‘See, here he is,’ her voice sounded gruff and she cleared her throat. ‘I called him Shadow because he’s black and he likes hiding under here in the dark.’
The door swung open behind them and Oliver staggered in with the bags of kitten paraphernalia from the pet shop.
‘Have you got enough stuff?’ Rachel laughed as she took it from him, ‘and where exactly did you find this kitten?’
‘I was out for a walk yesterday,’ Mathilde sat back on her haunches and explained about the storm and sheltering in the shed, ‘he’s very thin so I gave him some food and now I think he’s mine. He can stay in my van with me.’
‘Okay,’ Rachel sounded dubious about this plan, ‘but you won’t be able to take him back across to mainland Europe unless you get lots of vaccinations and a pet passport.’
‘Whatever,’ Mathilde waved her hand as if shooing away Rachel’s objections, ‘he needs the injections yes, but he will be hidden so no one will know I have him.’ She missed Rachel looking at Oliver and raising one eyebrow, before letting the matter drop.
‘Is he going to come out of there so I can play with him?’ Fleur asked, her face still pressed against the floor.
‘Not if he’s feral,’ her mother warned, ‘he’ll scratch. Come and sit at the table and have your snack. If he comes out then you’re to leave him alone, do you understand?’ Fleur nodded, her mouth turned down at the corners.
‘When he’s more used to everyone then he might not mind you playing,’ Oliver reassured her.
Mathilde emptied a pouch of food onto one of the saucers and Oliver poured some water into the other one, then they finished unloading their purchases and setting out the litter tray. She saw Rachel glance at it and wrinkle her nose up in displeasure and she turned her back.
Within minutes Shadow had crept out from his hiding place and as they all held their breath, he crouched down in front of the food and began to eat.
‘Ooooh,’ Fleur whispered, ‘Mummy can I have a kitten?’
‘No, you can’t.’ Rachel frowned at Mathilde but she was too busy watching the tiny scrap of black fur, pale grey in patches where years of under appliance dust had collected on his coat.
After he’d finished eating and drank some of the water, he carefully walked a little further from his hiding place, investigating his new surroundings. Mathilde slowly reached for one of the catnip toys they had just bought and pushed it towards him trying not to make any sudden movements. She didn’t want to make him bolt back to the dark safety of the fridge. Seeing the toy shift slightly, Shadow immediately stood upright with straightened legs as he bounced on all fours towards the plaything before jumping on it. Fleur let out a little giggle of delight.
‘I think we all need to ignore him,’ Rachel said, ‘and then he’ll get more used to us. I’m doing pasta for dinner in a while; do either of you two want some?’ She looked across at Mathilde and Oliver.
‘Not for me thanks,’ Oliver replied, ‘I really need to get home. I’m expecting to hear from some colleagues in London about your triptych in the next couple of days and when I do, I’ll give you a call.’ Ruffling Fleur’s hair and flashing Rachel a quick smile, he walked back through the house to the front door, Mathilde following him.
‘Thank you for your help today,’ she said, ‘and for the picnic.’
‘I enjoyed it,’ he smiled at her, his eyes creased up, the lines that usually fanned away from them almost disappearing. He was so open. She couldn’t imagine being able to behave in that way, allowing herself to show emotions so freely. ‘And thank you for talking to me about your past. I know it couldn’t have been easy.’
‘It’s nothing,’ she shrugged, ‘as you say, it’s in the past.’ She looked down, kicking at a weed growing out of the doorstep.
‘So maybe now it’s time to stop letting it cloud your future?’ He tilted her chin up so she had to look at him. He raised his eyebrows waiting for her to say something. She smiled briefly, shaking her head, the corners of her mouth turned down. Dipping his head his lips brushed softly against her hair before he turned away to his car and climbed inside.
She stepped backwards into the hall and shut the door and a moment later she heard the sound of his engine starting up and driving away.
‘Goodbye,’ she said quietly. Too late.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
October 1584
With his visits to Isabel temporarily suspended, Tom took out his new paints and was soon using them to add some of the many sights he’d seen around London. He thought twice about adding Throckmorton’s execution but knew that day had been an important episode in his introduction to the city and to his clandestine work for Walsingham. It showed the outcome of the work of spies. He painted the city houses tightly packed together, the dark shadows beneath in the twisting lanes, the washing hung up high out of windows to dry. He painted the people, so many Londoners living in those houses, their worlds entwined with each other’s as they all tried to survive in the existence they’d been dealt. The apprentices who ran through the streets almost knocking others out of their way, the goodwives and their hungry children. What did they know of plots to kill their Queen when their lives were spent trying to keep their families alive? His thoughts were grim, dark, and he tried to lighten the images he was capturing by including vanilla flowers and foliage as decoration around the scenes.
He also replicated the many plants he and Hugh grew in their now expanded physic garden. Alongside the usual herbs they needed for their medications were the saffron crocuses he’d planted in the late spring and which would soon be coming into flower. He didn’t need to paint any more of those, the left-hand panel of the triptych scattered with images of the tiny lilac flowers. One of his earliest memories were the fields of blossoms around his grand home in Norfolk, undulating in the soft breeze like waves upon the sea, and the autumn sun warm on his face. Although his adoptive mother had continued growing the spice after their desperate flight to France to escape from the King’s soldiers, it hadn’t been in such large quantities, and she was dependent solely on her children and friends to help harvest it. Back breaking work. But the sharp, metallic scent of the saffron they gave up would stay with him forever and he was looking forward to collecting his own.
Unfortunately, however, the vanilla plants he was attempting to grow hadn’t borne any fruit. Despite their exquisite, fine flowers they produced no pods of seeds and he was once again walking around the warehouses on the river front trying to find merchants whose ships had brought some back from Venice or Calais.
It didn’t take long before once again Tom was summoned to Walsingham’s office at the palace. He couldn’t help a small frisson of pride that he was able to serve the Queen in this way but he worried about where Walsingham may send him next and what danger he may end up entangled in. The missions he was now being sent on were risky and he had no doubt Walsingham considered him dispensable.
Entering the now familiar apartment he found the man alone writing at his desk. Tom bowed low before standing up again, awaiting his instructions. Walsingham didn’t look up from his frantic scribbling, quill going from ink to parchment and back again at a surprising speed. He waved over his shoulder towards the cushioned settle beside the fire and Tom walked over, sitting down gingerly. Being in such opulent surroundings in his unkempt clothes and apothecary apron always made him feel uncomfortable.
The room was bright and warm whilst outside the grey, dour clouds threw occasional splatters of rain against the window as if demanding entry but the dark weather was no opposition to the numerous beeswax candles alight in the room. Who needed sunlight when you could have so much candlelight? There weren’t as many pictures and tapestries as in other parts of the palace; he wasn’t surprised the austere and plainly dressed Walsingham with his black clothes and cap kept his apartment as unfriendly as he was. There were few pieces of furniture but one wall was taken up with a long, dark ornately carved chest in thick oak, the front adorned with a fri
eze of carved animals. His house in Seething Lane had been more homely, perhaps his wife Ursula insisted upon it. Here though there was no need for anything more than the plain, polished panelling, shining in the light of the fire. He watched a small grey mouse with tiny pink claws and tail scuttle back and forth alongside the wall opposite, oblivious to the people in the room, intent on its mission.
Walsingham finished his letter, shaking sand from a silver shaker across the words to dry them before sealing it, the wax dripping across his desk as he took the block from the candle he was melting it in and trickled it on the folded parchment before pressing his seal in. A young page arrived in the room; it was the same small boy Tom had seen before and his eyes darted between the two men, his shoulders hunched and stiff as he approached to take the letter, nodding so fast it looked as if his head would fall off. He was probably afraid of what may happen if he didn’t immediately do as his master bid and snatching up the letter, bowing and walking backwards as he went, he disappeared out of the door again. Tom wanted to give him a smile of comfort but the boy’s face was turned towards the floor. Tom looked across at Walsingham who was now looking at him waiting to make eye contact.
‘Tom, why have you come here wearing those awful old rags?’ he spoke slowly, ‘when you come up to the state apartments you should be more smartly dressed. Suppose you happened to meet the Queen as she moves along the corridor? She will think you are a beggar who has broken into the palace and evaded the guards.’
Tom had no idea how to respond. The livery he’d originally been lent had disappeared from his room as mysteriously as it had arrived so he could only wear his mended and patched old clothes. That was why he made sure he wore his apron at all times. He supposed maybe he should have removed that but when he was summoned all he could think about was getting upstairs as quickly as he could and also because being in that part of the palace meant there was always a slim chance he may see Isabel. He suspected she was still at Westminster but he hoped every day that she’d soon be home.
‘Don’t you have anything neater?’ Walsingham asked after a pause, as if he had been waiting for Tom to reply to his comment before realising he wouldn’t be able to; not without a lot of signing that Walsingham was unlikely to understand. Tom shook his head. Yes and no questions were so much easier. Walsingham frowned and opened his mouth then closed it again. Walking to a door set in the panelling behind him he disappeared only to reappear a couple of minutes later with some pale coloured kersey hose and a smart blue broadcloth coat together with a cap which was in much better shape than the one he currently wore. A jaunty feather, the ends of the barbs sticking together as it drooped, was still attached to one side.
‘These should fit you,’ he said, ‘I took them from someone who wasn’t acting as he should towards his Queen. He didn’t need them where he was going.’
Tom shuddered. He could well imagine where that was but he was grateful for the smart clothes that he would never have been able to afford on his apothecary’s wages.
‘I have someone I want you to meet,’ Walsingham went on, reaching for a wax tablet he kept nearby when talking with Tom. He picked up a blunt quill and scratched a name and turned it round to show Tom: Kit Marlowe. Tom shrugged. Was he supposed to know this person? ‘He’s an undergraduate at Corpus Christi,’ Walsingham continued, ‘and he has some useful friends in the theatre. They are watching some of Queen Mary’s spies and we need to know more. I hope to discover what secrets they hide but I want you to hear what they do not, by reading people’s lips. The men who are in the shadows are the people to be aware of. That is where the truth lies.’
Tom nodded. He hadn’t understood ‘Corpus Christi’, but other than that he had caught the gist of what he’d been told. He held his arms out sideways and raised his eyebrows in question. He needed to know where he was meeting this Kit Marlowe. Walsingham picked up a scrap of paper and dipping his quill in the pot of ink he wrote ‘Bell Inn’ on it with a day and time and passed it to Tom who looked at it and nodded.
‘Wear your new clothes.’ Walsingham pointed to the bundle on Tom’s lap and he realised that was his cue to leave. Getting to his feet he gave a low bow leaving the room in a similar way to the page, twenty minutes earlier. He glanced back just before he pulled the door to and saw Walsingham scribbling away on a document, Tom already forgotten.
Chapter Thirty
October 1584
The evening he was due to meet Kit Marlowe, Tom grabbed some bread, cheese and figs and ate quickly in his room. It would have to suffice as he didn’t have time to eat supper with the other servants as he usually did. A stew bubbling in a huge black pot over one of the two enormous fires that burned in the kitchen smelled of rich appetising venison for once, and he was sorry to miss it, but he couldn’t do anything to upset Walsingham’s plans.
Dressing in his new clothes he ran his fingers over a pair of new boots, the leather burnished and shining, that had appeared on his bed together with two shirts decorated with simple blackwork embroidery around the neckline. They were substantially less darned than his own and were made of fine cambric, softer than the linen he was used to. Better quality than anything Tom had worn since he was a young child, cool and smooth against his skin.
Tom examined them carefully, especially for any tell-tale blood stains. He suspected Walsingham was obtaining these additional wardrobe items from the same source as his new blue coat and he was concerned as to where they may have last been worn. They smelled fresh however, and there were no unpleasant stains.
Once he was fully dressed he felt smarter than he could ever remember, slipping out of a side door to make his way to the wharf and find a boat to take him upriver. He was amused when the guards not only didn’t stop him but also inclined their heads thinking he was a gentleman of the court. What he wore turned him into a different man he realised, holding his head higher and striding down to where a collection of small craft bobbed about on the choppy Thames water.
Although he was only going half a mile it was against the tide and the water was rough out in the middle of the river. He could see the sculler swearing and sweating as he pulled as hard as he could on the oars and slowly, they made their way to Drinkwater Wharf where Tom carefully negotiated the slippery steps which were covered in dark green slimy algae. The last thing he wanted was to spoil his new outfit.
Once on the quay he nipped along the passageway that led to Pudding Lane and then on to East Cheap. Here the city’s butchers and slaughterhouses were situated and the metallic iron rich tang assaulted his nostrils. Outside every house carcasses and joints were hung as if they were on the spits in front of the fire they were destined for, thick dark blood congealing in pools on the cobbles.
Eventually he found The Bell Inn Theatre and spotted a man outside rolling barrels along the floor. He held his hand up to gain attention and showed him the piece of paper on which Walsingham had written Marlowe’s name. The man nodded and pointed to a small door almost hidden in the dark wall. He said something to Tom but it was lost as he turned away before he’d finished speaking, continuing to move the beer. Walking over to the door he lifted his hand, pausing for a moment. The old Tom – the real one – would knock and wait for someone to answer. But what would this new one do? He’d be more assertive; he didn’t need to wait to be bade entry. For the first time in his life he felt the faint stirrings of being an equal and it felt good. Knocking on the door he pressed down on the latch and stepped into the murky interior.
The dark corridor in which he found himself had a door at the end lit by a single candle in a sconce on the wall beside it. As he approached it was flung open and a man leant in the doorframe staring at Tom, a look of surprise on his face at finding someone there. Tom could see his lips moving but in the gloomy interior it was impossible to read them. He reached into his pocket for the memo note Walsingham had given him. The man had turned to speak to someone behind him so Tom approached slowly, holding the letter out and hoping he wasn�
��t about to be run through with a sword.
He waited while the seal was broken and the contents read. The man’s demeanour changed immediately as a smile spread across his face making him look more welcoming and friendly. Standing to one side he ushered Tom into the room with a bow of his head, pointing to himself and mouthing ‘Kit Marlowe’; not being used to such treatment Tom wondered what Walsingham had said about him.
The room was thankfully lighter than the hallway he’d entered by, a tall ceiling and thick candles in sconces with tall twisted metal holders revealed a group of seated men, some of them with bundles of paper in their hand. A fire had burned down in the grate and Kit picked up a log and tossed it on, causing sparks to fly up the chimney and across the hearth, already covered in a thick layer of velvety grey ash.
Tom watched the man explain who he was. It was much easier to read his lips in the brightly lit room and he recognised his own name, Sir Francis Walsingham and the words ‘can neither hear, nor speak’ something he was very used to reading, together with ‘help us with our obligations to the Queen’. He didn’t need to wonder about these duties; if Walsingham had sent him here this was a spying assignment and the other men were obviously part of his network. A large one, Tom was beginning to realise.
The group turned to look at him. ‘You cannot hear us at all?’ one of the men asked. Tom smiled and shook his head.
‘What?’ One of the men got slowly to his feet to face Tom. His face had the florid hue of a man who liked his drink. He was short and slight with long arms which swung back and forth as he moved and he was flexing his fingers ominously. ‘If you cannot hear me, how were you able to understand my question?’ His breath stank, his brown rotting teeth visible in pale swollen gums as he pushed his face close to Tom’s who had to take a step backwards and was now pressed up against a table behind him, the edge of it pushing into his thighs. Kit must have said something to the man as his head turned sideways before he took a step backwards and held his palms up in apology.
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