Until now I have not consciously brought to mind Ralegh’s conversation in the cabin of Warspite that June night on our way to Cadiz. ‘Oil and water,’ he said. ‘But Thomas Howard is much to be preferred to his uncle, Lord Henry. If you ever meet him I commend him to your study.’
Suddenly in the middle of a serious of questions Lord Henry said something to me I could hardly credit. I stared at him stupidly, certain I must have misheard.
He repeated: “I gather you are a Catholic, Killigrew.”
“No, sir! I cannot imagine where you have how that miss understanding can have arisen! “
He unfastened two buttons of his jacket, dusted a little snuff off the fur. His vigorous malicious face was flushed with the heat. “In a country such as ours, my dear Killigrew, misunderstandings are always arising. Consider how they have affected my family. My father, the Earl of Surrey he came to have a misunderstanding in the matter of religion and the regency in the time of the last Henry, so he lost his head. I was 18 at the time. A little younger than you.”
“If you ”
“And then there was my brother, the Duke of Norfolk. There was misunderstanding about him too, some rumour that he might marry Mary Queen of Scots. He lost his head. I was 33 at the time.”
I did not interrupt again. Lord Henry settled his slippered feet on the footstool. “Then there was my nephew, the Earl of Arundell, who misunderstood our Queen so grievously as to become a Catholic and not to hide his views. He died in prison two years ago. All these mistakes could perhaps have been avoided by wiser men such as we.”
He dusted his jacket again.
I said: “Henry Arundell can know nothing of my religion. All that “
“Oh, he doesn’t. He does not mention it.”
“Then in what way “
“I have heard that you were converted while in Spain.”
I still struggled to understand this thing. “What one does in an enemy country is done under duress. There can be no “
“Under duress?” He raised his eyebrows ironically. “But of course. All decisions are made under duress. That is an axiom of life. In the winter weather I suffer from an affection of the kidneys. Warmth and a dry air prevent it, so I wrap myself about and keep a fire which I see you find too great. I act under duress. In Rome and Florence, which I visited some twelve years ago, the day’s warmth was such that one needed no other heat at all … So with religion, my dear Killigrew. In England I am a confirmed Protestant. So I trust are you. Only a fool shivers when the cold draughts blow.”
I did not like this man but I could not but be aware of the subtlety of the intelligence probing mine. He appeared quite open, indeed to be forthcoming in the history of his family, but by nuances, delicately calculated pauses, sardonic expressions, he was all the time challenging my responses.
“I wonder, my lord, how you came to have such information about me.”
“Does it matter?”
“It well could.”
“I am a peaceful man, Killigrew, and pursue peaceful ends. Leave it at that. The value of the incident lies not in itself but in the light it sheds on character. One is given to suppose that you are a politic person.”
“My lord, I seek preferment.”
“Ah. You flatter me with that original confidence … I have no preferment for you as such. But there could be employment.”
“Tell me of it, my lord.”
“Hold hard. Let nothing be done in haste. All young men are the same.”
A log fell and blazed. The light in the room by now was fading, and the fire sent dim and secret coloursleaping over books and tables and chairs: purple, ochre and green. Like the conversation the firelight obscured as much as it revealed
“Sit down, Killigrew. You have certain ductile qualities which I believe could be useful to me. But I sense inflexibilities too, which would have to be plumbed before we proceeded far. A limb will move, but only according to its joints. Mental anatomy needs just as careful study.”
I pulled forward a chair of black carved oak. The wood seat had been worked to represent the naked Greek figure of Mercury.
“You go too deep, my lord.”
“Oh, no, I assure you, there is no depth in what I say, only a little caution. Tell me, do you admire your uncle?”
“My uncle?”
“Sir Henry Killigrew.”
“Why, yes …”
“Do you have his qualities?”
“What do you consider them?”
“An ability above all for secret negotiation, for loyalty to his master.”
Lord Henry was watching me with half-closed lids. It was impossible to tell how much he was in earnest.
“Sir Henry is older than I am, my lord. No doubt those qualities grow.”
“Not unless they are firmly there at the start. When do you leave for Cornwall?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Ah … All this is premature. Again haste when haste is unprofitable. I take it you have no further connections with Ralegh? “
I did not know what to answer. “We are going straight home, my lord. My father is in prison for bankruptcy, and my stepmother may need me to help. Once that is done then it is done. Two weeks, three weeks perhaps.”
Lord Henry still had the book open on his knee. “Do you know that old Latin precept: ‘There is a time for saying nothing and a time for saying something, but there is no time in which all things should be said’.”
“No, my lord.”
“Perhaps this is a time for saying something, but a little only. As I have told you, the most I can offer could be called maybe a gainful employment. As a secretary, you understand. A secretary and if necessary a messenger. Consider it while you are riding home. Now you may go.”
CHAPTER SIX
We rode back to Cornwall, Wilkey and I, in a succession of days of blinding rain. The farther west we went the more sodden the sky and the more waterlogged the tracks. Rain seemed to become so complete a part of nature that to end a day not soaked to the skin would have been unfamiliar and remarkable. And each day the wind grew stronger as if determined to hold us back.
We got as far as Launceston and then Stephen Wilkey, who had taken a chill early, gave up and said he could travel no farther. We were again spending the night at Penheale. The Grenvilles suggested I might well stay a day or two more until the weather improved, but I said no, I would go on. So I left Wilkey in their charge to follow at will and went on across the wild moors alone.
Such was the gale here that I could not make fair progress and so slept at Bodmin in a tiny cavern, while the storm howled round the shoulder of the hill and every thatch seemed about to lift off the roof. Next morning even Trudy was loth to start, but we were away soon after daybreak. My mind was pricked on by its own uncomfortable spurs.
Over the Goss Moors, at last into the shelter of the Ladock valley, a bite to eat in Truro; the short day would soon be drawing in; but one was too near home now to halt at the Bonythons’. Set in a cleft of the green hills, Penryn came quicker than expected. Sensing the end of it all, Trudy had quickened her step. Past the old mill, and the sun was flaring over the hill.
The gate was open. That was the first thing wrong. Never in my lifetime open and unguarded.
The long chestnut avenue to the house was rutted deep with mud and water, as if more wagons or coaches than usual had been over it. The tents were still on the hillside. The wind was breaking at last into lost eddies and vicious squalls that grew less frequent with every hour.
At the back entrance by the kitchens were three carts. Two of them were piled with furniture and cloths. I had no need to tether the mare, she was already walking towards the stables as I ran into the house. The first person was Meg.