The Queen's Spy

by Clare Marchant

  She’d had another disturbing dream and gripping the bedcovers in her clammy hands she waited for a moment while her heart returned to a more normal speed. Slowly she lay back down again, keeping the lamp on. The clarity of the dreams seemed to be intensifying but she still couldn’t understand what they were about. Only that they were connected to the triptych and were increasing the aura of anticipation, intrigue. And underlying horror. She wondered if they were also connected to the letter she’d found. The first part of her dream was the most vivid.

  Standing in a garden she could smell the lavender and roses around her and she shivered. It was barely light, the night clouds relinquishing their hold on the day that was unfolding as the morning sun, erupting through the clouds began to light the sky with streaks of gold. She leant against the wall she was stood against, the pale stones damp and rough against her hands. They were cold and she pushed her hands up under her armpits in an attempt to warm them up.

  She was keeping watch on the corner of the building ahead of her and eventually her surveillance was rewarded as a young woman appeared in her view and began to skirt along the wall until she arrived in front of her. The smile she gave was beautiful, radiating from her face as if the sun had competition, lighting her eyes up with warmth. She began to speak but as usual Mathilde couldn’t hear anything yet somehow still understood what was being said as the woman spoke of having to go away.

  Reaching into her pocket Mathilde’s hand closed around something there. It was cold and metallic and drawing it out she held it out towards the woman whose hand flew to her mouth as her eyes widened. She smiled and asked ‘for me?’ and Mathilde’s head nodded before lifting the long chain with a gold locket attached over the woman’s head where she hastily tucked it beneath the fine lawn caught around her delicate throat and it disappeared from view. She pushed and pulled at the outside of her stomacher close against her torso until she had wriggled it down her body, patting her stomach where it appeared to now be wedged, a slight bump beneath the stiff thickly embroidered velvet of her gown. She grabbed hold of Mathilde’s hands and said something she couldn’t catch but she felt the brush of cold soft lips against her own and then she was awake and in her bed with her heart racing and the feeling of cool skin against her own.

  Looking down at her soft hands with long slim fingers Mathilde knew she’d been holding the locket, the one she’d found in her father’s desk, the image painted across the board that hid the triptych. Whoever haunted her dreams was trying to tell her something, explain the mystery; if only she could understand. Who was this man she kept dreaming about?

  Her eyes still wide open she kept wondering what it was about the dream that felt familiar. The setting certainly wasn’t nor the woman.

  She’d just seen the painter of the triptych give a locket – her locket – to the young woman. Now she knew for sure the person she’d been dreaming about, the man she became in the night, was the artist responsible for the triptych in the room below. Which had, for some reason she had yet to discover, been hidden in the chapel. She could feel him emanating from the painting in waves as if he’d been expecting her so he could tell his story. He’d used the locket to lead her to the painting and now the hidden note. Why her? What was he trying to say and why had he waited so long?

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  December 1584

  The preparations for Christmas were in full flow and the moment he returned to the stillroom Tom was immediately hard at work. As he suspected Hugh hadn’t been happy about being left to work solo for so many weeks and Tom found himself doing most of the heavy manual tasks whilst Hugh bestowed upon himself the jobs which could be done beside the fire. He also sent Tom to collect firewood several times a day so the room remained warm at all times. Tom was in no position to complain and hoping to catch sight of Isabel he didn’t really mind that he was often outside harvesting herbs, now rimed with a harsh white frost, the ground harsh and unforgiving. He examined the vanilla plants that had been left outside in the winter temperatures; they appeared almost dead and he brought them into the stillroom and prayed they could be saved.

  Eventually, after the abstinence of Advent and the relentless menu of pottage with some occasional fish if they were lucky, Tom awoke on Christmas morning to a room that was, as ever, dark and gloomy. Climbing off his truckle bed and pulling his blankets around his shoulders as the breath from his body froze into tiny clouds in front of his face, he went to the window and looked out. As he had suspected a thick layer of snow now lay on the ground and windowsill. It was still too dark to see the sullen grey clouds tinged with yellow which he knew would be hanging in the sky over the shining white landscape as small white flakes scurried down, the wind blowing them into whirls before throwing them into drifts already piling up into banks against walls and hedges. Judging by the depth already banked against his window Tom guessed it wouldn’t be stopping any time soon and he shivered. There would be no meeting up with Isabel whilst this weather continued, their footprints would give them away immediately.

  Thankful for his winter jerkin lined with a thick layer of warm flannel he pulled it on over the rest of his clothes, having already slept in his shirt and hose. He went through and picked up the bellows to breathe some life into the barely glowing embers of the fire, throwing some kindling on top as he did. He soon had a blaze going and he tidied a couple of jars on the bench as he wandered around unsure of how to occupy himself. He and Hugh had worked hard – well he had mostly – to ensure there were plenty of supplies of medicines for the Christmas and New Year festivities. Especially ones for gastric disorders and toothache; experience told him there would in all likelihood be many requests for those. Hopefully he’d have little or no work over the next twelve days as the festivities grew rowdier and there would finally be plenty of appetising food. His mouth watered at the thought of it. He’d been able to smell warm, pungent spices and roasting meat for days, the hot fat catching on the fire and sending a delicious burning aroma through the servants’ rooms.

  He was joined by Hugh still pulling his clothes on and blowing on his hands before holding them out to the fire. Tom raised his eyebrows and moved towards the jar of ginger and rosemary ointment they kept for chilblains, making Hugh’s shoulders shake with laughter. It appeared the festivities had finally thawed his boss’s resentment after his extended break from the stillroom. The two men followed the other servants who wouldn’t need to work over the holiday across the courtyard to where they’d eat at the long communal trestle tables, long table tops sitting on wooden hurdle-like legs in the great hall. Tom could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Now would be his best chance of seeing Isabel, even from a distance. After no correspondence for many weeks he had no idea if she still held any feelings for him and he was almost too afraid to find out.

  He didn’t have to wait long however, as mid-morning the revelry around the hall was interrupted as everyone suddenly rose to their feet before sinking to the floor in bows and curtseys, heralding the entrance of the Queen. Tom could feel the vibrations of her trumpeters but not so quickly as others had heard them so had to scramble from the bench he was sitting on, hoping he hadn’t been spotted.

  After five minutes crouched on the floor, finally everyone began to rise and take their seats again and Tom followed. Immediately his eyes scanned the group now sitting at the top table with Leicester in his usual place beside the Queen on one side and Burghley on the other. Tom then spotted Walsingham as he continued to scrutinise the entourage.

  Eventually his eyes rested on what he sought. He could see she was also scanning the crowds but there were so many people and he couldn’t draw attention to himself and risk someone else noticing. He kept his eyes firmly trained on her, drinking in her beauty as if he were a man in the desert dying of thirst. Her face was flushed, the thick gown she was wearing appeared to be made from a dark green broadcloth, the sleeves in a contrasting white with matching green ribbons. The dancing orange light from the firepla
ce, decorated with garlands of ivy with sprigs of glossy dark green holly dotted with red berries and a huge yule log blazing close to where she was sitting, etched the outline of her face and enhanced her beauty. Her hair was visible around her face under a small hood perched on the back of her head.

  Just as Tom despaired of ever making eye contact with her, he felt the heat of her gaze burning his skin as their eyes met across the crowded room. It was as if nobody else was there. The bodies pressed in close to Tom along the bench and there was an underlying unpleasant smell that was inevitable with so many people pressed together. Jugglers danced around the room, teasing people as they watched entranced. The sweet taste of the candied plums he’d been eating from the bowl on the table, the sticky feeling of syrup on his fingertips; it all blended into the background.

  He didn’t want to be noticed by anyone who happened to be watching him but he couldn’t stop a wide smile from spreading across his face as their eyes met. Isabel glanced quickly around her, checking whether anyone was watching before she smiled back. It was as if the sun was radiating its brilliance in the room and the still falling snow and grey clouds outside had dissipated. She then reached up to the ruff around the neckline of her dress and ran her fingers around it. Tom caught a momentary glint of a gold chain before it disappeared and he felt his heart soar as relief flooded through him. She was still his, he was sure of it; she was wearing her betrothal necklace. Whatever had happened to any correspondence over the past few months, it didn’t matter now.

  He was desperate to rush up to the top table and sweep her up into his arms but he knew that was the quickest way to find himself evicted from the Christmas festivities and probably from his job and home. He couldn’t risk anything so stupid. How, he wondered, was he going to arrange a meeting when the snow was so thick outside? He suspected he’d need to wait until Isabel made contact and he hoped it wouldn’t be too long until she did.

  The rest of Christmas Day continued in the same vein as the morning. The yule log burned in the grate and there was more music and dancing. Tom could feel the vibrations of the music although he couldn’t join in with the dancing, having no idea of the rhythm. He was happy though to sit and eat the marchpane and honeyed nuts that appeared with regularity on platters and drink the strong ale being passed around the table. By the time people were beginning to falter he could hardly keep his eyes open and after all the drink he’d consumed he was unsteady on his feet staggering back to his room.

  The stillroom was almost in darkness, the fire just producing a small glow as he entered, holding on to pieces of furniture to guide his trembling legs. Immediately, he knew the room was occupied. The soft smell of lavender caught his senses and he felt its warmth weaving its way through the fibres in the air, teasing him. There was another person in there with him. He saw the shadows shift as she stepped out from where she’d been waiting in the dark corner. Winding her arms, still encased in smooth wool, around his neck she pressed her body against his own as he inhaled her fragrance, holding her head with one strong hand against his chest and his other arm across her back. He never wanted to let her go. He could feel her heart beating against his and her chest rising and falling as she breathed and bending his head he kissed her. He was drowning in her and he never wanted to move again.

  Eventually she stepped back and taking a fine wooden spill from a pot beside the now barely lit fire, she found a flame and lit a candle she must have brought with her to find her way. Lighting her face from below it danced off the edges of her delicate features, her eyes still shadowed in darkness. But the glow against her lower face meant he could see her lips now a deep rose, bruised from kissing him.

  ‘I missed you,’ she told him, ‘I couldn’t find where you were to write to you without alerting anyone to our friendship.’ Relieved, Tom knew that at least she’d tried to keep in contact.

  ‘I missed you too.’ His mime was clumsy and he wished he’d exercised more constraint with the ale earlier but she seemed to understand him anyway.

  ‘I’m still wearing your locket,’ she pulled it out from around her neck, ‘it stays beside my heart always.’ He smiled and nodded, putting his palm against his own heart then onto hers. She laid her small hand over his.

  ‘I know that our lives have not followed the same path and that for someone of my rank it is considered inconceivable that we may be together but I will risk everything for this to be so. I cannot think of anything I wish more than to be with you always. And, God willing, to have a family with you.’

  Tom stared down at her sure he’d misread what she’d said. That she desired everything that he did too was more than he could have hoped for. Taking her hands he kissed them gently, holding them in his against his heart.

  ‘I cannot leave court during Christmas,’ she explained, ‘but can you come to my home after twelfth night? We cannot go on in this way, we must do something.’ Tom couldn’t understand what she intended but he’d caught the gist of what she was saying and he wondered if he’d got it right. Surely she wasn’t speaking of marriage? It was more, so much more, than he had ever imagined.

  ‘I will send a note to let you know when,’ she explained and he nodded before bending down and kissing her once more and then she was gone, the candle she carried disappearing down the corridor until the darkness swallowed her up.

  However much he was enjoying it all the twelve days of Christmas and the extravaganza of a royal palace at the turn of the new year dragged for Tom. The food and ale began to taste bitter in his mouth as he waited impatiently for life to return to normal so he could meet properly with Isabel. He had, as predicted, handed out multiple powders for upset stomachs to soothe the disagreement of so much rich food. The Queen was well known for eating very little but she was once again requesting powders for toothache after partaking of too much marchpane, together with sleeping draughts as her throbbing teeth kept her awake long into the night. The stocks of vanilla were running low and now they only used it in medicines for the Queen. It would be a long time before spring when the weather would be good enough for the boats to start to return from Venice and Antwerp again with more supplies. He wished he could produce the precious pods with his own vanilla plants but he’d had no luck and would have to hope the warmer weather would encourage the plant to bear fruit. At least he’d been able to save them by bringing them into the warmth of the stillroom.

  The message he was waiting for finally arrived in mid-January, coinciding with a partial thaw of the snow. Isabel had been given leave to return to her home and she delivered a note to the stillroom before she went, asking Tom to be at her house that day or as soon as he could get away.

  Tom was worried about the urgency intimated in her words. He was certain Hugh wouldn’t agree to his disappearing from work whilst they were busy replacing the medications used over the festive season but Tom was determined to be at Cordwainer Street as soon as he was able.

  He knew Hugh had seen him quickly read the note and slide it in his pocket and during the afternoon Tom disappeared into his room arriving back wearing his blue coat and with a silent shrug of his shoulders in apology did a mime of being summoned to Walsingham again. Hugh barely responded and Tom felt a stab of guilt that he was lying to his friend. But he couldn’t help himself, he’d risk everything to see Isabel.

  There were few boats waiting at the jetty, the scullers standing in a small group smoking their clay pipes and stamping their feet trying to keep warm. Tom held out a piece of paper conveying which wharf he needed to be taken to and hopped into a boat. Most of the boatmen knew him and someone peeled off from the group and climbed in, picking up his oars and pulling them out into the centre of the river.

  Although the weather was fine there was no warmth in the sun which shone from a sky so washed out it was almost white. It was preferable to the ugly yellow clouds that dropped the unrelenting snow but the air that he breathed was still freezing, catching in his throat and burning the tops of his ears as they moved slo
wly through the water which was smooth and still like slippery silk, reflecting the pale sky above them. In his haste to see Isabel he’d forgotten his cap.

  Arriving at Isabel’s home the door was flung open as he arrived on the doorstep to show her waiting there, a huge smile on her face. Leaning forwards she pulled him into the warm hall and pressed her lips to his before springing backwards and exclaiming ‘you’re so cold!’ Tom nodded, taking her with him to the fire where he sat down and pulled her onto his lap. It was heaven, he never wanted to move again. Isabel however had other ideas.

  ‘We need to talk,’ she informed him. He raised his eyebrows and waited for her to continue. ‘I want to be married and hopefully one day have a family. It is my greatest wish; children running through the house and a husband by my side.’ Tom pulled her against him and kissed the top of her head before taking her face between his hands. He pointed to himself and nodded in agreement. It was everything he desired too.

  ‘We cannot carry on in this way.’ Tom’s heart plummeted. Had she brought him here, seemingly pleased to see him, just to tell him their strange, hidden relationship was at an end? Surely, she could have put that in a letter. He went to stand up, trying to lift her back onto her feet but she resisted holding her hand up to stay him. ‘Wait,’ she said, ‘until I have finished what I need to say. I love you Tom Lutton and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. We can only do that if we get married. It will enrage the Queen when she finds out we have wed without her permission but I am prepared to risk that, are you?’

  Tom was astonished at what he was reading on her lips and wondered if he’d misinterpreted it. He nodded slowly, then still holding her he got to his feet and spun around the room with Isabel’s feet flying out from their bodies. He could feel her shrieks of laughter against his chest.

  Eventually, he placed her back on the floor where they both stood for a moment, waiting while the room stopped spinning on its own. Going to a desk in one corner she pulled out a sheaf of paperwork.