Now came the most dangerous moment of all. I must mount Hector from the block in the yard, then ride him out of the gate, but the yard was cobbled and his iron shoes would ring loudly on the stones as I crossed to the archway at the back. Anyone not sleeping soundly would hear us, and many of the sleeping chambers overlooked the yard.

The clattering of the hooves rang in my ears as loud as church bells. I scrambled clumsily up on to the horse’s back and rode him quickly out of the yard to the track at the back. There was nothing I could do to muffle the noise. The stirrups felt strange under my hose, but there was no time to worry about that. Turn right along the track.

‘Now, my lad,’ I said, leaning forward and giving Hector his head, ‘show me what you can do.’

He stretched out into that lovely canter of his, then tossed his head and broke into a gallop. The first field was flying past as I glanced back. Was that a light in one of the upper windows of the house? Or the reflection of the moon? I sent a message of desperate speed through my knees to the horse.

The second field and now the wood. I thanked God I had ridden this way already today, for I knew it was safe to keep up this speed as far as the lake. Afterwards I would need to be more cautious, for the track might hold dangers for the horse and there was little enough light. Some small creature ran across the path in front of us and Hector checked for a moment, so that I nearly flew over his head, but I slithered back into the saddle gasping and we galloped on.

The lake shimmered like pewter on our left and now I would have to slow down, though every nerve cried out to me to keep going as fast as possible. It isn’t safe, I said, inside my head, or perhaps aloud to Hector. I gathered him in, despite his reluctance, for I could feel how he loved speed. At last we were down to a slow canter, while I strained forward, watching the surface of the track. All the way along the lake I could see clearly and although this part of the track was less used it was sound enough. When we reached the second wood, however, I held the horse back to an agonising walk. It was dark between the trees and there might be any number of hazards – fallen branches, protruding roots, holes. And I kept my head down, for a low hanging branch could sweep me off the horse’s back. That was the worst part of the journey, forced to creep along, screaming inside lest we were being pursued.

When at last we emerged from the wood, there was the river and the mill. And there were lights on in the mill! For I moment I was terrified, thinking that somehow they had forestalled me and reached the mill ahead of me. Then I realised that it was probably later – or earlier – than I realised, so that the miller was already up and about his work. I rode past the mill and saw that the track which led on from here was once again well used. Of course. I remembered the map. This stretch of the track connected the mill to the road, so this was the way the carts would come, bringing the sacks of wheat for grinding and carrying away the milled flour. I set Hector to a canter again, until we reached the road.

There was nothing yet on the road, but I crossed it cautiously, searching for the track on the other side. I did not find it at once. Then I realised that a gorse bush had grown part-way across it. Once again this was a little-used portion. I thought of dismounting and hacking my way through, but then I realised I might find it difficult to mount again. Frustrated, I rode a little way along the road until I came to a place where the bushes thinned out, then worked my way back to the track. The next part was difficult. Bushes and bracken had grown across much of the way. I managed to break off a dry branch from an overhanging tree and used it to hack our way through. This was neither a wood nor farmland, but a neglected thicket of undergrowth which seemed to go on and on. I did not remember anything like this from the map and began to wonder whether I had missed my way, when at last we broke through and the track opened out again, fairly clearly, running alongside a meadow where cows stood knee-deep in morning mist tinted with gold. While I had been fighting my way through the thicket, the sun had just lifted its rim above the land at my back.

‘Good lad,’ I said, patting Hector’s neck. ‘Nearly there.’

He threw up his head and snorted, as if he were happy to go on all day like this.

After the meadow, a field of beans, then wheat. Then the track turned sharply to the right and headed for a run of low, half-timbered buildings rising out of the morning mist. Could this really be Barn Elms? What if Walsingham were not here, but in London? I would ask for refreshment for myself and my horse, then set out again for the city, though that would mean taking the road which led past the turn to Hartwell Hall, and that might mean someone would be on the lookout for me.

I clattered into this other stableyard, happy to make as much noise as possible, in the hope of rousing someone. As I reined Hector in, a groom came down outside steps leading from the rooms over the stable, where he and his fellows probably slept.

‘Aye?’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘What do you want here?’

‘My name is Christoval Alvarez,’ I said, sliding down and wincing as my feet hit the ground. ‘I should be expected.’

He smiled. ‘Oh, aye. You’re expected.’

‘Is Sir Francis here?’

‘Came last night,’

‘Jesu be thanked,’ I said.

Chapter Eight

I insisted on seeing to Hector myself, although it was clear that instructions had been given to the servants that I was to be treated with the greatest courtesy. Finally, when I was sure my tired horse was comfortable, I allowed myself to be led into the house, an elderly timber-framed building, sagging gently into a surrounding garden of old-fashioned flowers: hollyhocks and delphiniums and ladies’ bonnets, which sprawled up and around the house in a loose embrace. It was a world away from the urban formality of Seething Lane and from the new wealth of Hartwell Hall set within its geometrical gardens. I wondered how Sir Francis could bear to tear himself away from this place which breathed home from every corner and return to the rigours of London. Nothing but his unswerving devotion to his Queen, I supposed.

By now the housekeeper was up and about.

‘I am Mistress Oldcastle,’ she said, ‘and Sir Francis left instructions last night that whenever you came, you were to be cared for like a son of the family.’

She was showing me into a small parlour as she talked, a short bustling woman who carried her authority with the same ease as the keys on her girdle.

‘This is Lady Walsingham’s parlour, but her ladyship is with her daughter at present and this is much more comfortable than the master’s study.’ As I opened my mouth to speak, she continued, ‘The master will be down shortly. He rode in very late last night and he hasn’t been well, but he insisted on getting up.’

She turned toward the door. ‘Put that here, Mary.’ This to a serving maid who was staggering in carrying a tub of steaming water, with camomile flowers floating in it. She put it down before a low cushioned chair beside a newly-lit fire.

‘Help the young gentleman with his hose,’ the housekeeper went on.

There was no question who was in charge here. Meekly I sat down in the chair and allowed the girl to peel off my hose. My feet were filthy and bloody. The shock of the water made me jerk and slop a little of it over the edge, but then it began to soothe the pain I had started to feel in my feet as soon as I thought about it. The girl laid aside the rags which had been my hose and began to wash my feet gently with a soft cloth and soap. No one had washed my feet for me since I was a small child and once I had overcome my embarrassment, I found it comforting. All the while Mistress Oldcastle kept a sharp eye on the girl.