Lucy's Blade

by John Lambshead

  "I think sir has forgotten something."

  Simon blushed and grabbed the nightcap off his head. He carefully positioned his circular cap and retreated with as much dignity as he could muster from the presence of the smirking hireling.

  Queen Elizabeth herself had given Barn Elms to Sir Francis Walsingham. It was a gentleman's villa on the south bank of the Thames, a few miles upstream from London. As a working farm, it had some of the most productive eel ponds in England. But Barn Elms was much more; the house was the headquarters of the Secret Service.

  Simon had an office in the centre of the building at the back. It contained a small desk and chair by a lead and glass window, so he could still work in the light when the weather was inclement. The window was a major status symbol. The rest of the room was full of trunks and bookcases stuffed with the records of the Secret Service. The Spanish ambassador would have sold his soul for an afternoon alone in this room.

  Simon worked steadily filing new papers and adding notes of their location to his various storage lists. This was an infinite task and he was still working assiduously when Walsingham entered.

  The spymaster dressed all in black with a small white ruff under a neat pointed beard. Simple, unostentatious clothing was the mark of Elizabeth's closest ministers. There could only be one sun in the sky, and in the English sky that sun was the Queen. In any case, Walsingham hardly needed clothes to demonstrate his importance.

  "Ah, there you are, Tunstall. Clients have arrived for an interview and I need you to take notes."

  "Of course, Sir Francis."

  Simon followed the statesman down the back stairs to the audience room on the ground floor. Walsingham seated himself in the middle of the room and Simon sat at a desk to one side. The room smelt of wax polish. A servant knocked and ushered in a portly visitor who was dressed in the fashion of a senior member of the merchants' guilds.

  "Master Mascall of London," the servant announced the visitor and backed out.

  "Please be seated," said Walsingham, pointing to a wooden upright chair.

  "Thank you, Sir Francis. This is a most delicate matter. I hardly know where to start."

  The man waffled on for some time. Walsingham sat patiently. Mascall was one of his more important clients.

  "Calm yourself, Master Mascall. Come, my secretary will pour you a glass of malmsey."

  Simon did as he was bid. He produced a piece of Venetian glass and carefully filled it with the expensive Greek wine. The sweet smell filled the room. The merchant took it without looking at Simon or offering thanks.

  "A woman dressed as a lady came to me with a letter of introduction from another guild member. She called herself Judith Phillips." The merchant paused for another sip. "She told me that she had irrefutable evidence that there was treasure hidden somewhere in the grounds of my town house."

  Simon almost groaned aloud. Not another treasure hunt. It was true that the ancients had been in the habitat of burying their wealth in moments of crisis but most of it was either found or forever lost under some new building. Nevertheless, the lure of easy gold still drew fools, like the North Star dragged a lodestone.

  "The witch Phillips claimed that she could find the treasure with the help of the fairies."

  "The fairies?" asked Walsingham, enquiringly.

  "Yes, Phillips claimed to be a white witch who had the goodwill of their Queen," said Mascall.

  "The, um, Queen of the Fairies," said Walsingham, thoughtfully. "Ah yes, Titania."

  "You know her?" The merchant seemed to think it quite possible that Walsingham might well be on intimate terms with supernatural royalty.

  "Not personally," said Walsingham, solemnly.

  Simon noted down "Titania, Queen of the Fairies."

  "This Phillips woman promised to use a magic spell to locate my hidden gold in exchange for a share."

  Simon noted that the hypothetical ancient treasure had become "my gold" in the merchant's thinking.

  "Would you describe the spell, Master Mascall?" asked Walsingham.

  The merchant flushed. "Is that really necessary, Sir Francis?"

  "If I am to help you then I need to know it all," Walsingham said, firmly, slapping his hand down on his knee, for emphasis.

  "To appease the, um, Fairy Queen, Mistress Phillips had me dress in horse harness."

  "Horse harness?" asked Walsingham, faintly.

  "You know, reins and a saddle and things," said the merchant. "Then she rode me on all fours around the house calling out Titania's name."

  Simon wrote down "horse harness" and worked very, very hard at maintaining his composure.

  "She whipped me quite hard as well," said the merchant, with a touch of self-pity.

  The laugh bubbled up but Simon just managed in time to turn it into a cough.

  Walsingham pinned Simon with grey eyes. "I trust you haven't picked up a chill, Master Tunstall? It would be so inconvenient to train a new secretary."

  "No, Sir Francis. Sorry, it won't happen again." Simon busied himself in his notes.

  "Phillips instructed me to wrap up a goodly pile of sovereigns in linen and leave them in the centre of my garden as a lure. She said the fairies would add the lost gold to the package." The merchant ploughed on. "I waited two days but no fairy gold appeared so I took back my package."

  "Let me guess," said Walsingham. "Your sovereigns had been replaced by . . . ?"

  "Metal scrap!" The merchant wiped his brow.

  "And I suppose Judith Phillips has disappeared," said Sir Francis.

  The merchant nodded.

  "You enquired with the guild member who had written the letter of introduction?"

  "It was a forgery," said the merchant, heavily.

  Walsingham sat pondering, touching the end of his fingers together in a characteristic pose. Simon knew this was theatrics for Master Mascall's benefit. Walsingham had already decided what to do.

  "I fear your money is already lost, Master Mascall," said Walsingham. "The knaves likely have already spent it, but I think we can get you justice."

  The spymaster turned to Simon. "Send a message to Pooley in London, Master Tunstall. My 'projectors' are to pass the word around the London taverns that Master Mascall has come into a great fortune."

  Walsingham preferred the English word projector to the French word agent. "Send another message to the Constable in London. Tell him that I would deem it a great favour if he would station a couple of men in Master Mascall's house."

  "What for?" asked Mascall, in bewilderment.

  "Why, to arrest Mistress Phillips when she comes for her share."

  "You think that this woman will fall for such a simple trick?" asked the merchant.

  "Greed makes fools of us all," said Walsingham, dryly. "In my experience cozeners are fantasists who half believe the lies they spin. That's why they are so convincing."

  After more platitudes, the merchant was ushered out. Walsingham placed his head in his hands and his whole body shook. "Queen of the Fairies!" he guffawed. "Whipped around the house like a recalcitrant stallion!"

  He wiped his eyes. "You see the cunning of the woman, Tunstall? Most men would be too humiliated to report the loss and just shrug it off. She misjudged both Mascall's greed and stupidity. Both exceeded her expectations."

  The steward entered and coughed discretely. Walsingham indicated he should speak.

  "The heads of the Montague and Belmont houses await on your pleasure, Sir Francis," said the steward.

  "In different rooms, I trust," said Walsingham, dryly.

  The steward looked puzzled but Walsingham waved away his question before it was begun. "Show them in."

  Masters Montague and Belmont were well-to-do farmers with considerable land holdings near Barn Elms. They were involved in an acrimonious land dispute that had dragged on for more than a year now. They entered the room, each studiously ignoring the other.

  "I have had my clerk investigate your conflicting claims to Green Acre Farm. H
e tell me that both of you lack convincing proof of ownership," said Walsingham.

  "But I have proof of purchase—" both men said simultaneously before leaving off and glowering at each other.

  "Yes, yes gentleman," said Walsingham, impatiently, drumming his fingers on the table by his chair. "You both have proofs of purchase but from different vendors. And there is little evidence that either vendor could legitimately sell. My clerk tells me that this case could drag on for years in the courts. That should cost a pretty penny in lawyers' fees. Of course, the farm could revert to the crown if neither of you can demonstrate a legitimate claim. My clerk also thinks that a likely possibility."

  Walsingham gave both men time to digest the implications.

  "Do you have any advice for us, Sir Francis?" asked Montague, eventually.

  "Well, I have had an idea," said Walsingham. "I seem to recall that you have a comely daughter, Montague."

  "Er, yes," said Montague, clearly struggling to discern the significance of the new direction of the conversation.

  "And you, Belmont, have a second son. A clean-limbed boy, as I remember."

  Belmont nodded.

  "Then the solution is obvious. You, Montague, give your claim on Green Acre as a dowry to your daughter and you, Belmont, give your claim as a wedding present to the fortunate couple. Second sons are always a tricky problem. That way, you both have your grandson inherit and with no legal bills either."

  "But the couple have never even met," said Montague, stubbornly. Belmont, however, looked thoughtful.

  "Excellent," said Walsingham. "Then they will not have had time to develop any unfortunate prejudices about each other. I always think too long an acquaintance before the wedding spoils the marriage. Introduce them, gentlemen, and promptly."

  He signalled that his steward should show the men out.

  "Montague," said Belmont as the men left. "I generally throw a feast for Saint Swithin. Why don't you join us this year? You may wish to bring your charming daughter."

  The steward returned with a leather saddlebag. "The post, Sir Francis."

  Sir Francis looked through the bag. It was stained with wear. "This letter is from my spy in Edinburgh," said Walsingham, placing a document on the desk in front of Simon.

  Superficially, the letter was an ordinary communication from a wine merchant in Scotland to his agent in London. It contained various opinions of wines and delivery dates and prices, coupled with family news and harmless gossip about King James's court.

  Simon retrieved a sheet of stiff paper from a drawer and laid it over the letter. The paper had rectangular holes that hid certain words but revealed others. Simon copied the revealed words and then moved the paper down the letter by three lines to reveal new words and so on. The agent in Edinburgh who had written the letter had a piece of stiff paper that was identically cut to the one in Walsingham's office.

  Walsingham's secret service relied heavily on codes and used the most sophisticated and modern methods. The best codes were steganographic, where the secret information was hidden in plain sight. The letter from Edinburgh was an example of a new steganographic code known as a Cardano Grille, named after a Milanese mathematician. Doctor Girolama Cardano was one of Dee's friends, so the English secret service had full access to his latest ideas.

  Simon's notes built up into a new letter that contained the secret message. The beauty of the Cardano Grille is that the original letter looked so innocuous that it passed unnoticed. A mathematician could break even this code in time, but first he had to know which of a batch of harmless-looking letters to spend the time on.

  Simon handed the revealed message to Sir Francis without comment. The spymaster would draw his own conclusions but to Simon it was clear that King James was treating secretly with the French again.

  "Tunstall, remind me. What was the value of goods seized by our bold sailors during the last political crisis with Scotland?"

  The art of being a good secretary is to anticipate your master's wishes. Simon already had the records on the table.

  "Some thirty-five thousand pounds, Sir Francis."

  "That must have made the Scottish merchants howl. And how much did we lose to Scottish pirates?"

  "Five thousand pounds," said Simon.

  "An acceptable rate of exchange," noted Walsingham. "Draft a letter for me to send to King James noting these figures and expressing my satisfaction that a state of peace exists between England and Scotland. Explain how distressed I would be if the political situation deteriorated and Her Majesty was forced to unleash the sea dogs again. And make sure you praise his good relations with France, so the royal whoreson knows that we know."

  "Yes, Sir Francis," said Simon.

  "That should give His treacherous Majesty something to think on," said Walsingham, with satisfaction. He leant back in his chair. "Ludicrous fellow told me once that a king's every utterance was sanctified by a divine right and could not be questioned. I wonder how divine his utterances would seem to his subjects with Drake's men plundering the Solway Firth?"

  Walsingham stared out of the window. "At least the fellow is a protestant, of sorts, and he is the Queen's natural heir. But I cannot help but pray that Her Majesty enjoys a very long reign."

  "Yes, Sir Francis. I think we all hope that," said Simon, loyally.

  A paid man, even one who had been educated at Cambridge, normally found it wise to keep his political opinions to himself. But a long life to the Queen was a sentiment that could be safely endorsed by any subject.

  Walsingham smelt the next document. "An expensive perfume, Leicester's, I fancy." He slit the seal on the next document and read it. "Leicester is concerned that Drake is still missing. The Earl will lose a tidy sum if Drake has been lost."

  Drake had left in great secrecy in '77, for a voyage to the Pacific to intercept the unprotected Spanish silver trade. Both the Earl of Leicester and Walsingham were among the financial backers for the venture. So, in great secrecy, was the Queen herself. Many in England, including Lord Burghley, disapproved of the more spectacular naval enterprises on the grounds that they were a needless provocation to Spain, hence the need for secrecy.

  Simon consulted his notes. "There was an intelligence report from your spy in the maritime ministry in Madrid. Drake was certainly operating in the Pacific a year after he left. There were squeals from every provincial governor in South America."

  "Yes, the political results were most gratifying. Hopefully, Drake will cause money to be diverted from the war in the Low Countries to shoring up defences in the New World," said Sir Francis. "I am concerned that we have heard nothing since. Even the Spanish appear to have lost track of Drake's ship. Send a message to Leicester reporting no news. Then answer all the routine correspondence. Tomorrow, I intend to ride to Nonsuch."

  The stallion gave Simon the evil eye and shied when he tried to mount, causing him to slip down in the mud. A groom helped him up. Simon examined the stable lads carefully but they all adopted studiously blank faces. Simon had a notoriously unsafe seat.

  "Up you get, sir," said the groom. "Don't worry, the lad will steady the horse."

  Simon climbed back into the saddle and adjusted his cloak. Walsingham had already mounted and the two men rode slowly from the stable enclosure. Their horses picked their way carefully around the chickens and the bored farm dogs. A solitary pig watched their passing and snorted, before resuming his endless rooting for edibles.

  Two mounted men waited for them at the gate. The one in front wore the coarse smock of a farm labourer but the rearward was a gentleman.

  "What are you doing here, Gwilym?" asked Sir Francis. "I don't recall requesting your company."

  "No doubt an oversight on your 'ighness' part," said Gwilym raising his hat. "You being so busy in affairs of state and such."

  "About your business, man. Think you that I need a nursemaid?" Walsingham made a shooing gesture. Gwilym ignored it.

  "With respect, Sir Francis," said Simon. "They
did try for Lord Burghley last month. You could be next."

  "Stuff and nonsense," said Sir Francis, but he raised no further objections to an escort.

  "I would also like to join your party, Sir Francis. The Queen has given her assent for me to travel to court."

  "And welcome you are, James. You can tell me of your father's new enterprises as we ride. No doubt you will want to see Lady Dennys when we arrive." Walsingham kicked the flanks of his horse.

  Simon sighed. James Sydney was the latest of Lucy's suitors. Sydney was entirely suitable, being upright and heir to a noble name and fortune.

  Lucy herself was an eminent catch. She was a Dennys, a lady of gentle breeding and inheritor of the Dennys estates. Also, it had not escaped the notice of English aristocracy that marriage to Lady Dennys would connect a family to Sir Francis Walsingham. In uncertain times, the favour of the Queen's spymaster might be an invaluable asset to even the highest. So the sons of the noblest houses in England were paraded before Lucy.

  And then there was Lucy herself, fair of face and bonny of character. Simon felt his heart lurch in the familiar pattern but ruthlessly suppressed the thought. Lady Dennys was not destined for the likes of him. Sir Francis had a duty to arrange that she married well and that did not mean to an impoverished scholar with no connections. When the time came, Simon would choose a bride from among the daughters of merchants or the more prosperous yeomanry.

  The riders followed the muddy track that wound through forests and fields. Where possible, they rode two abreast, Sir Francis and Sydney in front and Simon and Gwilym behind. Often the track narrowed between bramble thickets, forcing the riders into single file. Sometimes the surface was so cut up by farm carts that the men took to the fields and rode parallel to the road, merely using it as a guide. No road had been built, or even maintained, in England since the legions left.

  Nonsuch was irritatingly placed in that it was not on the River Thames, the great highway of southern England. The Palace was about ten miles south of Barn Elms, in the land surrounded by the great southern loop of the Thames. One could take a boat upriver to Kingston and then go a-horse southeastwards to Nonsuch but that would save no time. There was a Roman road, Stane Street