Eventually, after much striding up and down, William paused outside a shop and opening the door, ushered Tom inside. Tom handed over the ship captain’s note and waited while the other two men talked together. At one point the shopkeeper looked across at him, his eyes screwed up as if he was expecting some sort of monster. Tom was used to the sweeping looks, the silent scrutiny of others. Finally, the man nodded and after holding his hand up in a universal sign to wait where they were, he gave them both a beaker of ale and disappeared through a door at the rear of the shop. Grateful, Tom drank it down in one, his throat dry and rough from the dusty streets they’d walked down.
The shopkeeper reappeared several minutes later, ushering Tom into a back room. He had no idea what was happening but picking up his bag he waved goodbye to William and followed.
Instantly, he found himself somewhere he felt at home, a dusty and dim stillroom, the walls lined with shelves and stacked with rough pottery flagons and jars containing powders and ointments. The ceiling was hung with bunches of dried herbs, the air filled with the familiar scents of juniper, rosemary and burnt sorrel. Spotting a stool in the corner, he sank down on it, glad to be able to rest his weary legs. He and William had been walking since the early hours and he was exhausted.
After what felt like hours waiting in the stillroom, the warmth from the fire consuming him as his eyes closed and his head dropped to his chest, he was shaken awake again by the shopkeeper. Behind him stood a middle-aged man with a neatly clipped beard and kindly dark eyes. He was smiling encouragingly at Tom, whose heart started to slow down after his sudden awakening, and he stood up slowly, his legs stiff and sore.
The shopkeeper had produced a rough scrap of parchment and a quill and the new visitor began to write. A mug of ale appeared on the bench beside Tom and he downed it in one. Eventually, the paper was passed to Tom and he read it, pausing frequently on the English words. It had been decades since he’d needed to read his native language and he was rusty. Having reached the end, he went back and read it again. His eyes widening, Tom looked at the two men stood in front of him. Had he understood correctly? Misunderstandings were a permanent feature of his life: nuances missed because he couldn’t hear the inflection in people’s voices, relying on facial expressions to help him understand. This man was Hugh Morgan, the Queen’s apothecary, and Tom now had a position as Hugh’s assistant at Greenwich Palace, or wherever else Her Majesty might decree they were to attend her. He was to be a part, even a small part, of court life. His work in Calais had paid dividends.
Chapter Five
February 1584
Tom’s room at the palace was, despite its lowly position behind the stillroom, the height of luxury compared to anywhere he’d slept for a very long time. A space to himself with a truckle bed, a small three-legged stool and a chest for his belongings. There was a small window, its glass thick and opaque, although with no fireplace it would doubtless be freezing in winter. However, the stillroom next door had a fire burning all day so he could always sneak in there to sleep. The thought of it made him smile, remembering how his adoptive mother would often draw him a story of how she’d found him the first time, in exactly that position, asleep in front of the stillroom fire. Nobody ever discovered how he’d got there but he’d stayed with the family until he was an adult. Perhaps that was why he was always searching for a place that finally felt like home.
His belongings were stowed in a plain oak chest at the end of his bed and his fingers were itching to open the triptych and start adding scenes of all that had happened to him since landing on English soil, but he had no time at present. At the bottom of the hessian sack he carried was the small twist of vanilla pods he’d been given, and walking back through to the stillroom where Hugh was mixing up a stomach remedy for one of the Queen’s ladies, Tom held it out to show him.
Having realised on their boat trip to the palace how to talk to Tom so his lips could be read, Hugh turned his face full on, raising his eyebrows in question, ‘what is this?’ he questioned.
Unwrapping the pods, Tom showed the piece of paper where the ship’s captain had written the word ‘vanilla’. He pointed to the plants he’d brought and separated two of them, holding them up. The captain had assured him these plants could produce the same black pods and he was keen to find out if it were true.
Hugh was waiting for another explanation. Tom ran the pod under his nose and inhaled the sweet scent, then held it out for Hugh to do the same. He raised one eyebrow before smiling slowly and nodding. Tom mimed pouring a hot drink and Hugh took him through to one of the smaller kitchens, the two girls working in there ignoring them. Wandering around looking for something, finally he found the cold larder where a jug of milk stood with a piece of linen over the top. Pouring some into a pan he placed it on the fire until it began to simmer. Then pouring it into a cup with some honey, he carried it back into the stillroom and taking one of the pods he sliced a piece off and crushed it slightly in the pestle and mortar before adding it to the cup and stirring briskly. He wasn’t sure if he’d made the drink correctly, but the captain had made him something with a piece of the vanilla added and he hoped he’d got the flavours correct. With two of his senses missing, the others were flint sharp in compensation.
Blowing on the hot drink, he sipped it and grinned. It was just the same sweet, custardy flavour. He passed it to Hugh who also took a sip, followed by a larger mouthful. He was also smiling now, alternately blowing on the milk and trying to take larger sips, the milk leaving a thick white line on his moustache. Hugh picked up the piece of paper again and going to a ledger on a trestle at one end of the room, he carefully copied the letters down. Then he picked up the plants Tom had indicated and examined the leaves, smelling them and pulling a tiny piece off to chew it. He looked across and grimaced, and Tom nodded in agreement. He’d also done exactly the same thing when he’d first been given the plants but it neither smelled nor tasted the same as the seeds from the pods.
Collecting up all the plants, Hugh beckoned Tom to follow. He disappeared out of a door which, Tom discovered, led to a long corridor leading to various storerooms and at the far end, a door to the kitchen gardens.
In the corner was a physic garden, filled with the herbs and plants needed by the apothecaries for their medications, laid out in traditional flower design, each ‘petal’ dedicated to plants to cure a separate part of the body. To one side was a bed which seemed to be a mixture of many different shrubs, and it was here that Hugh crouched down. Kneeling beside him, Tom helped bed in his herbs together with the vanilla seedlings. He could see Hugh’s lips moving and he wondered if he was saying a prayer to encourage them to give forth more of the strange black pods which gave such an amazing sweet flavour. The captain had been sailing for over a year before he’d arrived in Calais, he could have collected them from any port in the world.
Smiling, Tom leant over and ran his fingers through some long grasses at the back of the bed. It was something he recognised immediately, a plant his mother had grown his whole life. Saffron. So much hard work to acquire but such a precious spice. One that had increased his father’s wealth significantly, to such a large extent he climbed the court from his position as a well-established merchant and minor courtier, to an extremely rich man and eventually in a position working for the Queen at that time. An ascendance that eventually cost him his life.
Chapter Six
March 1584
Life in the palace was very different from anything Tom had ever experienced before. It was just as hard work but now he didn’t see any of his patients. Instead, Hugh would attend the Queen, her ladies and courtiers, then return to explain their ailments. The two men, with a combination of writing on the wax tablet, pointing at jars and Tom reading Hugh’s lips – which became easier after Hugh trimmed his bushy moustache – would decide on a suitable remedy. They also provided medications for the palace staff, who would either appear at the open door to the stillroom looking morose or send a message req
uesting Hugh to go and investigate. Tom realised that despite his new luxurious surroundings, his silent world had just got a lot smaller and he escaped to nurture the plants outside as often as he could.
One evening, as he tidied up before retiring to bed, he saw a movement and realised a servant was standing in the doorway, talking to him. Hugh had already gone to bed with a headache and Tom was on his own. He watched the man’s lips, trying to decipher the words he could understand. Queen, sleep, tisane. Picking up his tablet, he pointed to his ears and mouth and shook his head, a quick explanation of his disability. He then wrote what he thought the man was asking for. Did the Queen require a nightcap to help her sleep? The servant nodded gratefully.
Tom thought for a moment. Hugh hadn’t yet let anyone else try the vanilla and he was unsure about giving it to the Queen, but what was the worst that could happen? If she didn’t like it Tom may lose his job, but he was confident he could find another in the city. And he knew it wouldn’t poison her or have an adverse effect because neither he nor Hugh had suffered after drinking it. The servant began to tap his foot, jigging his body up and down, no doubt keen to get the demand undertaken in all haste.
As quickly as he could, Tom prepared a warm milk and honey drink with an added spoonful of crushed vanilla, identical to the one he’d concocted days previously. The tiny black seeds floated to the top as he fished the piece of pod back out. He and Hugh had already discovered that the outer casing was not edible. Would the Queen drink something so unfamiliar? Certainly, the servant wasn’t looking very happy as he stared at it. Tom took the beaker and sipped a little, then passed it to the other man to do the same. Maybe once he realised that neither of them had dropped down dead, he’d be content to take it.
The servant’s reaction to the new flavour was every bit as gratifying as Tom had hoped, and as he blew out the candle and went through to his bedroom, he hoped the Queen was equally delighted with it.
A violent shaking of his shoulder woke Tom up with a start. The early glow of morning light was crawling in through the window, and in the murky gloom he could see Hugh’s face close to his own. It was too dark to see what he was saying and getting out of bed he followed his boss back to the stillroom, lit by candles. The flagstone floor was freezing beneath Tom’s bare feet and in just his linen smock he began to shiver, hopping from foot to foot and edging closer to the fire which was sparking and spitting where kindling and two large logs had been thrown on.
Hugh held up the wax tablet with Tom’s words on from the night before. What was he so het up about? Tom felt his skin crawl as he began to wonder if he’d accidentally killed their sovereign. Instinctively his hands rubbed around his neck as he mentally questioned if it was about to be encased in thick, coarse rope. He nodded slowly.
‘What did you make?’ Hugh asked. Tom pointed to the small kitchen and then to the pestle and mortar which still bore the residue of the vanilla he had crushed. ‘Milk, honey?’ Hugh mouthed, and Tom nodded.
Quickly snatching the tablet from Hugh’s hand, Tom rubbed his words away and wrote ‘Queen ill?’ on it. He was wondering how long he had to make his escape but to his astonishment and relief, Hugh shook his head before doing a demonstration of the Queen drinking it and then pulled the sides of his mouth into a wide grin. Tom immediately understood that it had been very popular and his racing heart slowly returned to its normal pace. It seemed his vanilla was a success and his place at the palace, at least for the time being, was secure.
Chapter Seven
June 2021
A constant banging reached Mathilde aggressively through her sleep and dragged her back into wakefulness. Bright, harsh sunshine streamed in through the front windscreen of the van which was already warming up inside. She kicked off the covers and rubbing her eyes, leaned over and opened the back door. Fleur stood outside, dressed in short, pink dungarees and a matching T-shirt. Her face was serious.
‘Mummy says,’ she whispered, ‘it’s time for breakfast.’
‘Okay, oui, yes, thank you.’ Mathilde nodded, yawning widely. She was used to waking up in her own time and she didn’t appreciate an alarm call. Was this what families did? If so, it was going to take some getting used to.
‘And,’ Fleur continued in a small voice, ‘Mummy said “what’s wrong with the bloody bed?” Was there something wrong with the bed? I wanted to sleep in it but Mummy said no.’
Mathilde chuckled. She guessed this wasn’t part of the message the little girl had been sent outside with.
‘I’m used to sleeping in here,’ she explained, ‘see? I have a bed built-in so it’s all comfortable.’ Fleur’s eyes grew round as she observed the small but neat interior, every inch fitted with wooden storage, before she skipped back inside with Mathilde following.
They found Rachel in the kitchen from where an enticing scent of breakfast cooking drifted, making Mathilde’s mouth water. It was a long while since she’d had something hot to eat.
‘Sandwich?’ Rachel smiled and pointed to a plate on the table piled up with rolls, crispy bacon hanging out of the edges. She poured two cups of tea from the biggest pot Mathilde had ever seen. She hadn’t believed the English actually made tea in a pot and really, she wanted coffee, thick and bitter. She’d have to bring her cafetiere indoors, however long she was staying.
‘So, you decided to sleep in your van then?’ Rachel raised her eyebrows as she passed the tea and Mathilde’s eyes shifted to Fleur who was busy eating her breakfast, a line of ketchup rolling down her chin.
‘I’m more used to being in there,’ she explained, ‘it’s small,’ she wrapped her arms around her as if trying to explain how it made her feel, ‘I couldn’t sleep in such a big bed.’ And there was no point getting comfortable; as soon as she’d visited the solicitors and discussed her options, she’d be on her way again. The house could be sold and the money would certainly be useful. Even sitting in the bright kitchen, she could feel the dark atmosphere pressing down once again, trying to get under her skin. The doormat beside the back door said ‘Welcome’, but there was nothing welcoming here. The air reverberated with the whisper of previous lives, grazing against her.
The moment her watch said nine o’clock, Rachel was on the phone. Offering her mobile as she waited to be put through to Mr Murray, Mathilde shook her head. She could understand English if it was straightforward and she could see someone’s face as they talked, picking up the emotions they displayed, but there was no chance of comprehending legal talk over a telephone. Rachel must have got through to him, because she could hear exclamations and a lot of ‘I know, amazing!’ being bounced back and forth. Finally, Rachel ended the call and announced, ‘Three o’clock this afternoon at his practice in Fakenham. I can take you, if you like? I need to go to the supermarket anyway so I could drop you off and go shopping.’
‘Thank you, that would be kind,’ Mathilde replied. After helping Rachel to clear away the breakfast dishes, she disappeared upstairs to the bathroom to get washed and dressed. However much she loved living in the van, having hot running water was a welcome novelty.
When she arrived downstairs, Rachel was also dressed and drinking yet another cup of tea.
‘Shall we do a tour of the grounds?’ she asked, ‘there’s quite a lot of it so we can’t do it all today but we could make a start?’
Mathilde shrugged. She hadn’t told Rachel of her plans to disappear the moment she’d signed any relevant paperwork that afternoon but she had nothing else to do so a walk around outside would be pleasant. She may even find some varieties of herbs to add to her collection. Remembering them, she quickly found a jug in one of the kitchen cupboards and filled it with water before going out to her van and laying her plants in their ceramic pots on the ground.
‘These are pretty,’ Rachel exclaimed having followed her, ‘what are you growing?’ She bent close to examine them and Mathilde was certain that what she actually wanted to say was ‘which one of these is marijuana?’ She was way behind the borde
r police.
‘They’re herbs – basilic, thyme, safran, feverfew. And these plants, they’re vanilla. They need a greenhouse but the front of the van is very warm in summer and I stand them along the tableau de bord when I’m parked up.’ She waved her hand across the dashboard which was littered with empty crisp packets and crumbs, ‘I use a lot of herbs for medications; it’s useful when you’re always on the road. It’s what my mother used to do and she taught me which plants to use for different illnesses.’
Fleur had already skipped away down a path that led through a gap in the tall hedge bordering two sides of the courtyard, and snatching up her camera Mathilde followed. Opposite the house the view was open: old metal railings guarded against the flat exposed fields that stretched towards a patch of rushes in the distance, the silver underside of the leaves catching the sunlight as they rippled in the breeze, the brown cigar tops swaying. The wide, pale blue sky was occasionally streaked with soft brushstrokes of white clouds, symmetrical and straight as they dissipated in the morning heat. She was used to the uniform, never-ending fields of France, tall metallic pylons marching imperially across the vista, but Mathilde could see this was very different. Here the landscape was dotted with trees and small woods, thick ancient hedgerows crouching between pastures, watching the changes over the years as their roots dug ever deeper into the ground. This landscape was more subtle, carved out over hundreds of years. Rooted, like the hedges, in eternity.
They arrived in an overgrown garden which Mathilde suspected at some point must have been cared for, and much loved. A lawn stretched away, the grasses tall and dotted with poppies, ragwort and willowherb. Between them she could see raised beds and rose bushes, now straggly and unkempt. Crouching down so the feathery tops of the foliage were at eye level, she took a couple of photographs before following the others as they disappeared behind a rhododendron. Letting her hand trail through the grass tops, she curled her fingers into a fist, pulling at the seeds and allowing them to flow through her fingertips onto the ground to be crushed beneath her feet.
The Queen's Spy Page 3