The Secret World of Christoval Alvarez Read online

  I washed my hands and face and dried them on a soft towel laid on the table beside the soap, then changed my shirt and brushed the dust off my shoes and the rest of my clothes. My spare clothes I laid in the coffer. My papers and textbook, and the map to Hartwell Hall, I arranged neatly and openly on another table, together with my writing materials, and my lute I propped up in a corner, having checked that it had survived the journey. The Barn Elms map I kept tucked inside my doublet. I had a feeling that this was a house where invisible servants glided through every room, cleaning and tidying, laying fires and bringing hot water. And that anything suspicious would be reported back to the steward or Sir Damian himself. The thought made me wary and also made my task of searching for letters seem impossible.

  When all this was done – and it did not take many minutes – I retraced my steps to the great hall on the ground floor, where I found the steward and Edward waiting for me.

  ‘Are we to start lessons today, Master Alvarez?’ he said.

  ‘No, you may have a holiday until tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I must talk to your parents first.’

  ‘Then I shall go fishing,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Master Alchester, could you send Jim to make the boat ready?’

  ‘I will, Master Edward, on one condition, that you promise not to fall into the lake this time.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise!’ The boy went off laughing and the steward turned to me with a smile.

  ‘The young master would spend every spare minute fishing if he could.’

  ‘There are worse things,’ I said. ‘There is a lake on the estate, then?’

  ‘Yes, about half a mile away.’ He gestured vaguely toward the back of the house. ‘And it is well stocked with fish. We never run short. Now, if you will follow me, I will take you to Lady Bridget.’

  I inclined my head and followed him. Already I was speculating on whether a Catholic family might have need of more fish than a Protestant one, dietary rules being somewhat more demanding.

  The steward led the way along a hallway. In answer to his knock a voice called, ‘Come.’

  ‘Master Alvarez has arrived, my lady.’

  The steward stepped aside and I entered the room as he withdrew.

  ‘Lady Bridget, your servant,’ I said, bowing.

  She inclined her head, but did not rise. I could see the source of the girl’s beauty, though the mother’s was beginning to fade. Where the sun through the south-facing window caught it, her hair had a slight copper tinge, whereas the girl’s hair was pure spun gold. And whereas the girl’s face had the smooth skin of youth, the older woman’s brow was marked with faint lines of anxiety.

  ‘Come, sit down, Master Alvarez,’ she said, indicating a chair close to her own.

  ‘I have brought these for you and Sir Damian,’ I said, handing her the packet of references before I sat. She laid them down on a candle table beside her without looking at them.

  ‘You come very warmly recommended,’ she said with a smile. ‘Though I did not expect you to be quite so young.’

  I had no answer for this, so I held my peace.

  ‘Have you met the children?’

  ‘Yes, they were waiting to greet me, with Master Alchester.’

  ‘I hope they will give you no trouble. I’m sure Edward will not – he was very anxious to meet you. I think he believed someone from Portugal would be very exotic, perhaps would not speak English very well.’

  I returned her smile. ‘I came to England as a child. I think of myself as English now.’

  That small vertical line between her brows deepened slightly. ‘These are terrible times,’ she said. ‘So many people displaced, losing their homes.’ She reached out and patted my hand where it lay on the arm of the chair. ‘But we will not talk of such sad things.’

  She gave a rueful laugh. ‘I am afraid you may find my daughter a more unwilling pupil. She took very much against our last tutor and did not make his life easy. He was glad, I think, when he had the offer of another post. I tell you this in advance, so that you know I will not be surprised if you have problems with Cecilia.’

  ‘I understand that she has no fondness for mathematics, but loves music.’

  Lady Bridget’s expression softened. ‘Music is her great joy and she is truly gifted.’

  ‘I have suggested that we might study the mathematics of harmony, as a branch of the subject she might enjoy. I can illustrate it on the virginal, and with chords on the lute.’

  ‘Oh, she will love that! Excellently thought of! I see that you are a resourceful young man.’

  I smiled and inclined my head. The more I talked to this warm-hearted woman, the more uncomfortable I felt about spying on her.

  ‘Apart from this, do you have any instructions as to how you wish me to proceed with the lessons?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘The children themselves can show you where they are in their studies. If my husband has any additional instructions, he can tell you himself. You will meet him at table tonight.’

  I read this as a signal that our interview was over. As I rose, she also rose and walked to the door with me.

  ‘I am glad to welcome you to Hartwell Hall, Master Alvarez. I am sure you will do well with the children.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady.’

  As I bowed and left the room, I felt like a despicable fraudster.

  That evening I did indeed meet Sir Damian, when we sat down to sup together in the family dining parlour. Even the children were there, and both Master Alchester and another man, Sir Damian’s secretary, Miles Fitzgerald, a second cousin of my new employer. It seemed this was a family who welcomed their more senior staff to their table. Sir Damian proved as kindly and pleasant as his wife. I had imagined him to be a lean man with a sharp, fashionable beard and a calculating eye. Instead he was bluff and hearty, clean-shaven and just beginning to run to the plumpness of middle age. I could see at once which parent Edward took after. Indeed a good deal of the conversation at table was about Edward’s afternoon fishing on the lake.

  ‘Are you a fisherman, Master Alvarez?’ Sir Damian asked.

  ‘Alas,’ I said, ‘there are few opportunities for fishing in London. And fishing in the Thames is strictly regulated, confined to licensed fishermen.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Foolish of me! But if you wish to take up the sport, my son will be only too happy to initiate you into its delights. The trout we have just consumed were caught by him this very afternoon.’

  Edward blushed with pleasure, but said frankly, ‘Jim caught more than I did, Father, though I caught three good-sized ones. The others were too small and I had to throw them back.’

  They were off again, talking about bait and fishing rods. Cecilia, sitting opposite me, looked bored, though from time to time she stole a glance at me and ventured a smile.

  ‘It is agreed that we will start your studies of mathematics with harmony,’ I said, leaning toward her. ‘I have already mentioned it to your mother.’ And will end with it, I thought, for there was certainly enough of the subject to keep us occupied for the three weeks which would be the limit of my stay at Hartwell Hall.

  She smiled more warmly. ‘Good. I will enjoy that. Do we start tomorrow?’

  ‘Aye. Tomorrow it shall be.’

  And indeed it was. The more I saw of this family, the more I felt Walsingham was mistaken in his suspicions of them. Everything about the household was open to view, as far as I could observe. On that Tuesday morning the rector of Great Hartwell came to give Edward his lessons in the classical languages at one end of the schoolroom, while I sat at the other end with Cecilia, writing out for her some simple sequences of harmony and playing them on the virginal, softly so as not to disturb the others. As I had suspected, once the girl’s interest was caught she proved quick in her understanding.

  ‘This does not seem much like mathematics, Master Alvarez!’ Her bright smile transformed her from the sulky child of the previous day and I warmed towards her. After the rector left w
e played a duet for lute and virginal, then Edward joined in with his descant recorder. He played well for his age, but his enthusiasm sometimes caused his fingers to trip over the notes, to his sister’s annoyance.

  In the afternoon I played some of my father’s number games with Edward, while Cecilia sat in her mother’s parlour embroidering. Edward loved the games and invented some variations of his own. By the time I retired that night I had decided that my duties as a tutor were manageable, at least for the short time I was to stay at Hartwell Hall. As for the real purpose of my visit, I grew more doubtful as the days passed.

  When the first week drew to its end, I became more curious than ever about what would happen on Sunday. Would the household attend church in Great Hartwell? There did not appear to be a private chapel on the manor. Nothing was said of this until Saturday evening, when Lady Bridget drew me aside after supper.

  ‘We shall be attending early service tomorrow at the village church, Master Alvarez. Will you accompany us?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ I said readily.

  ‘Good.’ She smiled at me. ‘The men will ride and Cecilia and I go pillion. The servants will set out half an hour earlier, to walk.’

  ‘My horse will be glad of the exercise,’ I said. ‘He has been idling in the stable since I arrived.’

  ‘Oh, but you must feel free to ride about the estate whenever you are not occupied with the children. It is so lovely at this time of year.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I will do that tomorrow afternoon. You would not want me to keep them at their lessons on a Sunday?’

  ‘No, no. They have a holiday from their studies, and so must you. It is very pretty over by the lake. We do not all need to be fishermen to enjoy it!’

  I laughed, as I was meant to. However, the thought crossed my mind that she seemed quite eager to send me off on a long ride the following afternoon. Walsingham had said that it was about now that he expected another delivery of letters. For a long time I lay awake that night, trying to untangle my confused impressions of the Fitzgeralds – so warm and kind in their welcome, so open (apparently) in everything they did, yet tainted with this suspicion of Walsingham’s. Sir Francis was the cleverest man I knew. I did not believe he could be entirely mistaken.

  Hector was delighted to see me the next morning and could hardly contain himself when we joined the other men to ride down to the village. Sir Damian, the steward Alchester, and Miles Fitzgerald were all there, and Edward on his small pony. Despite Hector’s eagerness for a faster pace, we rode down the hill at a sober walk and I was glad to feel that my muscles, which had ached for a day or two after my ride from London, now seemed to have adapted themselves to riding again.

  The service in church was impeccably that which was laid down by the Queen’s government. There was no hint of Rome here, which I would have recognised at once from the Catholic church services I had attended in Coimbra. Afterwards the rector greeted me as an old friend, having shared the schoolroom with me on three occasions. Nothing could be more open and above board.

  In the afternoon I saddled Hector myself, rather than troubling one of the grooms, who were enjoying their own Sunday rest. I decided I would follow Lady Bridget’s suggestion and ride out to the lake. It would give me an innocent opportunity to explore the first part of the route to Barn Elms. I had taken care to ask Edward for directions, as I could not be expected to know the way. To my surprise, he did not suggest coming with me. When I asked whether he would like to come, he avoid my eye and mumbled that he had something to do for his father. It was the first time I had seen Edward anything other than as open and transparent as glass, so it briefly gave me pause. However, the sky was beginning to cloud over. If I wanted to have my ride without a soaking, I must be on my way.

  The route was exactly as I had memorised it from Walsingham’s map. Out of the rear archway of the stableyard, where the start of the track was plain to see and clearly used regularly. I turned right and followed it along the edge of two large fields. One was planted with barley, the other with wheat, both already well grown in this fertile soil. As I rode, I was conscious of a closeness in the air, as if thunder was brewing. There was no breeze, but it was not a peaceful feeling. Rather the world seemed to be holding its breath. In the woods, there were swarms of insects and birds darted about amongst the trees, shrieking and feeding – swifts, martins and swallows. As I came to the end of the woods I caught the first glimpse of water through the trees. I had reached the lake.

  It was larger than I had imagined from the drawing on the map. Several species of waterfowl were swimming near the shore, and like the birds in the wood they seemed agitated. Where the track first reached the water’s edge there was a small pier with two rowing boats tied up. This must be where Edward came to fish. Beyond this point I noticed that the track appeared less frequented, though I could still make it out, following the edge of the lake.

  Suddenly there came a great gust of wind like a giant’s sigh, and the reeds on the fringes of the lake bowed and whispered together. The heavy grey clouds which I had noticed in the distance when I set out began to roll in from the east, gathering together and blotting out the sun. Hector shivered and laid back his ears. It was time to turn back.

  As we retraced out route, I gave the horse his head and he broke again into that smooth canter, though between my knees I could feel his eagerness to go faster. The track seemed safe enough. I had seen no protruding roots or holes on my way to the lake, so I slackened the reins and let him ease into a gallop. Cassie was right. There was real speed in this horse, even though he was not exerting himself yet. Just as we emerged from the wood, there was a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, too close to be comfortable. Hector jerked sideways, but no more than I did myself, and we carried on past the fields as the clouds broke open and threw rain down on us like a waterfall of pebbles.

  Although I was quickly soaked, it was exciting, invigorating, after a week of playing my double part in Hartwell House, and my spirits soared. As we neared the house, I realised we were not the only ones heading for shelter. Some distance away I could see two mounted figures riding swiftly up the lane toward the house, their heads down again the rain. I pushed the wet hair out of my eyes and reined in the horse. One of the men was unmistakably in dark clerical garb. The other?

  I blinked away the rain. I knew that figure. I had had it under my hands, I had faced it across my father’s table, I had encountered it on the stairs at Seething Lane.

  It was Robert Poley.

  Chapter Seven

  At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks, half blinded as I was by the heavy downpour and the trees of the orchard, which partially blocked my view. But no, I was sure it was Poley. Was he here on Sir Francis’s business? But why? Would not Sir Francis have let me know he was coming? Yet that might have been risky. If this was indeed a treasonous household, a letter to me might have been intercepted and read. Something might have occurred after I left London which had meant Poley had been sent after me, but then who was the other man?

  For a long time I hesitated. I was well shielded by the orchard trees and if I stayed motionless I was unlikely to be noticed by men hastening to reach the house and escape the heavy rain. Hector shifted uneasily beneath me, not understanding why our swift return home to his warm, dry stable had been suddenly halted, leaving him to stand here shivering while the thunder rolled overhead and intermittent flashes of lightning alarmed us both.

  I watched the two riders disappear round the front of the house and continued to wait as long as I thought it would take for them to ride into the stableyard and attend to their horses, though from my knowledge of Poley I suspected he would not see to his horse himself, but would hand him over to one of Hartwell Hall’s grooms. At last, drenched and shivering myself, I rode Hector along the last stretch of the track and into the stableyard. The groom Tom Godwin was just coming out of the stable with a sack over his head for protection against the rain.


  ‘Master Alvarez!’ he cried. ‘I saw your horse was gone. You’ll be wet through. Let me take Hector.’

  I grinned at him as I slid down. I liked the way Tom quickly learned the names even of visiting horses. I suspected he liked the company of horses better than men.

  ‘We’ll see to him together,’ I said, leading Hector into his stall. He shook himself and his wet mane slapped me in the face.

  As I removed the horse’s tack, Tom brought a rough cloth to rub him dry and a horse blanket to cover him with, for the storm had sucked away the mild spring warmth and left the day as chilly as November.

  ‘Two new horses in the stable, Tom?’ I said, as I forked fresh hay into Hector’s manger. ‘Visitors?’

  ‘Aye. Visitors for Master. The roan is Domingo. Funny foreign name. And the bay is White Leg, on account of his one white leg.’

  I nodded, solemnly acknowledging the subtlety of the name. Of course Tom would be more interested in the horses than the men. I smoothed my hand down Hector’s neck and checked that the buckles on the horse blanket were not too tight. He seemed warm and dry now, and blew affectionately in my ear before he returned to eating.

  ‘And the men?’ I asked casually. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know, Master Alvarez. They’ve come before now to see Master. Last time was three-four weeks ago. Never stay more than one night.’