Finally, after a long, slow climb up the stairs where Tom stumbled twice and almost fell backwards, he reached the daylight which was so harsh and bright he immediately screwed his eyes up, squinting through his eyelashes. He looked around the guards’ room from which lay the corridor and stairs that led down to the cells. Or depths of hell, Tom thought to himself.
The serjeant was scratching a quill on parchment in front of him and didn’t look up but Tom barely noticed him as he spotted a guard in royal uniform standing in the corner, his face wearing a suitably grave countenance. Tom had no idea what a man like that would be doing in a place like this and it appeared that by the look of disgust on his face he was wondering the same thing. It seemed as though he was gaining Tom a pardon as the serjeant signed the parchment with a flourish and handed it to the young man, before almost throwing Tom’s blue coat across the desk. The outer door swung open and Tom didn’t need any encouragement to step through it and into the fresh outside air.
He drew in big gulps, filling his lungs as if trying to expel every trace of the rancid air he’d breathed for the previous twenty-four hours. Every smell he’d always taken for granted bombarded him. From the traders and market stalls nearby came the scent of warm pasties and hot peas, the earthy, country smell of vegetables and sweet apples. Even the aroma of horse dung – and a trace of the human variety – couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.
The guard gave a jerk of his head and strode away and Tom, still having no idea what was going on, followed him, darting around the city goodwives and servants, their baskets full of warm bread which just made him salivate more. He wished that the man knew some of Tom’s signing because he’d really like to ask if some food could be bought. He was so hungry he thought he might vomit. But they carried on walking, his legs like lumps of calves’ foot jelly, until they reached a jetty where a boat bearing the Queen’s pennant fluttered in the breeze blowing down the river. Surprised by the difference in the craft which had taken him downriver the day before Tom hopped aboard and sat down on a bench at the back, stroking the thick deep pile of the crimson velvet, pushing his fingers into its softness. It reminded him of the velvet gowns Isabel often wore. His heart beat faster at the thought she might be waiting for him when they reached the palace; he desperately wanted to smell the soft lavender of her hair, to press his lips against the smooth skin of her throat.
As soon as the boat docked the guard, who hadn’t even looked at Tom during the journey downstream, jumped off and disappeared across the lawn and into the palace. Tom was unsure where to go and was about to return to the stillroom when he was stopped by a page. He recognised the young boy as the one who had taken him to the Queen for his punishment and when he was beckoned to follow once again, his euphoria at getting out of gaol began to increase. Surely he was being taken to reunite with his wife?
Instead of being led to the state apartments however, Tom was taken along a different corridor; one he instantly recognised. They weren’t going to see the Queen, instead they were on their way to Walsingham’s office. He’d been hoping to find Isabel back in her rightful place with the other ladies and his heart sank as he wondered when he would see her again. Then an insidious thought tried to push its way uninvited into his mind: supposing she was still in the Tower? Although he couldn’t understand why he would have been freed and not her. He was the servant, she was the courtier.
He watched the page knock on the door and almost immediately it swung open, a guard stepping to one side to allow admittance. The page glanced at him and then began to trot away in the direction from which he’d come so Tom had no option than to enter the room and discover what was in store for him next. He imagined he wasn’t going to like it.
Just like the serjeant earlier Walsingham was writing and although he must have been aware Tom was standing there, there was no indication of it. Tom was still feeling shaky and wished he could sit. Perhaps if he fell down, which was distinctly likely, someone might pay attention. Eventually Walsingham looked up, as if alerted by Tom’s swaying from side to side, and nodded his head towards a chair. Tom noticed how he’d wrinkled his nose and shuddered a little and he couldn’t help agreeing silently that he didn’t smell very good. He kept his eyes on Walsingham’s face knowing that the only way he was going to understand what was going on was by lip reading whenever the spymaster chose to speak to him.
‘How was your night in gaol?’ Walsingham’s frigid smile did not reach his eyes and although Tom couldn’t hear the tone in which he was being spoken to he could certainly make a good guess. He might not be behind bars anymore but he knew he wasn’t forgiven. He tried to sign to ask the whereabouts of Isabel but Walsingham put a hand up to stop him.
‘You are here because I have important work for you to do and I could not spare you to sit at your leisure doing nothing.’ Tom’s face remained passive, carved from stone. He hoped Walsingham would tell him where his wife was. Then a thought entered his head so dreadful he felt his blood run cold. Had they killed her? As if reading Tom’s mind Walsingham continued. ‘If you can do as I ask and bring me back favourable information Her Majesty will consider having Lady Isabel released from the Tower. Is that clear? You do as I decree and perhaps, she will be returned to you in one piece.’
Tom breathed out slowly. At least she wasn’t dead. Yet. Whatever task Walsingham wanted Tom to undertake he’d do it. Anything to ensure his wife was safe. He nodded, his hands gripped together on his lap.
‘I want you to follow someone for me. Find out what he is saying and who he meets with. It should not be difficult except you will need to be vigilant at all times. Do not let him realise you are there. Understand?’
Tom nodded. Walsingham’s dark face deepened as if a shadow had passed in front of the sun. With his hair hidden beneath a black cap that came down to his face, he looked like the ravens at the Tower; the ones currently watching over Isabel.
‘Do not let me down,’ Walsingham enunciated and with a wave of his hand Tom was back outside the room on his own and unsure of what to do next. As he stood for a moment wondering a page appeared from somewhere inside the apartment and beckoning Tom to follow they began to walk for what felt like miles along dark corridors lit by occasional small windows with tiny panes of glass, throwing thin dull patches of light onto the floor which was covered with sweet smelling rushes, meadowsweet and lavender. Tom remembered the stench of his prison cell that morning and felt bile rising up in his throat. Would he ever get the smell of death out of his nostrils?
Chapter Forty
February 1585
Whilst relieved he was now free Tom was bereft that Isabel still languished in the Tower. He managed a single visit to her at dusk one evening, bribing the guards to allow him to see her for ten minutes. Even the sight of the twin towers of the Byward Tower gatehouse as he passed beneath them filled him with foreboding. He was starting to question his decision to marry Isabel. Despite his love for her, their union had placed her in grave danger. He followed a guard across the green to the brick-built Beauchamp Tower where he was shown into her chamber. Relieved to find her in relative comfort in the small room, despite the old and slightly rat-chewed tapestries, it was still cold. A small fire burned in the grate and Isabel together with the only maid she was allowed were both huddled close to it. After he’d finally released her from his arms, never wanting to let her free again, she managed to explain they only had a meagre allowance of logs a day and needed to eke them out. Tom immediately reassured her that somehow he would ensure they had more delivered. The room and the food were a far cry from what she’d been used to at court or in her own comfortable home. From the small windows she had a good view of the vicinity: the green below, the chapel and the huge dominating White Tower as well as the Queen’s House where the Lieutenant of the Tower lived. She was allowed to walk along the ramparts to the adjacent Bell Tower when the weather permitted but he could see how being locked up was affecting her health. Her pale skin was now taut over he
r cheekbones, grey and sallow, and her eyes that always twinkled at him were dull and lifeless. Turning her back on her maid, she reached down into the neckline of her dress and pulled out her locket, pressing it into Tom’s hand and folding his fingers over. He slipped it into his pocket.
After ten minutes, a banging on the door alerted Isabel and she signed to Tom that he needed to leave. He scooped her up, her slight body feeling like a Bartholomew Baby, the wooden dolls that were sold in large amounts at St Bartholomew Fair. Crushing her to him he was desperate to feel her heart, the movement of her lungs as she breathed against his chest, her lips against his. Eventually she wriggled a little bit and he put her back down. She ushered him towards the door.
‘I will be fine,’ she promised and not daring to look back and display the emotions cast across his face he followed the guards back downstairs and out onto the green. He knew from the location of her room she could look down and see him there but he deliberately didn’t turn towards her. Someone may be watching him, he of all people now knew there were spies watching all the time, and he wanted to guarantee her life was as comfortable as possible. Turning to the guards he mimed wood chopping and twitched his head towards her room. One of them nodded and yet more groats changed hands.
Back in his stillroom Tom admitted to himself it was too dangerous to attempt another visit to his wife, even though every fibre of his being yearned to. By keeping his head down and doing as Walsingham had asked of him his conduct would surely bring about her release sooner than anything else. He had the name of his prey and all he needed to do was watch him and report back where he went and who he met with. He could certainly do that and pulling on his blue coat which had miraculously been returned to him when he left Poultry Corner, he went to find a wherry which would take him to The Cross Keys to see if he could find the man they called John Ballard.
Unconfined by buildings the bitter east wind whistled down the river bringing with it flecks of snow which stung Tom’s face as he huddled in the bow of the small boat. His mind wouldn’t stop churning over his misfortune; he’d been so close to all that he wanted, a safe home and someone who loved him, to have it all torn away within weeks. That moment of living as husband and wife had just brought home more cruelly that all he wanted and desired was forever destined to be out of his reach. Would he ever be able to live with his wife again? If he hadn’t been taken on at the palace, if his vanilla and apothecary skills hadn’t been noticed by the Queen … he could blame the chain of events that had brought him to this moment, he considered morosely, but without those things happening he wouldn’t have met Isabel and now she was his world. He would die for her. And he’d certainly go and spy for Walsingham if it would secure her release.
He found the inn quite easily and the two drunk men slumped on the floor face down outside gave him an idea of what type of establishment it was. Tom had expected a better class of tavern, Walsingham had intimated the plotters were minor nobility, but if the men were meeting to discuss dangerous conspiracies he supposed that maybe they’d meet up somewhere they were unlikely to be recognised. He wasn’t about to question Walsingham’s intelligence that he’d find his prey here.
Pushing open the door the room was hazy with smoke both from the fire, which appeared to belching out grey clouds with every swing of the door, and layers of drifting smoke from the numerous clay pipes. He hastily shut the door causing another plume to bellow into the room. An old grizzled man with matted, lank hair to his shoulders turned around on his stool and glared at Tom.
The room was small and as before Tom chose to stand at the side of the room where he’d have better sight of everyone than if he were sat at the only available table in the corner. Pointing to a jug of ale he was furnished with a cup and a jug and he handed over the coins gratefully before pouring the amber liquid and downing it in one. The air in the room not only made it difficult to see, it also made his throat hurt. He wondered how the others could sit in there for hours at a time with seemingly no ill effects. Perhaps it was practice. And, as another man staggered in and slammed the door shut, maybe the proprietor deliberately let the fire fill the room with smoke; it would certainly increase his sales as everyone, including him, doused their throats at regular intervals.
Tom looked around for his quarry as best he could. Walsingham had sketched a rough portrait of his face but one bearded fellow looked much like another and it was the man’s physique he was searching for. Short and rotund and, he hoped, a little better dressed than the other clientele. Then his eyes alighted on two men deep in conversation at a table just to his right and he realised one of them was the man he was seeking. They were both wearing dull kersey cloaks and dun coloured breeches. Tom heaved a sigh of relief; despite the difficulty in seeing through the haze they were close enough for him to be able to see what they were saying. He wondered who Ballard’s accomplice was.
Holding his cup of ale up as if to take a sip, he watched over the rim as the man he’d identified as Ballard said, ‘They will be arriving by the end of this week. It has been arranged that they dock in Newcastle and will be taken to a safe house in Derbyshire and from there, to Oxford.’ He realised the other man was talking as his shoulder shifted slightly as he spoke and at one point his arms waved about. Tom cursed that he could only see one man at a time and decided to try and move to see who Ballard’s co-conspirator was. Picking up his jug and cup he casually walked over to the fire and placed the items on the mantelpiece before pretending to warm his hands whilst trying not to cough from the smoke.
The other gentleman was taller and thin, almost gangly. He looked a similar age, possibly mid-twenties. Tom wondered why they weren’t just out enjoying life but he’d seen the zealous fervour that Catholics had for their faith and anyone who would stand against the Pope. He watched as Ballard said something he couldn’t catch but then there were a couple of words from his accomplice he instantly recognised: Jesuit priests. They were talking about bringing priests into the country; an operation that was treason and would end on the scaffold. He was certain Walsingham would be very interested in this information and he fervently hoped it would buy Isabel’s release.
The two men stood up as if to leave and he saw the thin man pass Ballard a letter which was immediately secreted inside his coat. Tom turned to his ale and poured himself another cup. A sharp brush of cold air across his face indicated the two men had just walked out and he finished his drink while he waited to ensure they had left, before he followed them.
Outside the sky had cleared and already the cobbles were sparkling with a layer of frost under the moon which shone with an outer ring of white. A sign that a hard frost was on its way; he needed to get back before the Thames began to freeze and the boats stopped rowing. The moonlight threw sharp edged shadows across the street of the top-heavy buildings around him as if they would topple down on him at any moment. There was no sign of the two men and in the distance he could just see a night watchman, his lamp swinging, walking towards him. Tom hurried back to the wharf hoping a boatman would be waiting.
Back in his room, which was almost as cold as it was outside, Tom removed his coat and pulled his blanket around himself before going to the stillroom and making up the fire, sinking gratefully into Hugh’s chair placed beside it.
Finding a piece of parchment and a quill he attempted to quickly note down everything he’d been able to read from the two men’s lips. With the amount he needed to remember, again he used the small curlicues and marks to represent words, he covered half a page in a matter of minutes. From this he knew he’d be able to remember everything he needed to relay to Walsingham the following day, when without doubt he’d be expected to report back every nuance of the evening. There was no chance he’d forget something of importance.
Sure enough, the following morning he was summoned upstairs to Walsingham’s apartment. Hugh had found him asleep in the chair in front of the fire and sent him to get washed and changed. As Tom stirred, the stench of stale smoke m
ade his nose wrinkle up in disgust and heating some water over the fire, he took it in a pot back to his room where he used some lye soap and washed himself down before donning clean clothes.
Taking the memo note he’d written the night before he followed the page – a different one this time, older and more sedate – up to Walsingham’s office where the usual rigmarole of the page knocking and another answering and ushering Tom in proceeded. This time he wasn’t left waiting for quite so long and seeing the piece of parchment in Tom’s hand Walsingham waved him forward, his palm outstretched for Tom to hand it over. Having done so, Tom was pleased to watch the spymaster’s face as he realised it was impossible to read. Just for once, Tom felt as if he had the upper hand.
As before, Tom pointed to each mark he’d made and mimed what each meant. He’d added a separate sign for the name of Ballard. By the time Tom had relayed everything from the night before, Walsingham had gone from his usual austere, closed countenance to openly smiling and clapping Tom on the back.
‘This is very good,’ he complimented. ‘I will make sure my men are watching the port at Newcastle for anyone who could be one of these priests. You have done well. And I must introduce you to Thomas Phelippes; he will be most interested in the code you write in. He also invents codes and I think you could work well together.’ Tom had become confused during this speech but Walsingham wrote down Phelippes’ name and then said ‘come’. He beckoned and Tom followed him through a door set in the panelling at the back of the room then through several more Tom had never seen. Some of them were empty or just contained an occasional chest or press for hanging clothes in and they were cold with no fires in the grate. Tom watched his breath gathering into small white clouds as he hurried along behind Walsingham. It was no surprise the man always kept a good fire burning if this was how cold the rest of the apartment was. The troubled souls of past palace residents hovered in the corners; Tom felt he was being watched.
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