The Enterprise of England

by Ann Swinfen

  We bade him and his men farewell and led the horses over the ramp on to Dover quay. Whether they knew they were back in England, I could not tell, but they seemed pleased to leave the ship. Rikki trotted at my heels, already beginning to look stronger after a few days of good food.

  Up at the castle we left the horses and the dog in the stable and reported to Sir Anthony Torrington, who told us, rather ungraciously, that we could be accommodated for one night. He was one of those men who like to give the impression that they are busier than they really are, so spent his time moving papers about on his desk and barely glancing up at us. One of the soldiers showed us to a room, where we would be obliged to share with two others this time, but both were on night guard duty, so after exchanging a few words of greeting we did not see them again.

  I saw nothing of Andrew until we joined the soldiers for a meal and then we had little time to talk, for he too was about to go on duty.

  ‘It was successful, your time in the Low Countries?’ he asked.

  ‘Successful, aye,’ I said. ‘And also eventful. I have come back with a dog and Berden with a knife injury, but we achieved what we were sent to do.’

  ‘Good. I may not see you again before you leave, but if I am in London, I will visit you at St Bartholomew’s.’

  ‘I did not think you would want to cross that threshold again,’ I said with a smile, ‘for it must hold bad memories.’

  ‘No, you are wrong. What I remember is being made well again.’

  With that, he was off.

  Before retiring for the night I called in at the stables and asked one of the grooms whether Rikki could stay with them until the morning.

  ‘I think he might not be welcomed in the soldiers’ quarters,’ I said.

  ‘He’ll do fine with us, Doctor. I fetched him a bone from the kitchen.’

  Rikki looked up from the bone and scrambled to his feet, ready to follow me, but I shook my head and pointed down to the floor. ‘Wait there,’ I said. The dog could not be expected to understand the command or even my English words, but he seemed to understand the gesture. He returned to his bone and did not try to follow me when I left.

  The next morning we set out for London. The snow was as heavy here as it had been in the Low Countries, so it was not until early afternoon on the third day that we reached Seething Lane. I hoped that Sir Francis would be here and not at his home in Barn Elms, for I had no wish to cross the river again and go riding about the Surrey countryside.

  We went first to Phelippes’s office, which held a welcome warmth after our long cold ride from Dover. I unwound the scarf from my head and hung my cloak on the back of my chair. Phelippes looked up from his papers.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ he said, quite as if we had merely stepped out of the room and not been away for nearly a month.

  ‘Is Sir Francis in?’ Berden asked, easing off his cloak. His left arm was still somewhat stiff, though the injury was beginning to heal cleanly.

  ‘He is. I will take you to him.’

  Arthur Gregory put his head round the door of his room and smiled at us, but said nothing. Then Phelippes led us along the hallway to Sir Francis’s office.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon with Sir Francis, delivering Leicester’s despatches and going over in detail exactly what we had done every day we had been away. He even questioned us about the situation at Dover Castle, the strength and morale of the garrison, what ships had been in the harbour, our general impression of military preparations. Berden was much better at answering his questions than I was, and I realised just how observant he had been.

  When it came to Amsterdam, however, everyone’s attention was focused on me. Sir Francis took me through my account twice, obliging me to recall every detail about Cornelius Parker, van Leyden, and the murder of Hans Viederman. He was also very attentive to the information given me by Ettore Añez.

  ‘We know of Parker, of course,’ he said, almost to himself.

  I explained how I had gone to Leicester with my fears about a poison plot, and how he had laughed at me and thrown me out.

  ‘Luckily,’ I said, ‘Robert Hurst was in service with him there.’

  Sir Francis nodded. As I had suspected, he already knew this. Had probably placed Hurst there himself. I told him how I had alerted Hurst and given him the evidence of the handkerchief.

  ‘When we reached our ship,’ I said, ‘a letter had just been sent to me there.’

  I took out Hurst’s letter and handed it to Sir Francis, who read it quickly, then beamed at me.

  ‘Excellent, Kit. You have done just as you should. It seems His Lordship has now realised that what you suspected was true. He will be grateful to you.’

  ‘But van Leyden seems to have escaped, sir.’ To me this seemed more urgent.

  ‘For the moment, perhaps.’

  ‘And the murderer of Hans Viederman, will he ever be brought to justice?’

  ‘I doubt it, Kit. What is most important is that you have averted a plot to kill England’s foremost Earl.’

  I thought Hans’s death was important too, but realised I should not say so.

  ‘And this other man, Cornelius Parker?’ I said. ‘He is implicated. He deals with the Spanish.’

  ‘I will have him watched. If he proves dangerous, we will take measures against him.’

  When at last Walsingham dismissed us, I bade Berden farewell, unsure whether I would see him again, which seemed strange after being in his company for most of the last month. I went down the backstairs and round to the stable yard, to collect Rikki and my belongings and to say my other farewells, to Hector. Many would think me foolish, but I always felt Hector could read my thoughts and knew that we were parting again. I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead against his neck, my hand buried in the thick hair of his mane. Stupid tears filled my eyes and I blotted them against his silky, ugly coat. I had come to love this horse, but I could not allow any of the grooms to see me crying over him. Neither Walsingham nor Phelippes had said anything to me about further code-breaking work, so I would have no excuse to see Hector again, though I would try to slip in here from time to time and give him an apple. With a final pat, I turned my back on him and fetched my satchel and knapsack from the tack room, where Rikki had stayed with the grooms.

  ‘It is good to see you again. Dr Alvarez,’ the head groom said as he handed me my belongings. ‘Was the snow as bad as this in the Low Countries?’

  It was no surprise to me that my destination was known to him. The last people Walsingham would be able to keep secrets from were his own servants.

  ‘Aye, it was,’ I said. ‘Worse, even. The canals were frozen, with people skating on them.’

  ‘I’ve heard of that. We used to skate on the pools in the Kent marshes when I was a lad. Made our own skates out of mutton bones. Then when I first come to London – the winter of ’64 it was – the Thames froze and we sported on the river. Skating, dancing, tumblers, bear baiting. Even the Queen came and joined the fun. I wonder whether the river will ever freeze again.’

  ‘I’m in no hurry,’ I said. ‘This is cold enough for me.’

  He laughed and patted the dog. ‘Been in the wars, has he?’

  ‘Aye. Took a sword slash meant for me.’

  ‘Did he!’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a good dog to have by you.’

  ‘He is that. Come, Rikki.’

  The dog scrambled to his feet at once. One thing I had learned in Amsterdam was that their word for ‘come’ sounded just like ours, so Rikki had no difficulty understanding me.

  We set off across London, which was as snowbound as Amsterdam, but here the snow was dirtier. London is a busier city and the horse traffic is heavier, so the snow, which must have last fallen some days ago, was badly stained. Somehow you do not notice the horse dung in the normal way of things, but when it lies on the pure white of snow it seems more offensive. As we walked across London, Rikki was distracted from time to time by irresistible smells, and also
stopped several times to make the acquaintance of other dogs. I had never noticed before quite how many dogs roamed the streets, with or without owners.

  When I reached Eastcheap I decided to stop at Jake Winterly’s leather shop. Bess greeted me with her usual delight and urged me to come upstairs for a meal, it being nearly supper time.

  I shook my head. ‘I must go home to my father, Bess. I am just back from abroad, but you can see that I have acquired a dog.’

  We both looked at Rikki, who sat alert, watching us.

  ‘I need a collar for him.’

  ‘We have plenty.’ She cast an expert eye, then reached into a cupboard behind her. ‘This should fit.’ It was a supple length of cow hide with a plain buckle and no ornamentation. ‘Unless you would like something prettier.’

  ‘No, this is good.’ I clasped it round Rikki’s neck. Bess had judged right. The collar fitted well, with just enough slack for comfort. ‘I should have a lead as well, I suppose, though he is obedient enough even without one.’

  I paid for both items, rolled up the lead to fit in my pocket, and left my good wishes for the rest of the family.

  Rikki shook his head a few times as we continued on our way, and once sat down and scratched at the collar. Clearly he had never worn one before, but I felt it was wise to fit him with one. The city dog catchers of London never hesitate to kill stray dogs, for they are believed to carry the plague. They would at least hesitate briefly before drowning a dog wearing a collar.

  At we neared Duck Lane I noticed that Rikki had scented the smell of the Shambles and all the butchers’ shops around Smithfield. I had given little thought to how I was to feed him, but at least we were well placed for butchers’ scraps. I had told Berden I would find a home for the dog when I reached London, but it was becoming more and more difficult to think of parting with him.

  It was almost dark when I reached home and saw a shaft of candlelight falling from the kitchen window, not yet shuttered. Our ground floor windows were glazed, but it was cheap glass, full of swirls and lumps. Through it I could see movement, but nothing clearly. Upstairs we had only shutters, which were closed against the cold. I opened the door and stepped inside, enveloped at once in warmth and steam. Joan was bending over and stirring a pot hanging from a hook over the fire; my father was sitting in his carved chair at the table, a book open in front of him, his chin resting on his hand and his eyes closed.

  At the rush of cold air and the sound of the door, Joan swung round and my father opened his eyes. He looked confused for a moment, then stood up and came to me, holding out his arms. We hugged each other.

  ‘Kit! Home at last! We did not know when you would be here.’

  ‘I reached London this afternoon, but had to report to Sir Francis.’ I put down my baggage on the coffer and closed the door. Rikki had followed me in and stood looking about him with interest.

  ‘Wisht!’ Joan rushed over, flapping her apron and aiming a kick at him. ‘There’s a dirty stray followed you in off the street.’ She made a grab for the door and pulled it open. ‘Be off with you!’

  ‘No!’ I caught hold of Rikki’s collar as he shrank away from her and began to retreat. ‘He’s mine. At least, he’s with me. Leave him be, Joan.’ I closed the door again.

  ‘A dirty cur like that? Get him out of my kitchen, Master Alvarez.’

  I was tempted to say that it was not her kitchen but my father’s. However, that was not the way to deal with Joan.’

  ‘If he is dirty, that is no more than I am, after weeks of travelling. Besides, he is injured. He took a sword thrust meant for me and saved my life. I will wash him tomorrow.’

  Joan turned to my father, her hands on her hips. ‘Dr Alvarez, we cannot have a filthy cur in the kitchen. He is probably carrying the plague.’

  Rikki was listening to this conversation, looking from one to the other of us.

  ‘If he carried the plague, I would have it by now,’ I said. ‘I have ridden for days with him in front of my saddle, his body up against mine. I’ve no symptoms – not as yet, anyway.’

  Joan looked at me sceptically, her mouth pursed up with disapproval, but my father laughed. ‘Leave them be, Joan. We are just happy to see Kit safely home. You say the dog is with you, Kit. Do you mean to keep him?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, finally making up my mind and all the more stubbornly in the face of Joan’s objections. ‘His master is dead and he came to me. The least I can do is give him a home.’

  ‘Dead, is he?’ Joan muttered, turning back to her cooking. ‘Dead of the plague, most like.’

  ‘No,’ I said sharply. ‘He was murdered.’

  I should not have said that, but I was suddenly exhausted and cold and could not tolerate her complaints any longer. I sank down on to a bench and Rikki pressed himself against my leg. I heard my father draw a sharp breath.

  ‘Murdered! You say he saved your life, the dog?’ he said.

  ‘Aye, but that was later. I will tell you about it tomorrow. Tonight I am too tired.’

  The next morning I did tell my father what had happened in the Low Countries, when we were on our way to the hospital and out of earshot of Joan. The first problem in owning a dog had already presented itself. I did not feel Rikki would be safe left with Joan, who would probably drive him out, whatever my father or I said. Yet I could not take him into the wards of the hospital. I had him on the lead, which he did not like, and hoped I could leave him with the doorkeeper in his lodge.

  My father’s reaction to the account of my journey was silence at first. Then he said, ‘I do not like the way Sir Francis is using you, as if you were one of his agents. When you went to work there first, it was as a code-breaker and translator, in the office of Master Phelippes.’

  And as a forger, I thought, but did not say aloud.

  ‘It seems to me,’ he went on, ‘that he is sending you into unnecessary danger. I know he does not realise that you are but a girl. Yet what he asks is too much even for a boy as young as you. You are not yet eighteen.’

  ‘Nearly,’ I said, a little stung by those words: ‘but a girl’.

  ‘I believe he often uses students,’ I said, ‘for it’s common for them to travel about in Europe. No one finds that suspicious. And they would be of an age with me.’ I recalled that Simon had told me that Marlowe had worked for Walsingham while still a student at Cambridge.

  ‘In any case,’ I added, ‘I see no reason for him to use me again. This time he had no one else available to go with Nicholas Berden. And Berden is very experienced.’

  ‘Hmph. Was it not he who led you into danger, near the Spanish army?’

  ‘Only following instructions from Walsingham. Besides, thanks to Rikki here, I came to no harm.’

  Wanting to divert him from these thoughts, I drew a heavy purse out of my doublet and handed it to him. ‘I did not want to give you this in front of Joan, in case she asked for more wages!’

  He looked at the purse in surprise, feeling the weight of it in his hand. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Payment from Sir Francis. He did not expect me to work for a month unpaid. Buy yourself some warm clothes for this cold weather.’

  ‘Books!’ he said, his eyes gleaming.

  As I knew he would.

  My life fell back into its old pattern, working every day at the hospital with my father and Dr Stevens where, as I had expected, the wards were already filled with patients suffering from the usual winter complaints, ranging from coughs and sore throats through to chest infections and pneumonia. And, as in every winter, we did our best, but we lost some, mainly those who were already weakened by poverty and a poor diet. When I asked Peter Lambert to prepare scurvy water for pauper children with rickets, I thought of Captain Thoms and his sailors and wondered how their preparations for the invasion were faring.

  Christmas came and I spent it again with the players. My time away and my experiences in the Low Countries had somehow created a distance between us, so that things were not as easy as
they had been. Marlowe spent some of the time with us, and I noticed that he and Simon were on very good terms, something I did not like. Yet, what could I say? They were part of the same world, this world of the playhouse, despite the fact that Marlowe had come there from Cambridge. It seemed that he had great ambitions as a playwright, though Burbage had not yet agreed to mount one of his plays, which he said were too elaborate and too expensive.

  Marlowe had other irons in the fire. He was carefully cultivating Sir Francis’s younger cousin, Thomas Walsingham, as his patron, and travelled down to Kent to spend part of the Christmas festivities at his estate. As far as Thomas Walsingham was concerned, Marlowe was not part of the disreputable world of the playhouse, but a gentleman poet, a university man. Certainly Marlowe dressed the part and I often wondered how he came by the money for such finery. His own family was humble, his stepfather nothing more than a bricklayer, so whence the riches? Some may have come from Thomas Walsingham, some from work for Sir Francis, but perhaps some came from a more disreputable source.

  When I raised this with Simon, during the time Marlowe was down in Kent, it led to our first real quarrel.

  ‘How dare you suggest such a thing!’ Simon shouted at me, his face flushed and furious. ‘Marlowe is an honourable man.’

  The angrier Simon became, the colder I grew. ‘I find it strange that he has so much coin to throw about,’ I said, in a hard, level voice. ‘He has neither family nor occupation. If it were anyone but your beloved Marlowe, you too would be suspicious.’

  ‘He is not my beloved Marlowe,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I just do not like to see an honest man accused.’

  ‘I did not accuse him,’ I said. ‘I merely raised the question. And I wonder why that makes you so angry.’

  ‘He probably won it at cards,’ Simon blustered, ‘or by betting on horses. That is what gentlemen do.’

  ‘Ha!’ I said, stung. ‘What do you know of what gentlemen do?’ I thought briefly of my own life in the highest ranks of Coimbra society before I came to England, but I could not speak of it.