The dim light in the hall enabled me to find the door which led from behind the stairs to the kitchens and pantries, but once it was closed I had to wait, despite my pounding heart, until my eyes could cope with the very little light that filtered through a small window from the outside. There were so many things one could bump into, making one’s way through here, that I must take it slowly. I thought I could still hear the dog whining as I crept along the kitchen corridor, past the fish room and the pastry room and the game larder. At last, here was the servants’ outside door. To my relief I found that the Fitzgeralds did not bolt their doors at night, out here in the country, for slipped bolts would have given me away as soon as the kitchen maid came down in the morning. I eased the door open, but the hinges on this door were not kept so well oiled as those on the inner doors of the house. It groaned loudly. First the dog, whining and scratching, now this. Someone was sure to hear me. I thought the youngest scullery boy slept in the kitchen. What if he were a light sleeper?
I pulled the door to and ran across the yard to the stable, wincing as sharp stones cut into my feet. There was no time to put my shoes on. The stable door was partially ajar, for the thundery air had been heavy earlier in the evening, and I thanked Tom silently for leaving it open to give the horses air. It meant there was just enough light to find Hector’s tack. He whickered a welcome.
‘Ssh,’ I whispered, stroking the velvet skin between his nostrils. ‘Don’t give me away now, lad.’
I fumbled with the buckles on the blanket, trying to hurry too much. Slowly, slowly. Otherwise I would never have him saddled. I laid the blanket over the partition at the side of the stall and lifted the saddle on to his back. Easy, now, tighten the girths. Hector stamped his foot. He seemed as eager as I to be off. He took the bit like a lamb and despite more fumbling I had the bridle on and my saddlebags strapped in place. Everything seemed to take hours. My heart was pounding so fast I thought I could hear it, through the rush of blood in my ears. Now to fit my pack into one of the saddlebags. I pushed my shoes into the other to balance the weight a little, and wriggled my shoulders into the strap of my lute case.
Now came the most dangerous moment of all. I must mount Hector from the block in the yard, then ride him out of the gate, but the yard was cobbled and his iron shoes would ring loudly on the stones as I crossed to the archway at the back. Anyone not sleeping soundly would hear us, and many of the sleeping chambers overlooked the yard.
The clattering of the hooves rang in my ears as loud as church bells. I scrambled clumsily up on to the horse’s back and rode him quickly out of the yard to the track at the back. There was nothing I could do to muffle the noise. The stirrups felt strange under my hose, but there was no time to worry about that. Turn right along the track.
‘Now, my lad,’ I said, leaning forward and giving Hector his head, ‘show me what you can do.’
He stretched out into that lovely canter of his, then tossed his head and broke into a gallop. The first field was flying past as I glanced back. Was that a light in one of the upper windows of the house? Or the reflection of the moon? I sent a message of desperate speed through my knees to the horse.
The second field and now the wood. I thanked God I had ridden this way already today, for I knew it was safe to keep up this speed as far as the lake. Afterwards I would need to be more cautious, for the track might hold dangers for the horse and there was little enough light. Some small creature ran across the path in front of us and Hector checked for a moment, so that I nearly flew over his head, but I slithered back into the saddle gasping and we galloped on.
The lake shimmered like pewter on our left and now I would have to slow down, though every nerve cried out to me to keep going as fast as possible. It isn’t safe, I said, inside my head, or perhaps aloud to Hector. I gathered him in, despite his reluctance, for I could feel how he loved speed. At last we were down to a slow canter, while I strained forward, watching the surface of the track. All the way along the lake I could see clearly and although this part of the track was less used it was sound enough. When we reached the second wood, however, I held the horse back to an agonising walk. It was dark between the trees and there might be any number of hazards – fallen branches, protruding roots, holes. And I kept my head down, for a low hanging branch could sweep me off the horse’s back. That was the worst part of the journey, forced to creep along, screaming inside lest we were being pursued.
When at last we emerged from the wood, there was the river and the mill. And there were lights on in the mill! For I moment I was terrified, thinking that somehow they had forestalled me and reached the mill ahead of me. Then I realised that it was probably later – or earlier – than I realised, so that the miller was already up and about his work. I rode past the mill and saw that the track which led on from here was once again well used. Of course. I remembered the map. This stretch of the track connected the mill to the road, so this was the way the carts would come, bringing the sacks of wheat for grinding and carrying away the milled flour. I set Hector to a canter again, until we reached the road.
There was nothing yet on the road, but I crossed it cautiously, searching for the track on the other side. I did not find it at once. Then I realised that a gorse bush had grown part-way across it. Once again this was a little-used portion. I thought of dismounting and hacking my way through, but then I realised I might find it difficult to mount again. Frustrated, I rode a little way along the road until I came to a place where the bushes thinned out, then worked my way back to the track. The next part was difficult. Bushes and bracken had grown across much of the way. I managed to break off a dry branch from an overhanging tree and used it to hack our way through. This was neither a wood nor farmland, but a neglected thicket of undergrowth which seemed to go on and on. I did not remember anything like this from the map and began to wonder whether I had missed my way, when at last we broke through and the track opened out again, fairly clearly, running alongside a meadow where cows stood knee-deep in morning mist tinted with gold. While I had been fighting my way through the thicket, the sun had just lifted its rim above the land at my back.
‘Good lad,’ I said, patting Hector’s neck. ‘Nearly there.’
He threw up his head and snorted, as if he were happy to go on all day like this.
After the meadow, a field of beans, then wheat. Then the track turned sharply to the right and headed for a run of low, half-timbered buildings rising out of the morning mist. Could this really be Barn Elms? What if Walsingham were not here, but in London? I would ask for refreshment for myself and my horse, then set out again for the city, though that would mean taking the road which led past the turn to Hartwell Hall, and that might mean someone would be on the lookout for me.
I clattered into this other stableyard, happy to make as much noise as possible, in the hope of rousing someone. As I reined Hector in, a groom came down outside steps leading from the rooms over the stable, where he and his fellows probably slept.
‘Aye?’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘What do you want here?’
‘My name is Christoval Alvarez,’ I said, sliding down and wincing as my feet hit the ground. ‘I should be expected.’
He smiled. ‘Oh, aye. You’re expected.’
‘Is Sir Francis here?’
‘Came last night,’
‘Jesu be thanked,’ I said.