The Queen's Spy

by Clare Marchant

  It wasn’t food he was waiting for though, as within minutes he was joined by two of his accomplices. A short, heated conversation seemed to be going on with a lot of arm waving and shaking of heads before the three of them set off again. This time it seemed they couldn’t sustain the same pace for long and as they slowed down, Tom was able to tail them more easily.

  The journey was far longer than he’d anticipated and once again he found himself sleeping rough as they stopped for the night at an inn. He didn’t dare enter in case he was seen. He fervently hoped they didn’t hire horses the following day; he wouldn’t be able to move at that speed and if he were riding his presence would be very obvious.

  Thankfully though, after a night propped up under a mulberry tree, he spotted the three men now accompanied by two others he didn’t recognise but who must have been waiting for the trio and they set off yet again.

  It was another long day of walking and Tom was feeling very sorry for himself. He had no idea where he was going or what he could do to apprehend the traitors when he got there. He was on a wild goose chase. At one point the men paused under a walnut tree and Tom, who was in the nearby woods, ducked down and observed them through the leaves of a chestnut tree. The men seemed to be stamping on the soft walnuts before picking them up and rubbing the broken pieces over their faces. Tom had no idea what they were doing as his knees began to seize up while he continued to crouch down watching the group repeating their actions: stamp, pull apart and scrub.

  Finally, they moved off and once they were far in the distance Tom stood up, stretching his limbs to get the blood moving around before he ran through the woods to the walnut tree. The shells were laid on the ground amongst the grass and picking one up he chafed it on the back of his hand, still confused as to what they had been doing.

  As he scrubbed it hard over his knuckles, he started to realise. A deep brown stain was scored across his skin. It began to dawn on Tom the men would now look as if they’d spent many summers working out in the fields, the sun slowly turning their skin to the tanned leathery shine of a farmer’s face. They were trying to disguise themselves, their soft white skin being a giveaway of their station in life. The fugitives were now tiny figures in the distance and Tom dashed through the woods to hurry after them. He had a suspicion that as the men had paused here to apply a disguise, they may soon be at their destination.

  As he clambered over a fallen tree trunk, Tom could just see a large manor house partly concealed by trees around it. He was just wondering if this was where the men were headed when he felt the ground beneath his boots start to vibrate and, turning his head, he could see behind him a dust cloud created by a large group of guards on horseback. They could only be coming for one reason.

  Stepping onto the side of the road he waited until they were close and then stepped out waving his arms to stop them. He wasn’t sure if it was going to work and seeing the hooves thundering against the dry ground he was poised to dive out of the way at the final moment. Just as he was wavering the guard in front held his hand up and they all skidded to a stop, the cloud of dirt they created choking Tom. He took his flask of ale slung around his waist and swigged a large mouthful as he wondered how he was going to relay the information he had with no paper or wax tablet to hand. People he conversed with regularly could understand his signing but these men would have no idea what he was doing.

  ‘This had better be good,’ the leading guard said to him, ‘why have you stopped us?’

  Tom started pointing up the road where Babington and his accomplices had now disappeared from sight before showing the brown staining on the back of his hand and demonstrating how the men had rubbed it on their faces.

  ‘Wait, I know who you are,’ he said, ‘someone talked about a spy who could understand what people said even though he has no hearing or speech, is that you? Have you been following these men from London?’ Tom nodded again and was rewarded with smiles of acceptance around the group.

  ‘Have they disguised themselves?’ another asked and Tom nodded.

  ‘Here, get up behind me.’ The guard at the front leant down and grabbed Tom under his arm, swinging him up behind before kicking the horse into a gallop. Tom clung on to the bottom of the man’s leather jerkin as grit blew into his eyes and ears. His feet had been aching from the constant walking and he was relieved to be off them but he wasn’t entirely sure that it was any better slipping about on the back of a horse as they thundered along the road.

  The arrests, when they came, were almost an anti-climax after so many months of watching and waiting. The group of men were hiding in the undergrowth of the grounds of Uxendon Hall, a place Tom had seen mentioned when Walsingham had been talking with Phelippes one day and apparently a known refuge for Catholics.

  There was a scuffle as the men tried to evade the soldiers but they were vastly outnumbered. Wary of being seen and recognised by any of the men, especially Babington, Tom skirted around the commotion until he was hiding behind the guards’ horses. They were huge, broad beasts, specifically bred to take the weight of soldiers in armour and chain mail, and he was thankful for the wall of hot flesh, steaming from the hard ride they’d just undertaken. He moved as they did, ensuring he was always secreted from view until the plotters were tied up with ropes to other mounts. As one of the guards lashed the rope around Babington’s wrists to a horse Tom saw him gaze around bemused, as if incredulous that they’d been caught. With a signal from someone at the front, they moved off and the conspirators began their long journey back to London.

  He waved away the offers of a ride as several of the guards pointed to the pillion space behind them on the saddle, proffering an arm to hoist him up. He’d hire a horse at the nearest inn and ride home alone. When all he could see was a cloud of dust in the distance, he began his long walk. His legs started to shake as the enormity of what he had achieved began to sink in.

  Chapter Fifty

  August 2021

  Mathilde passed Oliver on the lane leading to Fakenham. She had the van radio on, the windows down and was singing along loudly to Abba. It was her mother’s favourite song ‘Dancing Queen’ and it made her remember the happy times when her mother was more stable and would dance around the room in her faded cotton sundress whilst singing along. It was so long since she’d felt the urge to join in with the music and it was liberating, joyful. He flashed his lights at her in recognition and pulled into the side of the road. She was enjoying herself singing, however she was delighted to spot his car when she wasn’t expecting to see him.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ he called as she stopped beside him, keeping her eye on her wing mirrors in case another car appeared behind her.

  ‘Just into town, a few bits to buy,’ she deliberately kept her answer vague. She’d made a decision and she didn’t want one of his serious conversations about it. ‘I didn’t know you were coming over today. I’ll see you when I get back, yes?’

  ‘Probably not. I wanted to check a couple of things on the triptych and to let you know I may not be around for a few days as I’m leaving for a conference in Leeds this afternoon. I’m going to speak with some of my art historian associates there about your amazing find. Obviously please call me if you hear from Professor Thornton. Or just call me if you want to.’ He was smiling as he explained but Mathilde felt a stab of disappointment she wasn’t expecting, her heart dropping. She’d become used to seeing him frequently even if it was just a couple of hours; he always seemed to have a bona fide reason to visit. With a shock she realised she’d miss him.

  ‘Okay see you soon,’ she smiled airily to cover her disappointment as unexpected tears prickled the back of her eyes. She put the van into gear with a loud crunching noise and drove away. In her mirrors she could see that the black Mini remained where it was at the edge of the road.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  August 1586

  Tom’s part in defeating the plotters and the capture of Babington and his accomplices did not go unnoticed by
Walsingham. He managed a rare smile as he patted Tom on the back, albeit at arm’s length.

  Walsingham warned him that now he’d shown what he was capable of doing and the help he could offer in the fight against those who’d depose the Queen, doubtless he’d be called upon again. He asked on more than one occasion whether Tom had been seen and he reassured the spymaster that he hadn’t. For the time being he was allowed to resume his role as apothecary which Tom was thankful for. The smell of warm herbs and pungent medications which caught in his throat and made his eyes water were a balm to his soul. He hadn’t realised before just how calm and soothing his work was and he and Hugh worked together in a silent partnership every day. Then each evening as the sun started to descend towards the horizon, its deep orange rays thrown out like fingers trying to clutch on to the final hours of the day, he’d run down to the river to find a boat which could take him home to where his love lay.

  If he was enjoying his work with a new-found vigour it was nothing compared to the way his heart lifted as he walked through the London streets at twilight every evening. His feet could hardly walk as fast as he wanted them to and sometimes he’d break into a jog, so intensely did he want to see Isabel’s smiling face and feel her arms wind their way around his neck as she laid her head on his chest. He’d tried to keep her from knowing about the danger he’d been in on that final task he’d undertaken for Walsingham but the pamphlets which littered the cobbled streets as they made their way hand to hand from the hawkers at St Paul’s, told of the Babington plot and how the fugitives had been caught. His part was unknown apart from those closest to him and it hadn’t taken long for his wife to realise.

  Every evening in their contented family bubble, as soon as they’d eaten supper, they would spend their time playing with Richard who basked in the love and affection from his doting parents. There was no sign of a sibling for him but Tom didn’t care; he couldn’t imagine ever loving another child as much as he loved this one. He had everything he’d travelled to England for. Everything, and more. His heart hurt with his love for Isabel who was a finer wife than he’d ever imagined possible. His life was complete.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  October 1586

  When retribution came, Tom was completely unaware. Leaving the palace early that evening, he jumped off the boat at the quay and walked towards their home. The previous evening, they’d watched Richard crawl across the floor and attempt to pull himself up on the bench they were sitting on and he was keen to see if his son had managed it yet.

  The Thames lay completely still as the boatsman’s oars sliced through, flicking tiny drips of spray like jewels as they lifted out of the water, but as Tom walked through the city streets, he felt a slight wind whipping through the narrow streets. The orange of the setting sun was reflected in the windows of the shops and houses. At almost the same moment he smelt a whisper of smoke in the air. People around him were starting to walk faster in the same direction as he was going and dodging around them, he started to run. The orange reflection he could see wasn’t the sun; something was on fire.

  The heat of the flames seared his face before he got there but already he knew instinctively which house it was. The back of it was already ablaze, flames rearing up into the sky, licking at the clouds with fierce orange tongues. A long line of men threw leather buckets of water between them, before trying to douse the burning oak frame. Tom’s heart beat in his chest as he looked wildly around for Isabel’s familiar face. Never before had he been so desperate, his keen sight failing him when he needed it most. As his eyes swung across the crowds, they snagged on a face he recognised, one of the men he’d seen talking with Babington in The Cross Keys. Their eyes met and held just for a moment before the man slipped away and was gone.

  Tom felt a tugging on his sleeve and turning he found Catherine, her face covered in smoke smuts, tears streaked down through the grey. In her arms was Richard, his head thrown back and his face red. Tom took him and rubbed his back whilst signing his wife’s name. He was thankful he’d previously taught Catherine a few basic signs but his heart contracted in his chest as she started shaking her head and crying again.

  Thrusting Richard back at her he ran round to the back of the house, trying to push his way through the men with their slopping buckets, the ground covered in puddles reflecting the flames which continued to burn out of control. He looked frantically, hopefully, for any signs of life within. Someone – he couldn’t see who – had hold of his arms from behind, their fingers digging into his thick muscles to stop him running straight into the inferno. He struggled against the restraint but eventually gave in, taking a step back. The heat was singeing the hairs across his face and although the blaze was beginning to lessen slightly, he saw the back of the house was a shell, timbers blackened and fallen. If she’d been in their bedroom, she wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  One of the men paused in the dousing of the smouldering ruins to take Tom to one side, pointing to the ground. He was speaking without realising he was wasting his breath. Even without his deafness Tom was in another world; one where he was being enveloped in a blanket of darkness. The pain in his chest cut into him and he fell to his knees, barely noticing his companion who was showing him a pile of straw and kindling piled up against the corner of the house. This fire was no accident: it had been started on purpose.

  The front of the house had not fared as badly as the rear but there was still smoke billowing out of the windows, the fragile glass in shards on the ground. The door swung open and for a moment he wondered if Isabel had run out and was somewhere wandering around, confused in all the smoke and people. He could feel in his heart though, in every strained sinew of his body as taut as the skin on a drum, she wasn’t in the crowd. People were beginning to disperse, their buckets swinging desolately in their hands; they’d done their best and Tom knew he should be thanking them but even if he’d been able to, he was rooted to the spot, looking up at their house in disbelief. A hole had developed in his life as wide and dark as the gaping crevasse before him.

  A tug on his shirt made him turn. Catherine was standing with Richard and she indicated behind her to where another woman, their neighbour, was waiting. She pointed to the woman and then to herself and Richard, and Tom nodded once, before turning back. At least he knew his son would be safe and well cared for. That was all that mattered now because how would he sleep ever again without Isabel by his side? His life was broken, torn apart forever.

  He spent the rest of the night sitting on the ground close to the ruins of the house. With the front half including the nursery having escaped the worst of the flames, it explained how Catherine was able to escape with Richard, whilst Isabel was trapped at the back. How long had she screamed to be saved before the hot choking smoke and searing heat engulfed her? Had she called for him, even though she’d have known he couldn’t hear? He was desperate to get inside the house to look for whatever remained of her but the stairs were now a pile of broken spindles and ash; there was no physical way of getting up to the first floor. Where he was sitting the thatch still dripped from the water thrown on it but the roof was totally absent at the back.

  The first rays of sunlight glided through the layers of smoke hanging in the air, slim fingers of gold stroking the desolate scene. Tom got to his feet and walked slowly towards the door, the charred beams now more visible in the daylight. He pushed it back, feeling the creak through the palm of his hand. The smell of burning filled every part of his body, stinging his eyes and crawling into his soul like worms into a corpse.

  Stepping inside, he lifted his feet over the beams and carcasses of furniture. A slight breeze was blowing through the house from the gaping opening at the back, disturbing the soft ash covering the floor, swirling around his feet. He sniffed the air for the acrid scent of burnt flesh but there was nothing. Every part of Isabel scattered to the shadows.

  Turning to his right, he pulled the door to the parlour open; the room Isabel had been most proud of. Per
haps because she always kept the door closed to stop Richard crawling in there it had fared better than the rest of the house, just a fine layer of soot displaying the terrible devastation that had torn through his home. The window however lay on the floor as all the others did around the house. Standing in the middle of the room still positioned on its easel, his triptych stared back at him as he slowly walked towards it. This together with his son, were the only legacies to his life.

  Everything that had happened to him was immortalised there on the first two panels, the left one showing how his life had been as he wandered the continent in search of a family, a place to put down roots and call home. And then the larger centre panel depicted all he’d ever desired coming true. His work with Hugh at the palace, the stillroom and the physic garden where he put down roots of a different kind and his beautiful Isabel with her flashing violet eyes and her wide smile which lit up her face like the sun breaking through the clouds. Their wedding and their home were on there, the house in which he now stood just a shell of the comfortable life they’d shared. Baby Richard had his own portrait, tiny and swaddled, not the chunky laughing little boy he’d grown into. Would he ever smile again? Tom felt that he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.