The Queen's Spy

by Clare Marchant

  Mathilde turned to Rachel feeling tears prickle at the back of her eyes as what she’d said sank in. She couldn’t disguise the smile creeping across her face and beneath the edge of the table she felt Rachel’s fingers grip hold of her own. She had someone on her side.

  Laying on her bed, the curtains open and the brilliant new moon shining in through the windows lit up the bedspread and painted a white line along the edge of her legs and over her flat stomach up to her breasts. Mathilde wished she had her camera but she’d left it on the kitchen table; it would make a great photograph.

  On her laptop laid on the bed beside her, she continued her research into Queen Elizabeth I. She was becoming intrigued about the plotting between those who remained Catholic and those who followed the Queen’s new Protestant faith. The old faith had been outlawed and a person could be killed because of their beliefs. But backed by the Spanish the ‘heretics’ risked everything to bring the Queen’s cousin, the Catholic Mary Queen of Scots, to the English throne. To prevent being overthrown, Queen Elizabeth had Mary locked away in a castle for years. Many plots were concocted to free Mary and put her on the throne, even if that meant assassinating Queen Elizabeth.

  So, a country torn apart because although they prayed to the same god they chose different ways of doing so. Just like in her homeland, the wars in Lebanon; nothing really ever changed. Switching the laptop off and closing her eyes, Mathilde felt the soft arms of sleep begin to gather her in.

  All around people were jostling her and the room was dim, candles in sconces around the wall which guttered and danced as the door kept opening and closing. She was in a tavern and the silence around her was profound. A horrible smell – rank stale sweat and heavy, yeasty beer – made her feel nauseous. There was a fire burning in the grate, a couple of logs that were now just glowing red as they broke down to join the scattered grey ash which lay on the hearth. She looked all around until her eyes alighted on a man speaking with another, their heads close together and their eyes constantly darting around the room at their fellow drinkers. As she watched their mouths she realised that once again she could understand what they were saying even though she could hear nothing. They slipped out of a door behind them and without a second thought she followed them. Her heart was beating so hard in her chest she thought they’d be able to hear it as she stepped out into a damp, dark yard. It was drizzling, the wet instantly laying like a cloak on her skin, and someone pushed past her and began to urinate against the wall. She crinkled up her nose in disgust. The two men she’d been watching were exchanging a package, slipped from beneath one coat to the next, a subtle movement barely there. Then one of the men stole back in through the door they had exited from whilst the other disappeared through a gate at the back of the yard. She tried pushing through the throng inside but whoever it was had disappeared.

  She awoke with a start. Her face was damp – was it sweat or the fine drizzle of her dream? – and her heart was still racing. The moonlight had moved around the room as it climbed into the sky and in the dark corner beside the door she thought she could see the outline of someone sitting in the chair where she usually threw her clothes. A silhouette of shadow against the night. A face, picked out by the moonlight, turned away from her as if deep in thought, finely carved as a statue and just as still. Cold as marble. She gasped and leaning across she fumbled as she switched on her bedside lamp. The room was empty. She knew it would be even though she was certain of what she’d seen; there had been something or someone there, she was sure of it. Just like the evening when she was out with her plants beside the woods. Rachel had assured her there had never been ghosts at Lutton Hall; nobody had ever mentioned seeing anything. Whatever was there had been waiting for her. Someone from the past. The veil between their two worlds had drifted apart and let him slip through, just for a moment.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  July 2021

  ‘We’re driving over to Wisbech today to meet up with Andrew. It’s a good halfway point and there’s a nice café and play park there. Do you want to come with us?’ Rachel was buttering toast and cutting it into fingers for Fleur who was dabbing her spoon into a boiled egg, the yolk already running down the outside of the shell and eggcup, pooling onto her plate.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Thank you.’ Mathilde was used to being on her own and she knew it would soothe her soul to have some solitude, just for a little while. ‘You should have some time to yourselves,’ she added, trying to soften the blow. She paused momentarily in her coffee preparation as she thought about what she’d just said. For the first time in her life, as far as she could remember she’d said something to make someone else feel better. Thought about someone else’s feelings before her own. It was an odd feeling but a not unpleasant one. Just then, Fleur thrust her spoon into her egg and the cup and plate skittered off the table and onto the floor where it broke into several pieces, the egg splattering everywhere. The ensuing screaming broke the atmosphere and was enough to make any number of unpleasant expletives spill out of Mathilde’s mouth so she quickly ran upstairs before she said them.

  Outside the warm weather they’d enjoyed over the previous three days was threatening to break. The sky was still blue but its radiance had been replaced with a deeper cerulean, saturated with foreboding. On the horizon hanging above the marshes malevolent dark grey clouds piled one on top of each other, an atmospheric game of Jenga. The air was heavy and still, difficult to breathe in as it anticipated the inevitable. As she watered her plants, the vanilla just days away from fertilisation, Mathilde was constantly swatting away storm flies, so prevalent her lungs must have been full of them. Even Rachel had complained that the previous day she’d found one in her bra when she took it off to shower.

  She was keen to capture the oncoming weather on her camera so dashing upstairs she grabbed her bag and pushed her feet into her Converse before heading off towards the marshes, taking shots of the clouds in the distance. A small whip of wind caught at the tops of the grasses as she walked through them then all was still again. As she reached the edge of the reed beds she noticed it was eerily quiet compared to when she had last visited, the birds cowed in silence. Waiting. The sun was now behind the clouds which were turning the dark purple of a fresh bruise and appeared so low that Mathilde reached her arm up as if to run her fingertips through them.

  She turned to her left and began to walk along a narrow path still skirting the edge of the marsh. It wasn’t a direction she’d walked in before but if she’d gone to her right she’d have been close to the back of Alice and Jack’s garden and she was keen to avoid another confrontation with them. This path eventually led to an old farm track, dusty and dry with deep grooves where vehicles’ wheels had dug in, the centre a ridge of tall grass. It didn’t seem to have been used for a long while. Maybe her father had driven down here heading for the river.

  Beginning to walk along it she hoped to arrive at the road to take her in a circulatory route back towards the house. The buildings remained visible, an advantage of the flat land they stood on, and she took some more photographs. From a distance, her van hidden by trees and the top of the chapel just beyond, the house appeared timeless. She could have been stood on the path – which quite possibly had been there when the house was built – looking across at her home five hundred years before. It was solid, a statement, a moment captured in time forever. The pale, mellow walls were darkened by the gunmetal grey of the sky above but the house showed no fear. Storms and lives would come and go but Lutton Hall would weather all.

  Another gust of warm wind blew across the top of the hedge beside her, rustling the leaves and scratching them together with more urgency. The air was sharp and hot reminding her of the mistral at home in the south of France, how it would blow up out of nowhere throwing dust into every crevice, keeping every sane person and animal sheltering inside. This wouldn’t be the same though, she thought, as the wind began to increase and a low rumble somewhere behind her made the ground beneath her f
eet vibrate. England wasn’t susceptible to the violent weather of home. Nevertheless she began to walk a bit faster, wondering if she’d mistimed her walk.

  A brilliant flash of lightning lit up the clouds from behind followed by a crack of thunder making Mathilde hunch her shoulders up and flinch just seconds before fat droplets of rain began to land on the dirt at her feet and disturb the dust, making it dance on the ground. She quickly put her precious camera back in its bag and spotting an old dilapidated shed further along the track she tucked her bag under her arm to prevent it from banging against her hip and began to run towards the shelter, holding her cardigan over her head as it flapped uselessly in the wind.

  The doors were closed but not locked and with the rain now gathering speed and ferocity Mathilde pushed her fingers into the small gap between the two doors and pulled one open, darting inside into the dry. The noise of the rain on the galvanised steel roof was deafening but at least it wasn’t getting in.

  Looking around behind her Mathilde could see a number of rusty farming implements with grass and weeds climbing around them as if they’d been there for centuries, untouched, slowly disintegrating into the earth. Peering out at the sky she wondered how long she’d be waiting for the storm to pass. Another flash was echoed by a crash of thunder almost immediately, indicating it was already overhead and hopefully on its way elsewhere.

  Eventually, as she had suspected, the storm rolled on and the rain began to ease a little. As the noise on the roof abated Mathilde realised she could hear something else. A small, high-pitched squeaking as if something that required oiling was swinging back and forth in the gusting wind. She cocked her head to one side listening for it.

  Before long she heard it again, this time more clearly and she immediately knew what it was. This wasn’t a rusty hinge. Getting down on her knees she laid her head flat against the ground and peered under the machinery at the back of the shed. Sure enough, just as she had guessed, a pair of china blue eyes stared back. The owner of the eyes squeaked again.

  ‘Hey, petit chat,’ Mathilde murmured, making clicking noises with her tongue and waggling her fingers at it. The kitten, a tiny black scrap as far as she could see, didn’t move. She looked around the shed as if she’d suddenly spot its mother or some other obvious explanation as to why it was hiding in there. She needed a way to catch the kitten to take a closer look. Her usual modus operandi when attempting to photograph wildlife was to lure it with food but she had nothing in her bag other than a banana she’d picked up as she left. She gazed around spotting a long narrow twig and rummaging as quietly as she could in her pocket, she pulled out an old tissue. Attaching it to the end of the stick she began to flick the makeshift toy back and forth. Eventually, just as her arm began to ache, a tiny, furry, black paw swiped out at the dancing stick. Her ploy was beginning to work. Silently she stretched her arm out for her cardigan which she’d draped across an old wheelbarrow in an attempt to dry it and as the kitten became bolder and finally emerged from its hiding place, she threw her cardigan over and scooped it up.

  Immediately the bundle began to squirm ferociously, small stiff limbs poking out in all directions, sharp claws sticking through the knitwear as a terrible high-pitched, pitiful wailing filled the shed. Inching the fabric back so its face was uncovered, Mathilde made a dash for home, holding her still wriggling captive close to her body as she ran.

  Once inside the kitchen she placed the tiny fluffy prisoner on the floor and shook away her cardigan, mindful of its flailing claws. Her arms bore testament to how needle sharp they were, small beads of blood running along numerous scratches. Now freed it made a bolt for the closest dark space beneath the ancient fridge in the corner. Mathilde tutted and after running her arms under the cold tap and dabbing them dry with kitchen towel she put down a saucer of water and another containing some tuna she’d found in the cupboard. She had no idea if her visitor was old enough for proper food and she hoped she wouldn’t find it regurgitated later but she kept her fingers crossed that the fish might lure the kitten back out from under the fridge. She probably also ought to take it to the vets but her command of English wasn’t good enough to do that on her own so she’d need to wait until Rachel returned.

  Her sister’s reappearance didn’t happen as soon as Mathilde had envisaged. A text arrived at four o’clock informing her a tree had come down in the storm at Swaffham and she’d decided to turn around and drive back to Peterborough to spend the night at home. She made a joke about leaving her in peace but Mathilde suddenly realised the day on her own hadn’t been as enjoyable as she’d anticipated. Having spent her whole life seeking out the shadows to hide in, finding solace in solitude, suddenly a night by herself didn’t sound so restful. Or as quiet as a small squeak from beneath the fridge reminded her of her new house guest. Running upstairs to have a shower and get out of her wet clothes she left the kitten where it was, the two saucers temptingly beside the fridge.

  By bedtime her visitor still hadn’t reappeared. Mathilde was loath to leave it hiding all night in case it escaped to another part of the house, and shutting all the doors other than the one to the small sitting room, she arranged a temporary bed on the sofa. She switched the light off and lay in the dark, her ears alert to any suggestion food or drink was being consumed in the kitchen.

  All around her were the sounds of the house settling down for the night but they no longer unnerved her; she was now used to the creaks and rasps of the floorboards and water pipes. Soon after midnight, she heard the faint sound of china grating against flagstone flooring and creeping across the room on her hands and knees she peered around the corner. Sure enough the kitten, almost invisible in the darkness, was crouched over one of the saucers.

  ‘Hello Shadow,’ she whispered into the night before crawling back under her covers.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  October 1584

  Tom could barely sleep that night, worried he’d sleep too late and miss their meeting. It was harder to creep out at dawn with plenty of servants already hard at work preparing the palace for another day and no darkness to use as cover. Nevertheless, he walked to the outer door he’d previously used when carrying the trug in which he collected the herbs for medicines and let himself out into the gardens. There were sweet scented herbs growing in the knot garden and sometimes if the plants in the physic garden were a bit sparse he and Hugh would take some from there. Outside the clouds were pale and wispy, still wearing their deep pink skirts of night as they scattered across the sky and dispersed. The tall, fortified stone walls of the palace towered over him and he couldn’t help looking up at the windows, reflecting the sun as it climbed over the horizon, and wondering if there were eyes looking out, watching him. There were spies everywhere, nobody was safe.

  As he approached the place where they’d met up before he could see, even though it wasn’t yet completely light, that she was waiting, enrobed in a long dark cloak with a thick squirrel fur collar. He hurried over glancing back over his shoulder to ensure they were completely alone.

  ‘This is much better, is it not?’ she whispered, smiling at him and he nodded.

  ‘Dangerous,’ he signed to her, ‘we mustn’t be seen.’

  ‘Then we must find somewhere to meet that is more private.’ She raised her eyebrows in question. Tom wondered for a moment if this was some sort of trick, a cruel joke. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had used his deafness as a way of poking fun and making entertainment for friends. But Isabel seemed so spirited and sure of herself, used to having whatever she wanted. And she was so exquisite it was worth the risk. He could hardly believe someone as beautiful and high born as she would be interested in a deaf and mute assistant apothecary but he wasn’t about to turn the opportunity down.

  He nodded and signed ‘where?’

  ‘My home. I have a house on Cordwainer Street.’ Although she was talking slowly, his eyes kept flicking over her shoulder, constantly watching for guards walking past and he kept missing wo
rds. He frowned and shook his head. He’d understood house, but not where. He signed to her to write it down, and she nodded.

  ‘I’ll somehow get a missive to you with one of the pages,’ she promised, patting his arm. She smiled up at him and he felt himself falling into the depths of her deep violet eyes. Then she was gone, skirting around the edge of the garden and keeping close to the wall until she disappeared around the corner of the building.

  Tom walked back to the door, snatching up a few lavender flower heads as he went and dropping them into his basket. Did she say she had a house? He wondered if he had misread what she’d said. Because why was she at court if she had a house to live at, in the city? He hoped he’d soon get the chance to find out.

  That evening, a page arrived in the stillroom. He was tiny, much smaller and appeared younger than the other boys stationed around the palace as they ran errands whilst learning the rules and regulations to become a courtier. He looked quite afraid to be in the servants’ rooms, a long way from the apartments and galleries of the palace he usually inhabited. Tom smiled to put him at his ease, and the little boy looked across to Hugh who must have spoken to him. The boy held up a letter, sealed with a blob of wax and answered. His face was in profile so difficult to read his lips, but Tom saw the word ‘Lutton’ and he stepped forward just as Hugh pointed to him.

  The page bowed as he handed the letter over, and with an equally solemn face Tom bowed in return. The boy was quivering a little, as if afraid and Tom wondered what awful tales were already circulating about him. They’d lead to him being forced out; they always did. Someone would associate his disability with the devil, witchcraft, someone falling ill and he’d be deemed a bad omen and told to be on his way. A familiar story. The page turned and scampered away, not looking back.