It was at that moment that the second messenger arrived.
The rider came through the arched gateway just as Thomas was kicking the snow from his boots by the porch of the main entrance to the hall. The hooves of the messenger’s horse had been muffled by the snow so there was no warning of his approach. Thomas looked up quickly as he sensed movement and saw the rider jerk the reins to direct the horse across the courtyard towards him. He wore a blue cloak and the new breeches that had become fashionable in London. The blue of the cloak marked him out as the servant of a wealthy household. As he approached he raised a gloved hand and pointed at Thomas.
‘You there! A word with you.’
Thomas straightened up and folded his arms as the rider’s mount trotted across the snow, the hooves of the horse kicking up little sprays of white crystals in their wake. He stopped a dozen yards from Thomas and plumes of breath swirled from the muzzle of the horse.
‘Can you tell me if this is Barrett Hall?’
‘It is.’
The rider nodded with relief and then swung himself down from the saddle and landed softly in the snow, still holding the reins in one hand. He offered Thomas a smile. ‘Been on the road from London since dawn. Turned off at Bishops Stortford on to some forsaken track. It’s taken me hours to find this place. Hardly anyone on the road had ever heard of it.’
‘We like to keep to ourselves,’ said Thomas. ‘The fewer visitors the better.’ His tone was not hostile yet the rider’s expression hardened at the presumed insult and he addressed Thomas with a haughty look.
‘Fellow, is your master home? I am told he rarely ventures far from this place in recent years.’
‘That is true.’ Thomas nodded.
‘Is he within?’ the rider asked tersely. ‘I have no time for games. I must away to London as soon as my duty is done.’
‘The master is not yet within. What is your will with him?’
‘That is for me to say directly to his face, not to his servant.’
‘Then speak it.’
The other man’s irritable expression darkened for an instant before realisation struck him and at once his demeanour changed and he bowed his head. ‘My apologies, sir. I did not know.’
‘Then why presume to treat me as an inferior?’
The man raised his head and gestured towards Thomas. ‘Sir, your apparel is not that of a gentleman. I assumed—’
‘Assumed? Presumed? Do you always judge a man by his appearance?’
‘Sir, I ... I ... I can only apologise.’
Thomas stared hard at him, until the rider looked down. The man had made an honest mistake and no ill will had been meant, yet it rankled with Thomas. The rider was typical of the society that filled the royal court and those lesser circles that clung to its periphery. The appearance of a person was everything, while the substance of their character was largely ignored. It offended Thomas’s understanding of men and the world, and he felt a sour resentment settle on his spirit over the fact that his privacy had been invaded twice in less than a day.
‘Very well, what news for me?’
‘A summons, if you please, sir.’ The rider looked up again, and spoke in a respectful tone this time. ‘From my master, Sir Robert Cecil. He requests that you attend him at his house on Drury Lane in London tomorrow, at six of the clock.’
‘He requests? And if I say no?’
The servant’s jaw slackened momentarily, as if he had not understood, as if there was no question of an alternative to simple acquiescence to his master’s will. He swallowed nervously before he replied. ‘I have no instructions concerning your refusal of his request, sir.’
‘A pity.’ Thomas shrugged. ‘Then it is a command that you bring me. In which case I am compelled to attend. Very well, tell your master that I will be there at the appointed time.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Thomas looked at him for a moment. The servant had been in the saddle for over half the day and would not return to the capital before dark. The gates would be shut and like as not he would be compelled to find a place to sleep outside the walls of London. It would be a kindness to offer him refreshment and rest before he left the hall, as he had done for the Frenchman. But then he had not had to endure such haughtiness from his other guest. For that reason Thomas did not move from his place in front of his door.
‘I have your message and you may go.’
‘Aye, sir.’ The servant nodded, willing enough to quit his presence. He grasped the pommel of his saddle in one hand and placed his boot in the stirrup. He made to rise into the saddle but the cold had made his joints stiff and he slipped back on to the ground. With an irritable grunt Thomas stepped up, bent down and hoisted the servant up into the saddle.
‘My thanks, sir.’
Thomas nodded and the servant took in the reins and wheeled his mount round, spurring it into a trot back across the courtyard and out through the arch, the soft thump of the hooves fading swiftly away. Thomas stared at the gateway for a while, and then turned and strode into his home, calling out loudly, ‘John! John! Damn you, man! Where are you?’
‘I’m coming, sir!’ came the reply from the kitchen. A moment later the door opened and the old retainer came hurrying out, wiping crumbs from his chin.
‘I shall need my saddlebags, riding cloak, boots and sword for the morrow. See that they are cleaned and ready for the morning. I ride to London.’
‘Yes, sir.’ John tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘Might I ask how long you will be gone?’
‘Who knows?’ Thomas smiled faintly. ‘It would appear that it is not in my power to say when I will return.’
CHAPTER NINE
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 yo
u 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.
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