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‘You need something darker.’ He got up and rummaged about amongst one of the piles of clothes, spoiling all my careful folding, then pulled out a cloak of a dull, dark brown, almost black. I did not like it as well as my own cloak, but it looked thick and warm. ‘Take this. No one will notice you in this.’

  ‘I can’t take that. It’s the beginning of winter. You will need it yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I will borrow something from the playhouse.’

  ‘If I am to borrow it, then you must take mine.’

  He started to object but, perhaps seeing a determined glint in my eye, he agreed.

  ‘Very well, we will exchange cloaks until you return from the Low Countries. When will you return?’

  ‘Sir Francis says I will be home for Christmas.’

  ‘Not too long then.’ He sat down again. ‘Your doublet and hose are sober enough. Have you a hat or cap you can pull down about your head?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘I threw away that dreadful woollen cap Phelippes gave me when I played the messenger boy and bought a better one in Lichfield. Would a merchant’s clerk wear such a cap?’

  ‘Why not? In the cold weather we must all keep our heads warm, and I am told it is very cold in the Low Countries. Flat as a frying pan, so the wind whistles over the polders. And damp. Nothing ever dries out. You will be scraping mould off your face, never think of my dirty plates.’

  ‘You make it sound very inviting.’

  He laughed. ‘I almost wish I were coming with you. I am tired of playing sweet maidens. I should enjoy a villain’s part.’

  ‘I hope I am not a villain.’

  ‘No, you are an innocent and trustworthy merchant’s clerk. Remember what I have told you before. Think yourself into the skin of such a young man. Your own age, but of a very different profession. Inky fingers – I suppose you have those when you work with Phelippes. Busy adding up your master’s accounts in your head. That should not be difficult for you, with your skill at mathematics.’

  I smiled. I had known Simon would help. Already I could envisage that earnest young clerk, anxious to advance in his profession. Somewhat reserved, so he would listen to the soldiers’ talk, but would not join in. I opened my mouth to say something, but at that moment we both heard the clock from a nearby church strike the half hour.

  ‘Half past one!’ Simon cried. ‘We must go!’

  He tossed me the dark cloak and I swung it round my shoulders as he picked up mine. Together we made our way down the ladder and the stairs, parting at the front door of the house.

  ‘Good luck to you, Kit,’ Simon said. ‘Come and see us when you are back in London.’

  ‘I will.’ I started to run, for I had farther to go than he.

  I reached Seething Lane in better time than I expected, for it was not yet two o’clock. Before going inside, I walked through to the stable yard. The apple I had brought yesterday for Hector was still in the pocket of my doublet, for I had been too distracted when I left to remember it. I found the ugly piebald in his stall. He greeted me with a soft whicker and rubbed his forehead against my shoulder.

  ‘I have only a moment, my fine fellow,’ I said, ‘but I’ve an apple for you.’

  I held it out on the palm of my hand and he took it delicately with his velvet soft lips.

  ‘Good lad,’ I said, rubbing him between the ears as he crunched the apple, dribbles of juice running down his muzzle and dripping on to the straw.

  ‘Afternoon, Master Alvarez.’ It was the stable boy Harry.

  ‘Afternoon, Harry,’ I said. ‘I must go. Sir Francis wants to see me.’

  I gave Hector’s neck a final pat and crossed to the backstairs. Up there Sir Francis and Nicholas Berden would be waiting.

  Chapter Six

  I found not only Sir Francis and Nicholas Berden in Sir Francis’s office, but also Thomas Phelippes, who nodded to me, but said nothing. I was relieved that the hands on Sir Francis’s French mantel clock, bought when he was ambassador to Paris, were just reaching the hour. It chimed softly. It was a luxury my father and I could no longer aspire to, though we had once owned three striking clocks at our house in Coimbra. Now I had to judge time by the multitude of church clocks in London – not always in harmony with one another – though I had also developed a keen sense of the hour without the need for consulting a timepiece.

  I hung my cloak on the same peg as yesterday. If any of them noticed that it was not my usual cloak, they said nothing. Sir Francis waved me to a chair and I sat down. Our chairs were grouped around a low table on which a map had been spread out, weighed down at the corners with inkwells, a sanding box and a small bronze Roman statue which Sir Francis normally kept on his desk. Despite this, the map threatened to roll up, so Berden took two books from a shelf on the wall to hold down the two shorter ends. While he was on his feet, he refilled the others’ wine glasses and poured another for me.

  Craning my neck, I could see that the hand-drawn map showed the debatable area lying between France and the Low Countries, as well as all of the Low Countries themselves as far as the German states. The border lands did not only consist of the area from which the Spanish launched attacks on the United Provinces, those Dutch lands which had declared themselves independent of Spain. Closer to France the area had also passed back and forth between the Catholic League, headed by the Duke of Guise, and the Huguenots, led by Henri of Navarre, both factions entirely beyond the control of the weak king of France, Henri III, the last of the sons of Catherine de’ Medici to hold the French throne. I was unsure which French commander was in possession of which parts of the territory at present. It seemed to change from day to day.

  ‘The Earl of Leicester is based here in Amsterdam at the moment, or at any rate according to our last report.’ Sir Francis tapped the map with his forefinger. ‘The army is encamped just outside Amsterdam, the Earl and the senior officers are quartered in the town. Our fleet, together with the ships belonging to our Dutch allies, lies offshore to the west. The Spanish would dearly like to seize Amsterdam, but they already hold Sluys and Dunkerque, both of which will serve them well for launching an attack on us. However, I know that they are anxious to secure Boulogne and Calais as well. Have you received any new despatches from France today, Thomas?’

  Phelippes leaned forward, his hands on his knees. ‘The latest word is that Navarre’s forces were defeated in the most recent encounter and have retreated south and west, away from the Catholic League and the centre of its support in Paris. They will be somewhere near Orleans now.’ He pointed to the edge of the map. ‘Just beyond here. The forces of the Guise faction seem to be in the ascendant, as far as we can tell. At least for the moment.’

  Sir Francis clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘If Guise succeeds in overthrowing the French king, which has been his object for years, he will form an alliance with Spain and allow them access to Boulogne and Calais. Perhaps Dieppe as well – that wasps’ nest of Catholic traitors. That will mean a whole string of ports in enemy hands, facing us across the Channel. While the French continue to fight among themselves, they will not reinforce the Spanish forces in the Netherlands, but God knows Parma and his Spaniards are strong enough without the assistance of Guise. The most the Earl of Leicester can do is hold on to what he has in the Low Countries. There is little chance of making an advance.’

  Berden set his glass down on the floor and studied the map, his chin in his hand. ‘You want Kit and me to go directly to Amsterdam? Or should we spy out the area to the south and west first? Nearer to Parma’s forces?’

  He said it quite calmly, but my stomach lurched. It would be dangerous enough spying amongst our own troops. I had no desire to go any closer to the Spaniards. Surely it was a mad scheme? But then, I thought, this is what Berden and the other agents do all the time. I knew there was one agent called Hunter who was held in prison in Lisbon, suspected by the Spanish of spying for England. Yet even in prison he was smuggling out reports to Sir Francis about Spanish troop movements and preparatio
ns for the invasion. These men must savour the excitement, even enjoy the risk. I could not. I was more convinced than ever that I would make a poor agent.

  ‘That is well thought on, Nicholas,’ Sir Francis said, setting down his own wine glass and studying the map more closely. I felt a trickle of sweat down my backbone. He was going to agree.

  ‘If we put you ashore somewhere here.’ He pointed to the map. ‘Just north of Flushing. . . Since taking Sluys, Parma has given all his attention to fortifying the area round the port of Flushing. It is clear that his orders from Philip are to concentrate on the Enterprise of England and to leave the destruction of the Protestant Netherlanders for another day.’

  ‘By your leave, Sir Francis?’ Phelippes said.

  ‘Aye, Thomas?’

  ‘As Nicholas and Kit will be carrying secret despatches and letters for the Earl, surely it is essential to ensure that they reach him without falling into the hands of the enemy? It were better they should go first to Amsterdam and deliver the papers. Then, if it seems wise, they may move down towards Flushing. The Earl himself, or his scouts, will be able to tell them the best route, to avoid outliers of the enemy forces. They will have fresher intelligence than we can possibly have.’

  I looked at Phelippes gratefully. It would not eliminate the danger, but it would lessen it somewhat.

  He did not notice my look, but went on. ‘By then we may also know more about the situation in France. It would be wise if we could provide more help for Navarre. Protestant supremacy in France would be immensely to our advantage.’

  He said it without much conviction and I knew what the answer would be, even before Sir Francis spoke.

  ‘Indeed it would, but we cannot fight on too many fronts at once. Our gold is limited and our troops even more so. We cannot commit any more resources to Navarre for the present.’

  ‘So,’ Berden said, bringing them back to the matter in hand, ‘we go first to Amsterdam, deliver the despatches to the Earl and seek out any information there which might bear out his suspicions of treachery amongst our own or the Dutch forces. Afterwards, we head south.’

  Sir Francis nodded. ‘That seems the best plan. After you have seen the Earl, you and Kit should separate and work independently, then at an agreed time meet together and travel down to near the Spanish lines.’

  All this time I had said nothing. Now I ventured to speak. ‘I am the novice here. What kind of information should we be listening for? Surely if there are traitors, they will not talk openly of their plans?’

  Berden sat back and picked up his glass again.

  ‘It is surprising how much men will talk when they are in their cups. But you should look out for small things as well. One man passing a note to another. A group of men huddled together in a corner, talking seriously and quietly, not wanting to be overheard. Any remark, however casual, that seems favourable to Spain or critical of the Queen. Any praise of the Pope, no matter how small, how brief. It will be a straw in the wind. Any man behaving suspiciously – concealing a weapon, going into a house in the town which is neither ale house not whore house, but perhaps a meeting place for the disaffected. Follow if possible, but keep out of sight. The Earl will instruct us as to the person we should report to. Do not attempt to challenge anyone or attack them. It is information we require, not heroics.’

  ‘No fear!’ I said, and they all laughed.

  ‘I think you should leave as soon as possible,’ said Sir Francis. ‘Thomas will prepare passports for you, and orders for you to be conveyed to Amsterdam by one of the military ships crossing from Dover.’

  ‘Do we take our own horses, or hire over there?’ Berden said.

  ‘Best take them, to save time and ensure that you have a reliable means to move about quickly from the start.’

  I looked across at Phelippes and for once he smiled. ‘You will be wanting that piebald, Horace, I suppose.’

  ‘Hector,’ I said. I looked at Sir Francis. ‘If I may.’

  ‘Aye. I know he served you well before. Nicholas, you have your own mount, have you not?’

  ‘Aye, Sir Francis. He’s in your stables now.’

  ‘Let us say the day after tomorrow, then. That will give us time to prepare the papers.’ He turned to me. ‘I have already spoken to the governors of the hospital, Kit.’

  I nodded. ‘I thank you, Sir Francis.’ He had probably done so before I had even agreed to go.

  Before I left Seething Lane, Phelippes called me into his office, where we arranged the ciphers I should use in any reports I sent back to him.

  ‘Anything you report to the Earl,’ he said, ‘you should copy to me.’

  ‘Will the Earl not forward them to you?’ I asked, not altogether innocently. Since the affair of Sluys, my opinion of Leicester was not high.

  Phelippes turned and walked to the window.

  ‘It is not that I do not trust the Earl, Kit.’ He hesitated, then glanced over his shoulder at me. ‘The Earl does not always realise what is important and what is not. And he is easily distracted from the matter in hand. His mind . . . it is somewhat akin to a butterfly, fitting from flower to flower, tasting now here, now there. He wrote to the Queen of his fears of treachery and treason. He may still fear them, but it may be that he will have forgotten his fears by the time you arrive and be thinking of some grand scheme to attack Parma. Or he may be seeking a way to persuade Her Majesty to allow him to come home and pass the command to that stepson of his, the Earl of Essex.’

  I had never heard Phelippes criticise one of the great courtiers before, certainly not the Queen’s favourite, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. For a moment I was speechless, then I said, ‘I have heard that where Leicester is . . . cautious’ (I dared not say cowardly) ‘ . . . then Essex is rash, even . . . foolhardy.’

  ‘You are correct in what you have heard, Kit, but you will not, of course, repeat it anywhere that it might cause you unpleasantness.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And you will be the very epitome of caution. You should be safe enough with Berden, but when you are on your own, take care. I should not like to lose my best code-breaker.’

  He gave me a bleak smile and I flushed. Praise from Phelippes was rare indeed.

  ‘I will be careful,’ I promised.

  Walsingham had given me permission to tell my father and anyone else near to me that I would be carrying despatches to the army in the Low Countries. There was to be no secret about that. What I was not to reveal, however, was the true purpose of the mission, to seek out any treason against Queen and country.

  ‘The day after tomorrow!’ my father said in dismay, when I told him that evening, after he returned from St Bartholomew’s.

  ‘Walsingham’s orders,’ I said. ‘I hope there will not be a problem at the hospital. He has promised we will be home before Christmas. That is but four weeks away. And most of the chest infections and influenza strike after December.’

  ‘We will manage, but are you prepared? Have you warm clothes enough? And where is your own cloak?’

  ‘Oh, Simon and I have exchanged cloaks for the moment. He also warned me about the weather over there and thought his was warmer.’ It was not, but I had promised not to tell my father about the spying. I had made no such promise before I had told Simon. ‘Is it really so cold in the Low Countries?’

  ‘Aye, so I have heard. They have more snow than we do in England. Their canals and polders freeze over early in the winter and stay that way until spring. You must take your warmest clothes. Joan!’ He turned to her. ‘You must look out Master Christoval’s winter hose and shirts.’

  ‘Aye,’ she said grumpily. ‘I heard you. No need to shout. I’ll put them together tomorrow. I’ll be bound his stockings will need mending. They always do.’

  ‘I’ll grease my heavy boots,’ I said. The prospect of this bitter weather so early in the winter was depressing.

  ‘The day after tomorrow!’ my father said again suddenly, in the midst of our supper.
‘We are to dine at the Lopez house that day. You cannot offend Ruy Lopez.’

  ‘I cannot disobey Sir Francis,’ I said. ‘All the arrangements are being made, passports, the horses, a ship. I will go to see Sara tomorrow and beg her pardon. You may still go without me.’

  He shook his head, a worried frown on his face, but he did not argue any more. Much as he valued his standing with the more eminent members of our Marrano community, he knew that the orders of the Queen’s Principal Secretary and spymaster must come before all else. For all we knew, the order might have come from Her Majesty herself, though I hardly thought she would have heard of someone as insignificant as Christoval Alvarez.

  The next morning early I walked to Wood Street. There were several purchases I wished to make before my journey, but I wanted to call on Sara first. She was pleased to see me, perhaps all the more so because I had scarcely visited once in recent months. I apologised for this and explained how busy we had been, caring for the soldiers from Sluys.

  ‘Aye,’ she said, leading me into her private parlour. ‘That was a terrible business. I heard how badly the survivors fared.’

  ‘Better than those who did not survive,’ I said grimly.

  ‘That is certainly true.’ A maid entered carrying a tray, which she set down on a table and withdrew.

  ‘I’ve sent for some Hippocras, for it seemed to me the weather was turning even colder today.’ She poured us each a beaker of the steaming spiced wine and passed me a plate of small iced biscuits cut into circles and stars.

  ‘I have come to apologise also for missing your dinner tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Sir Francis Walsingham is sending me over to the Low Countries on a mission tomorrow morning, so I am afraid my father must come alone.’

  ‘A mission?’ she said. ‘I thought you worked in the office there, as a code-breaker and translator.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ I said hastily, remembering that Sara knew nothing of my other activities for Walsingham last year. ‘It is not exactly a mission. I am to carry a number of despatches and private letters to the Earl of Leicester. You know that he is in command of our forces there.’