The Queen's Spy

by Clare Marchant

  Eventually she moved away from him and he realised they were being spoken to. She had dropped down into a curtsey and he knelt on one knee, head bowed, waiting to see what she did. As she stood up again he followed suit, facing the Queen who was talking to Isabel; she nodded vigorously before taking Tom’s hand and walking backwards out of the room.

  Suddenly they were on the other side of the chamber door where the guards stood with their pikes, staring straight ahead. The door closed behind them and Isabel threw her arms around Tom before leading him to a nearby window seat where the sunlight from outside had warmed the embroidered cushion a little. He could see her face better here as she explained to him what had happened to her.

  ‘The Queen has granted us a pardon because you have worked so hard for Walsingham and been able to assist in uncovering plots when nobody else could. She is very pleased with you and I am able to return to my home. I will no longer be expected to attend Her Majesty. And I have another surprise for you.’ She took his hand and pressed it against her belly. Beneath the solid form of her stomacher he felt a distinctive swelling. His eyes widened as they met hers and she smiled and nodded. ‘We are to have a baby in the autumn,’ she mouthed, ‘it must have been made in the days following our wedding before we were separated. I have seen a midwife, my maid insisted that one was brought to the Tower, and she says it will be born a little before Michaelmas.’

  Tom thought he would explode with happiness and his eyes brimmed with tears just as Isabel’s had. He rubbed at them frantically with the back of his hands. He needed to be able to see clearly to be able to read what she was saying. Together they walked to the wharf and waited for a wherry to take them home.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  August 1585

  Tom was loving his new life. Every morning he’d wake in their comfortable bed behind heavy drapes that made the interior around them murky, the muted light casting them into their own twilight world. The warmth from her body, her belly now much larger drew him to her and every morning he was reluctant to leave, returning to the palace or to St Bartholomew hospital to work with Doctor Bright. Walsingham seemed to have forgotten about him, at least for the present, and Tom felt the constant nag of fear wondering what the spymaster may ask him to do next. He knew the absence of assignments wouldn’t last much longer. His heart thumped hard when he thought about the potential danger. He had a wife and soon a new baby to worry about.

  He’d seen the way some of their neighbours looked at him when he left the house, the sideways glances and turned backs and he guessed that the servants had been gossiping. He could imagine their opinions of an apothecary suddenly married to a lady and living in the opulent house close to them. He was used to being looked down upon and ignored them.

  Returning home one evening from the palace, Tom was informed by Anne, Isabel’s lady’s maid, that his wife had taken to her bed that morning and the midwife had been called. It was earlier than the baby was due to arrive, just eight months since their wedding and he spent a worried night walking around the parlour as the midwife and Catherine, a maid Isabel was particularly fond of, hurried back and forth to the kitchen for fresh boiled water on numerous occasions. Previously he’d prepared a tisane of pennyroyal to assist with birth and he pressed it into Catherine’s hands as she passed by. He was thankful that, as had been pointed out to him, he couldn’t hear the screams which apparently went with giving birth. All was as silent as ever in his world. But it also meant he wouldn’t hear his own baby give its first cries, nor hear a giggle or its first words and he’d give anything to experience those things.

  Eventually, as the first stirrings of light began to filter through the windows and the city skyline started to silhouette itself against the dawn clouds, he was dozing in a chair beside the fireplace, the embers now barely glowing, when the rush of air as the door was opened swept across his face. In one movement he was on his feet, his eyes trained on the candlelight in the doorway. The midwife was standing there, her face smiling as she stepped to one side and indicated he could finally go up to Isabel.

  Taking the stairs two at a time he rushed into the bedroom, carefully averting his eyes from the pile of blood-soaked linens on the floor outside. The room was still in almost complete darkness, tapestries and carpets hung at the windows as tradition depicted, with low light coming from the fire blazing in the grate and the candles still lit in the sconces. Sitting up in bed, Isabel’s face reflected the orange from the fire giving her a flushed look, her hair still stuck to her face in damp tendrils. She smiled at him gently, proffering the tiny swaddled blanket in her arms.

  ‘Our son,’ she said as she handed the tiny baby to him. Tom looked down at the sleeping child, the softest graze of hair across his head and his cheeks pink and soft. He couldn’t stop the hectic beating of his heart and a wide, relieved smile spread across his face. He signed ‘beautiful’ then pointed to the baby and to her and she beamed. She looked exhausted and laying the baby in the wooden crib beside the bed he signed for Isabel to sleep as he tiptoed from the room. He knew he was leaving them both in safe hands, Catherine had come to them from a family of fourteen siblings and she’d helped in the birth of many of those babies. She loved Isabel as much as he did; he saw it in her actions and her care every day.

  The sun was now starting to climb in the sky and Tom quickly pulled on his boots and jerkin, hurrying through the streets filling with the daily bustle of hawkers and trades people as he headed to the river. Hugh was always quick to complain about the time his assistant was missing from the stillroom and arriving late just because his wife had given birth wouldn’t help soothe his irritation. He paused for a moment to buy a warm pie from a seller on the docks before climbing into a small boat and holding out the now tatty memo book with the list of his destinations. One of the pages of his book simply said ‘The Tower’ and he fervently hoped he never needed to show that to anyone again. He still shuddered as he flipped past the page looking for other places.

  It only took a couple of seconds of Tom demonstrating himself rocking a baby for Hugh to realise why he was so late to work and after a quick congratulatory slap on the back he was despatched to the physic garden for comfrey. On his way he checked their vanilla plants; finally he could see tiny flower buds and he was hopeful they would grow seed pods and save him many hours trying to source them around the warehouses beside the Thames. He was now buying almost all of the sweet spice that arrived at Queenshithe docks and had even sent a message to the port at Norwich to send any that appeared in cargo there.

  After dinner, where Tom realised how hungry he was, consuming several bowls of pottage followed by pie, cheese and apples, a note came from Walsingham’s office ordering him to visit Doctor Bright. He showed it to Hugh and pulled his apologetic face but secretly he was delighted. The hospital was close to Cordwainer Street and he’d be able to get home quickly afterwards. He hoped this wasn’t a day that the doctor wanted to work late into the night. His writing was so small it made Tom’s eyes hurt to concentrate on it after a while and he already had a headache after so little sleep the night before. He was desperate to get home to see Isabel and their tiny son.

  They didn’t have a major breakthrough but he wanted to test out some shorthand he’d devised with Tom to ensure the Catholic plotters couldn’t decipher it if they got hold of any letters. Together they worked on the passage they were coding for three hours until they were both pleased; they could easily condense three pages of writing into two short paragraphs whilst still being able to understand what it said. They’d done a good job between the pair of them and were sure Walsingham and Phelippes would be happy. Now they’d be able to relay the plotters’ schemes on smaller, well-concealed scraps of paper.

  Arriving home that evening the sun was hanging on the horizon and glowing deep orange; throwing long shadows across the streets as it danced against the sides of the houses, reflecting in the windows, which flashed as if they were on fire. Tom raced straight upstairs t
o see Isabel, not caring whether it was deemed suitable behaviour for a new father. He found both his wife and his son fast asleep, the room still dark and hot; he knew it would stay that way until Isabel had been churched when the baby was a month old. Until then she couldn’t leave the room.

  Perching on the bed he watched them both until Isabel stirred. He’d shifted his weight more than once hoping she’d wake up and he smiled to himself as his plan worked. She pushed herself up into a sitting position and peered into the cradle smiling sleepily. The baby’s tiny perfect features were a replica of her own.

  ‘So small,’ Isabel mouthed, putting her hands close together to demonstrate. Tom nodded. He tried to think of a mime to ask her what she wanted to name the baby but eventually gave up in frustration and looking around the room found one of several wax tablets positioned around the house. ‘Name’ he wrote, passing it to Isabel.

  ‘I thought Richard?’ she replied, writing ‘Richard’ on the tablet in case he had misunderstood. This wasn’t a question about dinner which occasionally got confused in translation, Tom expecting one thing and being served something else, this was the name of their son. He may never get the opportunity to call out to the little boy but they should agree on his name.

  He nodded in agreement and made his sign for ‘perfect’. Then in order to save time over the following years he invented a new sign for his new son’s name, pointing to the word and then following it with his new sign: clasping the top of one arm with the other.

  A movement beside his foot alerted Tom to the fact that Richard was waking and he bent to pick up the baby who was now red in the face, his eyes screwed up, his mouth wide open. Tom felt a pang of sadness he couldn’t hear his son or croon words of comfort as he held the bundle of blankets in which Richard was swaddled tightly, against his shoulder. He could feel the tiny lungs expanding and the shuddering of angry breath but gradually they subsided into a gentler rhythm. Holding him out at arm’s length, Tom and Richard gazed solemnly at each other. It was as if the baby understood the only comfort he would derive here came from the solid warmth of his father’s touch.

  The door opened and the wet nurse arrived, taking Richard and disappearing again. Isabel was looking tired once more and Tom kissed her gently before creeping out and back downstairs. He hoped that despite the new arrival cook hadn’t forgotten his own dinner in amongst the caudles and custards being prepared for Isabel to regain her strength. Then, after so little sleep the previous night, he intended retiring to the bedroom which had been made up for him whilst Isabel was confined. He lay down, a wide smile stretched across his face. Everything he had ever wished for was finally his.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  August 2021

  ‘Come on, tell me what the experts said!’ Rachel jumped up off the sofa as Mathilde walked in, leaving Fleur engrossed in a cartoon on the television as the two women went to sit at the kitchen table. Rachel was almost bouncing on her seat in anticipation. ‘Is it some love letter written by Henry VIII and worth a fortune?’

  Mathilde still had scant knowledge of the king Rachel kept referring to despite the research she’d done but she understood the second part of the sentence. ‘No money for it,’ she explained, ‘they want me to give it to the university so it can be displayed in their museum.’

  ‘Well, I can see why they’d ask,’ Rachel replied, ‘but you don’t look very happy? This is a historical artefact of interest to people around the world. You can’t hide it away; it should be enjoyed by everyone. Surely you can see that?’

  Mathilde gave her now familiar non-committal shrug. How could she start to explain that she was certain the letter needed to be in its home; this was where it belonged. Its soul was always destined to be here. At that moment, like a ray of light blazing through a gap in the clouds, she suddenly realised that was what she’d been starting to feel since she first arrived; her soul was fated to be at Lutton Hall. Rachel rolled her eyes and went to put the kettle on.

  ‘Look, anything of historical significance should be displayed in a museum. There are many historians who devote their whole lives to studying the Tudors and now you’ve got a resource that’s like gold dust to them. At least I assume it is as you haven’t actually told me what it says.’

  Mathilde began to explain further what had been said, disappointed her sister hadn’t backed her up; after all they were family. Although she couldn’t bring herself to explain the claim the hall now had on her as she worried Rachel wouldn’t understand.

  ‘The other bit in invisible ink is more exciting but it has to be deciphered really slowly so the parchment doesn’t get damaged. It may take weeks until we know everything. Sorry I don’t know any more today.’

  ‘You don’t need to apologise to me,’ Rachel told her, ‘this is your house now. It’s your letter, your triptych. What you do is up to you. Whether you stay here after I leave or let it out. It’s our ancestral home and we’re all one family.’

  ‘It’s easy for you to casually mention our family as if it repairs the past,’ she replied, tired after an early start to the day and not bothering to soften the edges of what she wanted to say, ‘I cannot forget all that has happened to me and being here does not wipe,’ she waved her arm about as she tried to think of the words she needed, ‘everything from my life away. It’s always here,’ she banged her chest with her fist, ‘in my heart. Always. Time does not heal this quickly. Maybe never.’

  Rachel’s face fell and ashamed of her outburst Mathilde walked from the room and out into the garden, tears stinging the backs of her eyes. She’d lived with her demons for so long, refusing to acknowledge her past and her insecurities. Everything Rachel had enjoyed as a child was all that Mathilde had missed out on and it hurt, even now. She’d never had the confidence others did, the self-assurance that could only come with family and a place to call home. And yet now it was here for the taking if only she could allow herself to.

  Collecting her father’s spade she walked over to the corner of the garden and pushed it into the earth. She could barely see where to dig as her tears ran down her face and fell onto the ground.

  As ever, working in the garden slowly began to work its magic on her. The tranquil and soothing ambience. As if someone had their arms around her, telling her everything was going to be all right, helping to repair the huge hole in her life she’d thought would never be filled. Here in this cool dark space beside the small coppice, a voice was telling her that it was okay to let her guard down and relax. Nothing could harm her here, ever. No fires could burn their way through her soul and turn her life into a void.

  ‘Maman,’ she whispered as her tears dripped onto the earth.

  ‘Hey Matty, I wondered where you’d got to.’ Oliver’s voice called across the vegetable patch. She’d forgotten he was still there and she quickly rubbed her cheeks on the sleeve of her jumper, the rough wool harsh against her face before turning around to face him.

  ‘Just getting some more digging done,’ she replied giving him a wobbly smile, knowing her cheery answer belied the state of her face. She sniffed loudly. ‘I want to move some of the fruit bushes here.’ She heard the snapping and squeezing of undergrowth as he crashed through the overgrown grasses, brambles and dried cow parsley until he was standing beside her. Taking her chin in his thumb and forefinger he tipped her head around until she was facing him. She paused, her foot still resting on the spade ready to thrust it again into the soft ground.

  ‘Rachel said you were upset.’ He looked into her eyes as if he wanted to search her soul but she deliberately shut him out, leaving her face blank.

  ‘It was nothing,’ she shrugged, ‘it feels as if she thinks now I’m here with her – my family, in our home – then everything is wonderful in Mathilde-Land. As if the past, the first twenty-eight years of my life, have been swept away. How can she understand what it was like to grow up surrounded by mistrust, always running away? No father and no home.’ She could feel her eyes welling up again and she tipped
her head back to try and abate them. Always the past was there, waiting to reclaim her. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’ She turned her head away and pushed the spade in again, pulling out a large sod and turning it over, the pale, dry mud the colour of milk chocolate falling back down onto the ground and scattering across her shoes.

  ‘Of course it matters,’ Oliver remonstrated, ‘stop digging for a moment and sit down with me.’ He took her elbow and gave it a little tug, gentle but insistent.

  He led her to the greenhouse close by and they sat on the ground outside, the weeds there flattened by her daily to and fro to check on her plants.

  ‘I think you’re being unfair to your sister,’ he put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her stiff body against him, ‘how can she know how you feel unless you open up and tell her? She does understand about your childhood and she wants to help you, if only you’d let her in.’

  ‘I’m trying,’ she whispered, ‘but as you English say “easier said than done”.’

  Oliver smiled. ‘Your English has improved significantly,’ he told her. ‘Now, how are the vanilla plants?’ She was grateful for him changing the subject. ‘Did the germination work?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mathilde smiled, ‘it always works. It took hundreds of years for someone in Europe to work out why vanilla could only grow in certain countries, that only particular types of bees can pollinate them. Which is why we have to do it ourselves. Nature assisted by man.’