Chapter Eight
I insisted on seeing to Hector myself, although it was clear that instructions had been given to the servants that I was to be treated with the greatest courtesy. Finally, when I was sure my tired horse was comfortable, I allowed myself to be led into the house, an elderly timber-framed building, sagging gently into a surrounding garden of old-fashioned flowers: hollyhocks and delphiniums and ladies’ bonnets, which sprawled up and around the house in a loose embrace. It was a world away from the urban formality of Seething Lane and from the new wealth of Hartwell Hall set within its geometrical gardens. I wondered how Sir Francis could bear to tear himself away from this place which breathed home from every corner and return to the rigours of London. Nothing but his unswerving devotion to his Queen, I supposed.
By now the housekeeper was up and about.
‘I am Mistress Oldcastle,’ she said, ‘and Sir Francis left instructions last night that whenever you came, you were to be cared for like a son of the family.’
She was showing me into a small parlour as she talked, a short bustling woman who carried her authority with the same ease as the keys on her girdle.
‘This is Lady Walsingham’s parlour, but her ladyship is with her daughter at present and this is much more comfortable than the master’s study.’ As I opened my mouth to speak, she continued, ‘The master will be down shortly. He rode in very late last night and he hasn’t been well, but he insisted on getting up.’
She turned toward the door. ‘Put that here, Mary.’ This to a serving maid who was staggering in carrying a tub of steaming water, with camomile flowers floating in it. She put it down before a low cushioned chair beside a newly-lit fire.
‘Help the young gentleman with his hose,’ the housekeeper went on.
There was no question who was in charge here. Meekly I sat down in the chair and allowed the girl to peel off my hose. My feet were filthy and bloody. The shock of the water made me jerk and slop a little of it over the edge, but then it began to soothe the pain I had started to feel in my feet as soon as I thought about it. The girl laid aside the rags which had been my hose and began to wash my feet gently with a soft cloth and soap. No one had washed my feet for me since I was a small child and once I had overcome my embarrassment, I found it comforting. All the while Mistress Oldcastle kept a sharp eye on the girl.
‘I had a fire lit for you,’ she said. ‘That storm yesterday has almost sent us back into winter again. Who would have thought it, after all this fine weather? I thought we were in for a warm spring, but no, I expect we’ll have another bad summer and poor harvest.’
I smiled to myself. The English never seem to stop talking about their weather.
She peered at my feet, which were now appearing from beneath the grime. ‘Look at the state of you! What were you thinking of? How old are you, Master Alvarez?’
Startled, I answered submissively, ‘Sixteen.’
‘Sixteen! He’ll be employing babies next. You should be at home with your mother, not careering about the countryside barefoot. Why have you no shoes?’
‘I have.’ Defensively I pointed to my saddlebags, where my shoes were spilling out on to the floor.
‘Then why not wear them?’
‘It’s a long story.’
She examined my shoes and gave a sniff of disdain. ‘Not fit to be worn anyway. They’re soaked through.’
‘That was yesterday, in the storm.’
‘Well, I’ll fetch you some slippers.’ She examined my feet, now out of the tub and resting on a towel, while the girl heaved the tub up and carried it out of the room. ‘You’ve a small enough foot, I see. I can lend you a pair of my own.’
‘Please,’ I said, ‘there is no need for you to trouble . . .’ but she was not listening.
As soon as I was alone I dug into my pack for a fresh pair of hose and pulled them on, tucking them under the hem of my breeches. Washed and clean, my feet looked slender and much too feminine.
She was back almost at once with a pair of slippers in soft felt which were an easy fit. A young manservant followed her in with a tray, bringing with it an enticing smell. He set it down on a small table, which he moved to my elbow.
‘Eddie,’ she said, ‘take these shoes and see that they are thoroughly dried and polished. Don’t put them too close to the fire, mind, or you’ll crack the leather.’
She turned to me. ‘I’ll leave you to take your breakfast. The master has been told that you’re here and will be down shortly.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’ve been so kind.’
Her face creased in a smile. ‘It’s nothing, lad. Now eat up.’ And she went out. As the door closed, I distinctly heard the muttered word ‘children’. I grinned and turned to the tray.
It was simple, homely food and exactly what I needed. I lifted the lid on a dish of steaming porridge, with a pot of honey beside it waiting to be stirred in. There was a crusty loaf, still warm from the oven. Butter of such a rich yellow I guessed it came from the milk of those cows I had seen in the meadow. A tankard of warm, spiced ale. And, the one touch of luxury, three ripe apricots in a little basket lined with their own leaves. Manna from heaven!
My long ride in the fresh air had sharpened my appetite, which had deserted me at table in Hartwell Hall the previous night, and I made short work of the contents of the tray. When I had eaten every scrap, I set it aside and leaned back in the chair. The fire had burned through now, and I realised that the housekeeper was right. The weather, in the aftermath of yesterday’s storm, had indeed turned colder. The warmth of that fire was welcome. I closed my eyes and rested my head on my hand. I had been up all night and it had been a hard ride in a state of fear.
I woke with a jerk, immediately aware that I was no longer alone in the room. Sitting opposite me and regarding me with a quizzical smile was Sir Francis Walsingham.
‘Oh, Sir Francis!’ I started to scramble to my feet, setting the table with the tray rocking. I steadied it with my hand, just saving the pottery porridge pot from sliding to the floor.
‘Sit down, Kit,’ he said. ‘You’ve earned your rest, for you must have ridden through the night.’
‘Aye,’ I said, sinking back. ‘I had to wait up until everyone was asleep, then creep out in the dark.’
‘Hence the lack of shoes, which has caused such a stir.’
I smiled uncertainly, unsure whether he was teasing me. He seemed a different man here in the country from the stern courtier and administrator that I was used to. He was even dressed differently, in a loose gown of fine wool, and he wore no ruff.
‘I took my shoes off to make less noise in the house, then there was no time to put them on again.’
‘You would not have left Hartwell Hall without good reason,’ he said. ‘You have found something?’
‘To begin with, everything appeared quite innocent,’ I said. ‘The Fitzgeralds seem like good people.’ I frowned. It was difficult to explain what I meant. ‘I liked them. Everything was very open. I could go where I wished. Nothing seemed to be concealed. They were warm and friendly.’
He nodded. ‘There are good Catholic families in England, Kit. Those who honestly trust in their faith and believe at the same time that they can be loyal subjects of the Queen. They choose to turn a blind eye to the wickedness of the Pope, to the corruption of the Catholic church, and to the exiles who would bring a foreign army to invade and despoil this land. However, if it should come to a choice between Pope and Queen, who shall say which way they will turn?’
‘Sir Francis,’ I said, ‘I have been thinking a good deal about this since I came to work for you.’ I looked down at my hands, twisting them together. ‘I know what it is to be isolated and persecuted. And the history of the church in England . . .’