Текст книги "The Secret World of Christoval Alvarez"
Автор книги: Ann Swinfen
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Cassie left me at the door of the room which Sir Francis used as an office. I knocked and was told to come in. The room seemed unchanged since my nervous interview there weeks before, except that the gloomy winter light had been replaced by a cheerful sun which created a bright haze behind Sir Francis’s dark head. As I became accustomed to the dazzle, I noticed a few silver glints amongst the thick dark brown thatch of his hair and beard. He looked even more worn than when I had last seen him, his eyelids red as if he had been rubbing them and his skin pallid. He could not have been outside in this fresh new spring air, except on his hurried journeys to and fro to consult with the Queen or Lord Burghley.
‘Come in, Kit, come in.’ He got up and came round to the front of his desk, drawing two chairs together and sitting in one of them. He motioned me to the other.
When I was seated, wondering what on earth he could want with me, he said, ‘Thomas Phelippes is very pleased with your work. You are quick and neat, and have an excellent skill in deciphering new codes.’
I blushed and murmured something. Phelippes had never told me this himself.
‘You will have guessed,’ he went on, ‘that our work here has many strands, not just the interception of treasonous letters and the breaking of codes. I have informants in all the main countries of Europe, especially those which threaten us: France, Spain, the Spanish Netherlands, and the Papal States.’
I nodded, wondering where this was leading.
‘Here at home we also place informants where they can discover any plots that may be brewing amongst traitors on our own shores. I believe when you first encountered Robert Poley, he was imprisoned in the Marshalsea.’
‘Yes.’ My voice came out strained, for I did not care to remember that encounter. ‘I was summoned to attend him. At least, my father was, but he was attending Lord Burghley and I went in his stead. Poley believed he had been poisoned.’
‘The keeper sent for your father?’
‘He sent a boy with a message.’ Instinctively I decided to keep Simon’s name out of it.
‘And had he been poisoned?’
‘Oh, no. He had eaten bad oysters. I purged him.’
‘He cannot have enjoyed that.’ Sir Francis gave a small smile. ‘At any rate, he recovered quickly. I believe Thomas has told you that Poley had been placed in the Marshalsea to find out what he could from the Catholic priests held there, posing as a Catholic sympathiser himself. These priests are smuggled into the country by an organisation in France run by one William Allen, who hates our Queen, our church, and the country of his birth. Although these priests claim to be here merely to minister to the English Catholics, many are trained soldiers and assassins who would overthrow the state.’
I nodded again. The activities of these men were widely talked about, although popular opinion probably differed widely from the knowledge Sir Francis held buttoned up in that dark doublet of his.
‘Now Poley has been introduced into the household of my son-in-law. The Catholic faction in France believes he is working for them amongst Sidney’s circle, but he is one of my informants.’
It seemed unnecessary to say that Phelippes had already told me something of Poley’s activities. I was still unsure why we were having this conversation, but I risked speaking out. ‘Is Poley quite to be trusted, sir? I have never felt he is altogether honest.’
I held my breath. Sir Francis might be very angry at what seemed to be my questioning of his judgement. Instead, he looked at me keenly.
‘You are not the only one to think so. I handle him – and his information – with care.’
There was silence for a moment as Sir Francis pressed his palms together and tapped his fingers against his lips.
‘I believe you suffered at the hands of the Inquisition in Portugal, did you not?’
I shuddered uncontrollably and looked away. ‘That is so,’ I whispered.
‘So you can have no love of the Catholic church and its persecutions.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Would you be willing to undertake a similar mission as Poley and other informants? It would mean living for a time in a Catholic household and finding out what you could – whether there is any treason at work there.’
In astonishment, I stared at him. ‘But . . . I know nothing of how an informant works. I don’t think I could do it.’
‘Kit, how would you feel if one of the great Catholic powers should overrun this country, establish a Catholic monarch on the throne, and introduce the Inquisition here? For make no mistake about it, you and I would both receive their . . . attentions. Could you endure that a second time?’
I could feel the blood drain from my face. My heart began to pound and my hands shook. My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth and I could not speak.
He did not seem to expect an answer. Instead he rose from his chair and turned away from me to look out of the window.
‘I want to tell you a story. It’s a story you will have heard before, but I was there. I witnessed the horrors myself, and I have never, never forgotten them.’
He paused and looked back at me.
‘How old are you, Kit?’
‘Sixteen, sir.’ I managed to whisper the words.
‘Well, you would have been but two years old at the time, August 1572. You would have been living peacefully in a Portugal that was still an independent nation, before Spain seized control of the country. I was the Queen’s ambassador to the court of the French king Charles IX. He was king, but much of the power lay in the hands of his mother, Catherine de’Medici.’
He paused again and seemed to be looked at something beyond the window. Perhaps he was seeing Paris all those years ago. August 1572. I thought I knew what was coming.
‘We had a house in the Faubourg-Saint-Germain. That’s on the left bank of the Seine, not far from the great cathedral, Notre Dame de Paris. You won’t have been to Paris, of course. I was quite a young married man then and I had my family with me. My daughter Frances was five years old – she’s just three years older than you. My wife was expecting our next child and was feeling the heat of a Paris August, wishing she was at home in England. We had young Philip with us too, Philip Sidney. He would have been about eighteen then. Frances has known him all her life.’
He walked to his desk and straightened a pile of papers that was already straight, then crossed to the window again. He continued to speak with his back to me.
‘I had been involved in delicate negotiations for months with the French. There was a plan that our Queen might possibly marry one of the French princes, though the Catholic church in France was opposed to it and Her Majesty herself was uncertain . . . But whether or not that came to anything, we were trying to forge an Anglo-French alliance to resist the rising power of Spain, which was becoming a threat to all of us. Then that August the wedding was to take place between the French king’s sister (who was Catholic, of course) and Henry of Navarre, who was Protestant. Those of us who had been involved in drawing up the Treaty of Blois between England and France saw this as one more hopeful step on the road to reconciliation between the two countries and the two faiths.’
He sighed deeply and began to pace about the room. I had never seen Sir Francis, always so calm and contained, as agitated as this. I found I was biting my thumbnail and clasped my hands together to stop myself.
‘What we had not allowed for was the sheer evil malignancy of the Guises.’
‘That’s the Scottish queen’s French family, isn’t it?’ I felt I had been sitting silent for too long. Of course I knew it was. The Duke of Guise was behind most of the conspiracies Phelippes and I were tracking.
‘Yes. Because most of the leaders of the French Protestants, the Huguenots, were gathered in Paris for the wedding, the Guise faction saw this as an opportunity to massacre them. First there was a bungled attempt at assassinating Admiral Coligny, one of the prominent Huguenots. That was on the twenty-second of August. We didn’t know of it till later, but the Guises and their party then went to the king and swore there was a Huguenot conspiracy to kill him. He and his mother gave their blessing to the murder of every Protestant in the city.’
He came and sat down opposite me again, fixing me with a fierce look.
‘We were woken in the early hours of the twenty-fourth by the bells of Notre Dame ringing out. They were so close they seemed to be ringing inside our heads. It was a signal. And we could hear gunfire. Coligny was murdered in his lodgings, his body thrown out of the window and mutilated by the crowd below. Then the Catholics of Paris, led by the Guise faction, went on a blood-letting stampede throughout the city. I sent some of my servants out to discover what was happening. Two were slaughtered. The two who came back told us of what they had seen – bodies piled up in the street, houses looted and burning, the gutters running with blood. On the bridges over the Seine, men, women and children were lined up and thrown into the river, then shot as they tried to swim to safety, like sportsmen shooting ducks.’
He grimaced as though he had bitten on something rotten.
‘My wife and little Frances, and all the women, were terrified. We all were. I had the doors and windows barred and sent to the king for protection. He had a small guard posted around the house, but I put little trust in them. Already desperate people were pounding on the door, begging for sanctuary. Not only English citizens but Dutch and German and French. Even a few Italians and Swiss. I took them all in. We lived like a town under siege for days. In the end I was forced to hand over the French Protestants, which has haunted me to this day. I am sure they did not live to see the next dawn.’
He passed a hand over his face, as if it could wipe away the memories.
‘As soon as it was safe, I sent my wife and child home, though two of the men guarding them were recognised as English and beaten. But I had to stay in that filthy city until the following spring, stepping over blood-stained cobbles, past houses still marked with painted white crosses, so the murderers would know they were the homes of Protestants.’
His eyes bored into me, as if he needed to make me understand the full horror of what he was relating.
‘I think the most terrible thing about the whole terrible business was the atmosphere amongst the people of Paris. They treated it like a carnival. They paraded the bodies through the streets, played football with severed heads, butchered their victims and offered the body parts for sale, like meat on a butcher’s slab.’
He shuddered.
’These were their neighbours, their fellow-citizens of Paris, people they had lived beside in peace and friendship for years. They rejoiced. They dressed up in festive clothes. They gave thanks to God. Can you imagine anything more barbaric? More lacking in Christian feeling? Did you know that the Pope commanded the performance of a special Te Deum in celebration? He had a commemorative medal struck, showing an angel – an angel, mark you – flourishing a sword. The inscription read “Huguenots slaughtered”. In the view of the papacy, it was the greatest triumph for the Catholic church since the extermination of the Cathars.’
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then got up and poured us each a glass of wine. As he handed me mine, I saw that his hand was shaking.
For a while neither of us said anything.
‘I am sorry, Kit,’ he said at last. ‘I do not usually speak of it, for the bad memories will haunt my sleep now. Even though she was so small at the time, Frances still has nightmares. My wife has never been able to speak of it since. But I wanted you to understand what we are fighting against. You have endured the Inquisition. I have lived through that massacre. If we let down our guard, both could be repeated here. No one will ever know how many thousands were murdered in France, for the madness spread out from Paris like the plague, infecting the whole country. There was a scramble of frantic refugees coming to England, some in boats so overcrowded that they sank and never reached our shores.’
He set down his empty glass on the edge of the desk. I was still sipping mine, for I was not accustomed to such a strong wine, red as blood. I shivered, seeing before my eyes what he had described. And what I remembered.
‘I understand that we must fight,’ I said. ‘And that the work I do with Master Phelippes is an instrument in that fight. What I do not understand is how I could serve you as an informant. Surely such men must be trained and clever in what they do? How can I hope to play the part?’ Even as I said it, the words echoed in my ears. Who better than I at playing a part? Had I not been playing a part for the last four years? But now I would be playing a part on top of another part. Boxes within boxes within boxes. I trembled at the thought of how easily I might slip up and give myself away.
‘There is a Catholic family living not far from my house Barn Elms in Surrey,’ he said. ‘Outwardly respectable. They attend our English church as they should, they are not recusants. However, Catholic priests have been seen to visit them. Not the most dangerous of the priests, but priests smuggled into this country, none the less. We think they may be providing a conduit for letters which we have not yet intercepted. At this particular time it is essential that we should know exactly what letters are passing to and fro, because matters are coming to a head. This very summer I expect the culmination of years of work. I do not want to make an overt raid on the house, because the line of communication will simply be diverted elsewhere. I want to make sure there is such a route and then control it.’
I nodded. This fitted with what was already being done by Phelippes and Gifford, a system of passing letters, to the Scottish queen or other conspirators. But if this was another route, all our efforts might come to nothing.
‘How can I help?’ I still could not see how this affected me.
‘I have been told that the family is looking for a new tutor for their son and daughter, a tutor in mathematics and music, their previous tutor having taken up a position in a noble household. You are skilled in both, I understand. It would be possible to place you in the household without anything linking you to me.’
‘But I have never taught anyone . . .’ I was startled.
‘The children are quite young. The boy is nine, the girl older, about fifteen, I believe. It will not require anything very advanced. You would not need to stay for long. Slip quietly into the ways of the family, as the respectful tutor. Keep your eyes and ears open. If you discover any letters, copy them if you can. If not, at least make a note of the sender and the recipient. Once that is done you can leave – say your father is ill. Any excuse. All I need to know is whether there are letters passing through that house and who is involved.’
I tried not to show how much his account of the St Bartholomew’s Day Massacre and his calm request to spy, while acting as tutor to two Catholic children, had frightened me. I had never spent a night away from my father since we had come to England. It would be more difficult to keep the secret of my sex if I must live in another household. What if I were put to share a room with other men? Yet I could not lay this problem before Sir Francis.
‘I would be glad to serve you, Sir Francis,’ I said, ‘but I am doubtful about my capacity for this task. Besides, there is my employment at St Bartholomew’s.’ As I spoke, the words chimed in my head. What an irony that the same saint should be associated both with one of the most terrible acts within living memory, perpetrated by Christians upon fellow Christians, and also with the hospital where I worked, set up centuries before by Christian monks to serve the common people of London.
‘There will be no problem with the hospital,’ he said briskly, getting up again and moving to the chair behind his desk. The intimate nature of our conversation dwindled away, now we were separated by that great bulwark of carved oak. ‘I can easily arrange for you to have leave from the hospital. As for the other, I am very confident in your ability to carry it out. There is no need for special training. You will report when you return here, so we do not need to arrange for letters to be sent. All you need to do is carry out your duties as unobtrusively as possible, stay alert, and seize every opportunity to examine any letters which seem to be passing through the house illicitly.’
He began to write something at his desk. How, I wondered, could I combine unobtrusiveness with examining letters which would probably be kept under lock and key, in some part of the house barred to me?
‘How long am I to stay?’ I asked, realising that my choice of words might betray the fact that I had accepted that I must go.
‘A fortnight. Or at most three weeks.’
I relaxed a little. Not too long, then. Perhaps I could manage.
‘Judging by the pattern of previous visits, we expect the next to occur around the end of next week or the beginning of the following one. You will begin your service on Monday, carrying letters of recommendation from your previous employer, who will also have written in advance to say that you are coming.’
‘My previous employer?’
‘A respectable London merchant, treasurer of the Goldsmiths’ Guild,’ he smiled. ‘Do not worry, it is all in hand.’
All in hand, I thought, before I gave my consent. Had I given it?
‘What if I should be suspected? What if they should catch me looking at their letters?’
‘Then you must get out of there as quickly and quietly as you can. We’ll provide you with a horse. Make your way to my house at Barn Elms, it’s no more than five miles away.’
‘What is the name of these people?’
‘Fitzgerald. Sir Damian Fitzgerald. His wife is Lady Bridget, of Irish descent, which may explain why they may be involved in some conspiracy against this country. The children are Edward and Cecilia.’
‘And I am to instruct them in music and mathematics?’ My head had begun to whirl. I had no idea how to begin.
‘Yes. You will have some simple mathematical books you used when you were younger? I do not think they will be very skilled! As for music, I understand that both children play the recorder and the lute, the girl also plays the virginal. The girl is more talented than the boy.’
‘We no longer own a virginal, although we did in Portugal. Sometimes I play Master Harriot’s.’
‘I’m sure you will have no difficulty. If you wish, you can say that you want to concentrate on the lute to start with.’
I could see that Sir Francis’s mind was moving on to other problems. This business was now satisfactorily arranged. I stood and he held out to me a paper on which he had written the address, together with a purse which clinked faintly.
‘Come here early on Monday morning and Cassie will give you the letters of introduction and provide you with a horse. You can be there before midday. Once you have enough useful information you may return to London. I leave it to your discretion. If you have found nothing at the end of three weeks, then too you may leave. Come first to Barn Elms to see if I am there, then back to Seething Lane.’
He stood up and reached across the desk to shake my hand.
‘God go with you, Kit.’
‘Thank you, Sir Francis.’
Somehow I managed to stumble down the back stairs and out into the spring sunshine. The whole world had an unreal appearance, as though I was looking at it through a veil of gauze. I did not remember agreeing to this. How had it happened?
I wandered away from Sir Francis’s house, not paying much attention to where I was going. From the change in the light, I realised I had been with him longer than I had thought. By the time I crossed London and out beyond the city wall at Smithfield, it would be too late to go to the hospital. Some people were already heading home after the day’s work. Apprentices were putting up the shutters at their masters’ workshops. The stalls and small shops selling food were still open, their owners crying out bargains at the end of the day and the poorest citizens poking through wilted cabbages or overripe fruit near to rotting.
‘A farthing for two cabbages, goodwife!’ one stall-holder called. ‘You won’t find a cheaper price anywhere.’
The bent old crone he was trying to persuade gave a snort. ‘I wouldn’t give you a farthing for six on ’em,’ she said, turning away.
The stall-holder pretended to be shocked, but it was clear both were old hands at this game.
‘Would you take the bread out of my mouth?’ he declared dramatically. ‘And me with ten little ones at home?’
‘Give over, Matthias Starkey,’ she said. ‘You’ve two grown sons with wives of their own and a nice little wherry business between them.’
‘All right.’ He sighed. ‘Four cabbages for a farthing and you’ll beggar me.’
The woman tucked the four cabbages into her basket. The outer leaves were turning brown, but no doubt there was good food at their hearts. She was grinning as she passed me.
Before the stall-holder could put up his flap, I bought half a dozen of his little apples (a farthing), and put all but one in my satchel. As I headed north, I bit into the other. Its skin was crinkled, but it still retained some of its original sweetness.
Why was I heading north instead of west? As I reached Bishopsgate I admitted to myself that I was heading towards the Theatre. As I passed the Curtain, the play-goers spilled out into the street, heading back into London, so that I had to push my way through them. Then the crowd swelled with those coming out of the Theatre. I had timed it well. When I passed through the archway into the old convent grounds, I saw that most of the audience was gone and the doorman, after handing out playbills for the next performance, was about to go inside, no doubt to scour the playhouse for any coins the audience might have dropped.
‘Wait, please!’ I called.
The man stopped and turned round, looking slightly annoyed. It was the same man who had admitted me free on Simon’s word weeks before, but I doubted whether he recognised me.
‘I am sorry to trouble you,’ I said, reckoning it was best to conciliate him, ‘but is Simon Hetherington here today?’
‘Aye. Friend of his, are you?’ He looked me up and down and – presumably deciding I presented no threat and would not steal the costumes or the takings – nodded toward the stage. ‘Go through at the back there. He should be about.’
I climbed the steps he indicated and found myself on the stage. It was a strange sensation, facing in the opposite direction, as it were, and seeing the tiers of seats rising up on three sides of me. They were empty now, but how intimidating it must feel to step out in front of hundreds of faces, peering up from the ground below your feet or leaning over the railings above you, everyone listening to your every word. What if you were to forget your lines? Or trip over your feet? Or otherwise make a fool of yourself? Yet Simon did this nearly every day. Surely I could act a part for three weeks, before a much smaller audience.
At the back of the stage were two doorways, covered with curtains, through which the actors made their entrances and exits. Between them was the inner stage, a small area reserved for special, more intimate scenes. I was not sure whether there was a way into the back regions of the theatre from there, so I chose the left-hand doorway, pushed aside the curtain and ducked through.
Almost at once I fell over something. My eyes had not yet adjusted to the dim light and it was crowded here. And chaotic. I had fallen over a throne-like chair, carved and painted to look like gold, though some of the cheap paint came off in flakes on the hand I put out to save myself from falling. There were boxes and chests everywhere, and bits of scenery – a tree, a low table, a ‘rock’ which rolled away when a tall man in an extravagant cloak barely brushed against it. It hit a stack of Roman spears which fell over.
‘God-a-mercy!’ He cried. ‘Who left those there? What if I’d knocked them down on my last entrance?’
He seemed to be addressing no one in particular. Certainly no one replied. I stooped to help him gather them up.
‘My thanks, young gentleman.’ He swept me a extravagant bow that would have done credit to any courtier. ‘You are my deus ex machina, my saviour, my knightly rescuer come from mighty Avalon!’ Then is a normal tone of voice, with the merest touch of Kent about it, ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m looking for Simon Hetherington.’
‘Over there.’ He pointed to a dim corner furthest away from the stage. ‘He will be shedding his curls and his farthingale, his dainty cap and mittens, and resuming his manly state.’
He peered at me. ‘Not looking for work, are you? We’re short of boys this season.’
‘No, no.’ I grinned at him. ‘I’m a doctor at Barts. I’m just a friend of Simon’s.’
‘Pity. We could make a fair damsel of you.’
This conversation was getting a little dangerous.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I see Simon now.’
With a quick bow, I slipped away, and found Simon in his normal clothes, but wiping his face with a damp cloth to remove the rosy paint from his cheeks.
‘So,’ he said, ‘and why were you in earnest conversation with James Burbage?’
‘Was that who it was? I didn’t realise. He knocked over some spears and I helped him pick them up.’
‘Did he try to recruit you?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘He’s really worried about how few boys we have to play the women’s parts. I told you we could make an actor of you.’
I laughed. ‘Not for me, I fear. I have come to offer you a meal, in exchange for the one you stood me, that time you pawned the gold earring.’
I was suddenly seized with the realisation that I was trespassing on Simon’s professional ground, and was embarrassed. ‘Unless, of course, you were planning to eat supper with your fellow actors.’
‘Not at all. No actor ever refuses a meal!’ He tossed away the cloth. ‘Am I fit to be seen in the streets?’
‘Nearly.’ I picked up the cloth and wiped a smear of rouge from his left cheek. ‘Now I won’t be ashamed to be seen with you.’
‘Come, then. Where shall we go?’ He hooked his arm through mine and led me back on to the stage.
‘I can’t imagine how you can stand up here and play your parts,’ I said, tilting back my head to look up to the highest ranks of seats, where I could see the doorman pushing a broom and stopping now and then to pick something up.
‘It’s easy,’ Simon said. ‘You just imagine yourself into the skin of the person you are playing. Think as he – or she – would think. Forget who you really are. Once you have truly become that person, it’s no longer pretence. It’s reality.’
‘I wonder.’
‘Good night, Master Burbage,’ Simon called. The director of the company of players was examining something in the inner stage and waved a hand to us as we left the theatre by the door I had come in.
‘Shall we go to that ordinary where we had a meal before?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m in the chinks this time.’ From the weight of the purse Sir Francis had handed me as I left, I reckoned I could stand Simon a better meal than that. ‘Let’s go to the Dolphin.’
He raised his eyebrows and whistled. ‘You are indeed feeling extravagant, Dr Alvarez.’
I laughed, but I was a little confused too, not wanting him to think I was trying to outdo his own treat.
Although we entered the great inn with some trepidation, the servitors did not seem to think we were out of place and seated us at once at a small table in a corner. We supped well on a fine cut of beef roasted in a salt crust to keep in the juices, which meant that it was the most tender meat I had eaten since leaving my home in Portugal. Before the beef we shared a plate of Thames oysters, though I sniffed each one carefully, mindful of Poley’s food poisoning. The beef was served with carrots glazed with butter and honey, and roasted onions. Afterwards we ate a syllabub flavoured with lemon and washed it all down with a very good ale. The meal cost me two shillings, the most expensive I had ever paid for myself, but it gave me pleasure to watch how much Simon enjoyed it, wiping up every last drop of gravy with good bread and chasing the scrapings of syllabub around his dish.
Perhaps it was the ale, or perhaps the sense of a stomach full of good food in the clean and elegant surroundings of the famous inn, but I found myself telling Simon something of my interview with Walsingham that afternoon. He grew pale and shook his head when I repeated what Sir Francis had told me of events in Paris fourteen years before.
‘I’ve heard people grumble about the Huguenots living in Petty France,’ he said, ‘and I knew they had been driven out, but I never knew how terrible it was.’
I nodded. ‘Sir Francis told me because he wanted to make me understand just how bad it will be here, if the French or the Spanish overrun us.’
‘You really think there is a danger of that?’
‘Oh, yes. I cannot tell you the details of what I do, it is secret, but I suppose it is no secret that anyone who works for Walsingham is engaged in trying to protect England and the Queen from what these traitors and hostile nations would try to do.’
Simon poured us each another glass of the ale, emptying the flagon.
‘I knew you were working as a code-breaker, you told me that before. I didn’t realise that your work was so important.’
‘I’m only a small part of it.’ I drank deeply of the ale. It was growing hot as more people crowded in to the dining room of the inn and I was thirsty. It must have been the ale that started me telling Simon about what Walsingham wanted me to do next. With one part of my brain I thought I ought to curb my tongue, but I was so anxious about the task that confronted me that I needed to talk to someone. I did at least have the sense not to mention hunting for and copying letters, only saying that my post as tutor was to be a cover for spying on this suspected Catholic family.
