‘I have composed a letter to the Scottish queen in Barnes’s hand, or rather to her secretary, Curll, vowing Barnes’s allegiance to her cause and making the sort of vague promises these fellows deal in. A few hints about Morgan, and some information about Babington’s plans that could be known only to his inner circle.’
‘And to us.’
‘Aye. And to us. It is written in one of their usual ciphers and I have used their code names: “Roland” for Barnes himself, “Thomas Germin” for Morgan, and “Nicholas Cornelys” for Gifford. All these details should convince Curll that it is genuine.’
‘Stirring the pot?’
He gave a sour smile. ‘Aye, stirring the pot. Our problem is that Babington is now flitting about like a demented woman. One minute he’s in his own house near the Barbican, next he’s in lodgings at Hernes Rents in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. A few days later he has taken himself off to lodge with a tailor just outside Temple Bar, on Fleet Street. Why does he keep changing his lodgings, when he has a fine house of his own in London? I do not like it. Now he has not been seen for two days. He may have left London for his estate in Derbyshire, or he may have gone to Lichfield. He was there earlier this year when he wanted to spy out the land for rescuing the Scottish woman.’
‘What has this to do with the letter supposed to come from Barnes?’
‘I want them to realise they must stop shilly-shallying and make a move. I’ve had Barnes suggest to Curll that Mary should contact Babington as the best hope for her rescue. All the correspondence has been too vague and general up to now. We need a positive commitment.’
He took off his glasses and looked at me. ‘This is where you come in. Sir Francis told you that there would come a time when your youth and honest face would be useful to us. Now is the time. I want you to go to Chartley as our messenger boy and deliver this letter. You are just a simple boy, you understand, working for Barnes. All you have to do is to deliver the letter. They may want you to take an answer. You can do that, can’t you?’
It was rare of him even to ask, though I realised he was not really asking.
‘I suppose I might,’ I said, with no great enthusiasm. ‘I suppose Sir Francis will make arrangements with the hospital, as usual.’
If Phelippes heard a note of sarcasm in my voice, he did not react.
‘It will be attended to. You leave first thing in the morning. I will draw you a map. I suppose you will want that same horse again – Horace, was it called?’
‘Hector,’ I said. ‘His name is Hector. I go alone?’
‘Of course. You are just a messenger boy. I will see that you have appropriate clothes.’
‘Perhaps I could collect them now,’ I said, ‘to save time in the morning.’ I did not want to find myself obliged to dress here in Phelippes’s office.
I went home with the bundle of somewhat unsavoury clothes under my arm, to find that my father had not yet returned from the hospital. It was fortunate that, while I was away in Sussex, Dr Stevens had finally employed a new assistant and had also been able to discard his cane. Unless there was a sudden outbreak of one of the summer illnesses, my father should be able to manage without me for the few days I would be absent in Staffordshire. I had begun to worry that, if Walsingham continued to demand my services, I should lose my position at St Bartholomew’s. During the last few months almost half my time had been taken up by Sir Francis’s intelligence work. Both he and Phelippes continued to say that they believed this summer would bring their projection to fruition, but I could see no real sign of it. I could understand Phelippes’s frustration and his need to prod the conspirators into action.
I scrawled a hasty note to Simon, for I had promised to come to a rehearsal of a new play tomorrow, something I had been looking forward to, for I had never seen how Burbage worked the magic which converted a sheaf of inky pages into the world of a play in which the audience could lose itself. Having met most of the actors by now, I knew that managing them, persuading them to work together and not parade their own talents at the expense of others’, must be like herding mountain goats in a thunderstorm – all rushing off in different directions.
One of our neighbours had a son who would run errands for a ha’penny. I gave him a ha’penny to take my note to the Theatre and promised him a slice of cake when he came back. While he was gone, I tried on the clothes I was to wear into Staffordshire. They were of a fairly uniform mud colour: breeches, jerkin, thick woollen hose and an ugly knitted cap. Appropriately anonymous. However, the hose itched dreadfully in this hot weather, especially where they rubbed on the partly healed gash in my leg, so I was determined to wear a thinner pair of my own. There was a light cloak in case of rain. I studied myself in the spotted mirror I kept in my chamber. With the cap pulled well down and perhaps a dirty face, I could pass for a messenger boy. Trustworthy and discreet, but too young to be a danger to anyone. It was odd how the simple clothes made me look younger. The doublet and small ruff I normally wore added several years to my age.
I turned sideways to the mirror. It was a blessing that I was almost as flat-chested as a boy. Even at sixteen and a half I had still not developed a womanly figure. All my growing had gone into height, but the day might come when it would be difficult to pass myself off as a boy. A well-padded doublet, however, can hide much. Indeed, some of our young gallants look as round-breasted as pouter pigeons. Without a doublet I felt more vulnerable, but I could always wear the cloak, unless the weather was so hot that it would arose suspicions.
The boy returned from the Theatre soon after I had changed back into my normal clothes, saying he had given the message into Simon’s hands. Between mouthfuls of cake he added that the gentleman had wished me God speed on my journey.
‘Are you going away again, Master Alvarez?’ he asked.
‘Only for a few days, just into Staffordshire.’ I might as well have said the Spice Islands from the look in his wide eyes. So the neighbours had noticed my various absences. I hoped they would not be traced back to Walsingham.
Just after dawn the next morning I was on my way, having collected the forged letter and map from Phelippes, and Hector from the stable. It would be a long journey, about a hundred and twenty-five miles, Phelippes reckoned. At the very least it would take me three days, riding from dawn to dusk. Had I been an official messenger on state business, I could have commandeered a change of mounts at regular intervals, but I was posing as a boy sent by Barnes, so I must ride one horse all the way without tiring him.
The easiest route was to head west along the river first, as far as Windsor, then turn north on the Oxford road.
‘You must judge for yourself,’ Phelippes said. ‘It took me four days to make the journey to Chartley earlier in the year. You should be able to reach Oxford today, for you are a more experienced rider than I am. But it must be fifty or sixty miles. If you find it is late and the horse is tired, you will need to stay the night before you come to Oxford. It is a well travelled route, so there will be plenty of clean, respectable inns. In Oxford, try the Mitre. After Oxford, Warwick should be a suitable stage, not as distant as Oxford is from London. Then you should reach Lichfield by the evening of the third day. That will be the shortest stretch. The next morning you will be able to make the short ride to Chartley.’
‘How far is that?’
‘Less than twenty miles.’
‘I had not realised it was so far.’
I could see that the distance, and the time it would take me to travel it, irritated him. He was anxious to set his plan in motion with the forged letter and he was used to sending trained riders with despatches, who, with their constant changes to fresh horses and their hard riding, would probably make the journey to Lichfield in just two days. Well, it could not be helped. I was not going to drive Hector too hard.