The Queen's Spy

by Clare Marchant

  Chapter Twenty

  September 1584

  As Tom approached Walsingham’s apartment he could see something was different. Usually the corridor was empty save for an occasional courtier or servant scuttling past. There were so many dark and shadowy corners where people could be arranging clandestine meetings, exchanging private information before slipping away. Plotting and treason. He hadn’t even begun any assignments and yet he was already beginning to think like a spy.

  As he approached the pair of guards stood sentry outside the door crossed their staffs in front of him and prevented him from entering. Tom wished he could dress like a courtier and not always look like the servant he was.

  One of the guards lifted his hand and rapped on the door with the back of his knuckles. It was opened from the inside and Tom could see yet more guards. After a moment, his passage was no longer barred and he was allowed to enter. Immediately he understood the reason for the extra security as he dropped to one knee in front of the Queen who was sitting on the chair beside the fire where he himself had previously perched when instructed to wait. Her enormous gown, white velvet embellished with hundreds of tiny blue jewels, was spread out so far he wondered how the heat of the fire didn’t cause it to melt or combust.

  With a frown Walsingham waved him back to the corner of the room as he continued his conversation with the Queen. Tom, from where he was now standing partially hidden behind the guards, was in the perfect place to watch them as they talked. Or rather, as the Queen talked whilst Walsingham with his grave countenance nodded in agreement.

  ‘This situation is becoming intolerable,’ she said, her features drawn into an unattractive scowl, her thin lips almost invisible, ‘from what your spies are telling us the Spanish are increasing their campaign to put Queen Mary with her heretic Catholic faith on the throne and return England to the arms of Rome. We have to stop them. Even now you tell me they are yet again plotting a Spanish invasion and to have me killed.’ There was a pause as she appeared to be listening to Walsingham speaking. ‘I just cannot have her executed,’ the Queen remonstrated, ‘remember she is my cousin – that is why I have held her captive for these past sixteen years. Otherwise we would be fighting both the Spanish and the French, the Catholics so committed to seize our fair country. You need to find these plotters with all speed.’

  As she uttered her final words she rose to her feet and everyone in the room sank to the floor. Tom felt the draught from the heavy door as it opened and saw the edge of her dress, the hem richly embroidered with blue and red flowers, sweep around in an arc, and disappear from view. The floor vibrated with the boots of her guards as they marched out behind her. Tom remained where he was until he felt someone tap him on the shoulder and looked up into the face of Walsingham who was wearing a wry – and very rare – smile.

  ‘As you have no doubt realised Her Majesty grows increasingly concerned about the enemies amassing at her gates.’ Tom wasn’t sure he’d understood everything that had just been said but he was fairly certain he’d got a good idea and this was confirmed as Walsingham continued. ‘The only way to truly keep the Crown secure is to eliminate the threat of Mary Queen of Scots and have her killed. But Her Majesty will not countenance it. So, until Burghley and I can persuade her, we will have to carry on battling and exposing the plots that put her in peril.’

  Walsingham quickly explained with a combination of speaking and the occasional word written on a piece of parchment that he wanted Tom to follow a man suspected of being involved in one such plot and to report back on who he met up with and what was said. The recording of what was said was easy enough, so long as his subject didn’t realise he was being watched, but the trouble was Tom had no idea who anyone was. He could only explain in terms of physical appearance but his new boss seemed content with that, telling him to be outside the gatehouse at seven o’clock that evening; he’d be taken to a tavern where they anticipated their target to be drinking. Tom nodded, it all seemed simple enough.

  Before leaving Walsingham stared into Tom’s eyes. ‘Do not make any mistakes,’ Walsingham mouthed slowly, ‘or it will be the last thing you do.’ Tom wasn’t sure if he meant as a spy, as an employee of the court, or before he was disposed of in the river. He suspected, from the dark look on Walsingham’s face, he meant the latter. He was passed a small pouch with some coins in for beer and dismissed.

  Hurrying towards the door through which he’d emerged from the back stairs into the state apartments, he spotted a small group of ladies coming towards him. They were chatting amongst themselves and didn’t appear to have noticed him in the shadows. He knew that he couldn’t reach the door he wanted before their paths crossed and instead stood with his back against the wall so that they could pass by him.

  As they drew closer, he realised one of the three was the lady Isabel and his mouth involuntarily quirked into a smile before he quickly bowed low until they passed. She’d obviously abandoned her foraging for flower buds. He saw the fluid movement of their skirts brushing against the herringbone design of the wooden floor before standing up again and casting a quick glance at them. Even seeing the back of her head with its glossy dark hair made him happy. Then, as if he had willed it, she turned her head just enough for him to see her beautiful smile, her pink lips directed towards him. Her eyes were downcast as if she were listening intently to her companion but he knew it was directed to him and his body flushed with pleasure. There was no chance of anything more between them than an occasional meeting; she was one of the Queen of England’s confidantes and he was merely the assistant to her apothecary, hidden away in a dark and dusty stillroom on the other side of the palace. Any association between them could not be countenanced whatsoever. There was a distance between them as wide as the sea he’d travelled over but even these glimpses of an occasional smile lit up his whole life.

  That evening, dressed in his normal attire so as to blend in with the other drinkers, Tom was met at the gatehouse by a man dressed in a similar way to himself although Tom, who noticed every nuance of people’s movements and characteristics, could immediately see he was a gentleman dressed as a commoner. His deportment, his clean fingernails and soft white hands all gave him away. No wonder Walsingham needed someone who could genuinely blend in with other servants and the lower classes.

  They travelled by wherry upriver to put ashore at Blackfriars. There was a heavy drizzle in the air as the clouds slumped low to graze the white tops of the choppy water. The lamp beside the boatman rocked from side to side and Tom clutched on to the side of the boat, its wooden hull rough against his fingers. He was sure he’d never get used to the frequent boat journeys Londoners took in their stride. After alighting he walked up the dark narrow lanes, careful not to lose his footing on the slippery flint cobbles. Behind several windows came the faint flicker of candlelight. They arrived at The Magpie public house and entered, swallowed into the hot, crowded interior. The floor was covered in a thick compacted layer of rushes, the innkeeper obviously just throwing fresh onto the layer below until it was as solid and rigid as the boards beneath. Tom could almost see it moving with the tiny creatures inhabiting the space beneath his feet, living off the ale which slopped through. The stale, rancid smell which permeated upwards mixed with the sweaty bodies, yeasty beer and pipe smoke. Tom kept his eyes on his accomplice until he felt a nudge in his ribs and with the merest twitch of his head he indicated a rotund young man with thick unruly dark hair and beard, wearing a black velvet cap. So, this was the man called William Parry.

  Walsingham hadn’t given Tom a lot of details; he suspected the spymaster was getting frustrated with the extra effort required to communicate with him. All he knew was that he needed to watch his quarry and report back as to who he met with, and more importantly, what was said. For a man so finely dressed, Tom was surprised to see Parry in a tavern as rough as this one. He realised the gentleman who’d guided him to The Magpie had gone, slipping away silently without even disturbing the air around him
: like witchcraft. Tom knew he too would need to be able to perform the same disappearing act if anyone became suspicious of him.

  After buying a jug of ale he stood close to the fire, a good vantage point from where he could watch his prey. A foul smelling drinker who’d already imbibed more beer than was good for him jostled against his arm, causing his own drink to almost slop out of his cup. But without having the ability to remonstrate Tom stepped further back into the hollow shadows at the edges of the room where it was emptier and he could still watch.

  Parry was making merry with a whole host of people at his table but then slowly each person drifted away. Tom could read his lips well enough to gauge that he was merely greeting everyone as a man with a belly full of beer after a long day. Despite having a beaker in his hand, it barely moved to his mouth. He may be behaving as though he were the worse for wear but in fact it was a pretence and he was as sober as Tom was and by the way his eyes continuously flickered towards the door from the street, it seemed as though he was waiting for someone. Tom realised that reading people’s lips wasn’t enough in this game. He also needed to be reading people’s body language and the surrounding scene. A quick check around the room confirmed to him that he, at least, wasn’t being watched by anyone. He was invisible.

  The door to the street swung open again admitting two men, their hair sparkling with rain as they brushed off their coats, spraying water over the people standing close by. One of them was tall with flaxen hair, smooth against his head from where he’d been wearing a close-fitting cap he’d removed to shake off the droplets. His wild beard had streaks of auburn in it and down one side of his face a jagged scar ran from his nose up into his hairline. His accomplice was much shorter and looked young, his face almost completely smooth of lines, his beard patchy and short. From his position Tom scrutinised the other men’s mouths opening and closing, recognising some of the swear words spilling out. He smiled to himself. These two new drinkers were the people Parry – and therefore he – had been waiting for, he was certain. Although they were dressed in rough working men’s clothing and wouldn’t stand out to anyone else, Tom could see they were simply costumes. They weren’t comfortable in the coarse hemp and one of the men kept running his finger around the collar of his shirt, probably unused to something that wasn’t the finest cambric. Or perhaps he was doing it out of nerves. Or both.

  They stood beside the fire for a few minutes not acknowsledging Parry, even though they were adjacent to him. Tom was beginning to wonder if he was wrong in his supposition but then he saw one of the men say ‘let’s go out to the yard, it may be quieter out there.’ From the way his lips hardly moved Tom could tell he was trying not to alert anyone who might be listening in but he couldn’t fool a deaf man who’d spent his life reading other people’s lips, faces and body language.

  The two newcomers slipped round past Parry and out through a back door Tom hadn’t noticed, berating himself for not having paid more attention to his surroundings. Within seconds his prey followed and Tom quickly wove his way between his fellow drinkers holding his ale steady to ensure he didn’t spill it on anyone as he moved carefully towards the door. He wanted to see where they were going and what was being said but he needed to ensure he wasn’t noticed himself.

  As another drinker pushed past him and out through the door Tom took the opportunity to slip out behind him as if they were together. Outside the yard was dark and the rain had intensified. The man he’d followed out immediately stood up against the pub wall and began to urinate and Tom stepped sharply to the left to avoid being splashed. He wrinkled up his nose; sometimes his heightened sense of smell did him no favours. Pretending to follow suit he looked around the yard for the men hoping they too wouldn’t be relieving themselves. In the bright moonlight he watched as one of them passed Parry a small package which he slipped into a pocket inside his cloak. It was too murky for Tom to watch their lips and catch what they were saying and after a minute Parry disappeared back into the alehouse, his two accomplices disappearing out of the back gate into a passageway leading away down behind the buildings.

  Tom stepped around the widening pool at the other man’s feet and stole back inside. Parry was already leaving and by the time Tom squeezed his way between a heaving group of heavy-set revellers and out of the door his quarry had gone. The empty street gleamed with the rain that continued to bounce off its surface, dripping from the upper floors protruding out above his head. Hunching his shoulders up and pulling his cap down to cover his ears Tom headed back towards the river hoping he could find a boatman willing to set out on this gloomy night and take him back upriver. This was not the life he’d imagined when he’d set off for London but there was no way of evading it. He was caught up in Walsingham’s web and leaving the palace would mean never again catching sight of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He wasn’t yet prepared to forsake that pleasure.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  June 2021

  When she returned to the hall Mathilde found Rachel and Fleur cooking pancakes, the kitchen filled with a haze of blue smoke from the frying pan.

  ‘I wondered where you were,’ Rachel said brightly, ‘I assumed you went for a walk as your van was still here. Pancakes?’

  ‘No,’ Mathilde shook her head, ‘thank you,’ she added as an afterthought. She opened a cupboard and took out the coffee making equipment without another word.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Rachel flipped another pancake onto Fleur’s plate and passed her the chocolate spread and a knife before walking over to Mathilde and placing a hand on her arm to stop her for a moment. ‘I can tell there’s something wrong,’ she added.

  With a sigh, Mathilde briefly explained as best she could what had happened at the church. ‘I didn’t know our father was there,’ she said, ‘it was a surprise. And I wasn’t doing any harm.’

  ‘Of course you weren’t,’ Rachel exclaimed, ‘and you have as much right to be there paying your respects as she does. I expect it was just a shock seeing you there; she’s still getting her head around you turning up. I don’t know what’s come over her, I really don’t. She’s always been feisty but never as hostile as this. Give her time though and hopefully she’ll calm down.’

  She was distracted by Fleur’s attempts to apply the chocolate spread to her pancake, ending up with it all over herself and the table. Mathilde was about to take her coffee back upstairs when Rachel stopped her.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ she said, ‘Oliver called me to say he’ll be over mid-morning, he’s got some results about the date of the triptych and he wants to get it cleaned up a bit so he can take a closer look. I said that’s okay with us.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Mathilde agreed before carrying on through the house and upstairs, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Her day may have started badly but at least it was improving.

  She was out in the garden with her camera when Oliver arrived. Watching the world from down the end of a lens felt safer that morning, one step removed from reality. She’d been checking her plants and was pleased to see fresh shoots appearing on them. They seemed to be happy in the warm English summer. There were even new buds on the vanilla plants but she needed to keep an eye on those, ready for the moment she’d be required to intervene in the germination process.

  A movement to her right attracted her attention and she spotted Fleur in the opposite corner of the garden, her blond hair just visible above the weeds, like a new shoot herself, starting life and blooming amongst the foliage. Out of everyone she’d met since arriving in England Fleur was the person she empathised with the most. It was nice that others were friendly, welcoming – or not, in the case of Aunt Alice – but Fleur, she suspected, was most like her. Not prepared to give any of herself freely until she was completely certain it was safe to do so. Her face was guarded, shut down, a façade Mathilde recognised and understood.

  Walking over to the little girl, deliberately making a lot of noise by crashing through the und
ergrowth so as not to startle her, she arrived where Fleur was now bent over watching something on the ground, looking up as Mathilde approached before returning her gaze to the path.

  ‘Caterpillar,’ she announced as Mathilde arrived behind her, pointing to a hairy caterpillar making its way slowly across the old brown bricks.

  ‘He probably wants to eat all these plants,’ Mathilde waved her hand over the beds which in places still bore the occasional hardy vegetable amongst the nettles.

  Fleur nodded. ‘Grandad grew these,’ she informed her aunt, ‘he liked plants.’

  ‘Here?’ she asked, ‘he grew these? They’re vegetables,’ she explained, ‘for dinner,’ she added, unsure of whether her accent would prevent the child from understanding. Mathilde was happy to think of her father out here and it made her warm to the little girl even more. Fleur nodded again, keeping her eyes firmly on the caterpillar. Slowly lifting her camera to her face, Mathilde gently depressed the shutter and took several shots of Fleur’s face deep in concentration. The background of feathery overgrown asparagus plants, their leaves a sharp green foil to the crown of yellow hair framing her small, solemn face. What must it be like to have so few cares in the world? Mathilde wondered. She couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t always looking over her shoulder, waiting for the next indication of danger to appear brazenly on the horizon.

  ‘Mathilde, Oliver is here,’ her thoughts were interrupted by Rachel calling from the back door behind them and she followed Fleur who skipped back to tell her mother about the caterpillar.