The Betrayal (4 page)

I looked with interest at the mirror (for it did not often come out of its box), and strained my ears to try and determine what Dr Dee was muttering, but his voice was too low and also some of his words seemed to be in a foreign language and were thus unknown to me.

Mr Kelly, his long-term partner in the magickal arts, was standing behind Dr Dee, eyes closed, arms stretched out to the desk as if allowing some unseen power to flow down his arms and on to the parchment.

Neither of them acknowledged me and my glance slid away and beyond them, to the tall stained-glass window with the Dee coat of arms on it, to the stuffed birds and animals, the turtle shells and sea shells, the gnarled tree roots and – most of all – to the hundreds of books. How could anyone in the world need so many books?

Mr Kelly suddenly turned. ‘Girl!’ he said (for he never called me by my proper name). ‘Don’t just stand there gawping.’

I gave another curtsey. ‘What can I get you, Sir?’ I asked.

‘You can bring me and Dr Dee a glass of malmsey. In fact, bring a bottle!’

There was a murmur of protest from Dr Dee, who was no doubt thinking of the cost.

‘Nay!’ Mr Kelly said. ‘We need some fortification for our endeavours.’

I turned to go but, as I reached the door, Dr Dee’s voice suddenly rose. ‘Spirits!’ he called. ‘Through this dark mirror shine your light on our work and let us receive entirely the knowledge that you have already blessed us with!’

‘So be the will of Ariel!’ cried Mr Kelly.

I hesitated for just a moment, loath to leave in case some magick was about to happen, but Mr Kelly realised I was still there and, with an angry gesture, bade me begone.

But I knew it was not very likely that I would have seen magick anyway, and thinking on this, I went back to the kitchen to fetch the malmsey.

That night, I had a most realistic dream about Tomas and the lady-in-waiting, during which she – who’d hardly glanced my way – had curtseyed low before me, as if I was the lady and she the serving wench. I’d had this type of dream before: clear and uncomplicated instead of blurred and unreal as recalled dreams usually were, and tried not to pay too much heed to them, for sometimes – occasionally –
they’d predicted things in my future that I’d rather not have known about.
This
time, however, I very much enjoyed revisiting my dream, and went on enjoying it for several days after.

The hard frost passed but, while I waited to hear when we’d be going to London, the days seemed grey and dreary. Every day I thought about Tomas and could not help but imagine him and his new lady friend becoming closer and more intimate. In my mind’s eye I saw them riding together, making music, dancing and reading poetry; genteel pursuits which a maidservant might hear about but have no true knowledge of.

A week or so after the Court left for Whitehall the day seemed especially drear, so I decided to take the girls for a walk on Barnes Common and call upon Isabelle to share my gossip about the queen. Mistress Midge refused to have the monkey left with her as he’d taken to pulling her hair, so he had a bonnet placed on his head by Beth and, swaddled warmly in a woollen shawl, allowed himself to be carried along like a babe in arms.

Isabelle’s home was very humble – even more so than my own home in Hazelgrove – being a hut composed of wattle walls plastered over and shuttered windows without glass. There was a fireplace, but no proper chimney, so whenever the door was opened it caused the smoke to billow and engulf the occupants within. It did this as Isabelle’s mother came to the door in response to my call, along with four or five chickens which she quickly ushered back inside. She smiled at me, then dropped a curtsey when she saw that I was accompanied by Beth and Merryl, knowing that these were the children of the queen’s magician.

‘Your mistress has a new baby?’ she said in surprise, looking at the bundle carried by Beth.

I shook my head, laughing. ‘She gave birth some months ago – but that’s not the child.’

Beth held up the bundle to her and Isabelle’s mother, seeing his funny little monkey-face, started back in surprise.

‘It’s a monkey – the children’s pet. He’s quite harmless,’ I added.

‘Indeed.’ I saw her glance go over the garments that the children were wearing and then she looked down at herself, pulling her shawl down over her patched kirtle in an effort to hide it. ‘Some children have dogs as pets, and some have kits, but I’ve not heard of anyone having a monkey.’

As the smoke blew past us I heard Isabelle’s little sister, Margaret, coughing. ‘But I mustn’t keep you,’ I
said, ‘I just came to see if Isabelle is quite well, for I’ve looked for her in the market these days past and haven’t seen her.’

Isabelle’s mother shook her head, nervously fiddling with one of the ties of her jacket. ‘No, she’s not been out a-selling, she’s been laid up for some days with a dizziness in the head.’

‘Oh. Is she … still poorly?’ I asked, trying to peer through the darkness and the smoke of the cottage to see if Isabelle was within.

‘No, she was feeling a little better today, and has gone out.’

I turned to go. ‘So will she be at her selling space in the market?’ I asked, for this was where Isabelle was usually to be found.

She shook her head. ‘Today she’s gone to church to be a mourner at a funeral.’

I was not surprised at this, for Isabelle was mistress of all trades and it was nothing for her to be trading in the market one day, working as a washerwoman the next and collecting pots in a tavern on the third.

‘Is that in Mortlake?’

‘No, at St Mary’s in Barnes. ’Tis one of the nobility being buried,’ she added, ‘and Isabelle has been given a new pair of black leather gloves and a length of costly black muslin she must drape about her head.’

‘Then I’ll go and see if I can find her,’ I said, and set off across the common with the girls beside me, thinking that a funeral – especially if it was a member of the
gentry who was being buried – would be a curious thing to see.

On the way across the common Tom-fool got tired of playing a babe in arms and, escaping from the swaddling, pulled off his bonnet and threw it into a tree. He then began leaping across our shoulders, trying to pull off each of our head coverings in turn. Luckily, sensible Merryl had brought some string to use as a lead and we slipped this around his collar so he couldn’t completely escape from us.

The only people standing outside the church when we arrived were two ostlers holding the reins of the glossy dark horses that had pulled the funeral carriage. This was standing, empty, in the lane. I didn’t intend to go into the church (I could well envisage the mischief an excitable monkey might wreak on the solemn offices of a funeral service), so we stood in the graveyard, reading out the epitaphs on the stones while we waited for the service to be over. There was a yew tree planted by the gate and Tom-fool slipped his string leash, leapt into this and began to climb to the top.

Through the closed door of the church I could hear the minister speaking, though couldn’t make out his exact words. When he stopped, there were several moments’ silence and then the bells began tolling. Hearing this and knowing the service was at an end, I retreated with the girls behind the churchyard wall to watch the rest of the goings-on.

It was immediately clear that someone from a noble
family was involved when the church doors opened and two grand aldermen in black-and-gold gowns appeared carrying staves and bearing wooden shields painted with a coat of arms. After these came two heralds with banners, then four men wheeling a kind of hand-carriage, upon which rested the coffin, this being covered with a glossy, black velvet pall, heavily fringed in gold and bearing the same arms. The family followed behind (two women, both crying, and many men), then the paid mourners. These consisted of twelve boys of graduated heights all carrying painted wooden shields, and twelve girls holding billowing black feathers. They were clothed and veiled identically so that I could not tell which girl was Isabelle.

‘I think it’s someone from the Walsingham household who’s dead,’ Beth said in a whisper. ‘I recognise the colours of his coat of arms.’

‘Are you sure?’ I asked, and before the words were half out of my mouth saw the stately figure of Sir Francis Walsingham, whom I recognised from Court, emerge from the darkness of the church dressed from head to toe in black velvet. Some passers-by had gathered to watch the cortège move in procession through the graveyard, and I ascertained from a stout goodwife that it had indeed been a relative of Sir Francis who’d died.

‘It was only a distant cousin,’ she whispered, ‘but he bears the Walsingham name and so must be buried with all due ceremony.’

‘He was young?’ I asked.

‘I believe he was twelve.’ She pointed towards the mourners. ‘There are two times twelve mutes for each year of his life.’

I nodded. ‘My friend is there amongst them.’

‘And my son!’ she exclaimed proudly. ‘There he is, one of the smallest. He’s earned himself a fine pair of leather gloves, a black cloak and a silver sixpence today.’

I murmured approval.

‘He’s near nine years old, but passes for five or six because he’s so small. He’s much in demand for children’s funerals.’

‘And are all the other mourners local children?’

She shook her head. ‘They couldn’t find enough of the right size, so they had to hire them from Christ’s Hospital. Such a fuss and bother! The children all came down by cart late yesterday and had to sleep in a farmer’s barn the night.’

‘What is Christ’s Hospital?’ I asked curiously.

‘Oh, ’tis a home in London for orphans and foundlings where they hire out the children for any occasion. ’Tis grim there, by all accounts. I tell my own lad that if he misbehaves, that’s where he’ll end up!’

We watched in silence as the coffin was lowered into its final resting place. By this time my girls were complaining that their hands and feet were cold, and Tom-fool must have felt this too, for he returned, shivering, from the yew tree and crawled under
Merryl’s shawl to warm himself.

The minister began to speak again and, seeing that the paid mourners remained in the church porch, some distance from the family, I took the opportunity to go and speak to Isabelle. It did not take long to ascertain which was she, for one of the veiled shapes dropped their pious demeanour on seeing me and smiled and waved.

‘Don’t tell me that you’ve come to say goodbye,’ she said after greeting me.

I shook my head. ‘I have not – not yet. I still don’t know when I’ll be going to London.’

‘Well, I’m glad of that,’ she said. ‘I know you’re anxious to see your Tomas again, but I shall miss you very much.’

‘And I shall miss you,’ I said, squeezing her hand. I looked across to the funeral party. ‘Will you be finished here now that the corpse is in the ground?’

She shook her head. ‘We have to accompany the party home – and then we can attend the funeral feasting after.’ She lowered her voice. ‘The family generally have no appetite, so there’ll be plenty to eat.’

She was standing beside a small child. Like the other boys, he was dressed in black doublet and breeches, with a black cloak on top. On his head he wore a close-tied black linen coif with earpieces, such as old men wear to their beds, and this gave him an odd, animal-like appearance.

The boy rubbed his stomach. ‘The feasting is the
best part! There will be capons and rabbits and roast swans!’

‘There may be,’ Isabelle said cautiously. ‘But sometimes the family think it more appropriate that we fast, thinking that our aching stomachs will help us look more mournful.’

The boy groaned. ‘Never!’

I smiled at him. ‘I’ve just been speaking to your ma. Is that her over by the churchyard wall?’

He shook his head. ‘Nah, Missus. Ain’t got no ma – and no pa either.’

‘You must have had at one time,’ I said.

‘Not me! Left outside Christ’s Horspiddle, I was!’

I looked at him more closely and saw that under his hood his hair was cropped very short, workhouse-style. ‘You are one of the foundling boys?’ I asked.