The Queen's Spy

by Clare Marchant

  ‘Papa,’ she whispered, ‘how did I not know you were here? Suddenly I don’t know who I am anymore and you aren’t here to show me. Our lives should have been so different; another path we would have walked but now I don’t know which route to take.’ She rubbed the back of her hands against her eyes as the view in front of her blurred and wobbled.

  Behind her she heard the sound of tyres on gravel. Plucking some yellow ragwort flowers from their woody stalks, she dropped them on the ground before turning to follow her sister back to the house, ready to meet the rest of the family.

  Chapter Nine

  March 1584

  If Tom thought the sleeping draught was the last of his dealings with the Queen, he was mistaken. Expecting Hugh to take all the praise for the drink she’d started requesting every night, that suited him well. He preferred to stay in the shadows where he remained invisible and didn’t need to go through the endless rigmarole of trying to explain he could neither hear nor speak. It was tiresome, to say the least. Although Hugh took all the praise for the velvety sweet spice, it seemed the servant who had arrived downstairs that night told one of the Queen’s ladies it was Hugh’s assistant who’d made the drink and suddenly Tom’s presence was demanded in the Queen’s chamber.

  At first, he tried to avoid going but Hugh soon made him realise that saying ‘no’ to the Queen wasn’t an option. Taking a deep breath, he changed into some cleaner clothes, although they still bore the residue scent of the dried prunella flowers he’d been grinding up. Washing his face, he combed his hair and quickly trimmed his beard, before following Hugh.

  Walking across the courtyard and up the back stairs to the state apartments, Tom’s face reflected his incredulity. Never in his life had he seen a world such as this. They were standing at the end of a long corridor, one side lined with windows made of tiny diamond shaped leaded panes of glass, flooding it with light. Opposite, the dark walls were hung with thick tapestries, rich with a myriad of colours that made his heart sing. Such a contrast with the dreary tones and hues of his own world. He moved towards them to touch the lustrous shining threads but Hugh pulled on his arm and shook his head. There were strict rules up here and Tom realised he needed to understand them. Putting his hands behind his back and keeping his eyes lowered he watched Hugh’s feet, following him to the end of the corridor which opened out onto a magnificent gallery.

  This arena was also lit by glorious floor to ceiling windows, the glass clear and fine, unlike the dull mottled ones in the stillroom. Around the tops of the windows tiny panes of stained glass shone beacons of coloured lights into the room. Banks of beeswax candles burned despite the early hour of the day, lending a blue, slightly smoky atmosphere which caught in Tom’s throat, making him want to cough. Thick, finely stitched drapes and tapestries decorated the walls, the glossy strands flickering in the candlelight. The courtiers’ attire dazzled in a myriad of peacock colours, gowns and doublets in brilliant hues. At one end of the space a large, ornately carved throne stood on a dais, whilst around it several women chatted quietly as they attended to their sewing. Perched on the throne was a slender woman in a sumptuous, heavily embroidered gold dress threaded with hundreds of tiny pearls glowing in the candlelight. It almost looked too large for her tiny frame. She had red hair, reminding Tom of his mother and he knew immediately, even without the numerous guards and the richly dressed gentlemen stood around, this was his Queen. The urge to cough grew stronger.

  Hugh began to walk slowly towards her, his eyes on the floor. A luxurious carpet with an intricate design in blues, golds and reds lay thick and soft beneath Tom’s feet, entrancing him; he’d only heard of such things. He followed, watching Hugh’s feet until they stopped in front of the Queen and Hugh bowed down on one knee, Tom copying a second afterwards.

  As they stood up Tom could see a terrible incident being played out before the court. The key player, a man who unlike the courtiers was wearing plain garb in dark fustian and worsted fabrics, had been thrown face down on the floor. Whatever was being said to him was lost on Tom but he could tell by the Queen’s wild gestures, her hands balled into fists and her eyes flashing whilst she spoke through gritted teeth, that she was terrifyingly angry. The man had his head in his hands, congealed blood where his fingernails used to be and Tom could see his swollen face was bloodied and bruised. One of the guards hauled him to his feet and held him there as the man wobbled about as if his legs would give way. Tom felt his gut quiver in fright and for once he was relieved he couldn’t hear the screaming he imagined was happening, if the wincing from the other people around the room was anything to go by.

  Finally, the Queen pointed to a door hidden in one corner of the room where the panelling had opened up to reveal a stone staircase beyond and the man was hauled off by his feet, his head dragging across the floor as if he were already a corpse. Tom caught a glimpse of the man being pulled away and down the stairs, the back of his head bouncing off every step as he disappeared from view. Hot acid bile clawed at the back of Tom’s throat. What on earth was he doing here? As he and Hugh were ushered forward it took everything he had not to vomit. As he knelt again, he could see specks of blood in front of him on the floor.

  He turned his attention to the Queen. She was talking to Hugh but he caught the gist of what she was saying from the occasional word. Her mood seemed to have switched in an instant – all thoughts of the poor wretch dragged away just seconds earlier gone – as she exclaimed her delight for the vanilla flavouring which she’d never tasted before and insisted the two apothecaries sought out more.

  She got to her feet and turned towards Tom, her small dark eyes burning into his as if she could read everything tumbling through his mind; his thoughts and his fears laid bare before this diminutive woman who was the most powerful female in the world. His legs began to shake, her supremacy and confidence rolling from her in waves. Now they were closer he could see the pale face paint she wore was disguising a harsh pockmarked complexion and together with her hooked nose she was less attractive than the portrait he’d admired as he followed Hugh along the corridor a few minutes previously.

  ‘I am told by my apothecary that you are responsible for bringing this new spice, vanilla, to my court.’ Tom had to watch her thin-lipped mouth carefully as she spoke. Thankfully she seemed to consider each word for a moment before she said it and he had little trouble understanding her. He bowed again from his waist, before standing up so he could watch her face once again. ‘And you can neither hear nor speak and yet understand what those around you say?’ Tom nodded, wondering what she was thinking and if his time at the palace was about to come to an end. He watched as she made her way back to her throne behind her, the weight of her gown almost swamping her tiny frame and preventing her from moving.

  Once she was perched on her throne and her skirts carefully arranged around her by a young girl with blond hair, dressed in a lovat green dress with simple ribbon decoration who’d spent the entire time stood silently to one side, the Queen addressed him once more.

  ‘You intrigue me, Tom Lutton. You cannot hear and yet you are able to understand everything that I say. I have never come across someone like you before and I wonder if you may be of use to others at my court. And not just because you make a delicious bedtime drink.’ She looked over to Hugh. ‘You are both dismissed,’ she told him, before turning her attention to Tom and adding, ‘for the present.’

  Tom followed Hugh as they backed out of the room, their eyes firmly downcast until they reached the doors which as before were opened by the guards to usher them back to the corridor outside. The cool air rushed into Tom’s lungs as he breathed in as deeply as he could. He was certain he’d held his breath the whole time they’d been in front of the Queen; she was small in size and yet her presence was enormous.

  ‘I do not need to explain to you why we do not want to upset the Queen,’ Hugh spoke slowly as they made their way back to the stillroom, ‘did you understand what was happening when we arrived?’
Tom shook his head. ‘That man is in the employ of the Spanish ambassador, Bernardino Mendoza.’ Tom didn’t understand the man’s name despite Hugh repeating it twice and he waved his hand to make Hugh continue. ‘He was taking information from here at court to the ambassador and they had devised a plot to remove the Queen from her throne and replace her with her Catholic cousin, Mary. The feud between them goes back many years. The Spanish are desperate for our Protestant Queen Elizabeth to be gone, because the Catholic church did not recognise the marriage of her mother Anne Boleyn to her father King Henry; they consider her a bastard and not heir to the throne. Instead, they say her cousin Queen Mary is the rightful successor. The plot all centred on a man called Throckmorton who’s now spilling all his secrets, helped no doubt by Walsingham’s men at the Tower. The rumours are that Mendoza is to be expelled from England. Throckmorton will be executed of course, as will everyone else involved, including that poor wretch we just saw. He had no say in whether he was to become embroiled and now he’s got hours left to live.’

  Tom shuddered as what Hugh had explained, sank in. Being at court had felt like an honour but the memory of fleeing to France when his adopted father fell foul of the monarch reminded him of exactly how precarious it could be. If a mere servant was instructed to carry a message they couldn’t refuse and then suddenly they were caught up in a situation from which there was no escape, he wondered if this was a place he’d rather not be.

  Chapter Ten

  June 2021

  ‘You don’t look a bit like your father,’ Aunt Alice’s voice trembled a little as she looked Mathilde up and down. They were all assembled in the small living room beside the kitchen and she had the distinct feeling she was on trial. Although it contradicted her usual attitude, she had prepared herself to be pleasant to this new aunt, yet immediately she was on the defensive. Rachel offered hot drinks whilst exclaiming brightly how delighted she was Mathilde had finally been found and how pleased their father would have been. Aunt Alice, it seemed, did not agree.

  ‘Are the solicitors doing a DNA test, just to make sure?’ She turned to Rachel, ignoring Mathilde. ‘She could be a fraud,’ she added, sotto voce.

  ‘Of course not!’ Rachel exclaimed, ‘you can see she looks like me. And actually, rather like you too; we don’t need a test. I’ve already explained Dad was searching in the wrong place, that’s why he couldn’t find her in France. But now she’s here and I have a new sister and you have a new niece; which is wonderful.’ This last sentence was said more as an accusation, daring her aunt to disagree. Alice swallowed hard, her thin lips disappearing into her doughy face and she said nothing, her fingers constantly twisting her wedding ring around on her finger.

  ‘So, what happens now?’ Alice’s voice was strained and high pitched, ‘everything will change. We’re too old for all this.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, she’s only been here twenty-four hours, give her a chance to settle in before she decides what she wants to do. Then you’ll know if you’ve got anything to worry about. Anyway,’ hastily Rachel changed the subject, ‘we had a look round the chapel this afternoon, Mathilde wanted to look inside.’

  Alice let out a long sigh. ‘You were always told not to go in there,’ she said quietly, her eyes welling up. She dabbed at them with a tiny lace edged handkerchief she’d pulled from her sleeve. ‘She hasn’t been here five minutes and already everything is changing. That place is dangerous; Peter told you not to go in.’

  ‘Well, we couldn’t see anything hazardous and we were very careful. There’s ivy getting in through a broken pane but none of the walls seemed dodgy. In fact, one of them had been covered over with wooden panels, did our father do that?’

  ‘No, I’m sure it was always like that, certainly since before my time. Your grandfather took us in once or twice when we were children, I remember the wall you’re talking about. We were told the place was holy, sacred, and we were never to go in there unless to pray. And we didn’t, although I’m not sure if your father did more recently. The wall is probably panelled to stop it falling down.’

  ‘It would need more than some pieces of wood nailed to the wall to stop it then,’ Rachel pointed out. She glanced at Mathilde whose interest in the conversation had perked up as they discussed the chapel, trying to follow what they were saying. It had been a long day and her head was beginning to ache.

  ‘Well, it’s getting late and it’s Fleur’s bedtime,’ Rachel announced as she got to her feet and with a false looking wide yawn and stretch Mathilde followed. Thankfully their guests took the hint and picked up their coats to leave.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll see you again soon,’ Alice lifted her chin and smiled at Mathilde, her mouth moving but the gesture not reaching her eyes, ‘then we can discuss what you intend to do with this lovely house. I know your father wouldn’t want it sold off, he’d be turning in his grave.’ She kept eye contact for a moment longer than necessary before hurrying out, struggling to pull her anorak on as she went. Jack, who had barely said two words the whole visit, just held a hand up in a half salute and nodded his head once before scuttling after his wife. Mathilde frowned at their departing backs, her mouth moving silently as she tried to work out what Alice’s departing words had meant.

  As soon as a very tired and protesting Fleur was tucked up in bed, Rachel came back down and made hot chocolate for them both. Mathilde sat at the kitchen table watching her.

  ‘Alice, she does not like me,’ she stated the obvious.

  ‘I’m sure she will in time, it’s just a shock. We all knew about you but never thought we’d get the chance to meet you. And if you hadn’t been found then Alice would have inherited the hall, so she’s bound to be pretty miffed about that. There was no need for her rudeness though, that was unacceptable.’

  ‘Miffed?’

  ‘Cross. Actually, at the moment she’s more than cross, she’s probably scared of what the future may hold but it still doesn’t excuse her. Maybe once she realises that you’re staying, even if just for a week or two to start with, then she’ll calm down.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Mathilde shrugged, ‘most people don’t like me. I don’t fit in with what people expect. It doesn’t matter, I’m used to it. Anyway, I don’t know if I will stay,’ she added. ‘Being in a house day after day, the same place, it isn’t easy. It makes me hurt inside. I need to keep on the move. Changing views. It’s what I’ve always done.’

  ‘But you said you would.’ Rachel’s voice rose slightly as she put the cups of hot chocolate on the table too sharply, the contents slopping over the edge and making milky, pale brown puddles. She grabbed a threadbare old tea towel and rubbed at the mess. ‘How can you have changed your mind already? I get that you aren’t used to being in a house, and yes this is a pretty big place, but you’ve turned up after all these years to claim your inheritance. We didn’t even know if you were alive for God’s sake, our poor father imagining the worst and then you can’t even make up your mind whether to hang around? We’ve waited so many years for you, I think you owe us that much, don’t you? We’re family, surely that means something?’ Her voice tailed off into a plea.

  Mathilde was shocked at the outburst. As ever, she’d only considered her own feelings, without thinking how her arrival would affect her sister. But they hadn’t ever met her, so why was she so upset? All the years she’d wished for a family, this wasn’t how she’d imagined it would be.

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s easy for you to say,’ she muttered. If she’d thought Rachel wouldn’t hear her, she was wrong.

  ‘Of course you’re family.’ She laid her hands across the table as if reaching out to take hold of Mathilde’s, ‘it took a while to find you but now you’re here where you belong. It’s not too late for us.’

  ‘Not “a while”,’ Mathilde corrected, ‘a whole lifetime. And too late to meet my father.’ Her voice came out more forcefully than she’d intended. Her heart had been torn for so long, a permanent rupture in the fabric of her life and from th
at fissure everything she’d suppressed began to pour out. Wretchedness that had been bottled up inside. ‘And too late for a proper childhood. You grew up here with everyone all around you, all this. Your aunt and uncle down the road, stability and belonging. You were so lucky. I never had that. My childhood was spent moving all the time, place to place, sometimes with no roof over our heads at night. Winter when it was cold, summer when the mistral came and blew the dust in our eyes and made our hair … rigide,’ she pulled her hair out to demonstrate, ‘nobody would accept us. Nowhere to call home, no security. Always people avoided us, my poor maman constantly fighting the demons in her head. At first others would be kind … almost welcoming. But it never lasted, once they saw how she was, they wanted us gone. We were refugees, outsiders. Émigrées; it’s the loneliest word in the world.’ She got to her feet and walked to the back door before turning back. ‘I’ll stay then, I’ll stay for the summer. But no longer. In September I’m gone.’

  Chapter Eleven

  June 2021

  Striding over to her special corner of the garden, Mathilde filled her watering can from the butt. She needed time to mull over what had just happened with Alice and Jack, and what Rachel had said. All her life she’d longed for family, roots, somewhere to anchor her, stop the constant need to be on the road, and for one moment she’d started to wonder if she’d found it; blood relatives. But how long would it be before they too decided she was a bad person, rejected her and told her to be on her way? There was no reason why they’d be any different, people were all the same; her childhood had taught her that. And her newly acquired aunt and uncle had made it very clear she wasn’t welcome here. And if this wasn’t a place to call home, a place to rest, then she had nowhere. She’d wasted years of her life yearning for something that didn’t exist.

  Arriving where she’d laid out her herb pots, she gave them another good watering before sinking onto the ground and lying back, her hands behind her head. Somewhere nearby in the grass, she could hear the slight rustling of a tiny creature disturbed by her movements, trying to make its escape. The twilight air was warm and she closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the cool beneath her as the grass started to chill, the smell of the summer foliage making her breathe out gently as her heart slowed to its normal pace. Sharp pieces of dried cowslip dug into her shoulder but she couldn’t summon up the effort to move. Gripping the grasses beside her she tugged at them, her hand slipping slightly before they gave way and tore off in her hand. She dropped them and started again with another handful.