‘Yes?’
‘My father and I worship at the church of St Bartholomew, and there is a very old man I see there every Sunday. Someone told me he is more than four score years old.’
‘A goodly age.’
‘Yes. But.’ I cleared my throat. I thought my cold was returning. ‘When that man was born, more than eighty years ago, England was a Catholic country. Then, when he was a young man, the Queen’s father broke with Rome, pulled down the monasteries, and told people that England had a new church, of which he was head.’
Sir Francis was watching me closely now, as though he though I might be going to speak heresy. I went on hastily.
‘Then in the boy king Edward’s time, the church was pushed towards Calvin, and those who had kept to the old faith were hunted down and persecuted. Then our Queen’s sister Mary, married to Philip of Spain, brought back the Pope and the Catholic church and it was the Protestants who were burned. By now, my old man would have been middle-aged. And surely confused. But he survived. Do you suppose he turned Catholic again under Mary?’
‘Who is to know?’
‘Now, under our Queen Elizabeth, England is Protestant again, Catholics are hunted, and our neighbour attends the Protestant services faithfully every Sunday in his old age. What do you suppose he believes?’
Sir Francis steepled his fingers and looked at me over them. ‘All of us over a certain age have had a difficult time, Kit, finding our way through conflicting faiths. And I believe a man should worship as his conscience bids him. Personally, I believe each of us should go directly to scripture, without the intervention of a priest, read Christ’s words and deeds for ourselves, and on that basis make up our minds. What cannot be tolerated is a papacy that blatantly urges foreign powers to invade our country, even providing them with funds, and gives its blessing to any assassin who promises to kill the Queen.’
He turned away from me and looked out of the window, where a fresh shoot from a rose bush was tapping against the glass.
‘If the Fitzgeralds are a decent family who keep their Catholic faith quiet and bother no one, then I hold nothing against them.’
He turned back towards me and his glance sharpened.
‘However, if that were the case, I do not believe you would be here.’
I sighed. Of course, everything that he said was true.
‘Yesterday,’ I said, ‘the entire household attended morning service in Great Hartwell church, conducted by the Reverend Conings exactly according to Elizabeth’s Prayer Book and the rites of the English church. In the afternoon, I went for a ride. Looking back, I think that Lady Bridget, who suggested it, wanted me out of the house. I welcomed the suggestion, because it gave me an opportunity to spy out the first part of the route to Barn Elms.’
He nodded. ‘Was that when you were caught in the storm? We had it in London too.’
‘Yes. I had just reached the lake when the skies opened and I hurried back, sooner than I would have done had it remained dry. As I drew near the house, I saw two men arrive and I kept out of sight.’
Now it was my turn to watch him closely. ‘One was soberly dressed. I thought perhaps he was a clergyman of some sort. The other was Robert Poley.’
Surprised flickered across his face but was quickly suppressed. It was enough. I was sure he did not know Poley would be there.
‘I kept to my chamber for the rest of the afternoon, until the daughter of the family came and asked me to play some music with her.’ I felt myself blushing and hoped he would not notice. I was reluctant to tell him about Cecilia’s advances.
‘We had just finished playing a piece when we both heard a bell ringing softly in the distance. I had not heard it before in the house. But it sounded to me exactly like the bells rung during Mass in Portugal. The girl sprang to her feet as though it was a summons, and left at once.’
‘You did not follow?’
‘No.’ Suddenly I wondered whether I should have done. The Fitzgeralds knew I was Portuguese. Perhaps they suspected I was Catholic. It had not occurred to me to go after Cecilia, I was so relieved to be rid of her. ‘No, I did not follow. Should I have done?’
‘Difficult to say. Go on.’
‘When we sat down at table that evening, there was no sign of Poley or the other man, though they must have been somewhere about the house, for their horses were still in the stable. They were still there when I left.’
‘And you decided to come because of Poley and this possible Mass?’
‘No. Yes. Partly. I thought Poley might learn I was there and tell the Fitzgeralds that I worked for you. I feared for my life, Sir Francis. Perhaps that was foolish.’
‘Not necessarily. It is probably as well that you came away.’ He moved, as if he was about to rise.
‘Oh, but that is not all!’ I put out my hand to stop him. ‘I packed up my belongings, and crept down to Sir Damian’s study. I thought, if there were any letters, as you suspected, that was where they would be. I hadn’t realised that his wolfhound slept in there.’ I shivered. ‘He nearly gave me away.’
Walsingham’s glance sharpened. He sank back into his chair but leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees.
‘The study was very bare and tidy. I thought the letters must be in his strongbox. Then I picked up a book from his desk. Tyndale’s The Obedience of a Christian Man. It had been hollowed out to make a box. And there were three letters inside.’
Now his eyes were fixed on my face and I thought he was holding his breath.
‘I recognised the handwriting at once, though the letters were all sealed anonymously. It was Thomas Morgan’s hand.’
‘And they were addressed to?’
‘One to the French ambassador. The other two to a man called Sir Anthony Babington.’
He let out his breath in a long sigh. ‘Babington! Excellent, Kit, excellent!’
‘Then I saddled my horse and came here,’ I said, dismissing in a few words that terrifying ride through the dark. ‘I could not take the letters, or they would have suspected something, and I could not unseal them, not having Arthur Gregory to reseal them for me.’
‘No, no, you did quite right.’
‘But the letters may be on their way again already.’
‘I’ll have them followed. It’s still early. But they will soon miss you.’
‘I left a note, saying my father was ill, as you suggested. Though they will wonder how I received word.’
‘Let them wonder. If they have no other suspicions of you.’
‘There was something else, Sir Francis.’ I found myself turning red again.
‘Yes?’
‘While we were playing music together, the girl Cecilia . . . she tried to seduce me.’
‘What?’ He burst out laughing. ‘A well brought up Catholic girl of fifteen!’
‘I think it may not have been the first time. She seemed . . . well, experienced.’
‘I apologise, Kit. I did not know your good name would be at risk!’
Little do you know, I thought.
‘At the time I believed it was her own . . . inclination. But I have wondered since whether she was put up to it.’
‘Ah. Perhaps.’ He sprang to his feet like a much younger man. ‘I will see to sending someone to watch and follow whoever carries those letters.’
At the door he paused. ‘Mistress Oldcastle has been scolding me for employing children in my nefarious work. You have done as well as any grown man, Kit.’ He went out, closing the door behind him. Relieved of having unburdened myself of everything, I sank back in my chair. In a few minutes I was asleep again.
I am not sure how long I slept the second time, but when I woke my neck was stiff, although, as for the rest, I felt better. There were voices in the rest of the house, and sounds of movement. Unsure what to do, I walked to the door and looked out. Fortunately Mistress Oldcastle was passing.