A Murderous Affair Page 6

  It was the summer of 1575 and I was eleven years old. My brother was away and I was living in relative happiness. Anne, along with her older brother and sister, had come to live with us after her father, a Catholic rabble-rouser, had been tried and executed for treason. She had been a shy and confused girl, and for the first few weeks of her stay no one in the household could get so much as a sound out of her. My father, never one to avoid fun and games if the opportunity presented itself, went to elaborate lengths to cheer and amuse her but to no avail. I was the only person she responded to in the household.

  It was hard to explain the affinity between us. Maybe the connection between a newly orphaned daughter, her mother had died some years earlier, and a bastard son. Maybe it was natural as we were the same age. Whatever it was, Anne chose me as her sole companion. We spent the whole of that first summer together, running out to the fields in the morning to avoid her brother and sister. At first it was like a game, but we soon became inseparable friends, sharing adventures and secrets as easily as we shared our hastily prepared lunches in the fields.

  Anne had been my inseparable companion for the next four years, until one day a messenger arrived to summon her to Court. Her father’s crimes had been temporarily forgiven, if not forgotten, and she was to become a lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth. It was an honour that no subject in her right senses would refuse, and especially not one with a cloud hanging over her past. Up until that time, we had done everything together, from learning French and Latin, to horse riding and dancing. I’d never had to question my feelings towards her, but I felt a great loss following her departure; although, it wasn’t the first, and wouldn’t be the last time that reality broke into the fantasy world I had carefully fashioned for myself.

  My sense of loss turned to one of seething injustice a year later, when Anne returned to the house as my brother’s wife. They had met at Court, an institution that was as far from my reach as the Heavens. To rub salt into the wounds, the marriage had angered the Queen, who often took exception to her ladies-in-waiting getting wed, and Robert had temporarily been exiled from court. The newlyweds therefore came to live in the country and the only way to avoid them was to stay away as much as possible.

  Within a few months, Robert and Anne were forgiven by the Queen and returned to London. I reflected as I walked that six years had passed since that day, and during that time the gulf between Anne and I had widened ever further, to the point where even her maids mistook me for an insolent servant, rather than the childhood friend I had once been.

  * * *

  On leaving my lodgings to meet Matthew and get my ride to the Chancel House, I had noticed, as I passed through the Bridge Gate on the city side, that one of the great water wheels below had been forcibly stopped and a group of men were working on it. I briefly joined a small crowd that had gathered on the side of the bridge to watch the work. Standing slightly apart from them was a man who was shouting instructions down, and whom I assumed must be their foreman. When he broke from bawling down to them for a moment, I took the opportunity to ask him what had happened. He eyed me suspiciously and didn’t seem inclined to answer but then his annoyance at having to work seemed to get the better of him.

  ‘Drunken youths throwing rocks down on the panels.’ He looked at me as though he rather suspected that I might have been one of them. ‘Happens every year during the Southwark Fair. At least four of the damn things are smashed and I’ve got to have them fixed by sundown. And on a holiday too! Its unbelievable what the city burghers expect from us, and all so they can pump water up to their expensive houses.’ He scowled at me and then turned his back leaving me in no doubt that he wanted to end the discussion. I had left him, and the enthralled crowd, to it.

  A while later, as Matthew hauled us expertly up to the stairs of the Chancel House’s river gate, we drew alongside a distinguished boat with a crest on its side. It was empty and I assumed that the oarsmen must have gone inside to keep out of the cold, whilst my brother entertained its illustrious passenger. The large house seemed strangely empty as I entered. There was none of the usual bustle of servants about the corridors, nor did I hear any laughter of children. It was as if my brother had cleared the house in anticipation of his guest. Without thinking, I knocked on the large door of the hall and entered.

  Two men, my brother and a stranger, were seated in front of the fireplace. Otherwise the room was empty and I was pleased to see that there was no sign of Nesbitt, or my nemeses, the dogs. Both men turned sharply as I entered. The immediate impression I got was that they had been sitting in an uncomfortable silence and were relieved by my interruption. Despite this, my brother couldn’t resist immediately putting me in my place.

  ‘You see, Sir Francis, my brother’s manners are very much the product of the farmyard. Nevertheless, I have no doubt he will be up to the task we have for him.’

  The man, who was aged around sixty, watched my entrance with an interested, slightly bemused expression – the way one might calmly observe a stranger’s child that is over-reaching itself. He had a deeply lined, gaunt face and a air of sickliness about him, but his bright black eyes displayed great intelligence. Despite having never met him before, I knew immediately who he was. The mention of his name merely confirmed what I had already guessed from the crest on the boat. Before me sat none other than the Principle Secretary to the Privy Council, Sir Francis Walsingham.

  A number of thoughts immediately collided in my mind. For one thing, I was very surprised to see Walsingham in my brother’s house. On a number of occasions my brother had been overheard disparaging Walsingham as being a member of an old cabal that had too much influence at court and stood in the way of the ‘coming men’ – one of which my brother considered himself to be. A more worrying consideration was that Walsingham’s presence indicated there might be a political connection to the dead man. More than anything, the word ‘task’ reverberated ominously. Walsingham’s reputation as chief of the country’s murky intelligence networks was well known – a world I had no desire to be mixed up in.

  For a moment, Walsingham’s dark eyes regarded me unblinkingly. Lit by the flickering flames of the fire, they seemed to be the only sign of life in his dark face, which remained completely passive. Eventually his lips moved slowly and the ghost of a smile formed.

  ‘Come Robert. Your brother has done us great service this morning and we must thank him for it. I never trust a man who puts manners before hard work and simple country ways are far preferable to the over-elaboration we see at court these days. At least to my mind.’

  If this was a reference to my brother, or the type of courtier he represented, it was hard to tell. Walsingham’s gaze remained fixed on me as he spoke. The speech was delivered in a deliberate manner, and as he spoke his fingers, which were joined together like a vaulted ceiling in front of his chest, tapped along as though they were counting out the rhythm of the sentence. His manner was reminiscent of the insipid lawyers who had attended my father’s estate after his death, but unlike them, his words commanded absolute attention. I found myself frozen to the spot not knowing whether to bow, reply, or simply bolt for the door.

  My brother had evidently decided to play the diplomat. ‘Of course you are right, Sir Francis,’ he said, breaking the spell that Walsingham had conjured over me. ‘John, come and warm yourself by the fire.’

  I broke out of my reverie, bowed low, stammering ‘your Lordship’, and moved clumsily to a third, high-backed wooden chair that had already been set for me. My brother directed me to help myself to a glass of hot wine from a metal decanter on a nearby table and also to replenish their glasses. But Walsingham refused and instead reached for a bottle containing a green liquid, and poured it into a glass. Even over the sweet scent of the wine, I could smell its musty, acrid scent and assumed it must be some sort of physic for his condition. Walsingham kept his level gaze on me, as he took a sip of the strange brew, as though he were weighing up some unfathomable equation. Rather than
return his gaze, I took comfort in eyeing the deep red colour of the glass cradled between my hands before taking another draft of the warming wine, which, like all of my brother’s cellar, was of the highest quality.

  Seating himself between us, my brother began to speak in a quiet voice. ‘John, please repeat to Sir Francis what you discovered this morning. Just as you did earlier – leaving nothing out.’

  I finally found the courage to look at Walsingham directly, and began recounting my tale of the dead foreigner discovered by the Rotherhithe Watch. It occurred to me that there was still a great deal that my brother hadn’t told me, but it seemed as though I would have to wait. When I had finished Walsingham waited a moment before speaking.

  ‘Excellent. Your brother is as observant and diligent as you avouched, Lord Robert. I think he could be very suitable for the little assignment we have in mind.’ He paused to take a sip of the strong-smelling medicine, before adding: ‘First, if you don’t mind, Master Lovat, I would like to tell you a story and perhaps you will do me the goodness to hear me out before you ask any questions, though no doubt you will have many. Shall I begin?’

  I sank back into my chair, nodding uncertainly. Apart from Walsingham’s mellifluous tone, the only other sound was the crackling of flames coming from the fire. Even my brother sat in complete silence, listening attentively to every word.

  As he started to speak, a strange stillness settled on the room and a feeling of uneasiness swept over me, as though my soul was being carried away on an invisible tide.

  Chapter 6

  ‘I speak the truth not so much as I would, but as much as I dare.’

  (Michel de Montaigne; Essays)

  ‘The man washed up in Rotherhithe, who you so observantly described, Master Lovat, was a Portuguese nobleman. Not strictly Mediterranean, but your reasoning was sound. I would have recognised him by your excellent description alone, but I believe your brother has since confirmed his identity. His name was Don Alphonse de Sousa.’

  My brother nodded solemnly in confirmation, his eyes cast down at the base of the fire. He still held that same worried demeanour I had witnessed earlier.

  ‘Don Alphonse has been an ally of this country for many years, and a personal friend to a number of its leading statesmen, including your brother and myself. He first came to these shores through his trading connections and by virtue of the fact that, like many of his countrymen since the Spanish occupation, he could no longer live safely in Portugal. You were a young man at the time, Master Lovat, and I hardly expect you to remember the circumstances surrounding the Portuguese wars. However, as I am sure you will be only too keenly aware, Portugal is a Spanish colony, ruled from the Escorial Palace, and the estates of men like Don Alphonse have long since been confiscated.’

  Although I felt his confidence in my political knowledge was somewhat misplaced, I thought it prudent not to mention it at this juncture.

  ‘I don’t need to go into great detail. Suffice to say that Her Majesty, in her graciousness and wisdom, offered Don Antonio, the Portuguese King in exile, a home in this country. Sadly Don Antonio is an impetuous man, and his frustration with our, admittedly, laboured attempts to support his claim to the Portuguese throne, has led to him being somewhat abased in the eyes of the Sovereign. He still remains a guest in this country but continues to seek help from other, less agreeable sources. We need say no more about him, except to mention that his presence in this country has induced many of his fellow countrymen to make their homes here.’

  Walsingham suddenly broke off to cough violently, a bout which was followed by a large helping of physic from the green bottle. My brother glanced at him anxiously. Walsingham’s condition was serving only to increase his anxiety. His composure recovered, Walsingham continued. Although he did his best to hide it, the pain caused by his ailment was evident in his eyes, which had slight traces of water around them. I wondered what it was that he was suffering from. Knowing the expertise of most doctors, it was probably prolonged by the medicine he was taking. The pungent liquid in the green bottle hardly smelt like a healthy tonic. Momentarily these thoughts distracted me, until I was brought back to the story by Walsingham’s resonant, bass tone.

  ‘Our story here concerns the dead man, Don Alphonse. Whilst living in London, Don Alphonse was an extremely useful source of information to the crown by virtue of the fact that his trading links spread far and wide. The circumstances surrounding the growth of these networks are somewhat murky, but, notwithstanding, he was extremely successful. Naturally, his mercantile interests afforded him the opportunity of a great number of contacts, and from time to time he was most helpful in passing on any information that he felt would be of interest to our security as a nation. I believe that his intentions towards us were always friendly but at heart he was driven by the desire to see his own country once again able to determine its own affairs. To this end, I am only sorry that his unfortunate demise has come before he could witness such an event, although I fear that he would have had a long wait.’

  All the time Walsingham spoke, his fingers remained joined together in front of his chest, occasionally tapping out a rhythm to accompany his words. His narrative was only interrupted by Robert standing to throw a log on the fire, which was lighting Walsingham’s impassive face as he spoke. The rest of the room – tapestries, furniture, portraits – had sunk into the gloom, only occasionally alluded to by a flickering shadow. The whole world seemed to consist of the three of us in that small arc of intense concentration, defined by the dancing flames of the fire.

  ‘Don Alphonse’s trading networks enabled him to have contact with a number of countries and individuals that we would consider undesirable, although in the interest of our nation’s wealth, and intelligence, we turned a blind eye. He, naturally, had strong connections with Mediterranean and Spanish markets, many of which are Roman Catholic and do not accept the legality of a Protestant Queen on the throne of England. Nevertheless, as I have always believed, trade is the bedrock of a nation and these links will inevitably make us stronger in the future.’ Another pause for a productive cough, the result of which was washed down with more medicine. I wondered nervously when he was going to get to the point.

  ‘Six months ago, Don Alphonse sent a letter to my country home at Barn Elms requesting a meeting. It was an inopportune moment. Preparations to repel the impending Spanish invasion were at their height and my secretaries and I were awash with intelligence letters of every kind. I was spending most of my time at Court and, furthermore, I was undergoing an indifferent period of health.’

  If that was an indifferent period, I wondered how he would describe his current condition.

  ‘Howbeit, Don Alphonse was resolute. He sent another letter, one week later, imploring me to see him.’ Walsingham momentarily regarded me with an incisive glance. ‘The letters, you see, Master Lovat, were just a forerunner to further contact – the information he had to impart was, in his words – too sensitive to be written down, even in code – and he wished to deliver the said information in person. I admit my interest was piqued. I sent word that he should come and visit me at my country house the next evening. He duly arrived, apologetic for disturbing me at such a time but still insistent.’

  I sensed that we were getting to the heart of the story and found myself again holding my breath, with the same feeling of weightlessness I had experienced earlier. Even my brother’s mood of despondence had momentarily subsided. We were both absorbed in the tale.

  ‘What Don Alphonse had to tell me was simply this. Knowledge had reached him of a sea captain who was conducting illicit trade with Spain. In return for being allowed to trade certain goods, the English captain, a Papist sympathiser, was passing on information about English preparations for war. Not only was the trade illegal but many of the goods being traded were not recorded - that is, they were smuggled. More importantly, the English ships under this captain’s command were the property of a high-ranking member of the Queen’s Court w
ho at that precise moment was an important advisor on the Armada defence preparations.’

  Throughout this passage, Walsingham had been staring gravely at the fire, but now he looked up slowly to make sure we were both listening.

  ‘You must understand that Don Alphonse felt unable to put names to these allegations. Even the source was described only as a ‘trusted friend’, who had boarded one of his ships in the Canary Islands. The ship had been part of a fleet sailing from the coast of Guinea in January with a cargo of textiles, palm oil, millet and the prized commodity of Ivory. The fleet had then journeyed to the Canary Islands, where it picked up Don Alphonse’s source, before sailing along the North African coast, where it stopped to exchange goods for saltpetre, an essential ingredient of gunpowder as you must be well aware, Master Lovat, at a Moroccan port. The ships then sailed past the hostile waters of Spain and thence to Plymouth via the Bay of Biscay and the English Channel. Rough weather had delayed the trip and the flotilla had been forced to put in for shelter in a French port. All in all, the prolonged voyage and other unforeseen hold-ups had meant that potentially serious intelligence had taken four months to reach these shores. Nevertheless, the message was clear. There was treason at the heart of the English establishment, which could have very grave consequences for our nation and sovereignty.’

  ‘My initial reaction was one of disbelief. Treason at the heart of the government was disturbing to contemplate. I insisted that Don Alphonse name the men involved but he told me that he was not yet in a position to do so. I am ashamed to say that I was somewhat angered by his stance. My fear was that it was an enemy plot to destabilise the government and that without proof, it would likely cause more harm than good. On reflection, I was under great pressure preparing the country for war, but I must admit I sent Don Alphonse away quite coldly, insisting that to back up such accusations he must give both names and proof.’