Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon - Страница 17

He closed the door behind him while the man by the hearth looked Thomas over with keen eyes before he nodded a respectful greeting and turned his attention back to building up the fire. When he had finished he brushed his hands together and eased himself down on to a small bench next to the fireplace. To his side was the room’s only other door. Thomas removed his cloak, gloves and hat and set them down beside him as he settled on a bench opposite. For a moment he relished the rosy atmosphere and let the warmth gradually penetrate his garments and take the chill off his flesh.

At length he looked up to examine the young man more closely and was surprised to find him staring back at him. Far from being discomforted by having this scrutiny discovered and lowering his gaze, the man continued to study Thomas in a manner he found overfamiliar.

‘Do I know you?’ asked Thomas.

‘No.’

‘Then do you know me?’

‘This is the first time I have ever seen you.’ His voice was cultured and Thomas could not quite place the accent. But before he could pursue the conversation, the door beside the young man opened and a frail-looking clerk in blue livery stepped into the room. He cleared his throat and looked towards Thomas.

‘Sir Thomas Barrett?’

‘Yes.’

‘The master will see you now.’

‘So early? I was supposed to see him after six.’

‘He is ready for you now, sir.’

‘Very well.’ Thomas rose from his bench and cast a final glance towards the young man, who inclined his head slightly in response.

The door gave way to a small room with a window overlooking the courtyard at the back of the house. A desk and stool stood beneath the window, with a large document chest on either side. The clerk scurried past Thomas and rapped lightly on a door on the far side of his office. There was a brief pause before he reached for the latch and gently pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold.

‘Sir Thomas, master.’

‘Pray show him in,’ a deep voice responded.

The clerk backed out and gestured to Thomas to enter. The Secretary of State’s domestic office was in proportion to his importance. The room stretched from the courtyard at the back of the house to Drury Lane, which a series of leaded windows overlooked. The walls were lined with filled bookcases, more books than Thomas had ever seen in one place. He estimated there must be at least four or five hundred of them. A truly magnificent private library, he marvelled with a touch of envy. There were two fireplaces in the study to heat each end, and chairs were positioned between the bookcases, enough of them to seat perhaps thirty or forty guests. Between the two fireplaces was a large desk upon which rested a wooden tray with documents piled within it. A pair of inkwells and a handful of pens lay neatly beside them. Behind the desk sat a large man with a silk cap. His hair was trimmed in a neat line about his scalp and his beard formed a tidy point above a double chin. He appeared to be a few years younger than Thomas. There was only one other man in the room, thin and clothed in a black gown that reached almost to the floor. He stood close to one of the fires, warming his back. Both of them regarded Thomas briefly before the man seated behind the desk gestured to him impatiently.

‘Come, sit down, Sir Thomas. There.’ He indicated one of a handful of cushioned chairs on the other side of his desk, arranged in a shallow arc. ‘You too, my dear Francis.’

Thomas did as he was bid and sat in the middle of the chairs so that the other man would be displaced from the centre, the implicit position of most importance. Once they were settled Sir Robert leaned forward and fixed Thomas with a steady gaze. His expression was good-natured and he spoke in a pleasant tone. ‘I trust your journey was not too troubling?’

‘Not at all, sir. The roads were safe and the snow was only light. I made good time.’

‘So I see. You reached London earlier than I thought you would.’ Thomas smiled faintly. ‘A man who is summoned by the Secretary of State does not tarry a moment longer than he can help it, Sir Robert. And so here I am, at your pleasure.’

‘Indeed, and I dare say that the cause of my request is uppermost in your mind.’

‘Of course.’

‘Then let me say that your being here is due to the delicacy of the task I have in mind for you. Even though our blessed sovereign has been on the throne for five years, there are still many who take exception to her elevation to the throne and not just because of her espousal of the Protestant faith. I take it you know of John Knox?’

‘I have heard the name.’

‘And you are no doubt aware that he cries out against the very principle of a woman succeeding to the throne. Perhaps you have read some of his pamphlets on the matter.’

‘It would be a foolish man who dared to read his arguments, Sir Robert. His pamphlets are banned. It is a capital offence to be discovered in possession of them, I believe.’

‘Quite so. But you are familiar with his thoughts.’

‘I have heard of them,’ Thomas replied carefully, aware that he was being watched closely by the other man in the room, who no doubt served as a witness. ‘Though I cannot recall who was speaking at the time.’

‘Naturally.’ Sir Robert smiled. ‘And it would be pointless for me to press you on the matter, still less to subject you to the pains in order to encourage your memory of the names of those involved.’ He chuckled as if to underscore the levity of the comment, but Thomas understood the threat of torture well enough. He was completely in this man’s power, regardless of his views of Knox or any of those who opposed Queen Elizabeth. As a Catholic his jeopardy was doubled. He returned Sir Robert’s gaze without expression. There was an uncomfortable silence before Sir Robert eased himself back a short distance and raised his hands slightly.

‘Ah! Pardon me, I forget my manners. I should have introduced you two gentlemen. Sir Thomas, it is my pleasure to acquaint you with Sir Francis Walsingham, the partner of my labours in the service of our sovereign. I trust him implicitly,’ Sir Robert added with emphasis.

Thomas turned towards him and nodded. ‘Walsingham.’

The other man stared back and responded coldly, ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Sir Thomas.’

‘You must forgive Sir Francis,’ the host laughed. ‘He is no lover of the Church of Rome and sometimes that causes him to forget certain social niceties. But come now, let us not dance about the point any longer. I can assure you, Sir Thomas, that you have not been asked here for the sake of persecution. I have a task for you. One that will be an opportunity to serve your sovereign and your country and put the question of your loyalty to both beyond reproach.’

‘I do not consider my loyalty to either to be in doubt,’ Thomas countered evenly.

‘Of course not. You know your own heart and I would not have asked you here if I had any doubts. Let us take that as settled. Agreed?’ He shot Walsingham a warning glance. The latter nodded.

‘There. Which brings us to the first question I have to put to you, Sir Thomas. I believe that you were visited two days ago by a French knight who belongs to the rather select Holy Order of the Hospitaller Knights of St John.’ He turned to Walsingham. ‘That is their title, is it not?’

‘More or less.’

Cecil’s eyes fixed on Thomas and the good-natured wrinkles that spread out at their corners eased into a cold, heartless stare. ‘Would you be so good as to tell us why a French knight from a Catholic military order might travel across Europe to pay a visit to you, Sir Thomas?’

CHAPTER TEN

So, as he had suspected, Philippe de Nanterre’s visit was the reason he was here, Thomas thought wryly. For twenty years he had done all that was in his power to avoid attention or attract suspicion and now it was all undone by the young knight and his masters on Malta. His abiding feeling was resentment rather than fear and he returned Cecil’s gaze without flinching as he replied. ‘He came to deliver a letter.’