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  Robert had said, through a mouthful of cheese, ‘That is a lusty young lass.’

  They had sailed to Middelburg, and found their slow way south, in close and covert paths betwixt the streams of refugees, thousands trudging north with a life’s possessions bundled on their backs. The blockage of the Scheldt, where once Hew had sailed, had cut off the light of the fair and glorious towns that had been the envy of the merchant world, and left them cold and desolate. They made their way to Ghent, to find that it had fallen to the duke of Parma. The people in that town had no more will to fight, and abandoned to their deaths the beleaguered foreign forces who had come there to defend them. Hew and Robert had been sheltered from the occupying soldiers, by a group of nuns, and Robert for his part took two of them to bed, he said, ‘for old times’ sake’.

  They had sent back, all this while, a clear and true intelligence, by what means they could. When Antwerp also fell, giving up the ghost of that devastated city with no more than a groan, the Spanish who had taken it had opened up the gates for the weary exodus of forty thousand Protestants, and Hew and Robert joined them on their straggled route, to the northern harbours and across the seas. They had returned to London, in 1585, in company among a ship of Flemish weavers, who found they were made welcome there, with others of their trade.

  Their work had been acknowledged then, with money from the Crown, and more precious still to Hew, despatches from the Secretary to the Scottish court, reflecting on the service he had done to serve the cause of true religion, and to protect the mutual interests of the English and the Scots. Those interests had drawn closer in his absence overseas. James had consented to repeal the wicked acts that had sent the kirkmen fleeing into England, and permitted their return. He was moving closer to a new alliance with the English queen, to build upon the bond that might exist between them, to the disadvantage of the queen of Scots. John Colville, who had caused a charge to be levelled against Hew, had repaired his own relation with the Scottish king, and offered a retraction, owning to his fault. James had sent word that he was prepared to hear a plea from Hew, and send to him a passport, if he would go back. The tide had turned at last.

  And yet, for all the longing he had felt to see his home and family, he had not returned. Scotland at that time was ravaged by the plague; the kirkmen said that it was God’s wrath on the king for imposing those Black Acts upon the Presbyterians, but its sweep was indiscriminate; the court had crossed the country hoping to escape it from it, trailing in its wake, a black dog at its door. At St Andrews, the town was stripped bare to its bones. The colleges were closed. A single note from Giles, sent to Leadenhall, said no more than this: ‘Do not come.’ For months after that, Hew heard nothing more.

  That, he thought now, was the worst. While he was abroad, he had thought little of his family, so intent and occupied in that present world. Meg had given birth, to a second child. The news had passed him by, with all the joy and terror it had meant for Giles, without a second thought. He had immersed himself in another life. And in that time, he had not considered all the months gone by when they had had no letters from him, when they had not known if he was still alive. The empty weeks were torment to him then; he had felt his exile brutally enforced at the very moment when it was revoked. Often, he had been upon the point of setting out, desperate to have the smallest scrap of news, when Walsingham’s own spies retreated from the peste, like the puling lice that flee the cooling corpse. It was Frances, always, who had held him back.

  ‘Trust your family, Hew. From what you say, your brother-in-law is a fine physician, and your sister is wise; trust them to keep themselves safe.’

  ‘They can be trusted well enough,’ Hew had answered grimly, ‘to go out among the sick, and tend to them, in peril of their lives.’

  ‘Then put your trust in God. He will not allow such good people to fall sick.’

  Hew felt less than sure that God’s will worked that way. He was more persuaded of her second argument.

  ‘What good can it do you to go to them to now? You will carry the peste as you walk through that land. It follows a man wherever he travels. You will spread that plague wide, and fall sick yourself. What use were that?’

  She had persuaded him to take up his old business in the custom house, and return to his old room, in her uncle’s house. Phelippes was engaged on secret work for Walsingham. He appeared very close with a friend, Gilbert Gifford, who stayed at his house for a few weeks at Holborn. That year, Tom had married, and he and his wife had spent Christmas at Chartley, returning with Mary expecting his child. His father had begun to trade among the Flemish immigrants, where Hew helped to translate. When the work was done, he would walk with Frances in the gardens of the guild house, or call to speak with Laurence at the house in Seething Lane. This sedentary quietness helped put to rest the horrors he had witnessed in the Spanish Netherlands, and he felt more at peace. Robert Lachlan had returned to the London underworld, pensioned to a life of debauchery and drink. Hew met with him occasionally, in the Cock and Bull.

  At last, a letter came, the plague had done its worst, and left his family safe. He gave up thanks to God. The way was clear at last, for him to go back home. By then, he had been snared, in such a slender web, he could not see the threads that bound and held him still.

  Hew was kept at Chartley for the next five days. Phelippes showed no sign that he was nervous at the wait. He told Hew he had seen that queen, riding in her carriage at the manor gates, and that queen had smiled at him; whatever plots were hatched around her, she did not suspect. But when a letter came, with word returned from Walsingham, Tom became tight-lipped. They rode back to London, and to Seething Lane. Phelippes left at once, and went on to the court. Perhaps he found the time to call in on his wife. Perhaps though, he did not. Whatever happened then, did not trouble Hew. His own life had begun upon a different course.

  Chapter 8

  Frost of Cares

  Hew was held at Seething Lane, and kept there from the sun, for a time in which he lost count of the days. He found himself interned where he had first had his beginning, which then was filled with wonder, now was dark with knowing, emptied of its hope. His innocence was gone, and could not be recovered in that kindless place. He was kept from sleep, and woken as he slept, for the purpose of interrogation, by the agent Francis Mylles, and on more than one occasion, by Walsingham himself. The questions, and the answers to them, did not ever change, but fell into a rhythm with a dull, familiar beat. Walsingham, he sensed, was simply marking time. For when he wished for an exactness of response, he had more exacting methods at his hands, and would not hesitate to use them. The conspirators, this while, had not yet been found. And while they were at large, the friction at the court, and in the steps of those who set their subtle snares for them, had become unbearable. Walsingham relieved a little of his share of it by picking over Hew, and took a vicious pleasure in that small distraction.

  For what purpose had he taken it upon himself to ride to Chartley?

  ‘To inform Thomas Phelippes of his wife’s distress,’ Hew returned each time.

  Why had he not despatched the servant, Thomas Cassie, who was then in London?

  That man could not be found.

  Why had he not consulted Walsingham himself?

  Because, Hew answered, looking at him, it had not occurred to him that office was concerned with so small a matter as the stillbirth of a child.

  What acquaintance had he with the principal conspirators?

  That he could not say; he did not know who they were. Of necessity, inquisitors will give their cause away, and so he learned, by inference, their method, and their names.

  Had he ever met a man called Gilbert Gifford?

  Certainly he had. He was Phelippes’ protégé – he would not call him friend.

  Had he been aware of Gifford taking letters to the queen of Scots? That he had been her courier?

  Hew had not been aware of it. But now recalling Phelippes at his work at
Chartley, he saw and understood.

  Had he ever met the man they called Black Fortescue?

  He could not help but smile at that, and it was seized upon.

  He never heard that name. It struck him as ridiculous.

  And if he met the devil, would he smile at him? Ballard was his proper name. He styled himself a priest. And he was the devil in a plain man’s clothes. Had he heard of Savage?

  They sounded like the stuff of country children’s tales. It was duly pressed upon him that the threat was real.

  Had he ever spoken with a man called Babington?

  He was certain, not.

  He must think again. Anthony Babington once was a page in the household of the earl of Shrewsbury. Hew had been at Buxton Hall, and had met that queen, and others of that house. Had he met or spoken with, or heard talk there of Babington, he must reveal it now.

  He had spoken, he affirmed, with two men in that household, that was the doctor, who called himself Forrester, and Monsieur Claude Nau. Forrester, he thought, was working for that queen, or else for Francis Walsingham. Which, he did not know. It was not inconceivable that it was both. Nau, he thought true to his queen.

  This Walsingham did not confirm, or otherwise deny. Had he had any contact with the queen of Scots, by any word or sign, or with any of her servants, such as Monsieur Nau, while he was at Chartley?

  He had none at all, Phelippes saw to that.

  And then, again, again, what purpose did he have, in riding to that place?

  He felt his mind was stripped, clean of will and hope. It brought a kind of peace with it, desolate as death. He had, after all, nothing there to hide, and little to hold on to, in the bleakest hours.

  Eventually, it seemed, Walsingham allowed him the benefit of doubt, or simply had grown weary of the line of questioning, had nothing more to ask. Perhaps he had allowed a little slack, so that Hew himself could tighten up the knot. The inquisition stopped, and he was detailed to help Laurence with his correspondence, back where he began. Perhaps it was Laurence who had spoken up for him. Perhaps it had been Phelippes, who despite appearances, deeply loved his wife. Perhaps it was that Walsingham, never really satisfied, had turned his mind a moment to the greater threat.

  ‘There are letters from the earl of Leicester, and from Sir Philip Sidney, which I have not had time to read. Since you know the lie of the Low Countries, you can be of help to Laurence in drawing up a chart, to mark out the progress they have made.

  ‘You may not, for the moment, leave this place,’ Walsingham informed him, in his parting shot. ‘Then, if your detention does arouse alarm, and cause to put to flight, the principal conspirators . . . well then, we shall know.’

  This left Hew in a state of perpetual unease, for any small effect that might alert the principals, could be blamed on him. And wherever they were, it seemed likely that their enterprise would keep them poised for flight. They might bolt at any moment, unless they were innocent. And neither thought brought comfort to him.

  As to what evidence there was of the conspiracy, apart from a letter stolen from that queen, he was in the dark. A scrap, he came upon by accident, hardly comprehending what it meant. Phelippes had returned, and left behind a letter to be entered in the files. Hew had found a draft, scribbled on a piece of paper, lying in the grate, of a line or two of cipher, like the one at Chartley. He took a moment to imprint it firm upon his memory. Then he left the paper to the solace of the flames.

  Those last days he spent under Laurence Tomson’s guard were among the longest and most irksome in his life. He struggled to attend to the work in hand, and to conceal from Laurence the disquiet in his mind. He felt like a child, who is kept at his books while his school friends run at play, and under the promise of worse penalties to come. The house appeared vacant and watchful; all of its agents were occupied abroad, and while the flow of traffic did not break or falter, it moved slow and stealthily, channelled underground. Hew could scarcely bear the ominous deep quietness, the storm about to break. Laurence was methodical, indifferent to the mood, and in no way altered from his normal self. His placidness unnerved. It was Laurence who informed him of the first arrest; Hew expected he was primed to look for a response. Black Fortescue, a priest, had been arrested quietly by those who had ostensibly no link to Francis Walsingham. But it had been enough to alarm his co-conspirators, all of whom had fled.

  For nine days, Hew remained there, in a state of dread. On the tenth day, unexpectedly, he was free to leave. Laurence took him by the hand, and walked him to the door. There stood a man brought in by the guard, who, as they came to him, fell to his knees.

  ‘For pity, my masters, for pity, please help me.’

  Laurence asked mildly, ‘How can we help you?’

  ‘For that you have the means to speak out to the Secretary, I pray you, good masters, put my case to him, as I was promised, and put off, for days. It was never meant . . . I thought to tell him all, I was to tell him everything, but could not have the hearing of him, each time it was stayed. I swear upon the life of my infant child, it was understood.’ The man broke down in tears. The water ran in rivers through some dark stuff he had rubbed to cover his fair face. He had cut his hair, and childishly dissembled in his servant’s clothes, his cheeks were hollowed out from hunger and from fear, yet he could not disguise that he was a gentleman. Laurence placed a hand, calmly, on his shoulder. ‘There, now, sir, be still.’

  ‘It was my intent, always, to have told. That was what was meant. But when it was the time for it, then he would not hear.’

  Hew felt pity swill, hollow in his bowels.

  Laurence said soothingly, ‘You shall tell it now. And he will hear it all. Fetch this man food, and something to drink. He will be here for a while.’

  To Hew he remarked, as they moved on, ‘He had not gone far, before his hunger forced him out into the air. He will fill his guts, and spill them in his eagerness. He will spew his tale, as easily to Walsingham, and upon the scaffold, spill them out again.’ Compassion had evaporated to a cool complacency. Hew whispered, aghast, ‘Who was that man?’

  ‘He is Anthony Babington. And I give thanks to God, he did not seem to know you, more than you know him. For had he shown such sign, this day had ended differently, in sorrow for us both.’ Laurence showed his old self, ghostly, in his smile. ‘God love you, Hew. Go home.’

  He had a cold homecoming to the house at Leadenhall. William Phillips had been without the convenience of the grey horse longer than he had been willing to excuse, until Thomas had returned it, without a word from Hew. Phelippes had reported that he might be gone awhile. ‘Not a thought for us, or for your duty to us here.’ Joan Phillips was disposed to have turned him from the house, but Frances intervened. ‘He did not leave us, quite. We had the word of Tom.’

  Tom’s word, God knew, was far from satisfactory. Their son had been to visit twice, to spend time with his wife, and left her in their care. Mary bore her loss with a patient fortitude, her love for him undimmed. Hew wondered how much Thomas had confided to her; he suspected, everything. Even Phelippes could not keep his spiralling intrigues entirely to himself.

  The grumbles of the Phillips family were founded in anxiety. In Hew’s absence, the house had been searched. In the hunt for fugitives, the store rooms at the Leadenhall were stripped bare of their felts and cloths, the sacks of wool were split, spilling out their fluff like dummies at the tilting yard, scattering the mice. In Hew’s sleeping loft, the search was more methodical. His linen, books and writing things were taken from their chest and laid out on the counterpane, a purposeful display. The message was, we know you, we have read your thoughts. The letters he had had from Meg and Giles were cut free from their ribbons, open, neatly stacked. The riflers made their inquisition, clean, into his heart, and wanted him to feel the thorough, sharp incisions of their searching blades.

  He folded up the letters and returned them to their chest. There was comfort in the fact that they could not have known th
e value of those words to him – that were no more than words, and held no hidden signs – the memories they stirred and brought back to his mind. There were no safe places that they could not find, prising out the conscience of a living man as though it were the pulp of a rotting tooth. A man might cling to his faith as close as to his bones, to find both rattled out.

  Frances gave voice to the fear. ‘You were gone for days. And I was afraid for you. Tom said you were helping Master Secretary with his enquiries.’

  In Scotland, lists of malefactors to be brought to justice bore the name of valentines, a gallow- humoured twist upon the game of lots. So sinister could turn the simplest kind of phrase. Hew could not help but smile. ‘He wished me to draw out a map, of the progress we make in the Low Countries.’

  ‘Oh! Was that all? I was afraid you were caught up in some way in these dreadful conspiracies. Not that I thought . . .’ Frances trailed off. ‘Did you hear that Tom’s friend, Gilbert Gifford, was involved with the conspirators? That he carried letters for them, to the queen of Scots? Can you imagine? He dined with Tom once, here at the house. He has fled to France. And Mary says, his father says – though he is professed a most devout Catholic recusant himself – he wished that his son had never been born. That is a thing, to have said of his son. Tom is heartsick too, to have been so deceived in him.’

  Hew kept to himself his own thoughts on that. He had little doubt that Gifford had been pressed to the cause of Walsingham. Willingly or not. It struck him that the role that Gilbert Gifford played, he had once unwittingly auditioned for himself, when he was sent to Buxton to see the queen of Scots. Gifford had acquitted perfectly his part. He had fled just before the trap began to close, not trusting to the scruples of those experts who had played him, fearful that he also would be swept up in the net. So slippery a fish would doubtless have been prized. Had such a line been cast, and hooked the hapless Babington?