seemed . . . well, experienced.’

  ‘I apologise, Kit. I did not know your good name would be at risk!’

  Little do you know, I thought.

  ‘At the time I believed it was her own . . . inclination. But I have wondered since whether she was put up to it.’

  ‘Ah. Perhaps.’ He sprang to his feet like a much younger man. ‘I will see to sending someone to watch and follow whoever carries those let
ters.’

  At the door he paused. ‘Mistress Oldcastle has been scolding me for employing children in my nefarious work. You have done as well as any grown man, Kit.’ He went out, closing the door behind him. Relieved of having unburdened myself of everything, I sank back in my chair. In a few minutes I was asleep again.

  I am not sure how long I slept the second time, but when I woke my neck was stiff, although, as for the rest, I felt better. There were voices in the rest of the house, and sounds of movement. Unsure what to do, I walked to the door and looked out. Fortunately Mistress Oldcastle was passing.

  ‘Good, Master Alvarez. I was coming to wake you. You are to take some refreshment with the Master before you set out.’

  ‘I must return your slippers,’ I said, looking at my feet.

  ‘Your shoes are better, though I think they will never be quite right. I will see that they are brought to you. This way.’

  I followed her along a screen passage, wondering where and when I was to be setting out. She showed me into another room, about the same size as the parlour, clearly a small family dining chamber. Sir Francis and another man were already sitting at table and a manservant was laying out plates of cold meats and cheeses and bread.

  ‘Come, sit down, Kit.’ Sir Francis waved me to a chair opposite him. ‘Help yourself. We must be on our way shortly, now that both you and your horse are rested.’

  I sat down as bidden and loaded a plate, finding I was already hungry again.

  ‘This is our young code-breaker, Christoval Alvarez,’ he said to the other, a grizzled man of late middle age, whose countenance had the weather-beaten look of someone whose work is out of doors. ‘Kit, this is my steward at Barn Elms, Master Goodrich. We have been settling a few estate matters before I return to London.’

  I rose from my chair and bowed to the steward, who returned the bow and smiled at me. It crossed my mind that Sir Francis’s staff here in the country were very different from those who worked in his secret intelligence service in London. As different as Mistress Oldcastle’s felt slippers from a pair of tight-fitting boots.

  ‘We are to go to London then, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye. I have sent one of my men off to follow the trail from Hartwell Hall, but I need to be back in London before night to arrange the interception of further letters travelling by this route. We will leave as soon as we have eaten.’

  After our hasty meal, my shoes were returned to me. Although someone had worked hard on them, Mistress Oldcastle was right, they would never be respectable again. However, they were all I had with me. Our horses were brought round to the front of the house, Hector looking as fresh as if he had not galloped through the night. I loaded up my saddlebags again, and again slung my lute over my back. I was beginning to find it an irritating burden. One of the grooms gave me a leg up. Sir Francis also needed some assistance to mount. I had noticed that he seemed to be favouring his right leg and wondered whether I should proffer any medical advice, but decided it was not my place.

  The steward came out to see us off.

  ‘What do you think of old piebald Hector, then, Master Alvarez?’ He patted the horse affectionately on the neck.

  ‘He’s a fine fellow,’ I said, ‘and not so old either.’

  ‘Oh, he knows I mean no harm. I’ve known him since he was a foal. He was bred right here at Barn Elms.’

  Once we were mounted, half a dozen men trotted round the side of the house from the stableyard. They wore helmets and breastplates and carried swords. My face must have given away my surprise, for the steward lowered his voice and said, ‘Sir Francis cannot take any risks, not even between here and London. Sad times, sad times.’

  ‘Are we ready?’ Walsingham glanced round our company and everyone nodded. We set off.

  ‘We will not be returning the way you came down to Surrey,’ he said, taking his place beside me as we rode out down the lane which led from the house. ‘Best to avoid going too near Hartwell Hall. We’ll circle round to the north a short way. It won’t add a great deal to the journey.’

  I had enjoyed my leisurely ride out from London a week ago. This journey felt very different, riding in the midst of a group of armed retainers. What a wonder it was that I had come to this! It was exciting, but in many ways I wished I could slip back into my old anonymous life, lived between the house in Duck Lane and the hospital. Then, the only danger was that my sex might be discovered. Now, my very life might be at risk, at any moment. It gave a different cast to the day, a different quality to the light and to the countryside through which we passed.

  It was early evening by the time we reached London Bridge. The crowds had thinned and most of the shops were putting up their shutters. When we arrived at Seething Lane and rode into the stableyard, I realised I would have to part company with Hector now. After all we had endured together, I was saddened. Sir Francis did not even allow me to settle him, but urged me inside as soon as I had removed my pack from the saddlebag. I gave the horse a final rub between the ears, promising myself that I would bring him an apple next time I came to Seething Lane, and followed Sir Francis indoors.

  ‘I want you to repeat your story to Phelippes,’ he said as we climbed the stairs, ‘then you may go home to your father. I daresay you will be glad to go.’

  I nodded. Already, back in London, dressed in a sober black doublet and stiffly starched ruff, he was once again the Sir Francis Walsingham, Principal Secretary to Her Majesty, that I had first met all those months ago.

  Phelippes was still at his desk, poring over his papers with his face almost touching them.

  ‘Candles!’ Sir Francis called and a boy appeared with two, lighting more around the room before he left.

  ‘Thomas, you will ruin what little sight you have left, working in the dark like this.’

  Phelippes smiled vaguely and rubbed his eyes. ‘I had not noticed it had grown so dark.’ He turned to me. ‘Well, Kit, I understand you have been having adventures down in Surrey.’ He looked at Walsingham. ‘Your man got here about an hour ago. He followed the courier all the way. The letters have gone to their destinations.’

  ‘Good.’ Sir Francis sat down. ‘Now, Kit, repeat everything you told me. Including,’ he gave one of those smiles so rare in London, ‘including how you were seduced by a young temptress of fifteen.’

  It was so unusual for Sir Francis to tease anyone that I took it in good part and repeated my account of the week at Hartwell Hall, especially the ending of it. When it was over and Phelippes had asked one or two questions, I was sent home. I went gladly, for I was tired after what seemed an endless day. Even so, I was not too tired to notice that Phelippes, like Sir Francis, looked startled when I explained how I had seen Poley riding up to the Fitzgeralds’ house in the company of a man who might be a Catholic priest. They exchanged looks. Clearly Poley at Hartwell Hall was not part of their own plans.

  The walk back to Duck Lane across London in the fading light seemed longer than ever. My wretched lute banged against my back and I had to keep shifting my pack from one hand to the other, for my arms were so tired from all the riding I had done in the last day and a half. A light shone from the kitchen window as I came up the lane. I was almost too weary to open the door, but the way my father’s face lit up as I came in made the long walk worthwhile.

  ‘Kit!’ He flung his arms around me. ‘I thought I would not see you for another week at least. Welcome home.’

  ‘Oh, I am glad to be home, Father. And glad I did not need to stay longer than a week.’

  ‘There is someone here to see you,’ he said, his manner suddenly a little reserved.

  As I laid my lute and pack on the table, I looked where he had gestured.

  ‘Simon!’

  Simon rose from his stool and came across the room.

  ‘It’s good you are back,’ he said. ‘Dark goings-on, I expect, down there in the country.’

  I laughed. He made it sound like a journey to the strange new worlds where Harriot had
gone on the Chesapeake adventure, instead of rich and cultivated Surrey.

  ‘This young man came to ask whether I had any news of you,’ Father said stiffly. ‘He arrived just a few minutes before you.’

  ‘This is Simon Hetherington, Father,’ I said, realising that they had never met before. ‘You remember, I told you how he fetched me to a patient in the Marshalsea, when you were not here. The man Poley.’

  My father continued to look grave.

  ‘Simon is an actor with James Burbage’s company,’ I explained, a little dismayed by his expression, ‘appearing at the Theatre, at Bishopsgate Without.’

  ‘He is young for an actor.’ My father addressed me as though Simon was not in the room. I was becoming embarrassed by what seemed almost to be open hostility to Simon.

  ‘I am young for a doctor,’ I said. ‘He is the same age as I am.’

  ‘I play the women’s parts, sir.’ Simon addressed my father directly and if he was hurt by my father’s demeanour, he concealed it. But then, he was well trained. ‘It is a very respectable company and Master Burbage has the same care of the boys in the company as any good master for his apprentices.’

  My father inclined his head as though he accepted this statement, but reserved judgement about actors in general. I had not thought he was prejudiced against those who earned their living in the playhouse, but it is true that many people regard actors as little more than vagabonds, even those belonging to decent licensed companies in London. Burbage’s company was under the patronage of the Earl of Leicester, and was second in rank to none but the Queen’s Men.

  ‘I came only to learn whether there was word of you,’ Simon said, turning towards the door. ‘Now that you are home, I won’t trouble you further.’

  I could see that my father would be glad to see him go and, truth to tell, I was so tired that I ached in every bone, but I did not want to see him go like this, dismissed, as it were, by my father’s discourtesy.

  ‘I have a holiday from Walsingham’s work tomorrow,’ I said, ‘and the hospital will not expect me back until next week at least.’