Once he’d eaten something, Tom dragged himself back to Cordwainer Street to find Catherine and Richard. Thankfully they’d been taken in by their neighbours and Catherine signed to him that everyone was happy for the three of them to stay until Tom could organise a new home for them all. Tom thanked them but declined a bed, explaining with a few hand signs that he’d sleep at the palace. He had no idea how he’d finance a new home for them. Isabel had money left to her by her first husband along with her home, but Tom didn’t know how she had accessed it or where it was held. And unless he could find out he had barely any means to support his son; only what he earned as a lowly assistant apothecary and that which Walsingham had previously given him.
At the thought of the spymaster, Tom was nearly sick again. If he hadn’t been so caught up in his secretive work none of this would have happened. He’d have been producing medications at the palace during the day and returning to his home with Isabel at night. They’d have grown old together with a nursery full of robust, healthy sons and daughters. Now he only had Richard to remind him forever of the woman he loved. He’d had everything that he’d ever wanted and now once again he had nothing. It had been given, and it had been taken away.
Taking his paints out he selected the orange and yellow hues and began to daub vicious flames across the third panel in wild strokes, filling it with anger and fire. When he held his hand over the image, he could feel the scorching heat rising up, licking at his fingers.
On the eighth day of this desolate new life, Tom spotted the shadow of the page boy from upstairs approaching down the corridor to the stillroom. He knew the way the boy moved, quick and light on his feet as if he was used to darting out of the way of blows. Immediately Tom looked around him, ready to make his escape. Never again would he stand in Walsingham’s office to be given instructions. Whatever the punishment, he would refuse.
Before he could disappear, the young lad was in the room, pointing at Tom and then beckoning, before turning to speak to Hugh. His face was in profile so Tom couldn’t see what was being said, although he’d already got his palms up in front of him and was shaking his head in refusal.
‘The Queen has summoned you,’ Hugh spoke slowly, ‘you don’t have any choice my friend.’
Tom wasn’t expecting this. What did she want? He supposed it had been brought to her attention that Isabel had died, his wife had had several friends amongst the other ladies.
He looked down at what he was wearing. He’d been sleeping in his clothes for the past week and had nothing clean to change into. Everything other than what he was wearing, had been destroyed in the fire. Brushing a couple of pieces of straw from his hose, he rubbed his hands across the ends of his dirty boots. They came away black with soot that still clung to him even now, days later. Out at the pump he quickly splashed his hands and face, before following the page once again.
The first time he’d been to the Privy Chamber he’d been in awe of the riches and opulence of the palace furnishings as he approached the Queen’s private rooms, the strewings and rush mats on the floors replaced by thick carpet, portraits on wood-panelled walls shining with polish. But this time he walked with his shoulders slumped and noticed nothing. The smell of pomander in his nostrils couldn’t rid him of the eternal smell of smoke which followed him everywhere, a floating cloud of wraiths.
As they approached the doors the two guards who stood with pikes crossed stood to one side and the page knocked before opening the door and displaying his usual reverence, immediately going down on one knee, his head bowed. Behind him Tom did the same. He kept his head down looking at the floor until he felt a gentle tug on his sleeve and turning his head slightly he could see the upside-down face of the page boy, his dark hair as soft and sweet as Richard’s as he smiled and waved his hand to indicate Tom should now stand.
Tom wobbled a little as he stood up, his inability to eat over the past week making him shaky and weak, especially after a long walk from his quarters to the centre of the palace. He raised his eyes slowly towards the Queen sat amongst her ladies. The space where Isabel had once been a gaping wound in the tableau. There was no sign of Walsingham or Burghley and Tom allowed himself to breathe a little easier.
The page remained beside him and Tom realised that in lieu of anyone else he was supposed to sign anything he couldn’t lip read. Given that they’d barely communicated more than a dozen times over the past three years Tom couldn’t imagine this was going to go well. He watched the Queen speak with his eyes squinting as he tried not to miss a word.
‘We have heard of the awful fire in which our lady Isabel perished.’ The Queen spoke slowly enunciating each word. Tom could understand every terrible part of what she was saying. He nodded before looking down quickly so nobody could see the tears that sprang up. After rubbing his eyes with the back of his sleeve he watched again as the Queen continued.
‘We offer you our condolences. Did your son survive?’ Tom nodded.
‘I will miss your late wife very much; she was always so cheerful and a joy to us all. I understand that you are now homeless and feel this tragedy is partly the fault of this court. And also, Walsingham, who has used you to great effect in his strategy to stop the plot which would have seen me dead and my cousin on the throne. Therefore, I propose to grant to you a new home and a stipend to support you and your son for all the work you have done on my behalf. And also, in memory of your wife. I’ve been told that you were originally from Norfolk so I shall give you one of the empty manor houses seized from the Earl of Arundel. My Lord Burghley will give you the deeds and you are relieved of all duties to this court.’
Tom was not sure what to make of this turn of events, until he glanced at the page who was miming the words ‘thank you’ and putting his hands together and bowing as Tom himself did when thanking someone. Tom quickly turned to the Queen and thanked her as she inclined her head to dismiss him. He backed away towards the door, however he was stopped as the Queen beckoned him forward once more as if something had suddenly occurred to her.
‘I’ve been informed that as well as an exemplary apothecary you are also a fine artist and have painted a triptych, is this true?’
Tom wasn’t sure of some of her words but he could lip read ‘triptych’, so he nodded again.
‘I will have it framed for you as a gift from me. Please give it to my page when you return to your rooms.’
Tom tried not to let his surprise show on his face as he nodded and thanked her, twice, before scuttling backwards out of the room. The page had accompanied him and they had to wait while Tom leant against the wall for a moment, trying to grasp everything that had just happened. He was to be given a new home with Richard in the place where his journey had first started. It could never begin to mend his heart but it was the beginning of a new life.
Back downstairs he left the page to relay everything to Hugh while he went to collect the painting, now dry after the savage addition he’d made to the final panel. He folded the two outer panels to the middle and handed it over, wrapped in a blanket to ensure it didn’t get damaged or dropped on its journey.
That evening Tom went back to find Catherine and explain what had occurred that day. He had to do a number of pictures for her, his signing and her understanding lacking a connection as he tried to describe it all. Eventually she understood and agreed to go to Norfolk with him and Richard before bursting into tears, thrusting his son towards him and hurrying away. Tom felt his own tears running yet again down his face and drip onto the baby’s soft dark hair. Richard looked up at him, disturbed in his banging of a rattle against Tom’s chest and smiled his familiar grin, the image of his mother. Whatever happened next, despite his heartache, Tom reasoned he would always have a part of her with him. He and Richard would be a family forever more.
Chapter Fifty-Five
December 1586
The cart containing their belongings rolled along the track until it stopped outside the hall. Catherine and Richard were both dozin
g in the back and Tom dismounted from the gelding he’d bought when they were ready to leave London. There were few items salvageable from his home, but what he could find he’d collected together. As promised his triptych was now mounted in a heavy, ornate frame decorated in gold leaf and bearing the crest of Queen Elizabeth. A local seamstress had managed to sew some clothes for both Catherine and Richard before they left and he’d sourced some bed covers even though they no longer possessed any beds to lay them on.
Burghley had presented him with a rusty metal hoop containing a collection of old keys, together with the deeds to a manor house situated in the wild Norfolk countryside, and now Tom pulled them from his pocket as he looked up at the building in front of him. It was solid and square, criss-crossed with pale oak beams, the panels between washed a soft worn cream. The thatch looked patchy and would need immediate attention or they’d feel the full brunt of the winter weather as it leaked through to the rooms below. He felt the air shift from movement behind him and he knew the drovers from whom he’d hired the cart would want to get unloaded. They needed to be on their way to King’s Lynn where they were picking up goods to take back to London. Selecting the biggest key on the ring he pushed it in the lock, wincing a little as it ground slowly round.
The door swung open revealing a large, open hall. At the far end stood a wide stone fireplace, still covered in soot and ashes as if the previous occupants of the house had been evicted with their belongings in the middle of their everyday lives, their existence halted. Tom gave a shudder, wondering what happened to the family. He knew that once the Duke of Norfolk had been executed his family and tenants were immediately ejected and he couldn’t imagine the guards had been very sympathetic. He was reminded of the stories he was told as a child, of how his mother had fled Norfolk with him and his siblings before the same thing happened to them. Thankfully the ancestral home had been returned to his brother Henry when he became an adult and appealed to the Queen, and now Tom was living in the same county. Here he was, finally back where he belonged, but without the person he most wanted there with him. His life had turned full circle and should now be complete but instead all he had was a half-life.
Catherine appeared behind him, her hair across her face where it had escaped the linen coif as she slept. She put Richard on the floor and on shaky legs he tottered across the flagstone floor, enjoying the space, his arms out sideways to steady himself. Looking around the room as Tom had done, she nodded approvingly. It could have been a lot worse.
Tom didn’t have time to explore any further as he helped the drovers lift their scant belongings from the cart and into the house. Within an hour all was inside and looking through the sacks Catherine found a pan in which to boil some water before going outside to search for a woodstore and some kindling. Tom picked up his axe and followed her.
By the time night fell they had organised everything as best they could, having made lumpy temporary mattresses from hay in the barn. It appeared to have been there several years but following the summer heat it wasn’t damp and would have to do until they could find some fleece to make something more permanent.
Although the sturdy oak stairs at one side of the hall led to four bedrooms, as Tom had feared the thatch had already let in water, the floorboards warped with the damp; he would need to repair it before they could use upstairs. They settled down to sleep in the main hall for the night but Tom lay awake for hours staring into the darkness, the space beside him as empty as his heart.
It took several weeks for them to settle in. Tom undertook the repairs that needed doing, built rudimentary furniture and ensured there was a good supply of split logs ready for the fire in the great hall which constantly burned. The grounds were extensive and included a decent sized wood with a small thicket closer to the house. He also discovered, almost hidden by the trees that had tried to reclaim it for themselves, a small private chapel.
Tom shuffled through his keys until he found one that unlocked it, but it took a hard shove with his shoulder to push open the door which had swelled with damp and age. Inside light flooded in from the tall windows, the tops of which were decorated with stained glass in a host of rich colours depicting the Norfolk coat of arms. Despite the dirt and dust and cobwebs the light filtered through, dancing across the floor as if welcoming him to this holy place. Other than two rows of wooden pews, covered in a layer of dust so thick it barely moved in the draught he made, there was a simple altar at the end of the nave. No crucifix there of course, anything of any value had been taken. But as he looked around the bare stone walls, Tom knew exactly what he was going to put in there. A fitting home for it.
Planting the many herb cuttings, still in small pots he’d brought with him, took a little while to do. He wanted just the right place and he fought his way through the tall grasses and saplings around the gardens close to the house until he found it. A corner that overlooked the meadow beyond where his chickens wandered amongst the half dozen sheep and cow he’d purchased days after arriving. It was peaceful here in the lee of a thicket of trees. For the first time in a very long time he felt a fragile, gossamer thin mantle of peace slowly descend about his shoulders. Here – maybe – he could find a trace of the solace he’d been searching for.
In amongst his belongings squashed at the bottom of a sack, Tom found the screwed-up tatty blue coat. He pulled it out, once more transported back to the day Walsingham had handed it over and the pride he’d felt when first wearing it. All those memories spun across the room, dancing in front of him. Kit Marlowe explaining how he stood up straighter in it, how it had given him confidence when facing the guards at Barn Elms. His face darkened as he recalled the serjeant at Poultry Corner who’d wrenched it from his back, not expecting Tom to need it again. And his sulking face when twenty-four hours later he’d returned it. Wearing it on his wedding day when his heart had soared to the heavens as Isabel vowed to be with him forever. Turning it around he looked at the stains across the back and arms from where he’d followed and watched, hiding in alleys and doorways and sleeping in the woods. And it smelled, tragically of the last time he wore it. It reeked of smoke and there amongst the images that danced before his eyes of his London life flickered the flames that had taken it all from him. He swung his arm around in an arc, banishing the hallucinations before him as they spun away and were absorbed by the fabric of the walls.
He tucked it over his arm, intent on throwing it on the fire he had smouldering outside. As he did so, something fluttered to the floor and bending he picked it up. Turning it over he looked at the piece of parchment for a moment wondering what it was, before the memory seeped back into his consciousness of Babington dropping it as he hurried away on his final journey. Written on it was the now familiar coded shorthand he’d worked on so many times with Doctor Bright. Looking out of the window at the landscape that surrounded him and the ancient oak trees that sat on his land he remembered how Phelippes had shown him how he made invisible ink. He had one last task to undertake before he could close the door on what had happened.
Slowly but surely Tom built up his physic garden in the corner of what became the kitchen garden, spending every day when the weather allowed digging, weeding, or sometimes just gazing across the fields as if his mind were in another place. He still nurtured his vanilla plants but they wouldn’t give forth the pods which had initially drawn him into the web of intrigue and terror of the court. They’d done their work and there was nothing left for them to do.
Other times he could be found sitting in the chapel. He’d had a memorial stone erected for Isabel but he could never give her a grave. This was the closest place he could come to be with her. He couldn’t sign to her now. The triptych had been put on the wall beside the stone but the third panel with its fiery depths of hell distressed him so much that in a fit of sorrow he had boarded it over so he could no longer see it. A final image of her locket was added to the board, the chain snaking its way across to point towards her memorial plaque. He’d told his s
tory in the only way he knew how: using his artistic skills.
Before he mounted the triptych on the wall, he slipped the sheets of parchment into the back between the painting and the frame. An explanation forever more of the terrible part he played in the death of his wife. Thanks to his work with Doctor Bright nobody would ever find it or be able to read his story.
Chapter Fifty-Six
September 2021
Finally, the day came when Professor Thornton emailed to inform Mathilde the document had been deciphered and he’d like to come to the hall to reveal all. He was keen to see where the triptych and subsequent document had been found and she agreed immediately.
‘At last, we get to find out,’ Rachel said when the day arrived, humming under her breath as she plumped the cushions in the drawing room. In the hall both her and Fleur’s packed bags lay ready to go in the car. School term started in two days; summer was over.
‘Do you think it’ll explain why the triptych was hidden in the first place? Maybe it’s a confession about stealing it from Elizabeth I. Or spying for her. I hope we get to discover what it was all about. Will Oliver be here in time?’ Rachel asked. Mathilde knew he was already on his way because he’d sent her a text when he left but she didn’t want her sister knowing about their relationship. Not yet.
‘I expect so,’ she replied, trying to sound non-committal.
‘I hope he is in case we need him to explain anything historical and technical. And he’s as desperate as us to find out what it all means,’ Rachel said smiling, ‘if he isn’t here, he’ll have to ask the professor for a full report. We’ll only need the layman’s details.’
Mathilde frowned. Just when she thought she had a grip of the language someone used a word that meant nothing. ‘Layman?’ she repeated.
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