‘Good, Master Alvarez. I was coming to wake you. You are to take some refreshment with the Master before you set out.’
‘I must return your slippers,’ I said, looking at my feet.
‘Your shoes are better, though I think they will never be quite right. I will see that they are brought to you. This way.’
I followed her along a screen passage, wondering where and when I was to be setting out. She showed me into another room, about the same size as the parlour, clearly a small family dining chamber. Sir Francis and another man were already sitting at table and a manservant was laying out plates of cold meats and cheeses and bread.
‘Come, sit down, Kit.’ Sir Francis waved me to a chair opposite him. ‘Help yourself. We must be on our way shortly, now that both you and your horse are rested.’
I sat down as bidden and loaded a plate, finding I was already hungry again.
‘This is our young code-breaker, Christoval Alvarez,’ he said to the other, a grizzled man of late middle age, whose countenance had the weather-beaten look of someone whose work is out of doors. ‘Kit, this is my steward at Barn Elms, Master Goodrich. We have been settling a few estate matters before I return to London.’
I rose from my chair and bowed to the steward, who returned the bow and smiled at me. It crossed my mind that Sir Francis’s staff here in the country were very different from those who worked in his secret intelligence service in London. As different as Mistress Oldcastle’s felt slippers from a pair of tight-fitting boots.
‘We are to go to London then, sir?’ I asked.
‘Aye. I have sent one of my men off to follow the trail from Hartwell Hall, but I need to be back in London before night to arrange the interception of further letters travelling by this route. We will leave as soon as we have eaten.’
After our hasty meal, my shoes were returned to me. Although someone had worked hard on them, Mistress Oldcastle was right, they would never be respectable again. However, they were all I had with me. Our horses were brought round to the front of the house, Hector looking as fresh as if he had not galloped through the night. I loaded up my saddlebags again, and again slung my lute over my back. I was beginning to find it an irritating burden. One of the grooms gave me a leg up. Sir Francis also needed some assistance to mount. I had noticed that he seemed to be favouring his right leg and wondered whether I should proffer any medical advice, but decided it was not my place.
The steward came out to see us off.
‘What do you think of old piebald Hector, then, Master Alvarez?’ He patted the horse affectionately on the neck.
‘He’s a fine fellow,’ I said, ‘and not so old either.’
‘Oh, he knows I mean no harm. I’ve known him since he was a foal. He was bred right here at Barn Elms.’
Once we were mounted, half a dozen men trotted round the side of the house from the stableyard. They wore helmets and breastplates and carried swords. My face must have given away my surprise, for the steward lowered his voice and said, ‘Sir Francis cannot take any risks, not even between here and London. Sad times, sad times.’
‘Are we ready?’ Walsingham glanced round our company and everyone nodded. We set off.
‘We will not be returning the way you came down to Surrey,’ he said, taking his place beside me as we rode out down the lane which led from the house. ‘Best to avoid going too near Hartwell Hall. We’ll circle round to the north a short way. It won’t add a great deal to the journey.’
I had enjoyed my leisurely ride out from London a week ago. This journey felt very different, riding in the midst of a group of armed retainers. What a wonder it was that I had come to this! It was exciting, but in many ways I wished I could slip back into my old anonymous life, lived between the house in Duck Lane and the hospital. Then, the only danger was that my sex might be discovered. Now, my very life might be at risk, at any moment. It gave a different cast to the day, a different quality to the light and to the countryside through which we passed.
It was early evening by the time we reached London Bridge. The crowds had thinned and most of the shops were putting up their shutters. When we arrived at Seething Lane and rode into the stableyard, I realised I would have to part company with Hector now. After all we had endured together, I was saddened. Sir Francis did not even allow me to settle him, but urged me inside as soon as I had removed my pack from the saddlebag. I gave the horse a final rub between the ears, promising myself that I would bring him an apple next time I came to Seething Lane, and followed Sir Francis indoors.
‘I want you to repeat your story to Phelippes,’ he said as we climbed the stairs, ‘then you may go home to your father. I daresay you will be glad to go.’
I nodded. Already, back in London, dressed in a sober black doublet and stiffly starched ruff, he was once again the Sir Francis Walsingham, Principal Secretary to Her Majesty, that I had first met all those months ago.
Phelippes was still at his desk, poring over his papers with his face almost touching them.
‘Candles!’ Sir Francis called and a boy appeared with two, lighting more around the room before he left.
‘Thomas, you will ruin what little sight you have left, working in the dark like this.’
Phelippes smiled vaguely and rubbed his eyes. ‘I had not noticed it had grown so dark.’ He turned to me. ‘Well, Kit, I understand you have been having adventures down in Surrey.’ He looked at Walsingham. ‘Your man got here about an hour ago. He followed the courier all the way. The letters have gone to their destinations.’
‘Good.’ Sir Francis sat down. ‘Now, Kit, repeat everything you told me. Including,’ he gave one of those smiles so rare in London, ‘including how you were seduced by a young temptress of fifteen.’
It was so unusual for Sir Francis to tease anyone that I took it in good part and repeated my account of the week at Hartwell Hall, especially the ending of it. When it was over and Phelippes had asked one or two questions, I was sent home. I went gladly, for I was tired after what seemed an endless day. Even so, I was not too tired to notice that Phelippes, like Sir Francis, looked startled when I explained how I had seen Poley riding up to the Fitzgeralds’ house in the company of a man who might be a Catholic priest. They exchanged looks. Clearly Poley at Hartwell Hall was not part of their own plans.
The walk back to Duck Lane across London in the fading light seemed longer than ever. My wretched lute banged against my back and I had to keep shifting my pack from one hand to the other, for my arms were so tired from all the riding I had done in the last day and a half. A light shone from the kitchen window as I came up the lane. I was almost too weary to open the door, but the way my father’s face lit up as I came in made the long walk worthwhile.
‘Kit!’ He flung his arms around me. ‘I thought I would not see you for another week at least. Welcome home.’
‘Oh, I am glad to be home, Father. And glad I did not need to stay longer than a week.’
‘There is someone here to see you,’ he said, his manner suddenly a little reserved.
As I laid my lute and pack on the table, I looked where he had gestured.
‘Simon!’
Simon rose from his stool and came across the room.
‘It’s good you are back,’ he said. ‘Dark goings-on, I expect, down there in the country.’
I laughed. He made it sound like a journey to the strange new worlds where Harriot had gone on the Chesapeake adventure, instead of rich and cultivated Surrey.
‘This young man came to ask whether I had any news of you,’ Father said stiffly. ‘He arrived just a few minutes before you.’
‘This is Simon Hetherington, Father,’ I said, realising that they had never met before. ‘You remember, I told you how he fetched me to a patient in the Marshalsea, when you were not here. The man Poley.’