by David Field
‘They’re known as “secure houses”,’ Walsingham advised him, ‘and you’re correct that we need to have it confirmed that this is one of them.’
‘Only one?’ Giles chipped in. ‘Even if we manages to confirm that this here manor house is what you call a “secure house”, you mean there’s more of them?’
‘Almost certainly,’ Walsingham confirmed without any obvious concern, ‘and if you manage to get what we want from this one, then we might send you in search of others.’
‘When does we get to go back to Nottingham?’ Tom demanded peevishly, and Walsingham’s face set slightly as he replied ‘When we’ve got everything useful that we can by means of your efforts. And I remind you that desertion from office is no more approved of in my service than it is in the army.’
‘We’re stuck like ducks’ eggs up hens’ arses, aren’t we?’ Tom conceded sadly, and Walsingham was back to smiling. ‘A delightful analogy – also an accurate one, since I don’t want you simply to confirm that Felfield Manor is a secure house.’
‘What else?’ Giles enquired, as depressed as Tom appeared to be.
‘We need to know where these priests are being sent, once they’ve been kept in a secure location for however long it takes. We suspect that they may be travelling north, in order to render their blasphemous services to disaffected nobles who may be plotting against the Crown.’
‘You doesn’t ask much, does you?’ Tom grumbled sarcastically, to be met by a stern stare from Walsingham. ‘That’s why we pay so well, and the sooner you get on with it, the better spent will be the Queen’s money. When you need to get information to me, call at “The Rose” in Hendon and leave word with the landlord that you are engaged in business with “Master Francis”. Someone – but not necessarily me – will contact you there.’
‘Would you care to stay for dinner?’ Lizzie enquired as her face appeared from round the door to the kitchen, but Walsingham shook his head. ‘I have an escort waiting out on the London Road, and the less time they loiter there, the less suspicion will be attracted to this neighbourhood. And so I take my leave, gentlemen, until I receive word from Hendon.’
‘Who’s “Hendon”?’ Lizzie enquired, but Tom shook his head sadly. ‘You don’t need to know, but I’d best see to them locks on the doors and windows, because you’re going to be without us to protect you for a while.’
‘Are you planning on running off again, and leaving me defenceless, in my condition?’ Mary demanded of Giles as she appeared from behind Lizzie in the doorway, provoking a sour laugh from Giles.
‘No, you’re coming with me, it seems. Just don’t blame me, that’s all.’
‘How did you find out that the Master was in need of a new gardener?’ Estate Steward Matthew Prim enquired suspiciously as he looked Giles and Mary up and down where they stood humbly in the kitchen.
‘We was in the village, looking for work,’ Giles replied in what he hoped was a pathetic voice. ‘Me and the wife here – she’s due in only a couple of months, and we wasn’t wanted any more where we was working in Nottinghamshire, so we’ve been on the road ever since.’
‘You were dismissed from your last positions?’ Prim enquired, and Giles nodded. He was ready for the next question, and Mary began to sniffle on cue, just as they had rehearsed.
‘Why were you dismissed?’
Giles let his gaze drift shamefacedly down to the floor. ‘It were on account of Mary getting in the family way. We wasn’t married then, see, although we is now. We done that in Nottingham, before we come away. But that weren’t good enough for the Master we worked for. He’s a strict Catholic, see, like we’d like to be, except we’re not allowed to be these days. Anyway, the fact that we’d – you know – done what we did before we was married made it a wicked sin, and the Master wouldn’t allow us to stay on his estate.’
‘You’re Catholics, you said?’ Prim probed, and Giles and Mary both nodded with apparent reluctance.
‘But don’t hold that against us, please,’ Giles begged him. ‘We doesn’t make a big noise about it, because we doesn’t want to be prosecuted, but we may as well be honest with you, since we’re hoping to get work here, and it would be a bad start to tell a lie.’
‘Hmm,’ Prim responded thoughtfully. ‘Your information was correct, as it happens. We are in need of a new gardener, if only to get some useful work out of the idle oafs from the village that we employ as labourers. But until we know if you’re any good, it will only be a temporary trial, understood? Your wife can be employed in the scullery, and you’ll get all your meals supplied. There’s a spare room above the stables that the previous gardener stayed in, so you can move in there straight away. In addition, you’ll get three shillings a week between you for the time being. But you’ll both need to prove your worth, understood?’
Mary allowed herself to burst into tears, and Giles thanked Prim profusely, assuring him that he wouldn’t regret giving them both the opportunity. Then they scuttled back out of the kitchen in search of their new accommodation, embracing and giggling once they were safely inside it, and could cease the pretence.
So far it had gone very well. Tom, Giles and Mary had hired a wagon, mainly for Mary’s benefit, from the bag of coins with which Walsingham had supplied them for their upkeep while travelling to Dunmow, to which he had supplied them with directions. Giles and Mary had alighted from the cart at the entrance gate to the Felton estate prior to walking up its long drive and collecting as much dirt on their shoes and clothing as would be consistent with the tale they had rehearsed regarding their sad downturn in fortunes. Tom had carried on into the nearby village on the front of the cart, and had made a big noise about being a travelling carpenter in search of work.
He had earned himself a few nights of free board in the local alehouse by repairing the sagging stable wall to its side, and was standing back, proudly congratulating himself on remembering how to make plugged joints, when he became aware of an older man standing slightly behind him.
‘That your work?’ the man enquired, and when Tom confirmed that it was the man stepped forward, walked under a main beam joist where it joined the new panel Tom had constructed, and enquired ‘Where did you learn to make dovetail joints like that?’
‘During my apprenticeship,’ Tom replied drily, and the man looked back at him. ‘You a carpenter, then?’
‘No – a fishmonger,’ Tom replied sarcastically, and the man grinned. ‘You looking for work?’ ‘Isn’t every carpenter, these days?’ Tom replied sadly. ‘There’s not the money around for fancy houses, like there used to be. More’s the pity, but hardly surprising, given that the country’s in such a mess.’
‘How d’you mean?’ the man enquired, and Tom sensed that he had already said enough. ‘Nothing, really,’ he replied, ‘except the big houses seems not to need the likes of me to build on new wings and suchlike. I don’t think the nobility and gentry has the money they used to have, and that’s why I been travelling these six months or more, looking for the sort of work I used to do back home.’
‘And where were that?’ was the next question, and Tom opted for a half truth, if only to give his assumed identity some credibility. ‘Nottingham, where I were always kept busy on town houses for them new merchants what seems to rule the country these days.’
‘So you looking for more work?’
‘Didn’t I just say so?’
The man looked him up and down carefully and enquired ‘Do you know how to do fancy panelling, then?’
‘Of course I does,’ Tom replied gruffly, tiring of the conversation, ‘what carpenter don’t?’
‘It just so happens that I’ve got a job coming up where I could use an extra pair of hands,’ the man explained. ‘In the manor house up the road there,’ he added with a nod in the general direction of Felfield. ‘My boy’s lying in with a bad dose of the sweats, or something like it, and even at his best he can’t yet do joints like those you did up there. So if you’re interested I can offer yo
u two shillings a day, assuming you to be a journeyman carpenter.’
Tom tried not to let the elation show as he nodded slowly and conceded that ‘I haven’t got nowt better to do, so why not?’
‘I’ll pick you up here tomorrow at daybreak,’ the man replied. ‘My name’s Nicholas, by the way. Nicholas Owen.’
‘Tom Lincraft,’ Tom replied with a smile. ‘I’ll be waiting here for you tomorrow.’
Giles sighed yet again, and yelled at the two surly youths who were playing with the rose bushes instead of pruning them the way he had tried to demonstrate. ‘One big snip, below the old bud growth from last year. How many more bloody times does I have to tell you?’
It was obvious to Giles that either the previous gardener had been very lazy, or he had left many months ago. It was now early March, and this basic pruning task should have been done at the end of the flowering season the previous year. This was consistent with the sadly overgrown state of the herb garden to the side of the kitchen that Giles was devoting more of his time to than the rose bushes at the front, since by this means he was able to keep regular daytime contact with Mary, sweating out her days washing utensils in the scullery. They obviously met up again every evening after work, but Giles had already seen several heavily cloaked figures coming and going from the main house, and was relying on Mary getting a closer look at them. The cloaks might be simply in defence against the cold weather, but they might also be hiding the true identities of those underneath them, and Mary was closer to the tittle-tattle of the kitchens, and might occasionally get an opportunity to venture into the main house to collect dirty dining utensils. If so, she was under strict instruction to look closely at any new visitors to the manor house.
He looked up disinterestedly at the man who stood watching him as he turned over another spadeful of last year’s weeds and buried them under the topsoil, where they would serve as a crude fertiliser for the sour earth that had been long neglected. He looked down again, then back up quickly as the man spoke in a low voice.
‘They found plenty of work for you, then?’ Giles knew the voice like his own, and wasn’t fooled by the bonnet pulled low down over the eyes.
‘Tom?’ he whispered, scarcely able to believe that this meeting was taking place, and fearful of what it might mean.
‘The very same,’ Tom grinned back from under the brim of the bonnet. ‘I’m up here doing some joinery work. Where will I find Mary? Only I don’t want her to give me away if she sees me.’
‘Not likely,’ Giles whispered back, ‘unless your work takes you into the scullery. But I’ll go in there on the pretence of getting a drink of water, and prepare her.’
Tom walked down into the garden proper, making his actions look like those of someone who was interested in the work Giles was doing, then it was his turn to talk in a low whisper. ‘Any sign of visitors?’
‘Plenty,’ Giles advised him from the corner of his mouth as he continued to turn over the herb bed. ‘But they goes almost as fast as they comes, and I don’t get a good look at them. Mary’s doing her best, but she’s not allowed into the main house unless the serving girl needs another pair of hands, and by the time that the meal table’s been cleared there’s no-one left in the hall except the servants.’
‘Looks like I’ll need to keep my eyes wide open, then,’ Tom replied, just as Nicholas Owen appeared round the side of the house. ‘Come on, Tom!’ he called. ‘We can get a start, now that the master of the house has finished breakfast. No time for loitering in the garden.’
Inside the house, Tom was led by Owen to a back room in which there appeared to be no furniture. It was freezing cold, and the reason for that became apparent when Tom looked into the empty fireplace, as directed by Owen. ‘There’s no accounting for tastes,’ he was advised, ‘but Sir Henry wants this old fireplace covered over with a box of some sort. How do you best reckon we should tackle it?’
Tom cast his experienced eye over the empty hole before expressing an opinion. ‘Best nail a front piece into the floor, then build the frame onto it. After that we can hammer on the boards, but it won’t look very pretty.’
‘Seems that Sir Henry wants to hang paintings on it,’ he was further advised. ‘And that isn’t the daftist thing – he wants it to come out three feet from the wall, so we’ll have to put sides round it.’
Tom tried in his mind to picture what the finished product would be likely to resemble, and the closest he could come to it was a garden shed standing out from the wall. But why hang paintings from the side of a garden shed, when the room could only be used in order to admire those paintings during the summer months, given that they were about to cover over the only fireplace?
He set to work measuring the width of the existing fireplace using a piece of off-cut timber from the wagon they’d travelled in at first light. He and Owen agreed that it was about the right length, and Tom then cut two additional lengths that would constitute the bases for the sides. This task took him close to the existing fireplace, and as he glanced casually towards it, something caught his eye. A ring of some sort set into the inside of the chimney flue.
On a whim he looked to the other side, where an identical ring had been set into the brickwork at the same height as the first. Then he stuck his head inside the chimney breast and looked up. He couldn’t quite make out any daylight above, but there was still enough light to confirm his suspicion; there were other rings set into either side of the flue in a line going up, making a ladder of some sort for anyone prepared to open their legs a few feet. By the time that a person reached the fourth line of rings, their feet would be hidden from sight.
That was not his only exciting discovery that day. He and Owen were also commissioned to panel in the area under the foot of the main staircase, and in order to have more working room they were obliged to move several boxes that had been lying under the stairs. They were covered by damask tablecloths, but Tom waited until Owen had gone back out to their cart, then he carefully lifted the cloth covering one of the boxes. Inside were altar candles, a chalice and what looked like altar cloths. All that needed to be added were the wine and wafers, and you had all that was required for a Mass. All except the priest, and the idea had already come to Tom’s mind that perhaps the priest might be accommodated up the chimney once the fireplace had been covered over.
Making the excuse that he needed to wash his hands, Tom was directed to the scullery, where he could see Mary bent over a sink, her back to him as she scrubbed hard at a bowl that had no doubt been used for dinner. Whispering that she shouldn’t turn round, but simply nod if she could hear him, Tom poured water from the pitcher into a hand basin, which he placed on the flat surface to the side of the sink and whispered again.
‘They’re definitely receiving priests in this place, and planning to hide them up the chimney if anyone comes calling. Tell Giles to make ready to follow one of them. The sooner the better. You’ll find me at the village inn if you needs me.’
Mary nodded, and whispered back ‘God help us if we gets caught.’
Chapter Seven
If Tom had expected an excited reaction when he arrived at The Rose in Hendon’s only street and announced that he was there on business to meet ‘Master Francis’, then he would have to swallow the disappointment. A seemingly disinterested proprietor replied somewhat listlessly that he would make Tom’s arrival known, and continued serving the handful of customers who were lounging around his taproom. Tom wasn’t sure if he imagined the sudden departure of the other man who had appeared to be serving from behind the counter, but once he reached his allocated room and opened the door his doubts were resolved. The same man was standing in front of the mullioned window that looked out over the stable yard, and he smiled at Tom’s expression of surprise.
‘What did you expect – tabors and horns lined up outside to welcome your arrival? Give me your message, then take time to rest. I’ll be back by daybreak tomorrow, so make sure you come down for breakfast, if dinner in this
shithole hasn’t killed you already. For myself, I’ll be glad to get a decent meal for once in Whitehall.’
‘Tell our friend to move immediately on the house in Dunmow,’ Tom advised him, hoping that he was not being deceived. ‘The men he’s seeking are being hidden in there.’
With that the man nodded and took his departure. Tom spent an afternoon lying on the threadbare pallet, resting his aching thighs and reminding himself to keep horse-riding to a minimum while wondering how Giles was faring, and whether, by the time that Walsingham’s men invaded the Dunmow house, he would be trailing the latest priest to leave. After the implied warning regarding the likely quality of any meal served in his resting place he opted to lose some of his expanding waistline and to catch up on some sleep, but the next morning, as a distant cockerel somewhere not far away advertised to his hens that he was open for business, Tom walked downstairs, well prepared to assuage his hunger on whatever swill might be served up.
The bread and cheese that was placed down in front of him was served by the same man who had been in his room the previous day, and who advised him in muted tones that were probably not necessary, given that there were no others taking such an early breakfast, that ‘Our friend has the information, and will be riding north in a few days, when his other business permits. He wishes you to be at the house when he arrives with a company of men.’
Tom nodded his understanding, and gave orders for his horse to be made ready, as he grimaced at the thought of another day that would end with aching thighs.
Giles looked up from the channel that he was attempting to create in unyielding earth that still retained the stubborn frost of the retreating winter, to see a tall young man, spare of frame and with little obvious hair, watching his efforts. He smiled encouragingly, and the man smiled back.
