The first inkling Tom had something was very wrong was shortly before dinner time when a young page arrived in the stillroom, his face flushed from running as he panted and tried to explain what the matter was. Tom watched his mouth, trying to read it, but through the page’s heaving chest and lost breath, Tom was confused as to what the boy was trying to say. He turned to Hugh, who had paused in his crushing of oak galls in the pestle and mortar, and waited for an explanation.
Hugh listened for a couple of minutes his head on one side and then turned to Tom, his eyebrows raised and his mouth fallen open.
‘When you were away after New Year, did you get married?’
Tom felt his heart begin to race. He didn’t like the feeling he was getting about what was unfolding and the hairs along his spine began to prickle with sweat as fear crawled up his back. He nodded slowly, watching Hugh’s face carefully so he didn’t miss any signs or nuances.
‘There is mayhem in the state apartments and the Queen wants you up there now. I’d get changed if I were you, and quickly.’ He indicated Tom’s apron and hose which had splatters of ink on them and Tom pulled the apron from him, throwing it down on a stool before running to his room to change into his best pale hose and blue coat. He hurried back, smoothing his clothes, crumpled from where they’d been stored in a press, to find the page hopping from foot to foot in his eagerness to be back upstairs with Tom in tow. Hugh caught his arm as he walked through.
‘Wait,’ he said, ‘who did you marry if the Queen now wants to see you?’ Tom smiled, his eyes shining with pride despite his worry. Picking up his wax tablet he wrote Lady Isabel on it and showed Hugh.
‘One of the Queen’s ladies?’ Hugh asked, ‘are you a complete idiot? You’ll be in gaol by suppertime, you mark my words.’ Tom felt his stomach turn to liquid at the thought of being in dark and squalid conditions when being able to see was such an important part of his ability to communicate. But as long as Isabel was safe he’d gladly go. He turned and followed the page upstairs.
Just for once, Tom was relieved he couldn’t hear the noise in the Privy Chamber. He could tell instantly it was chaos. People running about looking hot and flustered and in the middle of it all the Queen was stood, her usually pale face a most unbecoming shade of puce which clashed with the orange of her hair. She was waving her arms and her mouth seemed to be wedged open in a permanent screech as little globules of spit flew in all directions. He spotted Burghley discreetly wiping some from his doublet. Tom scanned the room for Isabel but there was no sign of her. The ladies were all cowering in a corner, their sewing and a lute laid abandoned on the floor as they rushed to get away from the Queen’s rage. Across the floor other objects were scattered as if flung there in a fit of anger.
Tom bowed low and hoped she hadn’t noticed him but he had no such luck. He kept his eyes firmly on his shoes which he noticed still had the remains of mud on from that morning’s forage in the physic garden. How he wished he was out there with the plants now in that refuge of calm. Eventually someone gave him a push in the middle of his back and taking a step forward to stop himself pitching onto the floor he stood up again.
The Queen was once again sat on her throne and he watched as most of the servants and the ladies hurried from the room. Another shove from behind propelled him in front of the throne and he knelt down on one knee. He wasn’t sure what was going on but he was certain it wasn’t good and some extra subservience may help. He doubted it though. A movement to his left made him turn his head and he recognised the bottom of Isabel’s dress; the one she’d been wearing that morning when they’d left Cordwainer Street together to return to the palace. Slowly he stood upright again until he could see her face. It was streaked with tears, her eyes red and swollen. He felt his blood begin to sing in his veins and he went to take a step towards her. It was at that point he realised they’d been joined by several of the Queen’s guards and an arm shot out to stop him moving. Now he was very confused. Isabel was keeping her eyes firmly on the Queen and he followed suit.
At first it was difficult to understand what was being said – or rather screamed – at them and seeing the blank look on his face she turned and spoke to Burghley, who translated her rant into words Tom could lip read. It didn’t take long for him to realise exactly how much trouble they were in. Despite Isabel knowing that as a widow she had the right to wed whomever and whenever she wished, as she’d predicted the Queen didn’t agree with her. She was furious Isabel had taken it upon herself to marry without permission, especially as it was he, Tom, the lowly assistant apothecary she’d chosen. He was a servant, despite the work he did for Walsingham.
The Queen turned her anger on Isabel and Tom found it easier to read what his wife was saying as she turned her face towards him and explained, tears running down her face, how they’d met up in secret in the gardens. She implored the Queen to forgive them, that they’d thought they were doing no wrong and how deeply they were in love, but her pleas were in vain. Two of the guards stepped forward and each grabbed one of Isabel’s arms as they dragged her backwards out of the room. Instinctively Tom moved to stop them but was also immediately clamped by strong hands the size of shovels, ensuring he could not follow. He turned to Burghley again.
‘Lady Isabel will be taken to the Tower,’ he explained, ‘she is lucky it isn’t Newgate. She will remain there until the Queen decides she has been punished enough; if that ever happens. You are to be taken to Poultry Corner gaol.’ His face had remained impassive as he relayed the information and Tom looked towards the Queen, trying to think of a way to plead with her to release Isabel but with his hands kept immobile and Elizabeth now looking at a spot on the wall above his head, he too was hauled roughly from the room by the guards. Their fingers were digging hard into his arms and he recognised one of them who’d only that month been in the stillroom begging for some of his now famous toothache powder. How his loyalties had changed.
Once they were out in the corridor, they allowed Tom to stand up before they marched him downstairs to the jetty where a boat was already waiting. Tom looked up and down the river to see where Isabel was so he could send her a silent message of love and support but she was nowhere to be seen. A thick fog had descended, a heavy damp blanket kissing the pewter grey water and enveloping him in a deep embrace. It was as desolate as he felt. And he couldn’t call to her. Not for the first time in his life he cursed his disability.
Bundled into the boat and accompanied by one of the guards – not toothache man he noticed – they pulled out into the middle of the river. Usually Tom enjoyed the journey; the feel of the wind on his face, dipping his fingers in the cold Thames and the smooth, regular movements of the oarsman as they moved through the water. Today though he sat with his silence, bolt upright, his heart pounding in fear. He could feel the vibration of the guard behind him speaking and watched as the boatman said ‘neither would I’. Neither would he what? Want to be going to gaol? Well, who would? Everyone knew what those places were like. He fervently hoped Isabel would be kept in decent quarters at the Tower.
Before long they pulled up at a set of slimy, rank smelling, green steps and Tom tried to scramble up them without losing his balance and slipping into the river. He was quite certain neither the boatman nor the guard would make any effort to fish him out again. Holding on to the cold wall beside him the stones rough and sharp beneath his hand, he carefully made his way to the top. The guard’s breath was hot on his neck with every step and once on the jetty he was dragged up dark city streets, the pitch-black night closing in on him, until they reached Poultry Corner. He was propelled across it and in through the gatehouse of a formidable brick building opposite. It looked dark and depressing and Tom felt a hundred melancholy ghosts gather around him, welcoming him to hell.
He was led straight down several flights of steps until he did indeed think he’d reached the depths of Hades. Except instead of being hot and fiery it was bitterly cold and damp, the stench of the Thames and rat urine
mixing sharply in his nose. It was also dark; so black he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. There was no way that any natural light could penetrate so far underground and there wasn’t a chance the guards would leave him a candle. Tom felt the floor vibrate with the force of a door being slammed shut behind him. He wondered if there was anyone else in there with him, given that he wouldn’t hear them talking to him. Something moved beside him and then he felt it run across his feet. Just a rat; he expected there were plenty of those in the cell with him.
The only way he’d know what the room was like was to feel his way around as a blind person would and holding his arms out in front of him he shuffled forwards until they reached the slippery damp stone wall. It was so cold he momentarily took his hands off and rubbed them on his jerkin. The guard had been quick to take his blue coat away and he suspected he wouldn’t ever see it again. Quite possibly he wouldn’t need it anyway, he was doubtless destined for the gallows.
Putting his fingertips back on the wall he made his way around the room. It was tiny, he estimated about eight-foot square, with no furniture and no cell mate aside from the four-legged, long-tailed variety. Sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, which had a few old pieces of straw on but otherwise was also freezing cold stone, he placed his head in his hands in despair. How had they ended up like this, in such trouble, when all they’d done was fall in love? He doubted he’d ever see Isabel again. All his hopes of coming to England and building a life for himself were likely to end up with him swinging on the end of a rope.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
July 2021
‘So, what happens now about this letter, or whatever it is? What did Oliver call it again?’ They were out in the garden and Rachel had found an old canvas deckchair. After several minutes fighting with it, she’d finally erected it and sat down with a cup of coffee. It creaked ominously as she lowered herself in until she was laid at a forty-five-degree angle. Mathilde waited for a moment to see if her sister fell through the threadbare seat and onto the ground but it seemed to be holding her.
‘I don’t remember, it’s not a word I know in English. It begins with P,’ Mathilde confessed, pausing in her digging. She was enjoying increasing the herb garden after finding some mint and sage overgrowing behind the old greenhouse. The solitude she’d sought working in this particular corner using her father’s sturdy, well-loved tools – the ones where her fingers slipped perfectly into the shiny, worn dips and grooves his hands had created – was now being disturbed by Rachel bustling about and chatting. However, she was aware that she hadn’t given her sister a lot of time recently and had managed to smile in what she hoped was a welcoming way when the deckchair and two cups of coffee made an appearance. As ever, Fleur was not far away chasing butterflies and squealing loudly flapping her arms every time a bee came within three metres of her.
‘He’s called another of his friends, I think,’ Mathilde took a mouthful of her milky coffee and grimaced. Just as she would expect of an English person, Rachel was great at making tea but her instant coffee was appalling. Maybe it was time to go back to France, just to top up her caffeine levels properly. ‘He certainly seems to know everyone if you have an art-based question,’ she added with a smile.
‘Well, I suspect it’s a small world,’ Rachel agreed, ‘but useful for us. You. Otherwise, what would happen to these things? I wouldn’t have even realised there was hidden writing on that letter. I must admit I can feel the triptych starting to draw me in too. It’s so mysterious and the possible connection with our family is like a binding between us both and it.’
‘I’m waiting for him to call me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he starts dragging other people here to have a look. I can feel the bond as well; I told him I don’t want it removed from here.’ Mathilde put down her cup and turned back to her digging.
For someone who spent her life purposefully isolated the number of people now gathering around her like sudden clouds at the end of a hot day was disconcerting. She’d gradually been able to accept Rachel and Fleur but not Alice and Jack, who’d kept their distance. They were proof family wasn’t always a good thing and if it weren’t for Rachel she’d have caught the ferry home after the first sign of trouble and confrontation. And now Oliver. She couldn’t help a small smile as she thought of his quirky grin and his blue eyes that were so open and friendly. His whole demeanour was one of acceptance and kindliness, so different to the people who’d shaped her life as she grew up. But she still had a lot of life to live.
Mathilde washed her hands in the kitchen sink after the transplanting of herbs and some additional weeding. She’d also unveiled some giant leaves that Rachel excitedly told her was rhubarb and was excellent in something called ‘crumble’, announcing she would cook it for dessert and take some home to Andrew at the weekend. Mathilde secretly thought it sounded stodgy and disgusting. Checking her phone she discovered a missed call from Oliver and instantly her mouth broadened into a wide grin. The muscles she hadn’t used for so long she’d thought they’d atrophied permanently were now fully functioning. Pressing the return call button she held the phone to her ear. She’d left Rachel and Fleur chasing each other around the house in a big circle and hoped they didn’t burst in while she was talking to him.
‘Hi Matty,’ his warm voice made her flush with pleasure. She would never allow anyone else to abbreviate her name but somehow him saying it was fine.
‘Hey, I missed your call?’ she said.
‘It was just to let you know I’ve spoken to someone at the UEA – the university in Norwich – and he’d really like to take a look at the letter, especially given the context of where it was found. He got really excited.’
‘Context?’ she still had trouble with some English words.
‘Where it was found. And that with the triptych being Elizabethan, or maybe even older given its vague similarity to Bosch, this strange document makes it historically very interesting. I promised we’d get it over to him next week; is that okay with you? If it’s something of value historically he’ll get a lot of kudos from announcing its discovery.’
Mathilde had no idea what ‘kudos’ meant, but she didn’t like to keep drawing attention to her lack of English even after several weeks of dramatic improvement. She was so relieved they may be able to discover what the letter said and even more importantly why she could feel it joining her to the hall that she almost missed what Oliver said next.
‘I’m away for a long weekend but I’ll see if we can take it on Tuesday if you like?’
‘Yes, that would be great, I’d like that. Thank you.’ If she was disappointed that it was going to be several days before she saw him again she wasn’t going to admit it. He was just a friend she told herself. In a month or so summer would be over and she’d be returning to her previous life. As if reminding herself she laid her phone on the table and walked outside to her van opening the doors and turning the engine over to charge the battery. She didn’t want it getting musty or damp; it needed to be ready to go at a moment’s notice. Always have an escape route: her mother had continuously repeated this as a mantra during her childhood. Not that it did her any good in the end.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
January 1585
Tom barely slept that night. In fact, he realised he had no idea if it were night or day in the sinister blackness of his cell. He couldn’t stop worrying about Isabel and remembering the anguish on her face as she was dragged away. Neither of them had imagined their love would result in such a punishment. At some point he finally dozed off, his head on his chest, cold unwelcoming spirits packed in beside him. No wonder the room felt so sad, so despondent; the final resting place of numerous wretches before him.
Eventually, when he was so thirsty his throat was raw and all he wanted was one of his own warm saffron and honey drinks, a strong rush of a draught to one side of his face alerted him to the door opening. A faint light came from a candle carried by the same guard who’d locked him
in and he crouched down and slid a chunk of bread across to Tom, together with a cup of small ale. Tom grabbed the platter and pulled it towards him before the light receded again and he was plunged back into the now familiar darkness.
He drained the cup in one go despite knowing it may be a long time before he got anything else to drink. Parched, he couldn’t stop himself grimacing at the weak, stale taste. He’d bet a hundred gold angels the guards weren’t drinking that. It tasted as if they had taken it straight from the Thames and not even introduced it to any hops, let alone brewed it with some.
The bread was dry and stale but he pulled small pieces off and chewed them until they dissolved in his mouth. At least it gave him something to do but it didn’t stop the gnawing in his stomach. He hoped that meal was merely to break his fast and he hadn’t somehow miscalculated how long he’d been locked up and the paltry offering was actually dinner.
Would anyone on the outside think to bring some food to him? Or to Isabel? He wished with all his heart that she was being treated well and that one of the ladies at court would arrange for some food and home comforts to be taken to her. He could only trust that someone – anyone – was persuading the Queen to release them, after she’d made an example of them both, and that he and Isabel could return to the peace of Cordwainer Street. Although he’d been poor and lived rough numerous times wandering around France and the Low Countries, always on his endless search for a home where he felt accepted, never had he been anywhere like this. He’d certainly fallen from on high he admitted to himself; from a luxurious home and a beautiful, comely wife, back to where he’d started from. Actually, worse than that.
When the door opened a second time, Tom jumped to his feet. It was less than an hour since his meal so he knew it couldn’t be time for a second one. Was he going to get punished, tortured? In the gloomy half-light from the same candle stump as before the sick smell of burning tallow made Tom’s stomach roll unpleasantly. The door opened wider and the guard beckoned him forwards. Hesitantly Tom inched forward, his body tense and his fists clenched waiting for the beating that might follow. Instead, however, the guard stepped to one side and pointed to the dark corridor in front of him and Tom began to walk, his legs shaky and his muscles cramped after a night constricted in a small damp space. He held on to the wall with one hand to guide him and to prevent himself from collapsing.
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