‘Even our costumes are growing threadbare,’ Simon said. ‘There’s no coin to replace them. Our new plays must make shift to use what costumes we have, not require new ones.’
I thought of the hampers of brightly coloured but somewhat tawdry clothes that occupied every corner of the Theatre’s tiring house. The last time I had visited the company there, at the time of their Twelve Night extravagance, I had noticed that many of the costumes were wearing thin and fragile.
‘It is Sidney’s funeral in two days’ time,’ I said to divert him, when he paused for breath. ‘Shall we go, to pay our respects?’
I meant to go myself, but I would be glad of his company.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’ll meet you by Paul’s Cross, early.’
‘Very early,’ I said. ‘Else there won’t be an inch of ground to stand upon.’
It had been in the cold dawning of that year, on the eighth day of February, that Mary, dispossessed Queen of Scotland, sometime Queen of France, and would-be Queen of England, was finally and quietly executed. That was weeks after she had been sentenced to death for treason at her trial, and everyone wondered why she lingered on for so long.
The day after Simon supped with us, I ran into Thomas Phelippes near the Royal Exchange. After fending off his attempts to lure me back into Walsingham’s service, I asked him if he knew why there had been such a long delay in carrying out the sentence on the Scots queen. Phelippes, being Walsingham’s right-hand man, was likely to be privy to secrets unknown to common citizens.
‘The Queen was reluctant to sign the death warrant,’ he said. ‘It was, after all, the death warrant of her own cousin, and a crowned queen. She would have preferred some other way. Some conveniently secret way of disposing of Mary. When she finally signed, so Sir Francis says, the Privy Council let no delay intervene to give her the chance to change her mind. They whipped away the warrant and rushed an executioner off to Fotheringhay at once.’
I shivered.
‘I know she was a traitor and connived at the Queen’s death, but . . .’
‘Don’t be a namby-pamby, Kit,’ he said brusquely. ‘The Scots queen knew what she was doing and she knew the penalty. She did not hesitate to conspire in the murder of her cousin. And don’t forget: you helped to uncover the plot.’
I avoided his eyes. I would not let Phelippes see my weakness. My own part in the machinations of Walsingham’s secret service still troubled me.
Now, eight days after the execution of the Scots queen, Sidney’s state funeral brought London to a standstill. I met Simon near Paul’s Cross soon after a freezing winter’s dawn and we found a place by the west door of St Paul’s to watch the sombre spectacle. The Lord Mayor and Aldermen attended, along with members of the liveried companies of the City. Children of Christ’s Hospital walked in the procession, together with three hundred citizens, and thirty-two poor men given livery for the occasion, one man for each year of Sir Philip Sidney’s age. It seemed that every citizen of London had abandoned his work and come to stand in the bitter cold to watch the cortège pass. And with them half the countryside from Kent to Oxfordshire.
‘There’s Walsingham,’ I said, ‘on horseback beside that carriage.’
‘He looks ill,’ said Simon.
‘He does. He’s often ill, but he drives himself mercilessly. He would never stay in his bed when it is his duty to see his son-in-law to the grave.’
I didn’t attempt to hide my admiration for Walsingham. He was a man of great abilities and unstinting dedication to his country. I would just prefer not to work for him any longer. Although I had started as a simple code-breaker and translator, I had found myself being trained as a forger and a spy.
‘That’s my horse he’s riding,’ I said.
‘Your horse!’
I smiled. ‘I rode him a lot last year. He’s called Hector.’
‘Not a handsome beast.’
‘Don’t be fooled. He can run like a champion, for which I’ve been grateful before now.’
‘Sometimes I wonder what you were involved in, last year, working for Walsingham.’
‘It is all in the past now.’ I gestured towards Walsingham. ‘Look, that must be Frances Walsingham, Lady Sidney, in the carriage next to him, with the blinds drawn. I wonder whether she has the child Elizabeth with her. Poor little mite, to lose her father so young.’
Simon did not answer, and I remembered, uncomfortably, that he too had lost both parents at an early age.
‘Phelippes told me that Sir Philip had no money at all,’ I said. ‘Despite all his talents and gifts, he was poor. It seems strange, when his uncle Leicester is the Queen’s favourite, but I suppose Sir Philip was one of the few honest men at court, who would not stoop to taking bribes.’
‘Who is paying for all of this, then?’ Simon waved a hand at the procession which was making its way slowly into the cathedral. ‘The Queen?’
I laughed. ‘Not she.’ It was not to be spoken of, but everyone knew that Elizabeth kept a tight grip on the royal purse-strings. ‘No, Walsingham has paid for it all. Phelippes says it will beggar him. That’s another honest man, Walsingham. Most of the service he runs to protect Queen and country is paid for out of his own pocket.’
A stranger arriving in London that day would have thought the Queen herself had died. From where we stood, we heard them honour the soldier poet with a double volley of shot. All around us people were weeping, not only old women but young apprentices in their blue tunics, and rough sailors with their callused hands and tarred pigtails, and ragged urchins who could have dined for life on the value of just one of the rich garments in the procession. The melancholy at the loss of Sidney infected me, as it infected all England.
When the whole procession had passed inside the cathedral, some of the crowd pushed in behind, but Simon and I stayed outside. The horses had been left in the churchyard, in the care of grooms, and I noticed one of Walsingham’s stable lads holding Hector. I walked over to them.
‘Master Alvarez!’ The boy pulled off his cap and bobbed his head in an awkward bow.
‘Good day to you, Harry.’
I ran my hand down Hector’s neck and he butted his head against my shoulder with an affectionate snort.
‘He’s not forgotten me, then,’ I said.
‘Not he. Hector’s a grand fellow.’
Like everyone else in Walsingham’s household, Harry had a special affection for the ugly, clever piebald.
‘I’ll come to see him soon,’ I said, ‘and bring him an apple.’
‘You do that, Master Alvarez. We’ll all be glad to see you again. We miss you about the place.’
Simon had been watching my reunion with Hector, a look of amusement on his face. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘I’m frozen. Let’s find an inn and drink a cup of hot Hippocras to Sidney’s memory.’
I followed him out of the churchyard and down Cheapside to a small but clean ordinary, where we thawed out beside the fire with a flagon of Hippocras and a couple of meat pasties. Despite the warmth and the comfort, I couldn’t forget the brief glimpse I had had as Frances Walsingham had stepped out of the carriage, heavily veiled, and taken her father’s arm to enter the cathedral. She was just three years older than I, widowed at twenty, with one child and carrying another. Despite her pregnancy, she had travelled to the Low Countries to bring her husband’s body back to England. Behind her a waiting woman led little Elizabeth by the hand. The child looked about her, wide-eyed, at the crowds of grieving strangers, her small face white against the mourning black of her tight cap.
It was barely a fortnight after Sidney’s funeral when there was a knock at our door while my father and I were at home from the hospital, taking our midday meal. Joan had gone out to the pie shop round the corner to buy something for our supper, so I answered the door myself. My heart plunged into my boots when I saw who was standing there.