Bartholomew Fair (23 page)

At last we were free of the final straggling outposts of Southwark, which were mostly more of those evil smelling industries and the clusters of hovels around them where most of their workers lived. The road opened out, between rich farm land, dotted here and there with small woods and copses. I gave Hector his head and he broke into a canter, then his lovely smooth gallop. The sun was higher now, bright on the ripening fields of wheat and barley, and reflected from the deep green of summer leaves on the trees, like so many small looking glasses. It was wonderful to have this interlude of beauty after the dirt and danger and stress of London. I took off my cap and shoved it into the saddle bag beside my satchel, so that I could feel the wind in my hair. It had been trimmed when first I returned to London, but by now it had grown again.

I was enjoying the gallop, the fresh country air, the sun, and the wind so much that I nearly missed the turn to Barn Elms. It was an anonymous road – no finger post or milestone here, for Sir Francis liked to maintain his privacy – but I had been here before.

As we branched off to the right, I glanced over my shoulder. In the opposite direction led the road to Sir Damian Fitzgerald’s house, where I had briefly masqueraded as a tutor to his son and daughter. I wondered whether he had ever discovered that I worked for his neighbour, Sir Francis. If so, it would surely have made him more cautious about sheltering Catholic priests as they passed through from the ports of the south coast on their way to London. I also wondered, with a suppressed laugh, whether his daughter, who had once (mistakenly) made a play for me, had found herself a suitor. I supposed these Catholic families must have a web of suitable marriage partners for their sons and daughters. Neither Her Majesty nor Sir Francis cared to persecute them if they kept their heads down, attended the English church (as the Fitzgeralds did), and did not engage in treasonous activity. The Fitzgeralds had passed secret letters from France in the past, but I believed they no longer did so. Then I frowned at the remembrance of seeing Poley ride up to the house in company with a priest. We had forgotten about Poley, Phelippes and I, when we had been discussing the possible targets of the plot last night.

I was soon within the purlieus of Sir Francis’s manor of Barn Elms, its surrounding farm lands looking trim and well cared for. The hay had already been cut and sheep were grazing in the stubble. I passed a field of wheat where the plump heads looked ready for cutting. If the good weather lasted, the labourers would probably start on it soon. The manor itself lay bright and inviting in the sun, the old stone house clothed with creeper, the trim stable yard, the outbuildings with brew house, bakery, and dairy. I could hear the clang of hammer on iron, for Sir Francis employed his own blacksmith.

Hector lifted his head and whickered a greeting as we drew up before the door. He had been foaled in these stables and surely knew that he was coming home. A boy ran out from the stable yard as I dismounted and lifted my satchel from the saddle bag. He was followed by a tall man with greying hair, whom I recognised – Sir Francis’s steward here at Barn Elms, responsible for the running of the entire manor for its owner.

‘Master Goodrich,’ I said, bowing, ‘it is good to see you again.’

He returned my bow. ‘And you, Dr Alvarez. We were not expecting you.’ He eyed my bulging satchel warily as the boy led Hector away to the stables.

‘Master Phelippes was anxious for me to come to see Sir Francis myself,’ I said, already beginning to feel guilty at breaking into this peaceful haven. ‘How is he?’

‘A little better today. He has been out of bed since yesterday, sitting quietly downstairs.’ A look of sadness passed over his face. ‘I fear that he still has much pain, but he will not let it defeat him.’

‘Nay,’ I said. ‘He is one of the bravest men I know. It is all very well to be courageous for a short time in battle. It takes a much greater courage to endure pain day after day and not give way to it. I promise I will try not to tire him.’

He gave a brief nod. ‘Well said. As a physician, you will be familiar with such things.’

‘Never with pain so resolutely defied,’ I said with all my heart.

‘He is sitting in my lady’s small parlour,’ Goodrich said. ‘Even in this weather he needs a fire, for he feels cold.’

‘Is the Lady Ursula here at Barn Elms?’ I asked.

‘She is. And like Dr Nuñez, she tries to persuade Sir Francis to rest, as we all do, but we might save our breath.’ He smiled, again with that touch of sadness. ‘Lady Frances is here as well, and little Elizabeth. The child amuses Sir Francis, but I fear she tires him too.’

‘Master Phelippes felt I should come.’ I found I was apologising again. ‘There is fresh news that he thought should not be kept from Sir Francis. As it was I who got wind of it, he thought it best I should come and tell him myself.’

We walked together to the door and he held it open for me. As we stepped inside and my eyes adjusted to the softer light, I saw a familiar figure bustling toward us.

‘Mistress Oldcastle!’ I bowed. ‘I hope I find you well?’

The housekeeper stopped and her mouth dropped open. ‘Why, it is the lad who came here soaked to the skin! Four years ago, was it?’

‘Three,’ I said, amused.

‘Dr Alvarez is a physician,’ Goodrich said reprovingly, ‘and a code-breaker for the master.’

‘Well,’ said Mistress Oldcastle, not one whit abashed, ‘I remember how he had to borrow my slippers and fell asleep in front of the parlour fire. You have grown into a fine young man. You were little more than a child then.’

I found myself blushing and wondered how I could put a stop to these reminiscences, but Goodrich came to my rescue.

‘Dr Alvarez has business with Sir Francis and does not want to overtire him, so I will show him to the parlour. The master is still in the parlour?’

‘Aye, I have just taken him a brandy posset. My lady is with him.’

‘This way, Dr Alvarez.’ Goodrich neatly side stepped the housekeeper and steered my toward a door I recognised, for it was where I had been welcomed – and had indeed fallen asleep – on my earlier visit to the house.

When Goodrich knocked and opened the door, the first person I saw was Lady Ursula, sitting on a low chair with her embroidery. I had encountered her a few times at Seething Lane, but for the most part she kept to the family’s part of the house, well away from the offices from which Walsingham directed his secret service of intelligencers. She rose from her seat and I bowed. She dropped a slight curtsey – I was not of sufficient status to merit a deep one. I saw at once that she looked seriously annoyed.

‘Are you here from Master Phelippes, sir?’ she said sharply. ‘We have sent instructions that my lord was not to be disturbed with business. He has been far too unwell.’

‘That is enough, dear heart.’ It was Sir Francis’s voice, though weaker than I had ever heard it before. He was hidden from me by the half-open door. ‘Who is it?’

‘The Portingall boy.’ she snapped. It was insulting, but perhaps she could be forgiven. She looked tired and worried.

‘Kit Alvarez? Let him come in. Do you give us some time alone, Ursula. I am sure he would not have come unless it was important.’

She swept out of the door, her skirts brushing against me.

‘That is what I am afraid of,’ she said loudly, then in a quieter voice to me, ‘Do not you dare to tire him.’

Goodrich closed the door behind them both and I stepped forward to the fireplace, where Sir Francis was seated in a large chair, padded around with cushions. He wore a long house gown of dark blue velvet, trimmed with narrow bands of coney fur at neck and cuffs. He was ever a modest dresser. On his feet were felt slippers, such as the very elderly wear. I was shocked by the sight of him. Even in the short time since I had seen him last in London, he seemed to have aged ten years. I knew that he was only fifty seven, yet he looked older than my father had done before I went away, when he was himself sick and aging, and ten years Walsingham’s senior. Sir Francis’s skin had taken on the dry yellowish pallor of a man suffering from some internal illness. Even his cheeks seemed more hollow, his eyes more sunken after this short time.

‘You must forgive me for not rising, Kit,’ he said, with a slight smile.

‘Please, Sir Francis, you must not move. It is good that you have been able to leave your bed.’ You should not have done, I thought.

‘Sit down, Kit, and tell me all that has been happening in London. Thomas will not have sent you without good reason.’

‘He thought not,’ I said. ‘He has prepared detailed reports of everything, so that you may know that all is in good hands. He has been working very hard.’ I gave him a smile as I laid Phelippes’s bundle of papers on the small table at Sir Francis’s side, next to a silver posset cup, half finished. ‘Truly, I think he has been sleeping in the office.’

He gave a hoarse laugh. ‘That is Thomas Phelippes, through and through. The man is a marvel, but he is a worrier. He cannot leave well alone.’

And there speaks another, I thought.

‘However,’ he said, sitting up a little, and speaking more strongly, ‘these reports could have been sent by any messenger. That he has sent you argues something else. Do sit down, Kit.’

Rather nervously I took the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, where Lady Ursula had been sitting, first removing my cloak and laying it over the back. I found the room too warm for a summer’s day, and stuffy after my brisk ride through the countryside.

‘You had better finish your posset, sir,’ I said, ‘or Mistress Oldcastle will be waiting outside, ready to skin me.’

He laughed, sounding better now, and took up a long-handled silver spoon.

‘Very well, I will eat it while you talk. Why have you been sent, Kit?’

‘You have heard about the armed soldiers from the Portuguese expedition marching on Bartholomew Fair?’ I said. I was certain Phelippes would previously have sent word of that.

‘Aye.’

‘Well, yesterday, some further information came out. I was told it by one of the soldiers, one I knew from the expedition. It is so serious that Master Phelippes thought you should know of it and send us your orders.’

‘It must be serious, then, for I believe my wife and Dr Nuñez have put the fear of God and Hell fire in him.’

‘Aye, it is serious. It involves stolen gunpowder.’

As concisely as I could, I told him all I knew about the theft of the gunpowder and the likely target for its use, omitting only Adam’s present whereabouts.

‘Master Phelippes and I have talked round and round the matter, sir, and think they must mean to attack either Sir Francis Drake’s house, the Herbar, in Dowgate, or his warehouse near the docks, in Tower Ward. Nicholas Berden and his men are searching everywhere for the Italians, but had found no trace of them by the time I left London.’

I hesitated. Phelippes and I had not discussed this further, but I thought I should share my suspicions with Walsingham. ‘There is also Robert Poley.’

‘Poley?’ He looked surprised. ‘Poley is in Paris. Or by now he may be in Rheims, with Gifford.’

I shook my head. ‘He is here in London, Sir Francis. I have seen him with my own eyes.’

I recounted what I had seen at Bartholomew Fair, Poley and Borecroft sneaking together round to the back of the puppeteers’ tent, those same puppeteers who were somehow involved with the soldiers who possessed gunpowder.

He finished the posset and set the cup down on the table, then leaned forward, his hands clasped in his lap.

‘I trust your eyesight, Kit, and you know Poley well. However, I do know that you dislike him, mistrust him. Might that have coloured how you saw him? Are you quite sure he was on friendly terms with this Borecroft? Or that Borecroft himself is part of what appears to be a dangerous conspiracy?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said miserably. It was humiliating for Sir Francis to think that my judgement was warped by my dislike of Poley, but perhaps he was right. ‘Those two men may have nothing to do with the conspiracy, or even with the Italians. I just thought that I should tell you everything I saw and heard.’

‘Quite right, Kit,’ he said kindly. ‘Never omit the smallest detail, for you never know what may prove important in the end. Knowledge is power. Never forget that.’

He laid his hand on the packet of Phelippes’s papers. ‘I must quickly skim through these. Will you pass my spectacles? There, on the mantel shelf. Thomas has such impossibly small handwriting.’

I got up and handed him the spectacles. ‘I know. I never knew such a small hand. It must be because he is short sighted. He often has his nose almost on the paper when he writes, but his sharp sight for things that are close to is a great asset in a code-breaker.’

‘It is.’ He put on his spectacles and began untying the ribbon which held them together. ‘While I read these, go and find Mistress Oldcastle. Tell her I have said she is to give you something to eat, for you young lads cannot go hungry, and I’ll be bound you have eaten little today. Are you still at Ruy Lopez’s house?’

‘I am, Sir Francis. Sara Lopez has been very kind to me, for apart from Master Phelippes’s work I am still without employment.’

‘I have something to tell you about that.’ He was already studying the first document. ‘Come back when you have eaten and we will discuss it.’