The three men got to their feet and said their goodbyes before leaving the inn. Immediately the table was occupied by two old men who looked as if they would fall if they didn’t sit down and Tom slowly drained his beaker as he waited until he thought the others had dispersed outside. He’d been told on several occasions he must never be seen with any of Walsingham’s men unless they specifically introduced him, or his cover would be blown. And despite the disruption to his life Tom couldn’t deny how much he was enjoying being accepted as an equal for the first time in his life, on a par with an important group of men. Working at the palace had achieved all this and he’d always be thankful for everything he’d gained whilst working there: His wife, his son, and now finally, his self-assurance.
To Tom’s delight, as Easter arrived and spring began to bloom into life, briefly his own life settled down. Being at home with his family at night was far more enjoyable than creeping around the dark streets of the city watching others. As he’d understood through Ballard’s words, Maude, still secretly working for Walsingham, had disappeared to France. Babington also seemed to have slipped away and was rumoured to be at his Derbyshire estate with his wife and daughter. Tom thought if the man had any sense he would be attempting to hide his family far away from the approaching treason.
With more free time, Tom returned once more to his triptych which remained sitting on an easel in the small parlour beside the front door. He added the dark scene of the inside of the tavern trying to show on the surface the oppressive atmosphere, the heat and the smell, the jostling bodies. Then to lighten it he added a tiny portrait of Richard, now starting to sit up on his own and play with the simple wooden rattles placed in his cradle beside him. The little boy smiled at everyone and Tom loved watching Isabel singing to him. Although he couldn’t hear the sounds he could see her face alight and smiling, her body swaying in time to the tune coming out of her mouth. And he loved picking his son up and blowing against his neck, tickling him, seeing him smile and inhaling the warm smell that settled in the folds of Richard’s chubby neck. As the baby grew he watched Catherine talking to him and was relieved to see the way he turned his head to listen. It was obvious that his son could hear and speak perfectly normally. The wet nurse had now left and Richard was eating watered down pottage alongside his parents.
Tom was pleased when Isabel invited him back to their bed, and now Richard was thriving and growing he wondered when there may be the stirrings of a new life within his wife. He had a family of his own, a home, safety and security and he wanted to progress it further. The more babies in the nursery the more secure he’d feel. People who were part of him, who carried his blood in their bodies. His heirs would ensure his legacy would continue forever, a solid bloodline; roots in this land to which he had returned and would now never leave.
The warm spring drifted towards summer and the blossom on the fruit trees in the orchard which bordered the physic garden slowly glided to the ground. Tom was immersed in the idyllic tranquillity of married life and had no desire for anything to disrupt it. But on the twenty-second of May Tom found himself once again in front of Walsingham. After a quick bow as he entered the room, removing his coat and standing in just his shirt and leather jerkin he awaited his instructions. Because they would surely come; he was never summoned to this office unless Walsingham and his spies had use of his stealthy, silent ways.
‘We have had news of Ballard who has now returned from France,’ Walsingham didn’t bother with any niceties, he was a busy man, ‘and we believe the plot they are hatching will soon reach its culmination. I need you to watch Babington: where he goes and who he meets up with. All day, every day. He will in all certainty now begin to meet up with others who are involved in this plot to kill the Queen. We must observe his every move. You will find him at rooms in Hernes Rent, Holborn. Go now and report back to me everything you learn.’ He dismissed Tom with a flick of his hand and Tom, bowing briefly and collecting his coat, left the room, his heart heavy. Whatever was going on he had the feeling Walsingham wasn’t telling him all that he knew. His senses had always been more in tune with other people’s body language. He could read what wasn’t said as well as what was. This was becoming darker – much darker – and the air around him snapped and crackled with tension.
He was relieved to discover there was an inn directly opposite Hernes Rent where he could sit in the window and consume ale whilst watching the outside door to the building. It appeared to be home to several families, as old women, young women and small children all came and went. A beggar sat on the ground which had been transformed into a quagmire by a sudden downpour, whilst everyone stepped over him as they went on their way. He had started holding his hands out clasped together in a bowl shape but had slowly lowered them as they garnered no response. Now he sat with his head on his chest and Tom wondered if he was still alive.
His musings as he watched the world go by were interrupted by a suspicious looking character who scuttled down the street, looking over his shoulder occasionally between watching his feet. He couldn’t look more dubious if he tried and Tom smiled to himself. If everyone looked as devious this assignment might be fairly easy.
Tom resumed his gaze up and down the street and he was rewarded a couple of minutes later spotting a face he now knew well. Ballard strolled along, stepping carefully across puddles and horse droppings covering the ground before he skirted around the beggar and glancing around, stole in through the doorway of the house opposite.
Tom nodded slowly to himself. The rats were starting to crawl on their bellies towards the trap. He had no idea where or when it would be sprung but he knew Walsingham and his men were starting to close in.
Chapter Forty-Seven
August 2021
This time the dream started less abruptly than before and Mathilde found herself in a dark room dimly lit by candles set into sconces on the walls. Sitting up in bed was the lady she recognised from other dreams and in her arms was a small baby, its face just visible from the tightly wrapped blankets. Mathilde stepped forwards and smiling she took the baby from the lady and stared down into its sleeping face. She ran her forefinger down its cheek and inhaled the soft milky newborn scent.
In her sleep Mathilde smiled at the happy scene but as she relaxed further the dream switched location and she was walking along a street, the icy air a sharp contrast to the warm bedroom, making her breath pool into tiny clouds in front of her. She stopped at a house that looked much the same as the others, its upper storeys leaning into the street almost touching the houses opposite making the street feel sinister. The man she was following knocked on the door and within seconds they were admitted to the dark interior.
Confused as to why she was there and finding herself in a room with several other men, the familiar blanket of silence enveloped her. They made little effort to acknowledge her and she was still sitting there, her eyes beginning to close in the warmth of the room when she woke up again.
She lay on her back staring up at the darkness that hung above her. She could still smell the sweet newborn scent of the baby, whoever it was. Had he lived here? She concentrated on how she’d felt in that dimly lit room looking down at the child. A feeling of fierce love and protection she’d never felt herself. She tried not to think about the second part of the dream in that crowded room where the tension was palpable. There was something menacing there, an undercurrent that scared her.
The next day Mathilde headed out to the garden. Kneeling on the ground, small sharp stones digging into her knees, Mathilde tried to pull up some weeds. She hadn’t again seen anything strange in the coppice beside her since the evening after she’d arrived but she knew she hadn’t imagined it. The uncomfortable feeling she’d had in the house when she first arrived had slowly transformed over the weeks from anxious to accepting, welcoming even, so perhaps that was why the spirit hadn’t felt the need to visit her.
She wasn’t getting very far with her task as Shadow, laid in the sunshine beside he
r, kept swiping his paw out at her hand, batting it softly. Mathilde laughed to herself.
‘You’re a happy puss now, aren’t you?’ She ran her fingers through his soft fur. ‘You’ve made this place your home, eh? That’s a good thing, to have landed on your feet.’ She paused for a moment as she realised her initial plan to take Shadow with her when she left felt like a distant memory. She couldn’t uproot him from here now. So, if he had accepted a new place to live and was contented there, what was stopping her doing the same? She didn’t have an answer to that question. Beside her the leaves fluttered and rustled despite the fact the day was still.
‘Are you actually working out here or just hiding?’ Oliver called across the garden, making Mathilde jump.
‘Working, of course.’ She leant forward and pulled some groundsel seedlings from the ground before turning and smiling at Oliver. ‘Although Fleur was being very noisy this morning. I needed some peace.’
‘It’s such a lovely day, let’s not waste it. Shall we go for a walk?’
‘Don’t you need to do some work?’ she asked as she stepped across to where he was standing. He caught hold of her hand as if she’d walk away at any moment and gave it a squeeze. She looked into his sharp blue eyes for several seconds willing him to kiss her again, the attraction curling in her belly, a slumbering animal stretching as it started to wake. Her telepathic skills were obviously not working as he let go of her hand to walk back through to the weed-free brick-laid path which she’d slowly been clearing, now allowing them to access all areas of the vegetable patch.
‘I’ll have you know I’ve been up since five this morning working so I can come over here,’ he told her. ‘What do you say then? Do you fancy a stroll?’
‘Okay,’ Mathilde nodded and brushed her dirty hands down her trousers. ‘Let me wash my hands and grab my camera, I’ll be five minutes.’
Running upstairs and creeping into her room, she collected her camera bag without making a sound so as not to alert her presence to Rachel and Fleur. She didn’t want them to decide to accompany her and Oliver, disturbing the wildlife and the ambience.
‘Which way shall we go?’ Oliver asked as they set off down the drive, ‘how many footpaths have you already investigated?’
‘Most of them,’ she admitted, ‘except the one that leads off to the right near the end of the drive. Rachel said it runs behind the farmhouse where Alice and Jack live so I’ve always avoided going down there. I don’t need any more animosity.’
‘Unless they’re hanging around at the end of their garden or looking out of the window I doubt they’ll even see us. And don’t forget this is all part of your estate now and it’s a public footpath as well. Don’t let them dictate how you live your life; you have as much right as they do to be there.’
She knew he was right, that she should ignore people when they were being antagonistic, but she’d seen what it could lead to. People whispering behind hands when she entered a shop and sometimes refusing to serve her. Shouting over their fences as she and her mother walked past, one time even throwing things at them. He was looking at her, waiting for her to agree with him.
‘Yes, okay,’ she could hear the reticence in her own voice but nevertheless as they reached the path she followed him, climbing over a gate locked with a chain and padlock.
‘That’s not allowed,’ Oliver frowned as he held out the chain, ‘this is a public footpath, look there’s a signpost saying so.’ He pointed towards a smart wooden sign. ‘It’s supposed to be kept open and maintained. That’s something you’ll need to sort out because it’s your responsibility now. Or the long arm of the law will come down on you, hard.’
‘Long arm?’ Mathilde still got confused with some of the terms that he used.
‘Sorry,’ he apologised, ‘the council or the police will pay you a visit because it’s against the law to prevent people walking on footpaths, even if they go across your land.’ Mathilde pulled a face. The last thing she wanted was to bring the authorities to her door, she’d experienced that often enough to know how it usually turned out and it wasn’t well.
‘I have big cutters,’ she said, ‘I’ll come back and get rid of this chain.’ Turning, she started to walk down the track.
It was soon obvious the path had been closed off for a long while as they battled through waist high foliage and brambles. To their left lay the now familiar reeds on the edge of the marsh close by. A deep green border to the flat lands beyond, stretching into the distance until they met the horizon and dissolved into sky, a blurred line between the world and the stratosphere. Lifting her camera to her face Mathilde crouched down until her eyeline was level with the tops of the grasses and she fired off several shots. Everything in her viewfinder was a straight line of colour; pale skies, dusky pink grass fronds and acid green vegetation, broad brushstrokes from a paint palette. Had the artist of her triptych stood here and looked out at the view, inspired by the evocative landscape?
Pushing their way through columbine and marsh marigolds whilst attempting to avoid the nettles, they came around a corner finding themselves at the end of the farmhouse garden. Surprised, Mathilde stopped abruptly and Oliver almost cannoned into her.
‘I didn’t think we’d be so close to the farmhouse,’ she admitted. Over the waist high hedge the lawns sloped upwards to the back of the property where garden furniture was arranged outside on a patio. No old moth-eaten deckchairs here. Neat flower beds around the edges of the lawn were a mass of coloured summer flowers and in one corner the fruit trees that displayed their wares were starting to grow big and heavy as summer progressed. Mathilde could see that her love of gardening, which she’d recently realised was inherited from her father, ran in the family. She’d bet money this pristine, well-loved garden was the work of Aunt Alice.
As if thinking about her aunt made her materialise, she suddenly appeared on the patio and immediately began to stride down the garden towards them.
‘Oh damn,’ Oliver breathed. Beside him Mathilde wrapped her fingers around the bracken beside her and pulled hard, feeling them cutting into her skin. The muscles between her shoulders tightened into knots.
‘Come to gloat, have you?’ Alice’s voice carried across the garden before she’d got to the back hedge. ‘Just checking out what you own? How long before we’re served with an eviction notice then? Or is that why you’re here now, to throw it over the back garden out of sight? Are you too afraid to come to our front door? Oh sorry,’ her voice switched from its high-pitched shriek to a sarcastic drawl, ‘of course, it’s your front door, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Oliver spoke slowly and quietly and Mathilde guessed he was trying to defuse the situation before she opened her mouth and escalated it. ‘We just thought we’d see where this footpath led.’ He paused for a moment. Mathilde waited to see what response they would get about the gate being chained.
‘Nobody has been down that path for years, what a surprise that you suddenly decided to walk along.’
Mathilde couldn’t keep her mouth shut any longer. ‘Of course nobody has been down here, there is a chain on the gate,’ she pointed backwards from the way they had come. ‘And that is against the police long arms,’ she added. Beside her she heard Oliver snort with suppressed laughter but before she could ask him what she’d said wrong, Alice was running across the lawn towards the hedge just the other side of where they were standing. To Mathilde’s horror her aunt now had tears coursing down her face. Mathilde could deal with angry – she was a master of fighting intolerance and prejudice – but she didn’t know what to do with hurt and sorrow. Close up and with no make-up on she saw how old her aunt looked, deep lines etched into her face now awash with the tears that she made no attempt to wipe away.
‘If you decide to sell the estate then we’ve nowhere to go, we’ll be homeless. I wish you’d never been found!’
Before Mathilde could open her mouth to deliver the reply she was building up t
o, Alice had turned and was hurrying back towards the house, where Jack had appeared on the patio looking towards the shouting. Realising who was stood at the end of his garden he stuck two fingers up at her and Oliver, before helping Alice into the house. They heard the bang as the back door was slammed shut but not before Mathilde had slapped her upper right arm with her left hand and folded it up with a sudden jerk, a classic French response to Jack’s gesture.
Mathilde looked across at Oliver, her eyebrows pulled down above her eyes. ‘Did you understand that?’ she asked slowly, ‘I think I need you to translate.’
‘Let’s walk back along the path to the hall and we can talk there.’ Oliver ushered her back and silently they began to follow the path they’d made through the undergrowth towards the locked gate.
They didn’t speak again until they were walking back up the drive, Oliver holding her hand.
‘She was really mad,’ Mathilde blurted out, ‘why was she crying and shouting at us like that? She was like …’ she hesitated as she searched for the word, ‘the devil. Possédée.’
‘Possessed?’ Oliver questioned and she nodded.
‘Yes, she was a wild woman. I don’t understand.’
‘Actually, I think you do, more than you realise.’ They had arrived at the turning circle in front of the hall and Oliver steered her round to the side until they reached the chapel and he sat down on the ground leaning back against the door. Mathilde joined him, the wood which had heated up with the morning sun warm and comforting. She turned her head towards Oliver. He was so close she could lean forward and kiss him but he had a frown creasing his forehead.
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