There was a silence and then I said: ‘I think you want me to take Mistress Jester to Edinburgh. Am I right?’
‘Yes. I had it in mind as soon as I heard that Mistress Jester’s daughter had had a child.’
‘Doctor Fletcher told you?’
‘Yes. I saw at once that it might be the answer to a problem. Ursula, don’t look so worried. I am not going to send you into danger, not this time. I only want you to undertake an errand. I think you can help us and by us I mean me, Sir Francis Walsingham, and the queen. The birth of Mistress Jester’s grand-daughter has presented us with a good opportunity to get a perfectly innocent errand safely performed.’
They were always perfectly innocent errands, according to Cecil and Sir Francis Walsingham, the saturnine, fanatically Protestant, and utterly ruthless Secretary of State. The trouble into which these harmless tasks had led me into the past was almost past belief and I didn’t think this one would be any different. Safely performed. That said it all. If it needed to be done safely, then danger was lurking somewhere. It always did. It was a miracle that I was still alive.
I waited.
‘Yours would be quite a large party of travellers,’ said Cecil. ‘That would matter. There would be yourself and Mistress Jester and no doubt you would wish to take the Brockleys, and perhaps one of your grooms, to help with the horses. You could use your coach. The road to Edinburgh by way of York is in regular use even in winter; the chances are that your journey wouldn’t be too hampered by bad weather. You might even take Harry and his nurse.’
My little son Harry, who had just had his fifth birthday, had thrown a tantrum because he wasn’t allowed to attend the wedding feast, and because of this, his nurse Tessie hadn’t been able to join us either. I had had some choice dishes sent to the nursery to make up for it. He was a lively youngster, but I didn’t like the idea of taking him on a lengthy and tiring coach journey. Least of all when it involved an errand for Lord Burghley. ‘Harry is still too young for long journeys,’ I said. ‘Lord Burghley, what is the purpose behind all this?’
‘It’s simple enough. We would like you to take a letter to Edinburgh and deliver it to James Douglas, Earl of Morton, who is likely to be found at Holyrood Palace. It’s the culmination of an exchange of letters between him and Queen Elizabeth, and it bears her signature. The gist of it is a firm undertaking that in no circumstances will the English court and government ever facilitate the return to Scotland of Queen Mary Stuart, even as a private person and certainly not for the purpose of regaining the Scottish throne.’
‘Why can it not be taken by a Queen’s Messenger, in the usual way?’ I asked.
‘It was,’ said Cecil. ‘Twice. It didn’t get there, and neither of the Messengers have returned. No one knows what has happened to them. That’s why we want, this time, to send the letter by means of a harmless party of private travellers, going to visit family in Scotland. No one will be suspicious of such a group.’
‘But …’ I hardly knew how to put my feelings into words. They were a mixture of alarm at the possible risk and indignation that I should be expected to accept such a task as innocent and safe. I stared at Cecil, and waited for him to go on.
‘You look horrified, but you need not. Listen,’ he said. ‘There have been several plots to reinstate Mary. They weren’t well planned and we stopped them short, but Walsingham fears that others will follow. There are people, especially in the north, who cling to the old religion – and to Mary. Douglas has become nervous. The letter that we are asking you to deliver contains details of two recent plots that have been discovered and crushed, and it also explains how we did it, and what precautions are being taken to ensure that Mary remains our … guest, as the queen insists on calling it. Our captive would be more accurate. We don’t want details like that to fall into the wrong hands and we fear that some of them already have – the disappearance of the first two Messengers points to that. However, this third one – the one I want you to carry – contains more confidential matter than either of the two that went before it. It gives details of the most recent conspiracy, and describes the latest and very stringent precautions we are taking to keep Mary under control. We certainly don’t want those to become known to Mary’s supporters. I may say also that part of the importance we attach to this letter is in the assurance that it offers to James Douglas. That is a very desirable part of the good diplomatic relations we are trying to create between England and Scotland. We are most anxious that this time, nothing shall go wrong.’
‘But what happened to the first two Messengers?’ I said. ‘Does no one know anything at all?’ My pulse was thudding. Innocent errand, indeed!
‘The first letter,’ said Cecil, ‘was despatched just after Christmas. It was carried by a man called Bernard Hardwicke. I handed it to Hardwicke myself. He winked at me, put it in a wallet, and thrust the wallet down inside one of his riding boots. That was where he always put confidential documents when he was asked to carry them. No one would be likely to find them there, he said. He was putting on a show for me, I think.’
He laughed a little, ruefully, and said: ‘There is – or was – something of the strolling player about Master Hardwicke. He actually started out in life as a player, until he made friends with a Messenger, who got him a post in the messenger service as a junior. He did well and won promotion, working mainly for Walsingham. According to Walsingham, Hardwicke likes having steady employment and a steady income. He finds it an improvement on living hand to mouth as a travelling actor. Not that any of that matters now. We think he was intercepted, and the letter with him, but all we actually know is that he didn’t come back. We put it down at first to the snowstorms in January, but the weather cleared up before the end of the month and still he didn’t come back; nor did we receive any acknowledgement from the Scottish court, though we expected one. We became concerned. We started a search for him, and we despatched another Queen’s Messenger with a copy of the letter. That would have been in late January, just after the snow cleared. The second Messenger was Christopher Spelton, the cousin of today’s bridegroom …’
‘Christopher!’ I said involuntarily.
‘I fear so, yes. He had instructions to see if he could learn anything of Hardwicke’s fate as well as to deliver the letter. As you know, Spelton isn’t just a royal courier, he also undertakes tasks as an agent, just as you yourself do at times.’
‘Christopher!’ I said again. I knew nothing of Bernard Hardwicke but Christopher was my friend. I hadn’t accepted his proposal of marriage but I had a fondness for him. ‘I knew he was going to Edinburgh,’ I said. ‘He said he hoped to be back to attend the wedding … and he has vanished as well and that is really all that anyone knows?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Cecil said. ‘Both men are being most energetically sought, of course they are – every county sheriff and local constable in the districts the two men must have crossed is aware that they are missing and is looking for them, and I have also asked various people in the north that I happen to know – landowners, merchants, other agents who are based there – to be on the lookout. So far, no trace of either has been found. And still there has been no acknowledgement from James Douglas. He is presumably still waiting for that letter, hoping – expecting – that it will give the assurance that it does give. He needs that confirmation. And that’s not all. We have a suspicion that somewhere at court, there is a leak – that there is a spy working for Mary Stuart or some of her friends. I have mentioned plots. A few plotters managed to escape abroad just in time, as though they were warned, which they should not have been.’
I was thinking rapidly. ‘So – you mean that perhaps Hardwicke and Spelton were intercepted because someone who shouldn’t have known anything about that letter had nevertheless heard about it, perhaps was told by this unknown spy, and wanted to get hold of it, thinking it would provide information useful to Mary’s supporters?’
‘Yes. The first two letters wouldn’t have told them as mu
ch as all that – though more than we would like! – but the third one, the one I want you to take, could be much more useful to them. It has got to get to Douglas safely.’
‘You have no idea who the spy could be?’
‘I believe that Walsingham has but he hasn’t confided the name of his suspect to me yet,’ Cecil said. ‘He told me he wasn’t sure but was planning some kind of trap, to confirm his idea or dismiss it. When he does lay hands on the man, I could almost pity the fellow. Walsingham will send him to the Tower and hand him over to Richard Topcliffe, his Rackmaster. Have you heard of Topcliffe?’
‘Yes. He has a fearsome reputation,’ I said, shuddering.
‘Ah, well, none of that need concern you. I simply want you to deliver the message. There is no reason why you shouldn’t be able to do so in perfect safety. Your journey will have a completely innocent purpose, and no one at court knows of it, for the very good reason that until now, it wasn’t being planned! The only courtier who knows of the idea is me and I didn’t know of it until today. I assure you that I am not the traitor.’
‘Of course not,’ I said.
‘That’s all you have to do,’ said Cecil, watching me. ‘Take Mistress Jester to Edinburgh to see her daughter and her grandchild and while you’re there, slip off one morning and go to Holyrood Palace. I will give you a letter of authority carrying my seal. Present the letter to James Douglas. Preferably in person. You must do your best about that. Then come away. Your task will be done.’
‘You’re not sending me to find out what happened to Bernard Hardwicke and Christopher Spelton?’
‘Certainly not! That really would be overburdening you! I said, they are being sought, by every means available. None of that need concern you. All you have to do, I repeat, is go to Edinburgh with Mistress Jester and pay a call at Holyrood Palace while you are there.’
‘I see.’ I said it with a sigh. It was always the same pattern. The quests I undertook usually started out as innocuous and then changed their nature when it was too late. ‘I suppose I must agree,’ I said. ‘As you knew I would,’ I added with more than a tinge of bitterness. ‘And despite all your sheriffs and constables, I somehow think you will want me, shall we say, to keep my eyes open?’
‘If you wish but take no risks. No one wants you to take risks.’
‘You mean,’ I said, dragging the monstrous thing out into the light, ‘that for all your talk of an innocent errand, Master Hardwicke – and Christopher – may never be found. May have been murdered, their horses stolen and sold at the nearest fair.’
‘Very likely,’ said Cecil. ‘Both men were using the royal remount service, of course, and the proprietor of the Yorkshire stable which is the last one that they used – they both went there – is very angry. In particular, the horse he gave Hardwicke was one of the best in his stable, according to him. And easy to identify. Three parts Barb, nearly sixteen hands, golden chestnut with a white mane and tail, a white star and a white sock on the near fore. I have had that description cried through the streets of York. The men who are searching for Hardwicke and Spelton are on the lookout for the horse as well.’
‘It would be a clue to Hardwicke’s fate if they find it, I suppose,’ I said.
‘Yes, it would. But you are not required to look for it. You must maintain your air of innocence at all costs. You are part of a group of people travelling north for a family reunion. As long as you maintain that appearance, you will be perfectly safe. That you are part of a group will be an added protection, too. Hardwicke and Spelton rode alone.’
He fell silent and I found a moment to absorb the hideous fact that Christopher Spelton, who had once asked me to be his wife, with whom I was still on the most amiable terms, who had helped me to find a husband for Kate Ferguson, might be – probably was – now dead. I had not chosen to marry Christopher, but I had liked him very much. He was a little younger than I was, but slightly worn by a hard-working life, and by no means good-looking. He was stocky of build, unremarkable as to his face, and balding, with a ring of scanty brown hair round his pate. But he had the most friendly, good-natured brown eyes in the world and a curiously calm, reassuring presence. I could not bear to think of him as dead. Tears pricked my eyes. Then, through the fog of shock and sorrow, I heard Cecil clear his throat. He said: ‘There is one more thing.’
THREE
Physician and Magician
I might have known. I had been about to rise. Now I sat back once more and prepared to be patient. Instructions emanating from either Cecil or Walsingham usually turned out to have – I suppose complications would be the right word. This time I was at least being warned in advance instead of being left – as had happened in the past – to find out too late. I saw that Cecil was looking at me with something like compassion. ‘What is it?’ I asked resignedly.
‘The news about Spelton has given you a shock,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. Shall I call for wine? Perhaps you should …’
‘Presently,’ I said. ‘Please tell me what this extra thing is.’
‘I can assure you that it has nothing to do with the letter. There is nothing secret about it at all! It’s nothing more than a little commission for Doctor Dee, the queen’s Magician. Both Hardwicke and Spelton were to have undertaken it along with the task of delivering the letter to Scotland but presumably were prevented from doing so. The queen herself is interested in the matter.’
I knew about Doctor Dee, of course. He was an adviser to Her Majesty on all manner of esoteric subjects, some more worthy than others, at least as far as I had heard. He was known for his researches into map-making and mathematics, but also concerned himself with trying to transmute base metal into gold and attempting to materialize angels and forecasting the future. I had heard that he wished to revise the calendar. I had never met him and didn’t feel I wanted to.
My face probably showed something of this, for Cecil said: ‘Dee is just a man with an enquiring mind and wide interests, which have sometimes led him into trouble. He was arrested once, for casting horoscopes – of Queen Mary and Princess Elizabeth, as our present queen was then.’ Cecil looked amused. ‘He talked himself out of it, but ever since then, although he is fond of cats, he says he daren’t keep one: people are suspicious of anyone who has esoteric interests and also keeps pets. They remember the superstitions about demon familiars and cats are especially suspect! He doesn’t want to lay himself open to a charge of sorcery. He makes a rueful joke of it. I rather like him, myself.’
‘What sort of commission does he want?’ I asked.
‘On the north York moors – you could divert to the place on your way either to or from Scotland – there’s a house called Stonemoor, where a number of middle-aged ladies are living together. They’re all ladies who for some reason don’t have proper homes, have no relatives or at least no relatives willing to look after them. They’re unmarried women, or widows without much money.’
‘I can sympathize with that,’ I said, remembering my own predicament after Gerald’s death.
‘Quite. Well, this little community started with a widow called Philippa Gould. She isn’t quite without family; her father’s a cloth merchant in York. She is his only surviving legitimate child. She has no children herself. Her late husband owned a dyeing shop in York, but not a very successful one. When he died, the shop had to be sold to pay his debts. She was virtually penniless and went home to her father. Her mother was dead by then, though, and her father had just remarried. The two women didn’t get on. So Philippa’s father bought Stonemoor House for her and got a natural daughter of his, Philippa’s half-sister, to join her for company. The two sisters already knew each other though only slightly, it seems. Philippa herself brought in two more friends. So to begin with there were four ladies, but over the next few years they were joined by others, their own acquaintances and then their acquaintances, and now there are sixteen of them.
‘The thing that makes the Stonemoor household special,’ said Cecil, ‘is that the la
dies are all Catholic. They all come from known Catholic families. It’s no secret. It isn’t illegal to be Catholic, as you know, as long as there is no attempt at making converts. Sir Francis Walsingham would like it to be illegal, but so far, the queen won’t agree to that.’
I nodded. I knew Walsingham’s fanaticism very well.
‘It is known,’ said Cecil, ‘that the ladies of Stonemoor have organized themselves into a … a kind of unofficial convent. They have no communication with Rome and as far as anyone is aware, they don’t actually take vows. Nor do they accept novices. But they are said to live very much as though they are Benedictine nuns. The household is careful to keep the law, however, and two or three of them turn up each week at St Mary’s, the Anglican church in the village of Thorby, which is close by. The vicar there doesn’t approve of them but he can’t complain that they don’t attend church, even if they don’t all do it together. They don’t have servants; some of them are apparently regarded as lay sisters and they do most of the domestic chores. They all dress in the same dark-blue gowns and yes, they sing the office in what they fondly believe to be secrecy, although they’re wrong about that. The singing has been overheard and reported by Thorby villagers, who are mostly respectable Protestants though I understand that there are one or two Catholic sympathizers.
‘In Thorby, there’s some division of opinion about the Stonemoor ladies and not along religious lines, oddly enough; it’s more that a few of the villagers – and the vicar too – suspect them of witchcraft. Mostly, though, the Thorby folk are tolerant, even amused by the ladies. The blacksmith, who was the one who overheard some chanting and reported it, was one of a minority. He complained to the vicar, who informed the High Sheriff in York, who informed Walsingham but Walsingham didn’t act on it. The ladies have a tame priest who presumably says Mass for them but neither they nor he have tried to convert anyone and so haven’t broken the law. A farm goes with Stonemoor House and the ladies keep some horses, and the man who is known to be their priest is outwardly their bailiff and groom.’
The Heretic’s Creed Page 3
