It was the third week in October that I received a strange missive from Sir Francis, brought to me at the hospital one morning by Thomas Cassie, seeking me out where I was in the stillroom with Peter Lambert, assessing what supplies would be needed for the onset of winter. I recognised the seal on the letter and looked enquiringly at Thomas.
‘You do not usually come here,’ I said. ‘Could it not have waited until I was at home? Am I needed at Seething Lane?’
Cassie shrugged. ‘I know only that I was to find you out at once and see it directly into your hands. Sir Francis is at Greenwich. The letter was brought to Seething Lane by a court messenger.’
Very strange. I broke the sea with my thumbnail. The contents were brief and startling.
You must present yourself at Greenwich Palace at three of the clock this afternoon. Ask to be directed to me. Wear your best garments. W.
I stared at Cassie. ‘I am summoned to be at Greenwich at three this afternoon. There is barely time!’ I turned to Peter. ‘You must tell my father, Peter. Explain. Make my excuses.’
He nodded and leaving them both staring after me I hurried from the hospital, glad that our house was but a few minutes’ walk away. My best garments? Did he mean me to wear my physician’s gown? I decided I would do so. I could always shed it, if needed. I had not so many clothes that I took much time to decide what to wear. I had one quite good doublet that I wore when I went to Durham House, and a pair of breeches that would pass muster. I found a pair of stockings whose only mend was in the heel, where it would not show, and I rubbed my shoes clean of dust with a rag, which I thrust into my pocket, so that I could rub them again after I arrived. Over all I donned my gown, and set my square doctor’s cap on my head. I squinted at myself in my mirror of wavering glass. My hair was perhaps overly long, but there was no time to visit a barber. Still, at court I believed men wore their hair longer than did the common sort.
The only way to reach Greenwich in time was to hire a two-man wherry – an extravagance I could have done without – and to ensure that they were capable of shooting the Bridge. It is a risky business at the best of times, but I knew I could not stop and leave one wherry on the upstream side, cross by land to the other side of the Bridge, and take another wherry on the downstream side.
‘Tide’s at the ebb, Master,’ the older wherryman said. ‘We’ll shoot the Bridge, never fear.’
I did fear. I had never done it, and more than one had died under the Bridge, where freak twists in the water could smash a boat against the piers like kindling. All went smoothly enough above the Bridge, but I could see that the force of the river, with the tide behind it, was flowing fast. The wherrymen hardly needed their oars, save for the odd stroke to keep the boat on course. We seemed to be approaching the Bridge much too fast, swept down the river helpless as a leaf, toward its towering pillars. From the level of the river it loomed like the ramparts of a castle. There was a great deal of water coming down the Thames and as it reached the Bridge it was funnelled beneath the arches, where it fought the stones to find a way through. There seemed hardly enough room for even a small boat to squeeze through the narrow space between raging water and damp stone.
There could be no turning back now. I clutched both gunwales of the boat convulsively, my knuckles showing white with the strain. We were being tossed like a hapless cork upon the swirling water. The boatman shouted something, but I could not hear him, for the roar of the water was echoing now like a man’s voice crying out in a cave. Instinctively I ducked my head. From the corner of my eye I could see the green slime on the curved roof of the tunnel as we bucketed through, the men fending us off the stones with their oars. The roaring in my ears was like a storm at sea. And then we were through! The river spread itself out like a quilt, like a wild animal released from a cage, suddenly tame.
The men set their oars in the rowlocks again, and we proceeded calmly on our way as if we had never passed through that watery Hell. My heart was fluttering in my chest like a bird trapped in a chimney.
The rest of the way to Greenwich the men rowed steadily, but the flow of the river also carried us along, so that when I disembarked at Greenwich stairs I reckoned I had a good half hour in hand. I shook out my gown, which had been bunched together in the boat to keep it from the wet, and made my way with what dignity I could muster to enquire of a servant in royal livery where I might find Sir Francis Walsingham. My legs were trembling still from shooting the Bridge.
It seemed Walsingham was occupying the same apartments where I had brought messages to him before, two years ago now, at the height of the operation against the Babington plotters. The rooms were located in one of the innermost parts of the palace, close to the royal quarters.
‘Come in, Kit.’ Sir Francis’s face, as so often, showed the strains of illness, but today he also appeared remarkably cheerful. ‘Come in and take a seat. We have a few minutes.’
‘A few minutes, Sir Francis?’ I said, sitting where he had indicated. ‘For?’
‘For me to explain why you are here.’
I nodded, folding my hands in my lap and waiting.
‘It has been noted,’ he said with a smile. ‘Your good service in the Low Countries. First in foiling an attempt on the Earl’s life – may he rest in peace – and then in uncovering a treasonous plot to supply arms and equipment to the enemy. Her Majesty herself has taken note.’
I looked at him in alarm. ‘Her Majesty?’
‘Aye. She wished to express her thanks to you in person.’
I gaped at him. ‘But–’. I could think of nothing to say.
‘I will conduct you to her shortly. You will make your obeisance and not speak unless invited to do so by Her Majesty.’
This seemed even more terrifying than shooting the Bridge. To be face-to-face with Elizabeth Tudor. Gloriana. Queen by God’s good grace. The greatest Protestant monarch in the world. And now, after the defeat of the Spanish fleet, the monarch of the oceans. I began to shake and thought I might very well be sick.
‘Do not be alarmed, Kit,’ Sir Francis said kindly. Clearly he could read my appalled expression as easily as a schoolboy’s primer. ‘She is well disposed towards you. There is nothing to be afraid of.’
That was all very well for a man to say who dealt daily with our great monarch, but it did nothing to steady my knocking knees as he led me toward the innermost of the royal apartments. I was glad I had worn my gown, which concealed much of my trembling.
The double doors were opened by liveried servants. I heard Walsingham presenting me as if his voice came from a long way away. My eyes were cast humbly down. I was aware of rustling gowns, silk upon silk, a heavy scent of many perfumes – too many perfumes – billowing and mingling in a great wave across the room. I bowed deeply, in the courtly fashion I had learned from Simon and the other players. I hoped my hat would not fall off.
‘You may stand, Doctor Alvarez.’ A voice filled with a certain wry humour spoke from somewhere above my head. ‘Let us see you face.’
I straightened and raised my eyes. At first I was aware only of a living tapestry of colour, a flower-garden of velvets and silks and brocades, where rubies and emeralds and pearls nestled instead of bees or butterflies, and dyed plumes of exotic birds nodded instead of fresh green branches. Then this overpowering riot of colour resolved itself into a group of ladies and gentlemen clustered about one central figure, poised as if in some theatrical tableau. And that central figure was far more splendid than the rest, attired in cloth of gold, with a ruff of lace so fragile it seemed impossible that human hands could have wrought it. The hair was the colour of a fox’s pelt, piled high and laced with pearls.