‘And will it tell us where the family jewels and gold are?’ Rachel tilted her head on one side.
‘Are they missing then?’ Oliver replied, unsure whether she was joking or not.
‘Not that I know of,’ her face broke into a smile, ‘but it would be nice to find some anyway. Why would someone write something in code and hide it behind here? Supposing we hadn’t found the picture? The note would never have been discovered. Even now we can’t decipher it. It seems like a waste of time to me.’
‘Perhaps nobody was supposed to find it?’ Oliver suggested. ‘If it’s as old as this painting, sixteenth century, then it may be impossible to crack. They used to pass information in coded letters, that was how they plotted to kill royalty like Queen Elizabeth or organised other treason like the gunpowder plot.’
Once again Mathilde was lost as Oliver and Rachel started chanting about the fifth of November and fireworks and she blanked them from her thoughts as she studied the paper. Oliver had placed his loupe on the table beside it and she put it to her face to study the note or letter more carefully. The metal of the loupe was still warm from where it had been wedged in Oliver’s eye socket and Mathilde liked the feel of it now settling on her own skin.
‘There’s something else on here, look.’ She stood up passing the loupe back to Oliver and stepping back so he could get closer to the piece of paper. ‘Between the lines of “shorthand” I can see very pale brown letters as if there’s a second document on the same piece of paper.’
‘Oh my God,’ Oliver bent closer to the paper both hands either side of the document, his head bowed for a moment.
‘What’s wrong?’ Rachel asked. Mathilde felt panic rising in her chest as he continued to be silent.
‘Oliver?’ she asked.
‘The reason we can see two separate lines of writing, is because this is a palimpsest. A narrative has been added and it’s in a crude sort of invisible ink between the lines of the original cipher which is why it’s much paler; over the years the ink has slowly become more visible. I need to take this to someone who can properly investigate it for us. I know of someone in Oxford who may be able to help; I’ll give him a call right away.’
‘Do we have to?’ Mathilde asked. ‘I’m not sure if I want others getting involved. It was hidden here so it’s linked to this house and to someone who once lived here. I think whoever that was wants us – me – to discover what they were trying to say.’ It was the first time she’d admitted to the other two that she could feel forces from the past trying to reach out to her. ‘Can’t we investigate it? I’ll need your help though,’ she admitted to Oliver, unaware just how much her face changed when she turned to him, her enthusiasm lighting up her expression, smoothing away the lingering sadness he often saw there.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, taking her hand in his, ‘this is far more complicated than I can deal with, you need an expert in this field. I’m just an ordinary art historian and you need a specialist.’
They placed the letter into a dark velvet folder Oliver had brought with him and walked back through to the kitchen to discuss their next steps. Mathilde was only half listening as she felt the threads that tethered her to the triptych, and Lutton Hall, tighten further, fine silk cords that gripped and twisted every sinew in her body.
Chapter Thirty-Two
October 1584
Tom was wondering how to get a message to Isabel to tell her that he needed to see her. He’d always been reliant on her suggesting a meeting and since he knew that the Queen and her retinue had returned from Westminster he resorted to visiting the knot garden every day at dawn hoping that when she was able to get away, she’d come there too.
The day before he was due to leave to travel north, Tom slipped out of the side door as he usually did, skirting along beside the wall. There to his surprise and delight he could see the green travelling cloak he recognised and the face he now knew he loved. The cool morning air with its sharp spike of autumn prickled around him as he hurried over. Her face split into a wide smile and her eyes sparkled in pleasure as she saw him. Without a thought his arms went round her and he pulled her against him. If she rebuffed his affection then he’d know his ambitions were not to be. It was a risk he was prepared to take.
To his relief he felt her arms wind their way around his waist as she settled her body against his. The warmth from her trickled into him, through her cloak and gown, down into his body, his heart, the centre of his being. Her chest rose and fell slowly as she exhaled. She looked up at him, the dimple beside her mouth enticing him to kiss it.
‘I’ve missed you,’ she told him. He nodded and pointed to himself, pulling a sad face. She giggled and he could feel it reverberate through them both. And now he had to relate bad news to her. With much signing and waving of his arms he managed to explain he was required to go away with the Queen’s Men and travel around the northern shires. She mouthed ‘Walsingham?’ at him, and he nodded. He knew she understood he had no option but to go. However, a small part of him was pleased at the look of disappointment on her face. This was the moment he needed to declare how he felt.
Tipping her chin up so her eyes met his, he pointed to his heart and then to her. Her eyes widened and he knew she’d understood the sentiment. She nodded slowly and pointed to herself and he felt his heart begin to thump so hard he wondered if she could hear it. Dropping his arms he took a half step backwards and reached into his pocket, taking out the locket he’d bought. He was certain she’d realise it was intended as a betrothal gift, but would she accept it? He held his breath. She may like him, even love him, but that held no sway as to who she’d choose as a husband.
Her hand flew to her mouth as she looked at the locket and taking it from his hand she carefully lifted it over the linen coif she wore and over her gown. The long chain meant it reached her waist and as she quickly tucked it as best she could beneath her clothes, pulling the stiff snowy white linen ruff away from her neck to coil the chain inside, he smiled at the thought of his betrothal gift being close to her skin. And hidden from prying eyes, he was sure that was the reason she’d hastily concealed it. He hoped she understood the meaning behind why he’d given it and as she put her hand over her heart, he was certain she had.
A movement at the far end of the garden as it sloped down towards the river alerted Tom to the fact they may not be alone for much longer. They could easily be seen now the sun was beginning to climb, fingers of sunlight reaching out to them from between the clouds. It caught the leaves on the bushes and edged them with molten gold, reflected in the still, calm waters of the river.
‘I will write,’ Isabel promised. Tom nodded and pointed to himself, indicating that he would try to keep in touch as well. Although he wasn’t sure what he would have to tell her given that his spying was a deadly secret. Literally. He was risking his life, one that until that moment had not been important to anyone and yet now, maybe it was.
He watched her turn and hurry away to the door she always crept out of, keeping his eyes on her and memorising every inch of her body until she slipped out of sight. Even when she was gone he continued to stare at the place where she’d been, as if the outline of her body remained, embossed on the framework of time. Would she wait for him? He would in all likelihood be gone for months and every day she was surrounded by gallant, handsome courtiers who could offer her so much more than he could. Someone who could whisper words of romance in her ears, not just wave their arms about to communicate. He thought his heart would break if that happened. Slowly, thoughtfully, he turned and walked back to his room to finish packing for the long journey ahead, wondering where his nomadic life would take him next and whether he’d ever return to the palace and to Isabel.
Chapter Thirty-Three
October 1584
As directed Tom was at the theatre the following day with his belongings stuffed into a pair of leather panniers. Along with the smarter clothes he’d been given he also carried many twists of paper containing the
most frequently used of his herbs. He’d stored pots of ointment for sores he was certain would be required after many long days in the saddle.
Kit was waiting for him together with two of the troupe; they were meeting the others on the road beyond Holborn. Looking Tom up and down, the look on Kit’s face showed he wasn’t impressed with his usual attire. Taking his bags from him Kit opened them and passed Tom his blue coat, indicating to him to put it on.
Tom couldn’t deny that once wearing the more fashionable and stylish coat he could feel himself stand up straighter with a strike of confidence slice through him. It made him stand out which was something he’d always actively avoided and yet now he liked how it made him feel.
‘That is better,’ Kit told him, before doing a mime of Tom in his old jerkin and his shoulders slumped, a man hiding behind his own shadow, then in his blue coat with his shoulders back. He even included a small swagger and Tom smiled although he was certain he hadn’t ever walked like that. ‘What you wear makes you who you are,’ Kit told him, ‘clothes make a man.’ He smiled and before he turned back to the horses waiting patiently Tom saw Kit repeat the phrase about clothes making a man a couple of times to himself, nodding slowly.
Once they were mounted, they rode down towards Newgate. It was a long time since Tom had ridden but after a childhood of riding bareback around the meadows of France he was soon in the rhythm of the movement beneath him. As they broke into a canter he could feel the thumping of the horse’s hooves reverberate through his body as they struck the ground and he lifted his face to the wind rushing past, cold and exhilarating, whipping his hair against his skin. He could smell the fresh scent of wet vegetation crushed beneath the horse’s hooves where it had rained overnight and he remembered just how much he loved being a part of nature and the countryside. He knew he’d been extremely lucky in getting such a prestigious job at the palace but with only the physic garden to tend to he missed the wide-open spaces he now found himself in.
The journey to their first engagement in Oxford didn’t continue in the same happy mood they’d started in. After meeting with the rest of the troupe, dark clouds began to gather on the horizon and it wasn’t long before the rain began to fall, heavy and persistent. It dripped off the trees and down the back of Tom’s neck running in rivulets from his soaked hair onto his face to drip off his chin. The horses were walking and even they looked desolate as they picked their way around puddles and through mud. Tom kept giving his steed a pat on the neck in encouragement but he wasn’t sure it was helping. John Singer’s horse had stepped in a deep ridge and was now lame so he was riding pillion behind Kit, leading his despondent horse behind him. They rode through small villages dotted along the road, the cottages topped with dripping thatch, clustered around commons scattered with grazing animals. Smoke from chimneys was tugged away on the breeze. Tom was very relieved when after many days, broken up only with stops at inns that were both rough and uncomfortable, they arrived at their first venue.
Kit had already explained that their host was suspected of papist ways and being a supporter of the Queen of Scots and Tom was to keep alert to all that was said. The other men would cause the distraction and hopefully Tom could discover if anything was amiss. Nobody would suspect him and as a cover story he was supposedly their servant. Tom gloomily swapped his good coat for his old jerkin again, back to the position in life he was accustomed to. Just as Kit had pointed out, he felt his shoulders drop.
The players’ entertainment went down well and the family and their assembled guests who’d come to see the performance became drunker and more verbal as the evening wore on. Tom stood at the side of the stage supposedly helping with props and costumes, in a perfect position to watch the audience. He’d already been introduced to, and dismissed by, their host. As soon as he’d realised Tom was simply a servant who was also deaf he became all but invisible, just as Walsingham had predicted.
In a particularly raucous and lewd moment in the play, as all the crowd including the ladies present were laughing and jeering, Tom saw their host turn to his neighbour and say quite distinctly, ‘We have a Jesuit priest here who will take mass in the morning. You and your good wife are welcome to join us.’ His companion raised his eyebrows.
‘You should be careful,’ he replied, ‘there are strangers amongst us.’ His eyes flicked towards the players as Tom quickly began folding up a cloak that had been thrown off stage. He felt his cheeks begin to burn as the two men looked over at him. They both looked away again and Tom resumed his observation.
‘It’s fine,’ their host said, ‘the men can’t hear us with all the noise they are making, it is enough to raise the dead! And their servant is deaf so he cannot hear us either. What we say is perfectly safe.’
‘Does the priest live here?’ The man was shredding a chunk of bread left from dinner into crumbs which scattered across the table. ‘You will be hanged if anyone discovers him.’
‘I could be executed for a lot more,’ came the reply, ‘but yes, Brother John lives in the west tower; there is a priest hole beneath the stairs leading up to the top room. We had to hide him in there six months ago when the Earl of Leicester decided to visit.’
‘And do you have word of the Spanish? Is there yet any information about how we get our right and proper Queen onto the throne and remove that usurper, the late King’s illegitimate daughter?’
‘Not yet but I believe it will not be long now. And nobody will suspect a thing.’
Yes, they will, Tom thought to himself as he placed the folded cloak into the props bag. He wondered what else the household had been up to but he was sure that Walsingham had his ways to find out the truth. Tom had been on his way to a warehouse at the docks when he’d had the misfortune of seeing another man being hanged, despite his endeavours to avoid any executions after watching Throckmorton die. He’d been on the rack more than once and couldn’t even stand up, so many of his bones had been broken, like a sack being dragged along the ground behind a horse. It had turned Tom’s stomach and for a moment he doubted whether he should report what he’d just gleaned before reminding himself that his first allegiance had to be to the Queen. After all, his love Isabel was in her entourage and ultimately it was Her Majesty whose safety was paramount.
It was much later in the evening when Tom was finally in the barn sitting on the pallet he’d been given to sleep on; the players were lodging in the attics at the top of the house. It didn’t afford him the comfort he’d become used to and with very little light coming in through the window he pulled out a book he’d been given by Walsingham. Sliding two fingers between the spine and the pages, he drew out a thin sheet of paper he’d hidden there for just this purpose. In the dark with just the stump of a candle that was left guttering in the draught blowing under the door he started to write out a letter, in code, to Walsingham. The message hidden back where he’d been told to secrete it, he’d make sure it was taken to London when they stopped at the next inn on their journey. After he’d finished his official business, he quickly wrote a few lines to Isabel hoping it would reach her safely. If it got caught up with the other letter there was every chance Walsingham would intercept it and quite possibly not pass it on, and for this reason Tom was careful to not mention anything of the locket, the betrothal gift she’d accepted from him.
The journey around the shires took ten weeks in total and it was almost Christmas before they returned to London. The weather had turned much colder over the time they’d been travelling and as they rode the final couple of miles Tom could feel tiny shards of ice collecting on his beard and crackling against his dry lips. He’d run out of soothing ointment for them two weeks previously along with most of the other medications. Once the others had discovered he had them they were constantly presenting themselves with various aches and pains. Ill health following a night of heavy drinking being the most common complaint.
The trip had been fairly unproductive after the initial information gathering apart from one of the fi
nal houses they’d visited where a visitor had been staying. Tom knew immediately who it was and from Kit’s body language he could tell that he did too. Sure enough he caught Tom’s eye and gave a slight jerk of his head towards the man. Tom gave a tiny nod in return, no more than a twitch to indicate he’d understood. He’d watched this person before and he fervently hoped that he wouldn’t be recognised, because this was William Parry. Parry’s visit to a prominent Catholic family would not please Walsingham. Tom decided to wait until he could pass on this vital information in person.
As the troupe made their journey back to London Tom was concerned that he hadn’t received a single letter from Isabel during the time he’d been away. With them travelling all the time it was difficult for post to follow on and more than one of the players had complained about the lack of letters from home. But it was with a feeling of trepidation of what may be waiting for him, that Tom finally climbed from the boat at the palace gatehouse. He walked slowly back with his panniers to the side door that led to the stillroom and his home.
Chapter Thirty-Four
July 2021
Mathilde sat up in bed with a jolt, gasping out loud. Fumbling to her left she quickly switched on her lamp and looked around the room expecting something to be different but everything was exactly the same as when she’d gone to bed. Her clothes slung carelessly across a chair, the jeans on the floor where she had stepped out of them, and the magazine she’d been reading before she dozed off still laid on the bed beside her.
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