A Queen's Spy by - (black authors fiction .TXT) 📖

face expressionless. “Why do you ask?”

Wyatt looked exasperated. “For God’s sake man! I know why you were expelled from Seymour’s house, Somer told me how you ended up as his scapegoat. I want to know if you are still in communication with her?”

Richard’s eyes never left his face. “Tell me why you want to know?”

Wyatt spoke through gritted teeth, it was obvious he was not enjoying being interrogated by the younger man, and he wished to provide as little information as possible. “There are many who would oppose this Spanish match, and a Queen who allies herself so closely with a foreign power.”

“And…these people…think that Elizabeth could take her place?” Richard stated the words Wyatt had avoided.

Wyatt nodded slowly, a slight smile on his face, it had been what he had wanted to hear. “She would have many supporters.”

“That would be treason,” Richard said.

“Aye, it would.”

Richard’s grey eyes met with Wyatt’s. “I would like to meet them.”

“Would you, now?” Wyatt said, the smile that lit his face a sure sign he was pleased in finally having raised Richard’s interest. “Well there’ll be a meeting at my sister’s house in two days. Come then, and bring me any information you have on how this Spanish match is to be imposed on the rule of England.”

Richard was left alone shortly, wondering how it was that words, and sometimes so very few, could change the whole fabric of the future. If Wyatt was right, then perhaps Mary had fatally underestimated the unpopularity of her marriage to Phillip. If Parliament was willing to back Elizabeth then there might be a power shift from one sister to the other.

 

†

 

Richard arrived promptly and found himself shown into a backroom where three other men waited. They eyed him suspiciously and a conversation that had been in full flow ended abruptly. Wyatt was absent and Richard took up a station near the window to await their host’s arrival.

Wyatt has evidently been out collecting more men and they arrived together, their loud laughter in the corridor outside of the room heralding their entry. The heavy oak door opened, admitting three men along with Wyatt. Richard knew one of them, the Duke of Suffolk, he had been occasionally at Seymour’s London house and the eyes that Suffolk lay on Richard told him of recognition, although they were devoid of a welcome.

Richard remained at the back of the room and listened. Wyatt was firmly against Mary’s wedding. He and several of the other men were in passionate agreement that it would mean Parliament and the Privy Council would be eradicated in favour of institutions wholly controlled by Philip and Charles V. A man seated at the table, the oldest of the assembled, trod a less passionate route, urging caution. There was no firm reason as yet, he argued, to assume Mary would dispense with the services of her English nobles once married. Wyatt, however, refused to accept this, and as the evening continued and a quantity of wine was consumed the doom that was upon England raced home as if it were a grim reality upon those assembled. Even the elderly gent seated at the table abandoned his cautionary tone and declared that it was now his God given task to save England from the yoke of Spain.

Richard, remaining sober, and silent, watched and listened with clinical detachment.

At the end of the evening when he was filing towards the door with the others, Wyatt put his hand out to stop him. There were now just three of them left in the room.

“This is Sir Peter Carew,” Wyatt supplied, nodding towards the other man who had remained. “He is the member of Parliament for Devon, and he is a staunch supporter of our cause. You once gave me this,” Wyatt went to a writing desk in the corner of the room, and pulling out a draw, produced the red leather purse Richard had given to Wyatt months before. “It is now my turn to use it. I would have you keep Elizabeth informed of our cause. She will have her own supporters, and should the time come, all will need to be ready. And we will need as much information as you can get on how this new political alliance with Spain is going to be executed.” Wyatt released his hold on the coins and the purse dropped into Richard’s hand.

“I will inform the lady,” Richard replied, stowing the money away inside his doublet.

Wyatt nodded. “There will not be another meeting after tonight, if so many of us gather again we will attract attention. Derby and Mary have eyes everywhere. Carew here,” he nodded to the other man who had remained, “meets with me regularly, and we will use him as the route for information. Send your missives through him and I will relay information back to you in the same way.”

Richard turned to look at Carew. He had a good ten years on Wyatt, his doublet stretched with the evidence of good living, and reddened cheeks told that he had indulged in a quantity of Wyatt’s wine that evening. Richard was about to speak, but Carew spoke first, dismissively, “Call on me tomorrow and we will establish how we shall do this. I’d like a private word with Thomas.”

A moment later Richard found himself outside in the corridor, the panelled door closing behind him on the two not so loyal members of Her Majesties Parliament, Thomas Wyatt and Sir Peter Carew. Richard was led back to the yard at the back of the house where his horse had been stabled. One of Wyatt’s grooms had saddled Corracha and stood holding him by the reins. The Arab’s ears laid back flat against his head, nostrils wide and an iron clad hoof clattered loudly against the rounded cobbles in the yard.

The groom, seeing Richard approach, tightened his grip on the animal’s reins and pulled the horse’s nose down a fraction. “He’s nothing but a bag of temper mounted on four hooves this one.”

Richard reached out patted the horse’s tightly arched neck. “I’d have him no other way.”

The horse communicated its dislike of being kept standing in the yard by pulling even harder on the reins and snorting loudly.

“Are you so sure about that?” The groom said, pleased to able to loosen his hold on the animal as Richard swung into the saddle and drew the reins tight.

With a rider on his back, and one he knew, Corracha stood still, the breath still snorting nosily from his velvet nose. His eyes fastened on the groom standing before him. Ears now pricked up straight and alert.

“I’m very sure,” Richard replied, leaning down to pat the horse’s neck. “He’s a loyal beast.”

The groom neatly stepped sideways, not totally convinced that he wasn’t about to be either bitten or kicked. “He’s a sight I’ll give him that. But you know what they say about beauty, don’t you?”

“No, what do they say?” Richard said as he prepared to leave.

“You can’t trust it,” the groom replied.

“Appearances can deceive,” Richard cast the remark back towards the man as he applied his heels to the horse and they rapidly departed Wyatt’s house.

 

†

 

Catherine had never been to London and was shocked by the city.

“It’s just street after street and still we have not reached the middle,” Catherine exclaimed as she rode next to Jack,

“What did you think it would be like?” Jack turned towards her, his voice amused.

“I expected the centre to be open land in the middle like most towns and villages, where the markets would be. Londoners seem to sell their wares just anywhere they want,” Catherine gestured to the side of the street they were travelling down.

Dotted along the edge were stalls poking out from the fronts of houses and crammed into alleyways. Business was conducted all over London, and loudly, judging by some of the arguing merchants they had passed. Jack, seeing that Catherine was paying little attention to where her mare was going, took hold of the reins of her horse. After obtaining the directions he needed, he led her skilfully through the mire that was London, leaving her free to gaze around.

Jack grinned as he continued to answer the barrage of questions she threw his way. He was grudgingly coming to admit a liking for the little brown mouse he had brought from St Agnes’s. She had a shrewd mind and a ready wit, which went some way to compensating her for a plain appearance. When she confessed how she had intercepted his brother’s messages, it had told him that within that flat chest must be a fair degree of courage. By the time they had reached London he felt thoroughly sorry for any part he had played in the destruction of her life. Catherine de Bernay, now believed dead, could be in a far worse position than she believed. Jack had persuaded Catherine that, whether she liked it or not, the only person he could think of who could help her was Richard.

 

†

 

Jack had not seen his brother for three months, he had parted from him at Framlingham in July and it was now October. The Chapel Street house was a good one, at the back there was a sizeable courtyard with stabling for a dozen horses, and beyond that a large kitchen garden. The house itself, timber framed and rising to three stories was both imposing and large. Jack shook his head in wonder, his brother always seemed to land on his feet.

Quick enquiry of the men in the yard told him that Richard was in the house, and a few more pointed questions directed him to the room he needed.

Jack’s hand instinctively reached out to knock on the panelled door, then a memory of the Abbey and what had learnt changed his mind, instead he reached for the round iron ring on the door and opened it.

“Jack!”

It was immediately plain from the expression on Richard’s face that Jack was an unexpected visitor.

Jack stalked into the room like a hungry dog.

“Well, I see you’re alright then?” Jack said, pushing the door closed behind him.

Richard’s brow was furrowed for a moment only. “So, Jack, and how fares Lincolnshire then? Harvest in, stored and safe, your toil at an end, the folk poor but happy?”

“Why would you care? You’ve never been there,” Jack’s voice was hard.

“And have little intention of ever being there often, but I see it suits you well. Perhaps you have farming stock in you?” Richard continued in the same light, negligent tone.

“Stop! Not this time, you’ll not raise my temper again,” Jack buried his anger. Fastening a hand around a chair back he pulled it from under the table. The growling of wood on stone scored the air between them. Dropping into it, he leant back, feet crossed, arms folded and observed his brother with an unyielding scrutiny. When he spoke his words were reasoned, even calm. “Sit down, and tell your elder brother why you kept me ignorant of the truth?”

Richard, the false smile abandoned, stared at his brother. It took a moment to regain an outward appearance of self-assurance. When he spoke his voice was taut. “So you’ve been to the Abbey.”

“I have,” Jack admitted. For a brief moment he recognised indecision in Richard’s expression betraying the fact that he was having difficulty deciding how to deal with the situation. Jack felt a satisfaction that, for once, he managed to keep from his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Jack asked when Richard remained silent.

“A few reasons,” Richard