“What is it?” Philippa was looking at him keenly. “Father, you’re afraid of something! I know you are. But what?”
“These are dangerous times for Catholics, that’s all. Go back to Robert. You’re his wife now. Look after him and try to keep him safe.”
“Safe from what?” She was genuinely puzzled, and that at least was a comfort. If there was a plot, she clearly knew nothing about it.
“From the perils of the age,” said Stephen steadily. “Go, my daughter. Go back to Robert.”
When she had gone, however, he stayed in the chapel for a long time, not praying but simply trying to quieten himself. He did not want to see Philippa’s heart broken. He was so afraid for her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Summons
1585–1586
After grumbling and sulking—there was really no other word for it—for two days, Tobias capitulated, called the entire household into the hall and there declared that although it was not his choice, he accepted his son’s marriage and would welcome Philippa as his daughter-in-law.
He performed his climbdown with a degree of grace, and Blanche seconded him, giving Philippa a kiss. As Jane and Stephen watched, Robert’s wide smile and Philippa’s transfigured face fell upon them both like a burden.
Stephen knew now what he must do. Through wakeful nights and miserable days he had faced it. It looked impossible, but he would have to try. First, he must know. He must know exactly what scheme was being planned, and if it was dangerous he must…
Try to detach his relatives from it, but without warning them that official suspicion existed already. Even if he had to drug them, knock them on the head, kidnap them by force. And after that (but not before) he must report what he knew. And faced with what might be a genuine danger to the realm, he could not resign from Walsingham’s employment.
He could see only one way to acquire certain knowledge. He went to Gilbert Mallow.
His stomach was churning and his palms were wet in a way which astonished him. Nevertheless, he spoke the necessary words steadily.
“Gilbert, I have come to know that Tobias and Robert both follow the old faith. Do you follow it, too? You are clearly on good terms with both of them.”
He had found the chaplain in his chamber, reading by his fire. Mallow put a marker in his place, laid the book aside and considered Stephen thoughtfully. “May I know why you ask?”
“There was a sailor in Sir Richard Grenville’s crew who believed in the old faith. During the fight with the crew of the Santa Maria,” said Stephen, surprising himself with his own fluent mendacity, “I heard him praying to the Virgin Mary to protect us, and saying to her that he knew he shouldn’t be doing this, the Spaniards being Catholics like himself, but he had to, to survive. He fought well, I have to say that. He wasn’t the sort to let down his shipmates. But afterward, I saw that he was unhappy.”
I ought to join a company of players and write their dramas for them!
“I liked the man,” Stephen said. “I’d been so long away from England—but I remembered how it was in Queen Mary’s day, and how I missed the rituals of the old faith afterward. I don’t remember the details well, though. I wondered if…if you could explain to me.”
“You are truly interested?”
“My daughter has married Robert. She may well adopt his way of worship in due time. I would like to understand.”
He was careful not to overdo the haste. It was a fortnight before he told Gilbert that he was so impressed by what he had learned that he wished to become a Catholic himself. It was another week until, after listening to an account of how King Henry VIII had put aside his Catholic wife, the Spanish Catherine of Aragon, in order to go through a form of marriage with Anne Boleyn, he said, wrinkling his brow, “But in that case—our present queen can’t be legitimate!”
“That is indeed the Catholic view,” Mallow agreed. He stopped there, however, as if wary.
Careful. The stalking hunter must not move too fast. “But there are stories about Mary Stuart,” said Stephen hesitantly. He had heard them from Mistress Stannard. “About…the death of her husband Lord Darnley. Didn’t she marry the man who was said to have arranged it?”
“Slanders!” said Mallow, suddenly angry. “Yes, James Bothwell had Darnley killed. Then he kidnapped the young queen and raped her and she married him to save her honour. She is all honour and delicacy as young women ought to be.”
“I can hardly imagine a young woman conniving at a murder,” Stephen agreed solemnly. “Poor lady.”
After that, it was simple. Astoundingly and alarmingly so.
Robert and Tobias were essentially simple souls. In his own way, Mallow was simple, too. In the New World, Stephen, finding his way through an unfamiliar culture, had learned how to tell liars from honest men by signs that did not vary between nations. This trio, even though Tobias had spent time at court, remained uncomplicated. It was easy, so easy, to deceive them.
Two more days, and Gilbert had admitted that Charles Dupont was a Jesuit priest. Stephen, looking earnest, said, “Aren’t they supposed to be trying to encourage support for Mary Stuart?”
When told that they were, he said, “It’s so puzzling. If she is the rightful queen, then shouldn’t something be done to put her into her rightful place?”
“Many think as you do,” Gilbert said. “But we shall have to see.”
Stephen asked no more questions. The stalking must be very cautious now. He must wait to let himself be drawn in further. He changed the subject to a discussion of the forthcoming Christmas celebrations.
Snow set in early in the new year of 1586. The fields vanished under a white blanket. Getting to church in Clicket was impossible for three Sundays running. The thaw was no better, for it came accompanied by pouring rain. The hills were lost in cloud; fields turned to quagmires, and in the combe, the river spated, roaring like a lion.
But when the rain had gone and the flood had subsided, there was a further invitation to Dunster Castle, to join a small house party. This time, by hobnobbing with the servants of the other guests, Stephen picked up the information that Mass had been illicitly said at a house in Wiltshire and that a Jesuit priest had visited a home in Hereford, disguised as a pedlar.
Here was something to report, and thereby earn his retainer.
But his anxiety for Philippa was eating into him. Philippa and Robert were not only deeply and obviously in love, but also prospective parents. Philippa had conceived very quickly, and the child would probably come in September. He must not, would not, do or say anything to harm her or Robert, even if…
Even if kept him awake at night. When he did sleep, his dreams were often unpleasant. He dreamed one night of his father’s execution, which he had not seen or even had described to him, but which imagination ruthlessly re-created for him.
The year began to climb toward the spring.
Sergeant Gervase Wells of the Taunton Militia was young and single. He had dark auburn hair, kept short and clean, chestnut eyes and clear tanned skin. He was not tall and his build was wiry, but just because of this he was active on his feet, handy with a sword and an excellent dancer.
He had indeed been accused, by a well-educated colleague, of resembling the squire in Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. “You’d sing or whistle, anyway, all the day if you were let, and yes, as fresh as is the month of May just about describes you. Do you have to be so damned cheerful,” demanded the colleague, “when we’re got up before daybreak to go on exercises in the pouring rain?”
“But I rarely get the chance to love hotly till dawn,” said Gervase regretfully. “Much as I’d like to. And my hair isn’t curly.”
“Oh, trust you to know the Tales better than I do!” growled his friend, but without rancour.
Most people liked Gervase, and knew that he was not as frivolous as he seemed. Despite his habit of bursting into song at odd moments and being merry over the bread and small ale before training exercises in
the dark of wet winter mornings, he had grieved and been silent and quite unlike himself for weeks after the death of his mother.
He had respect and affection in his voice, too, when he spoke of his father, who was a prosperous tenant of the Luttrell family and rented a sizable farm a couple of miles from Dunster. Since he knew the Exmoor district well, having been brought up on the edge of it, he was often chosen when a messenger was needed to go in that direction.
The messages were supposed to be official ones, such as proclamations emanating from the royal court. Local militiamen were sometimes co-opted to help disseminate them to various towns. It was not part of their duties to carry private letters about. However, if a chance acquaintance made in a tavern, someone who didn’t know Exmoor well, heard a man was going that way and asked him to drop a letter at such and such a house, no one would question it, as long as it caused no delays.
Gervase had such a letter with him when he set off through a spring morning to deliver to the town criers of Minehead, Dunster, Dulverton and Clicket a proclamation concerning the duty of all citizens to be alert for Jesuits and to report anyone who might be suspect.
Gervase put Clicket last on his list, rode back to it from Dulverton, delivered the proclamation and sought directions to Allerbrook House. Armed with instructions, he set off whistling and turned his horse onto the track up the combe. Before long he was within sight of a crenellated tower and from that surmised the existence of a tiled gatehouse in the latest style of black beams and white plaster, and a handsome courtyard.
He was surprised to arrive in due course at an unremarkable gate into what looked like an ordinary farmyard, where geese and hens pecked at grain. Two large dogs came galloping out of nowhere to bounce around his horse and bark, and the geese, led by an aggressive gander, abandoned the food and came cackling to join in. Two black-and-white cats asleep on the roof of a stone-built stable raised disapproving heads at the racket.
Gervase, however, was farm-bred and unimpressed by either dogs or geese. Swinging out of his saddle, he feinted a kick in the direction of the gander and shouted, “Quiet, you noisy curs!” at the dogs. On the other side of the farmyard rose the house, as splendid as it had seemed from a distance, but clearly occupied by unpretentious people.
The livestock having retreated out of his reach, although they were still making a noise, he took the letter from his saddlebag and led his horse toward the front door. It was opened before he got there, by an elderly man with a bald head and a butler’s chain of office dangling over a businesslike black doublet.
“Is Master Tobias Allerbrook at home? I have a message for him,” Gervase said, holding it up. “I am Sergeant Wells of Taunton Militia, not that that’s important. I’m just the messenger.”
“You’d best come in. Dogs! Silence!” The dogs stopped barking at once. “Jack! Jack!” The butler raised his voice to a startling shout and a groom appeared. “This here’s my grandson, Jack. You can trust your horse to him. See to the gentleman’s animal, my lad—now, rub ’un down well. Come inside, sir. We’m due to dine any minute but there’s always enough for a visitor.”
He hadn’t eaten since early that morning and was hungry. He let the butler lead him into a well-appointed hall where a table had been laid for a meal and there was an agreeable smell of cooking.
The butler showed him to a seat, fetched him a glass of cider and went off to call Tobias, who presently arrived, accompanied by a lady whom he introduced as his wife. By the look of them, both were in their mid-forties. Tobias had a slightly chubby, earnest face and soft, greying hair that needed trimming. A lock of it kept falling into his eyes. His wife, who was a trifle plump but held herself with too much dignity to be called cuddly, was one of those calm women who kept their thoughts to themselves. Pleasant, ordinary-looking people, Gervase thought
Tobias took the letter with a word of thanks, read it immediately and then passed it to his wife. Having read it and handed it back, she moved to stand at her husband’s side in a way that suggested she would always be his supporter. Gervase wondered what had been in the letter.
Tobias, meanwhile, was repeating the invitation to dine, and presently the rest of the family appeared. A smiling older lady with a neat white ruff over her tawny gown was introduced to him as Mistress Jane Allerbrook, Tobias’s mother. A tough-looking man in middle life was apparently her nephew, Master Stephen Sweetwater.
The younger generation was represented by Robert Allerbrook—“My son,” Tobias said—and Master Robert’s wife, Mistress Philippa, who appeared to be Stephen’s daughter. Tobias handed the mysterious letter to Robert, who read it without comment and then passed it to Philippa. Gervase noticed this in distracted fashion.
The sight of Philippa had nearly stopped his breath.
He saw at once that she was expecting a child and as they took their places at table, he noticed that she and her dark, good-looking husband constantly exchanged glances and were assuredly as deeply in love as a young couple well could be. On the instant, he found himself envying Robert Allerbrook. He had never seen a girl like Philippa in all his life.
Despite the curve of the coming child beneath her green gown, she still looked as lithe and lean as a young cat. She had an amber complexion, not through sun and wind but because her skin was naturally thus, and her eyes were darker and longer than purely English eyes could ever be. Her long hair was contained in a caul of silvery net which only accentuated its thickness and its remarkable blue-black colour. He bowed low over her slender brown hand, glad to look downward in case his eyes revealed his admiration.
Gervase’s admiration, indeed, was so intense that he found himself unwontedly tongue-tied as dinner began, although he observed that the two couples were a little quiet. He wondered if that were normal, or had something to do with the letter.
It was private, anyway. He mustn’t wonder about it and he mustn’t stare at Mistress Philippa, either. Pulling himself together, he exerted himself to answer properly when Mistress Jane asked him questions about his life, and his errand to their district. He also gathered from the family’s oddly stilted conversation among themselves that Mistress Philippa’s foreign beauty was because her father had been to the New World and her mother came from a native tribe there, the Algonquin.
But he feared that he had still been too quiet and had turned his eyes too often toward Philippa. After the meal, he pretended to be in more haste than he really was, and took his leave quickly.
He rode away with his mind full of Philippa. He had never seen such a girl, never. Her face in repose was like a beautiful sculpture, but when she smiled, her eyes shone as though sunlight were playing on pools incalculably deep. When she moved, even now, when her movements could hardly be as graceful as they normally would, it was like music translated into motion.
Had anyone guessed his feelings? He thought not, because he also thought that if there had been constraint at the table, it wasn’t due to him.
Just what, he asked himself, dragging his mind resolutely away from Mistress Philippa, had been in that letter?
CHAPTER FORTY
Strange Gods
1586
“Well, Master Sweetwater, are you with us?” Gilbert Mallow asked Stephen. “Or rather, with Tobias and Robert here? Sir Anthony Babington has bidden them to London, but I have been told to stay here and continue my duties as chaplain. Matters are moving. Will you join with us—and go with your kinsmen to London to offer your services, perhaps your sword?”
“I am with you,” said Stephen gravely.
Tobias said, “We have talked among ourselves and decided to trust you with the knowledge of what we are doing, but are you with us, truly? Or have we put our necks in the noose in speaking to you of our plans?”
“I am with you. Truly,” said Stephen, meeting his cousin’s eyes with, he hoped, what looked like honesty.
He had waited, and his quarry had come to him freely. Indeed, Tobias had begun to change toward him, to become more
friendly, from the very day Stephen first told Mallow that he wished to become a Catholic. When Stephen expressed interest in the cause of Mary Stuart, it was rapidly clear that Tobias was so enamoured of it that he was prepared to trust and to embrace anyone who shared his feelings. Even, Stephen thought cynically, if the person concerned reeked of sulphur.
As for Robert, the romantic streak that Jane had once mentioned seemed to have been aroused by Mary Stuart, though he had never met her and knew only that she was beautiful, imprisoned and, from a Catholic point of view, wronged. He had once spoken of the fact that her husband Henry Darnley had been murdered, but apparently believed that it had been done without her knowledge by her nobles, one of whom had then captured her and married her by force. “She is a tormented heroine,” he had said. “She is like a lady in a legend. I long to serve her.”
Now, in solemn tones, Stephen said, “I repeat, I’m with you, if you’ll have me.”
“Our sovereign lady Mary,” said Tobias, “needs as many men as possible, to support her in the conflict to come.”
Stephen looked up at the windows of the chapel, where they had forgathered. Sunlight poured through the stained glass, making coloured patches on the tiled floor. One very fine window had always intrigued him. It showed an angel standing before a building with arms outspread, denying entrance to a man who held a flaring torch aloft. It was said to commemorate something, now forgotten, that Aunt Jane’s grandmother Quentin had done for the family. Looking at it, he thought of Aunt Jane, who loved them all so well and had taken risks in their defence more than once. Now she was threatened with more trouble. Poor Aunt Jane. At her age, she was entitled to some peace.
“It will be a perilous enterprise,” he said. “Robert, you especially should take care of yourself. You’re a husband and will soon be a father. Let me go in your stead.”
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