The Queen's Spy

by Clare Marchant

  Inside the palace they walked through numerous corridors and then upstairs before reaching what appeared to be Walsingham’s apartment. He gazed in admiration at the magnificence around him; the vaulted ceilings decorated with stencilled designs in pink and grey. When he entered the apartment, he discovered Walsingham sitting at a large desk and he indicated for Tom to sit in an adjacent chair. Tom lowered himself down slowly, running his palms along the smooth fabric. It was as soft as the mole pelts caught by the groundsmen outside. Walsingham tapped his knee to gain Tom’s attention; he stopped looking around, tearing his gaze away and watching as the man explained why he had been summoned.

  ‘I have a job for you,’ he enunciated the words slowly and carefully as Tom nodded, wondering if he’d been practising as this was far easier than before. He couldn’t help noticing how white the man’s teeth looked compared to the darkness of his skin. He’d come across Moors occasionally during his travels on the continent but never one who held such a high office as this one. ‘I need you to attend the banquet planned for this evening. You’ll have to stand in the shadows behind the guests so you aren’t noticed. Understand?’ Tom nodded slowly. He knew what Walsingham was saying but not what was expected of him. Frowning he swept the back of his hand down his body and raised his eyebrows in question. Walsingham looked at him quizzically and then nodded slowly.

  ‘You’re right, you cannot be at court, even in the shadows, dressed like that. We’ll disguise you as a servant and give you ale to serve. Then you’ll merge in with the crowds trying to see the Queen.’ There was a pause while Tom tried to understand what he meant by ‘disguise’ but with some miming from Walsingham he eventually smiled weakly. He hoped he’d be able to keep the new clothing as his own were now quite worn and shabby.

  ‘I want you to watch,’ a piece of paper was handed to Tom on which was written ‘Earl of Leicester’. Tom nodded and the scrap was taken from him and flung into the fire, which despite the warmth outside was still burning in the grate. The paper caught and in a bright orange flash it had disappeared forever. ‘I will be sitting next to him so I’ll hear almost everything he says, unless he whispers in Her Majesty’s ear, but I’ll be able to assess how well you can hear people by watching what they say. Do you understand?’

  Tom had caught enough to get the gist of what was expected of him – this was a test of his abilities – and he nodded once as Walsingham waved him away, jumping to his feet and bowing before leaving the room. He would have liked to stay and explore the apartment and the paintings in greater detail; the huge images depicting illustrious mythical battles in heavy ornate frames bearing the royal crest embedded in the top of each one, but he knew a dismissal when he saw one.

  The corridor beyond Walsingham’s rooms was darker than the one he’d arrived through, the only light trickling in from a window halfway along. The walls were covered in a mix of wood panelling and tapestries which all contributed to the dark and foreboding atmosphere. He gave a shiver. He could feel the ghosts of those who had displeased the monarch – and her advisers – drifting past him in a cloud of melancholy regrets. Not having any desire to join their unhappy throng, he had no option but to do as he was bid.

  Later that same day, as he began to detect the sharp scent of roasting meat drifting in from the kitchens, Tom knew dinner would soon be served upstairs and he needed to be mingling with the other servants. He managed to explain to Hugh that he was needed elsewhere and his friend just nodded and waved him away. Walsingham’s men had already informed him Tom was now in their master’s employ whenever his particular skill set was needed.

  Before heading outside to sluice off the day’s sweat and grime under the water pump Tom found a new uniform laid out on his bed, the rich red of the Queen’s servants complete with a Tudor rose decoration. It was the smartest and most elaborate outfit he’d ever owned and certainly the most colourful. All his clothes were the practical and hardwearing type, rough and brown. Racing outside with a piece of lye soap he scrubbed himself as best he could, washing his hair in the cold water which made him catch his breath as it poured from the pump and over his head.

  Despite the fact that it was supposed to be worn loose, the uniform was a tiny bit on the tight side across his torso; hard work his whole life had resulted in a muscular physique and broad shoulders, whilst the average royal servant, unless they were a guard, wasn’t as well built. If he didn’t breathe in too deeply he should be fine. It took several attempts to wiggle his feet into the leather boots which pinched his toes but hopefully he’d find a good vantage point and stand in one place to avoid walking. Smoothing his hands across his hair to keep it as flat and tidy as possible he walked across to the banqueting hall. Grabbing a jug of ale from the many lined up on a trestle table he followed the other servants inside.

  For several minutes, Tom completely forgot why he was in this strange environment as he stared around in amazement. If he’d been impressed with Walsingham’s apartment it was nothing compared to the grandeur of where he now found himself. The room was ablaze with light from hundreds of candles throwing shadows dancing up the walls and reaching into the rafters as if trying to escape. The bodies packed in all around him of those hoping to see the Queen or gain the attention of those close to her meant the atmosphere was stifling. The heat from other people together with the huge fire blazing in a fireplace that looked as large as Tom’s bedroom was oppressive. He was thankful he couldn’t hear any of the babble of noise as he watched people’s mouths moving constantly; the overload on his senses would have been too much. As it was, the smell of the food, the overwhelming scent of rancid body odour and the heat was almost enough for him to push his way through the throng and back down to the darker and cooler confines of the stillroom.

  He had a job to do though and needed to get on with it. He’d worked out that saying ‘no’ to Walsingham would be the same as saying it to the Queen herself and he’d seen what the punishment for that would be. Holding on to the jug of ale he began to weave his way through the crowds until he got to the front. The tables groaned with the food laid out: glistening, fatty carcasses of geese, a shield of brawn and small song birds heaped up together with dishes piled with vegetables shining with thick pungent sauces. All around the tables people sat eating, stabbing knives into thick slices of meat, juices dripping onto their clothes. From his vantage point he could see the Queen and her entourage at a long table placed on a platform. In front of her sat a decorated swan, its feathers and head reattached to the tight, burnished roasted skin. Surrounding it were dishes of fruit, jellies, pies and custards. He’d never seen so much food and his stomach rolled as he sniffed the fragrances wafting from the tables, tormenting him.

  Thankfully where he’d positioned himself was exactly the right place to watch the important dignitaries sat with Her Majesty. He recognised Walsingham and Leicester and as he cast his eyes along the row his face broke into an involuntary smile as he spotted Isabel. She hadn’t seen him – of course, why would she? She wasn’t expecting him to be in the banqueting hall. Carrying the jug of ale which he’d twice slopped onto his boots he gazed at her and for a moment forgot the task in hand.

  She was dressed in pale blue damask, her stiff white ruff around her throat, her elegant white neck rising from it. He could see the stomacher narrow into her waist, the full sleeves decorated with tiny seed pearls and threaded with ribbons of deep green matching her French hood. She was chatting with another lady sitting beside her and he saw her throw her head back and laugh. As she closed her eyes in merriment he felt a lurch in his chest. He’d barely met her and yet he’d never felt like this about anyone. What he wouldn’t give to hold her in his arms and experience that laughter rippling through him.

  Tearing his eyes away he turned to where the Earl of Leicester was sitting. At present he was eating, tearing meat off a bone with large, strong teeth. He looked like an animal and Tom wondered why the Queen was so enamoured of him. Hugh had explained there were rumours fl
ying around court that one day the Queen would marry Leicester. Tom frowned as the earl wiped his mouth with a cloth; he had no chance of lip reading if people covered their mouths. But then Leicester dropped the napkin on the table and turned to the Queen.

  ‘I hear we have excellent entertainment this evening, Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘a group of travelling mummers has arrived, word tells they have a very funny play which you won’t want to miss.’

  ‘No indeed, I shall look forward to that. Have you tried this cake?’

  Tom tapped his foot in frustration. This was hardly riveting stuff to report to Walsingham. Although this was only a test to ensure he could accurately translate what was being said he could still have made this up and laid in his bed all night. Just then Walsingham himself leant his head close to Leicester, turning away a little but not far enough so that his face was obscured.

  ‘Word comes that Paget has been seen in Rheims,’ he said.

  ‘I have heard this,’ Leicester nodded, ‘but do we know who he is meeting there?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Walsingham replied, ‘I expect to know shortly, however. My spies are watching him.’ With this Walsingham got to his feet and bowing towards the throne he stepped away from the table. Tom saw his eyes scan the outskirts of the room and guessed it was possibly himself who was being sought out and he stood perfectly still not moving a muscle. Nevertheless he felt the Moor’s dark eyes lock onto his, the burning sensation of recognition. Walsingham gave the merest twitch of his head in acknowledgement and he was gone. Tom put down the jug he was holding on a side table behind him ready to return to his room and divest himself of the tight tunic and uncomfortable boots. He wasn’t sure of all of the words used but he was confident he could write them down in a way Walsingham would understand. His eyes alighted one last time on Isabel. As if she was aware of him her gaze caught his and for a moment there was nobody else in the room; he could feel the blood roaring through his veins. One of her eyebrows quirked just a little and he tried but failed to stop a shy smile edge across his face hoping Walsingham was no longer watching him. Her exquisiteness outshone the brilliance of the candles in the room and he wondered why the Queen would choose to have a lady within her close retinue who far eclipsed her own beauty.

  The summons he was expecting came from Walsingham the following morning and now back in his work clothes Tom followed the secretary who’d been sent to take him upstairs to the same room as before. Once they were on their own Walsingham beckoned him forwards and asked, ‘well?’

  Tom mimed Leicester and the Queen and their discussion about the evening’s entertainment and then pointing at Walsingham he mimed and used hand signals to explain what he understood had been said. He had to write down ‘Rhiems’ and ‘Paget’ and he knew the spelling of the words could be wrong but his translation pleased Walsingham who smiled and nodded in agreement. Tom had repeated almost exactly what had been said but with no hearing or speech he’d never be suspected of passing on information.

  ‘You, my friend,’ Walsingham mouthed, ‘will make the perfect spy. An intelligencer. The Scots and the Spanish will be thwarted in every plot they have for we have a silent apothecary working for us.’ He smiled broadly, his mouth wide but Tom caught a gleam of malevolence in his eyes. The situation he was now in made his skin crawl, icy splinters growing along his skin.

  Chapter Nineteen

  June 2021

  The sun was already warm despite the early hour as Mathilde left the house, the familiar weight of her camera slung around her neck: a comfort. She didn’t have any plans as to where she wanted to walk but she’d had enough of other humans, both dead and alive, and the confusing vibrations they all created. The air shivered with them, prickling against the hairs on her skin.

  Walking to the end of the drive she spotted a footpath sign on the opposite side of the road and remembered Rachel saying it led to the village a mile down the road. Climbing over the stile she began to walk.

  After little rain for several weeks the ground was dry and dusty. She was beside the marshy area she’d seen from the house, tall reeds brushing against her arm. Somewhere beyond them was a river which fed these marshes but Mathilde knew better than to try walking through them to look for it. Although the footpath was dry it wouldn’t be underfoot if she ventured off it and she hadn’t needed a warning from Rachel to know that the mud, with its sulphurous stench, could suck you down to your death. Nobody could live in the wilds as she had with her mother for all those years without having a great deal of respect for the quirks of nature; it was always one step away from killing you. If it wasn’t marshy ground, then it could be poisonous plants and berries or violent weather; she’d seen cattle struck by lightning and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Mother nature could be your friend or a powerful enemy and it was best to always keep a watchful eye.

  Kneeling down she aimed her camera lens through the reeds, taking a couple of photographs of the tall sturdy stems leading into the distance before continuing her walk. The path led from the marshes into a small wood where she met an old couple out walking their West Highland Terrier. The dog came running across barking and wagging its tail at the same time and Mathilde bent down to make a fuss of it until the owners called it back. They waved a hand in salutation to her and although surprised Mathilde responded in kind. She wasn’t used to people being friendly and she’d heard that English people were the least welcoming of all. She continued on, her step a little lighter. Cooler in the shade the sunlight filtered through leaves to dance on the ground like fireflies and Mathilde looked for plants useful in her herbal medicines. Snatching the tops off some mallow covered in delicate purple flowers, she pushed them into her jacket pocket.

  The village green was almost empty apart from a young woman with a pushchair beside the pond. The woman appeared to be passing bread to the child to throw to the ducks which were squawking furiously, flapping their wings in anticipation. She then snatched the bread back with a prolonged ‘noooo, not you, it’s for the ducks!’ before throwing it into the pond herself. This happened several times as Mathilde watched them but still the mother persevered with encouraging the child to feed the birds.

  Crossing over she headed towards the village church. Small and squat and made from the same pale stone as the chapel at Lutton Hall, it had a short, round Norman tower and was set back slightly from the houses. She took a couple of photos looking through the lychgate towards the heavy wooden door. Would there be any clues as to the owners of the hall here in the graveyard? It may help if Oliver or one of his colleagues could decipher the name on the plaque in the chapel. But what did it matter to her? She’d be gone in a couple of months.

  Wandering around the churchyard she snapped a few more pictures; ancient headstones furred by grey-green lichen tilted at precarious angles as the passing of time slowly eroded the ground beneath them. Tall grass that had long since been tended to, no ancestors left to care about them. Gone and forgotten. A blackbird disturbed by her movements flew up into an overhanging beech tree, pinking loudly in alarm. She didn’t know what she was looking for but the calm and peace of the dead made her shoulders slowly lower a few degrees from their usual stiff, hunched position. There was no judgement from anyone here.

  She eventually arrived at the more recent burial plots, their granite headstones still shiny, many with vases lovingly filled with flowers. These weren’t as interesting as the lives lived centuries ago and she just glanced at the names as she wandered past until something caught her eye and she stopped to look again. A newer plot had a simple wooden cross carved along the horizontal patibulum: ‘Peter Lutton. 14 March 1949 – 8 February 2021. A loving father and grandfather, sadly missed’. Her father. It was her father’s grave. Stupidly she hadn’t even imagined she may find him here and she hadn’t thought to ask Rachel where he was buried. Well, now she knew. Kneeling down on the grass she stared at it. She had nothing to say and yet she had everything to say. So much so that she didn’t know where to begin. Wrenching
small tufts of grass out from around the edge of the mound, Mathilde let them drop to the ground to dry out and crumble like the body beneath.

  Before she could even open her mouth, her thoughts were interrupted.

  ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing but you can leave him alone.’ Standing the other side of the churchyard wall as if she had appeared from nowhere was Aunt Alice. How long had she been watching her? ‘Isn’t it enough you’ve turned up to take everything that isn’t rightfully yours without laying claim to my brother’s resting place as well? We’ve taken legal advice and you won’t win you know; I shall make sure the estate comes to me, the family who were here for him.’

  ‘It’s my father’s grave,’ Mathilde retorted, ‘and I have every right to be here and to visit him. I’ll come and talk to him whenever I want to.’

  ‘Rachel told me you were only staying a week so I’d say that you’ve outstayed your welcome now and you should be on your way before anyone else is upset.’ Alice’s face was slowly turning a pale puce colour.

  ‘I haven’t noticed that anybody other than you is upset by my arrival. And my plans have changed, I’m staying until September. I have things I need to organise while I’m here.’ Mathilde’s dark eyes met with Alice’s almost identical ones and held them.

  There was a pause as Alice’s mouth moved, as if reciting an incantation, and then gripping her handbag with both hands in front of her she turned and hurried away across the green, her short body encased in a flowered cotton dress wobbling slightly from side to side as she moved. Mathilde sat back on her heels and watched her.

  Getting to her feet she walked slowly back to the lychgate, disturbed by the altercation. By this point, Alice was the other side of the village green, disappearing into the distance. Mathilde stalked across the green and down the road back towards the hall. In her pocket her fingers jangled the keys to her van, every fibre in her body pulsating with the urge to drive away and never come back. With her other hand she snatched angrily at the tops of the willowherb growing at the side of the road. The animosity from her aunt made her feel sick. All these years, her whole life she’d been desperate for family, somewhere to call home, stability and love, and now her own blood relative was turning against her as everyone else had ever done. Plus ça change.