‘Messengers from the Queen’s Principal Secretary,’ Berden said, ‘with private despatches for his Lordship.’ He held out his official pass and jerked his head at me to do the same.
The servant studied them, then nodded and held the door wider. We entered a central hallway with doors leading off on either side and at the far end a graceful curved staircase, up which the servant led us, still without a word. On the first floor he stopped in front of a door and knocked.
‘Enter,’ a voice called from within. The servant opened the door, stood back to allow us to pass, then withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him.
The Earl of Leicester was sitting in a large cushioned chair beside the window, with his legs sprawled out and a flagon of wine at his elbow. Two younger men were sitting with him, one in military uniform, one not. A table in the centre of the room showed where they had recently dined. It still held plates and goblets of silver gilt, an epergne heaped high with exotic fruits, and a solid gold salt the size of a small bucket, shaped like a clam shell held aloft by a Triton. The walls were hung with rich tapestries depicting scenes from classical myth, and a fire burned within a carved marble fireplace. The curtains at the window were of eastern damask. Everything spoke of comfort, the kind of comfort provided by an ample fortune.
I studied the Earl, while trying to appear not to do so. Perhaps two years before this I had seen him ride in procession with the Queen at the celebrations to mark the anniversary of her succession. I had not been very close to him on that occasion, but even so I was sure he had since been marked by age in the intervening years. His hair and beard were grown quite grey, whereas they had been dark brown before. He must be in his middle fifties, but it seemed a rapid change in so short a period, so that I wondered if what I had heard was true, that the courtiers had their hair dyed in order that they might still appear young. It was said that the Queen liked to have young men about her. As her favourite, perhaps the Earl strove to maintain the look of perpetual youth, to please her or to satisfy his own vanity. Here on campaign in the Low Countries it might be that he had given up the practice.
His skin was dry and faded with age and his face was lined. Above all, I noticed his eyes. They looked both anxious and exhausted. Here was a man who knew himself to be out of his depth, risen to a position beyond his abilities, whatever might be the boast to his peers at court. Suddenly I felt a stab of pity for him. For a year I had been despising him, blaming him for Sidney’s death and most certainly for the disaster at Sluys. Yet I realised with unexpected clarity that this was a man who was expected by the Queen to be a hero, a military champion in the mould of Alexander, though he was in truth a man more suited to the frivolous chatter of the palace or the undemanding exercise of the tennis court or the bowling green than to the rigours of warfare.
These thoughts flashed through my head in the time it took us to cross the room and bow deeply before the Earl.
‘So, Nicholas,’ he said, affably enough, ‘have you brought papers from Sir Francis?’
I had not realised that Leicester would know Berden by sight, but presumably he had come on similar errands before.
‘We have, my lord. May I present Christoval Alvarez, who is a physician as well as serving Sir Francis?’
I bowed again.
‘Ah, the code-breaker,’ the Earl said, ‘we have heard of your talents, and of the good service you did Her Majesty last year.’
My bow nearly ended in a tumble to the floor. Leicester had heard of me?
‘My lord,’ I said, straightened up and seeing those tired eyes scrutinising me carefully. Perhaps I should not pity him after all.
Berden stepped forward and handed Leicester his wallet of despatches. Leicester took them, but did not open the wallet. He laid it on the table next to the wine flagon.
‘Mine are but duplicates, my lord,’ I said, placing them on the table. ‘Sir Francis sent them in case of accidents on the way.’
‘You must have had a rough crossing of it,’ Leicester said. ‘Yesterday, was it?’
‘It was, my lord.’ Berden looked slightly queasy at the memory. ‘After the worst of the blizzard, but still it was . . . rough.’
Leicester threw back his head and laughed. ‘I can see that you are not a good sailor, Nicholas. And what of you, Dr Alvarez?’
‘I am not troubled by seasickness, my lord. Happily.’ I risked a smile and the Earl smiled back.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘you must eat. We have dined, but I will send for more.’
He merely clapped his hands and the servant who had shown us upstairs appeared in the doorway. He must have been standing just outside. I opened my mouth to make a polite refusal but Berden gave a tiny shake of his head. It seemed we must accept, though I would much have preferred to have found an inn and settled in there.
Servants swiftly cleared the remains of the meal from the table and laid fresh dishes, then carried in grilled fish and roasted meats and a salad composed of out-of-season greens, which must have been grown in a hot house, like the fruits on the epergne. Apart from these, and the ostentatious golden salt, the meal and the dishes were not very different from dinners at our home in Coimbra, though no doubt both Berden and Leicester expected me to be overawed by it all.
While we ate, the Earl plied Berden with questions about the current state of affairs in London, particularly the progress in building up the navy. I merely listened quietly as I ate. Berden himself put a few questions about matters here in the Low Countries, which the Earl answered readily enough. There was little to report. Parma was strengthening defences around his coastal positions and had not made any recent advances against the Dutch. We were already well aware of the English Catholic traitors in the army – Sir William Stanley and Rowland York. Earlier in the year, when Leicester was in England, he had left them in command of the city of Deventer and the Sconce of Zutphen. In the Earl’s absence they had both defected to the Spanish and handed over their commands and their armies to Parma in return for bribes. This treason on the part of English officers had aggravated the tension between the Earl and the Hollanders, though his responsibility for their defection could probably be set down to incompetence, rather than treachery.
During all this discussion, and indeed ever since we had come in, the two younger men had sat in silence, though I noticed that they listened intently. As though finally recalling their presence, Leicester introduced them.
‘Sir John Worthington, one of my cavalry captains, and Mijnheer van Leyden, who acts as liaison between our forces and those of the United Provinces.’
Both men rose and bowed; Berden and I did the same. Worthington was a very sleek, elegant officer, whose immaculate uniform had clearly never seen a battlefield. His glance passed over me indolently. I noticed he paid closer attention to Berden, although I did not gain the impression they had ever met. I could not quite make out van Leyden. A little older than Worthington, even in civilian clothes he carried much more distinctly the air of an army officer, or perhaps simply of a man accustomed to commanding others. It was something in the way he held himself. By contrast, he studied me more closely than Berden. From the corner of my eye I had caught something pass between Berden and van Leyden – a glance, a tiny movement of the head – which I read as a sign that they knew each other, but would not acknowledge it openly.
At last it seemed we were free to leave. Berden bowed again to Leicester.
‘We must find ourselves an inn, your Lordship. We thank you for an excellent dinner.’
I murmured agreement.