At first it was not as pleasant a ride as my journey to Hartwell Hall some weeks before. In the full heat of summer the road was covered with loose dust which flew up everywhere, filling my lungs and peppering my eyes with grit. The road to Windsor was also very busy, crowded with carts and carriages as well as riders. Even when I turned on to the Oxford road it was not much better. Once the crowds thinned out a little, however, I set Hector to an easy canter, the road was less dusty, and the miles slipped by more easily.
At midday we stopped in a grassy meadow by a stream, where I ate some cheese and a hard-boiled egg, and I let Hector graze for half an hour. As I sat with my back to a tree, I nearly fell asleep. The heavy June sunshine was thick with the drone of bees and I had slept little the previous night, anxious about the journey. If Hector had not blown a wet and grassy breath in my face, I might have slept the day away.
As it was, we were still ten miles from Oxford by late afternoon, according to the fingerpost but, despite having cantered much of the way, Hector did not seem unduly tired. I decided to carry on, holding him down to a walk the last five miles or so. We rode into Oxford, my eyes taking in greedily the honey-coloured stone of the colleges, the flower-filled gardens, and the rivers. Being high summer, it was out of term time, although I noticed several older scholars, the college fellows, in their academic gowns, which reminded me achingly of my father at Coimbra University. And there were bookshops! But I had no money for books, only the money Phelippes had given me for my lodgings.
I found the Mitre Inn, mentioned by Phelippes, and paid for a room to myself as well as stabling for my horse. It was only when I sat down to eat the mutton stew served in the inn parlour that I realised how tired I was. I had been in the saddle for twelve hours and the muscles of my legs and back made me all too aware of it. As soon as I had finished eating I retired to my chamber, along a meandering corridor linking the maze of rooms. I pulled off my boots and cap, and lay down for a minute on the bed. When I woke it was full dark. Groaning a little from my stiffening muscles, I stripped down to my shift and fell into bed. I can vouch for the comfort of the Mitre’s beds, for I did not wake again until broad daylight.
In the morning I asked the innkeeper how far it was to Warwick. He scratched his head, then called out to the potboy.
‘How many miles to Warwick, Henry?’
The potboy also scratched his head. ‘Forty, forty-five miles, I reckon, master.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Thank you. Far less than I rode yesterday.’
‘Came from Lunnon, did you, lad?’
‘Aye.’
‘That’s a good way, that is.’
He looked at me respectfully, but I was glad he called me ‘lad’. It seemed I looked the part.
We left Oxford, heading north on the Banbury Road, leaving the church of St Giles on our left, and reached Warwick by the late dusk of this summer’s day. Even though it had been a much shorter ride, by now Hector was tired, and so was I. However, we found one of the inns Phelippes had suggested and by the next morning were on our way again.
The road from Warwick to Lichfield ran through fat farming country, deep in the heart of England. This whole journey had laid open England to me, for until this year I had barely stirred outside London. I did not feel particularly grateful for my service to Walsingham, but in my heart I admitted grudgingly that it had opened my eyes to my adopted country. It was not the land of my birth, which I had grown to hate. But this country, less dramatic, less ostentatious, was becoming very dear to me in recent months. I was beginning to understand why Englishmen, normally reticent and reluctant to show their feelings, could become so passionate about their love of this land. I found it difficult to put into words, but I felt somehow nourished by it, embraced by it. The countryside smiled at me, and I smiled back as I rode. This was a country worth fighting for.
My inn at Lichfield was near the cathedral, so the bells tracked the hours for me during the evening and into the night. Until I reached the city my mind had been concentrated on the long journey, but now I began to grow apprehensive of presenting myself at Chartley Manor. The name had been no more than that, a name written on letters, a place somewhere in Staffordshire. A house where the Scottish queen lived with her exiled court under strict supervision. Somehow, it had not seemed quite real. Tomorrow I would ride up to it, and present a letter which was a forgery, posing as what I was not. My whole life was a lie, in my pretended skin as a boy, but now I was play-acting again, this time as a servant boy, messenger for a renegade Catholic, who had entered the country illegally and was offering his services to the Scottish queen.
Except he wasn’t.
It was Phelippes who was spinning this web.
As far as I knew, Barnes was still in London with Barnard, one of the chief players in the conspiracy, who was urging Babington to action, along with the double agent Poley. But what if Barnes had left London and come himself to offer his service to Mary? Having been a courier for Walsingham, he would know the route in detail, could probably even afford post horses along the way. Even if he had been in London when I left, he might have overtaken me on the way.
These were irrational fears, but they kept me awake, listening to the cathedral bells sounding out the hours. I began to feel sick with apprehension.
Phelippes had drawn me a second map, showing the route from Lichfield to Chartley, so that I would have no need to draw attention to myself by asking the way. It looked simple enough. A road northwest out of Lichfield, through the village of Rugeley. Onwards about as far again and I would meet a crossroads. The road to the right led to Uttoxeter and Chartley Manor was a short way along this road. I would also see the ruins of Chartley Castle in the same estate.
Hector was well rested after our much shorter journey yesterday, only about forty miles. We ambled along at first and I noticed that the hedges here were thick with blackberries, though they would not be plump and ripe for some weeks yet. Hector tossed his head and turned his ears to catch my voice, as if he expected me to urge him on. Even Hector knew we could not put this off any longer. A gentle canter took us through the village of Rugeley and on to the crossroads, where I slowed Hector to a walk. The last mile or so to the house seemed to pass too quickly, and now I was there.
‘I have a message for Master Curll,’ I said to the manservant who opened the door. It might have been any gentleman’s house, if it were not for two armed retainers watching the same door, and no doubt more round the back of the house. I had tied Hector to a hitching ring in the gatepost, where he stood irritably swishing his tail at the flies that rose from the bushes.
‘Give it here then.’ His manner, to this slightly grubby messenger boy, was extremely curt.
‘I’m sorry sir.’ I gave him an urchin’s winning smile. ‘I was to give it into the gentleman’s hand myself.’
‘You’d better come in then.’
He led me briskly along a corridor toward the back of the house. I had time to note that the rooms, though perfectly comfortable, were in no way royal. The man threw open a door.
‘Master Curll, message for you.’
A harassed looking man turned from his desk and half stood, then seeing me sank back into his chair and held out his hand for the letter. I took it from the leather pouch at my belt and handed it to him. For the brief moment that our hands were joined by Phelippes’s forgery, I had a sense of some terrible destiny. There were our hands together. His hand had inscribed dozens of letters that I had deciphered and transcribed with my hand. I could now write his hand as easily as my own. And the letter passing between us, written in one of his own ciphers, was a link in a fatal chain. So sharp was my sense of horror that I nearly snatched it back again.