London
Dusk was gathering as Thomas approached the capital which sprawled across the landscape like a dark stain some miles ahead. The Great North Road had frozen hard and the heavily rutted surface had forced Thomas to slow his horse to a walk as he settled in behind a wool merchant’s cart in the long column of wagons, riders and travellers on foot making their way to London before the gates closed for the night. Thomas had been content to ride at the pace of the column, unlike the handful of post riders who had hurried past during the day. On either side of the trampled snow and exposed streaks of frozen earth a blanket of white lay over the fields and copses. The sky was overcast and there had been brief flurries since noon and a fresh fall of snow looked likely. Thin skeins of smoke trailed into the sky from the chimneys of isolated farmhouses and villages that dotted the landscape. Here and there a rosy glow shone through a window and made the travellers long for the comfort of a warm hearth.
Even though the day had been long and the cold had seeped into his flesh so that he hunched into his thick cloak, Thomas’s thoughts were elsewhere. Only a small amount of his attention, as much as was needed, was fixed on guiding his mount and paying occasional attention to his surroundings. For the rest, he was concerned with the reason behind this summons to the home of Sir Robert Cecil, the Queen’s Secretary of State. Thomas knew that Cecil had been a firm supporter of Elizabeth in the difficult years before she had succeeded to the throne. Like her, Cecil was a devout Protestant and the prime mover behind efforts to suppress the influence of Catholics in England. He wielded great power and was the foremost statesman in the country, so what could he possibly want with an obscure knight who had not shown his face in London these last three years?
Since his return from the wars in Europe Thomas had mostly remained on his small estate and overseen the planting of crops and the raising of his sheep and tending to the welfare of his tenants. On the rare visits he had made to London he had attended the royal court on a handful of occasions and, with the one exception during the reign of Catholic Queen Mary, he had not drawn any attention to himself. Even then, when he had shed a small amount of blood for which the penalty was the severing of a hand, he had not made any claim on his religion to assuage his punishment. In the event, he had been given only a small fine which some might well attribute to Mary’s preferment of a fellow Catholic. Thomas could hardly believe that his summons several years later could be due to any settling of such an old score.
He had not made common cause with any of those who protested for the rights of Catholics in public, or who plotted in private. That was a very dangerous game. Sir Robert Cecil’s spies were numerous and the rewards for those who informed against Catholics most tempting for anyone who bore a grudge or whose greed ruled them. There were some aristocrats whose faith had been used to justify the confiscation of their estates, and even their condemnation for treason. Many men had acquired great fortunes as a result of persecuting Catholics, just as many men had become rich during the earlier dissolution of the monasteries by King Henry. The same men now supported Elizabeth, as long as she guaranteed their rights over their recently acquired fortunes.
It was hard for Thomas to credit that his modest wealth had attracted the attention of Cecil or one of his faction. The only motive Robert Cecil could have for requesting his presence in London must concern the visit of the young knight from the Order. Thomas felt a shiver trace its way down his spine. If that was the reason then he had been deluding himself if he had thought that his quiet retreat in the depths of the countryside had removed him from scrutiny. It seemed that little escaped the far-seeing eyes of Cecil and his men, Thomas reflected irritably, and muttered a curse at the knights who had forced him to leave the Order. Long after he had resigned himself to spending his remaining days living a quiet life, they had grudgingly asked for his help. No doubt they would cast him out the moment the crisis passed and they felt able to dispense with his services.
The tolling of a distant bell announcing the fourth hour of the afternoon sounded and broke into Thomas’s train of thought. He stretched himself up in the saddle and eased his horse to the side of the road to see the way ahead more clearly. The loose column of travellers and wagons had just crested a low ridge which afforded a view of the capital beneath a thick pall of wood smoke. The snow resting on the rooftops already looked dirty. Half a mile away stood the great market of Smithfield where the meat traders brought in their flocks from across the country to be sold and butchered. A short distance from the pens and long rows of stalls was an open patch of ground where several thick charred timbers rose up above small mounds of compacted ash. In one place the ash was fresh and still smouldered, melting any snow that fell on it.
This was where heretics were put to death by being burned alive, Thomas knew. Once, ten years before, he had been in a vast crowd that witnessed the execution of three Protestant priests who had defied Queen Mary’s edicts by preaching in public after their licences had been revoked. The Queen had inflicted the spectacle on her entire court and had watched with prim satisfaction from an ornately padded chair set up on a dais erected for the event. Thomas could well recall the piercing screams of the men. The priests had writhed amid the flames spreading rapidly through the faggots piled below the small plinth on which their feet rested. In minutes a whirling torrent of brilliant yellow and red engulfed the bodies, which could yet be seen — blackened figures squirming against the chains that bound them as their cries of torment rose above the crackle of burning wood. The memory, still vivid even now, chilled Thomas’s heart. He averted his gaze from the stakes and clicked his tongue to urge his horse into a trot.
Beyond Smithfield was the city wall. Once it had been a formidable line of defence but had long since fallen into neglect. There were gaps in its length where sections had collapsed, and the ditch that had once surrounded the city was now filled in with generations of rubbish and human waste. A powerful stench filled the chilly air as Thomas passed through the wide arch at Newgate and entered London. The sounds of the great city assaulted him from all sides. The cries of street traders, the bawling of infants and the shouts of those striving to be heard above the din filled his ears, just as the odours of baking bread, cooked and rancid meat, and the stink of sewage filled his nostrils. The main thoroughfares of London were crowded by the buildings pressing in from each side and looming overhead where each storey of a building projected out above the one beneath, lending the streets a murky gloom that depressed Thomas’s soul.
It was with some relief as the light faded beyond the jagged lines of the rooftops and cast London into the realm of shadows that he turned on to the wider road along Holborn. Thomas ignored the hawkers who hurried alongside his horse trying to sell him snacks or handkerchiefs, and he kept a close eye on his saddlebags to ensure that no cutpurse attempted to snatch anything as he rode by. At length, he saw the entrance to Drury Lane and turned his mount into a somewhat quieter street. The shops on either side were well appointed and neatly painted signs advertised a variety of expensive goods: fine cloth, wines and cheeses, silverware and glassware imported from Europe. In between the shops were large houses, increasing in size and opulence as the lane approached Aldwych and the Thames a short distance beyond.
As the last of the daylight faded, Thomas stopped a boy running an errand with a small parcel tucked securely under his arm. He asked for Cecil’s house and was directed to an imposing property occupying the comer that Drury Lane shared with another street. The facade fronted Drury Lane with finely carved timbers and geometric patterns of brickwork. A gate to the side led into a small courtyard with stables and a pair of burly servants barred Thomas’s way until he announced his appointment with their master, having dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to a groom. He was led through a door into the rear of the house and handed over to one of the neatly dressed house servants wearing the same blue as the messenger who had arrived at Thomas’s estate the day before.
Once more Thomas explained the purpose of his visit and was taken through the main hall of the house and up a flight of stairs and along a corridor illuminated by candles that dimly revealed paintings hanging on the panelled walls, almost every one of them depicting a hunting scene or a dour-looking family member. There was only one painting depicting a religious scene, Thomas noted, before he was led into a small waiting room lined with wooden benches and warmed and illuminated by a fire. A slender young man was busy adding several fresh logs to the modest blaze. He looked over his shoulder as Thomas was shown into the room. His features were dark and delicate-looking, and his eyes were brown and lent his gaze a piercing aspect that Thomas found vaguely unsettling.
‘I will inform the master’s secretary that you have arrived, sir,’ the servant announced. ‘Do you wish me to bring you any refreshment while you wait?’
‘I would be grateful for a cup of warmed mead. ’
‘Mead?’ The servant’s eyebrows rose a fraction and Thomas could not help being amused by the man’s inability to place him neatly in some niche on the hierarchy of London’s social classes. His clothes were well made but unadorned and his hair was close cut, like his beard, with no attempt at the precise styling of the more fashionable type of gentleman. Thomas could have passed for a well-to-do tradesman or a country yeoman, but his business with Sir Robert Cecil hinted at something more and the servant bowed his head. ‘As you wish, sir. Mead it is.’
He closed the door behind him while the man by the hearth looked Thomas over with keen eyes before he nodded a respectful greeting and turned his attention back to building up the fire. When he had finished he brushed his hands together and eased himself down on to a small bench next to the fireplace. To his side was the room’s only other door. Thomas removed his cloak, gloves and hat and set them down beside him as he settled on a bench opposite. For a moment he relished the rosy atmosphere and let the warmth gradually penetrate his garments and take the chill off his flesh.
At length he looked up to examine the young man more closely and was surprised to find him staring back at him. Far from being discomforted by having this scrutiny discovered and lowering his gaze, the man continued to study Thomas in a manner he found overfamiliar.
‘Do I know you?’ asked Thomas.
‘No.’
‘Then do you know me?’
‘This is the first time I have ever seen you.’ His voice was cultured and Thomas could not quite place the accent. But before he could pursue the conversation, the door beside the young man opened and a frail-looking clerk in blue livery stepped into the room. He cleared his throat and looked towards Thomas.
‘Sir Thomas Barrett?’
‘Yes.’
‘The master will see you now.’
‘So early? I was supposed to see him after six.’
‘He is ready for you now, sir.’
‘Very well.’ Thomas rose from his bench and cast a final glance towards the young man, who inclined his head slightly in response.
The door gave way to a small room with a window overlooking the courtyard at the back of the house. A desk and stool stood beneath the window, with a large document chest on either side. The clerk scurried past Thomas and rapped lightly on a door on the far side of his office. There was a brief pause before he reached for the latch and gently pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold.
‘Sir Thomas, master.’
‘Pray show him in,’ a deep voice responded.
The clerk backed out and gestured to Thomas to enter. The Secretary of State’s domestic office was in proportion to his importance. The room stretched from the courtyard at the back of the house to Drury Lane, which a series of leaded windows overlooked. The walls were lined with filled bookcases, more books than Thomas had ever seen in one place. He estimated there must be at least four or five hundred of them. A truly magnificent private library, he marvelled with a touch of envy. There were two fireplaces in the study to heat each end, and chairs were positioned between the bookcases, enough of them to seat perhaps thirty or forty guests. Between the two fireplaces was a large desk upon which rested a wooden tray with documents piled within it. A pair of inkwells and a handful of pens lay neatly beside them. Behind the desk sat a large man with a silk cap. His hair was trimmed in a neat line about his scalp and his beard formed a tidy point above a double chin. He appeared to be a few years younger than Thomas. There was only one other man in the room, thin and clothed in a black gown that reached almost to the floor. He stood close to one of the fires, warming his back. Both of them regarded Thomas briefly before the man seated behind the desk gestured to him impatiently.
‘Come, sit down, Sir Thomas. There.’ He indicated one of a handful of cushioned chairs on the other side of his desk, arranged in a shallow arc. ‘You too, my dear Francis.’
Thomas did as he was bid and sat in the middle of the chairs so that the other man would be displaced from the centre, the implicit position of most importance. Once they were settled Sir Robert leaned forward and fixed Thomas with a steady gaze. His expression was good-natured and he spoke in a pleasant tone. ‘I trust your journey was not too troubling?’
‘Not at all, sir. The roads were safe and the snow was only light. I made good time.’
‘So I see. You reached London earlier than I thought you would.’ Thomas smiled faintly. ‘A man who is summoned by the Secretary of State does not tarry a moment longer than he can help it, Sir Robert. And so here I am, at your pleasure.’
‘Indeed, and I dare say that the cause of my request is uppermost in your mind.’
‘Of course.’
‘Then let me say that your being here is due to the delicacy of the task I have in mind for you. Even though our blessed sovereign has been on the throne for five years, there are still many who take exception to her elevation to the throne and not just because of her espousal of the Protestant faith. I take it you know of John Knox?’
‘I have heard the name.’
‘And you are no doubt aware that he cries out against the very principle of a woman succeeding to the throne. Perhaps you have read some of his pamphlets on the matter.’
‘It would be a foolish man who dared to read his arguments, Sir Robert. His pamphlets are banned. It is a capital offence to be discovered in possession of them, I believe.’
‘Quite so. But you are familiar with his thoughts.’
‘I have heard of them,’ Thomas replied carefully, aware that he was being watched closely by the other man in the room, who no doubt served as a witness. ‘Though I cannot recall who was speaking at the time.’
‘Naturally.’ Sir Robert smiled. ‘And it would be pointless for me to press you on the matter, still less to subject you to the pains in order to encourage your memory of the names of those involved.’ He chuckled as if to underscore the levity of the comment, but Thomas understood the threat of torture well enough. He was completely in this man’s power, regardless of his views of Knox or any of those who opposed Queen Elizabeth. As a Catholic his jeopardy was doubled. He returned Sir Robert’s gaze without expression. There was an uncomfortable silence before Sir Robert eased himself back a short distance and raised his hands slightly.
‘Ah! Pardon me, I forget my manners. I should have introduced you two gentlemen. Sir Thomas, it is my pleasure to acquaint you with Sir Francis Walsingham, the partner of my labours in the service of our sovereign. I trust him implicitly,’ Sir Robert added with emphasis.
Thomas turned towards him and nodded. ‘Walsingham.’
The other man stared back and responded coldly, ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Sir Thomas.’
‘You must forgive Sir Francis,’ the host laughed. ‘He is no lover of the Church of Rome and sometimes that causes him to forget certain social niceties. But come now, let us not dance about the point any longer. I can assure you, Sir Thomas, that you have not been asked here for the sake of persecution. I have a task for you. One that will be an opportunity to serve your sovereign and your country and put the question of your loyalty to both beyond reproach.’
‘I do not consider my loyalty to either to be in doubt,’ Thomas countered evenly.
‘Of course not. You know your own heart and I would not have asked you here if I had any doubts. Let us take that as settled. Agreed?’ He shot Walsingham a warning glance. The latter nodded.
‘There. Which brings us to the first question I have to put to you, Sir Thomas. I believe that you were visited two days ago by a French knight who belongs to the rather select Holy Order of the Hospitaller Knights of St John.’ He turned to Walsingham. ‘That is their title, is it not?’
‘More or less.’
Cecil’s eyes fixed on Thomas and the good-natured wrinkles that spread out at their corners eased into a cold, heartless stare. ‘Would you be so good as to tell us why a French knight from a Catholic military order might travel across Europe to pay a visit to you, Sir Thomas?’