He gave me a bleak smile. However, I glanced around at the escort of twenty armed men who surrounded us. Any assassin who made an attempt on Phelippes’s life would pay for it with his own. We were even more heavily protected than Sir Francis had been, returning to London from Barn Elms. It was true that this was a longer journey and would pass through parts of the country from which Babington hoped to draw some of his army. Sussex and particularly Kent had been mentioned in the conspirators’ plans, either from the number of Catholic families living here or from the counties’ proximity to France.

Moreover, the area around Rye, our destination, was a favourite landing place for the priests whom William Allen had been smuggling into England for many years. Both the fishing ports and the bleak area known as Romney Marsh had provided hiding places for traitors in the past.

So I rode south in a very different frame of mind from when I had travelled to Hartwell Hall. Then I had been apprehensive about my journey’s end, but the journey itself under the soft skies of spring had been pleasant. Now I was alert to danger even during the journey itself, despite our armed guard. It was early summer now. The meadows were full of luscious green grass, sprinkled over with meadow flowers like an image of Paradise in a Flemish tapestry – red campion, ox-eye daisies, viper’s bugloss, meadowsweet, cow parsley. Once, on the verge of the road, just escaping the hooves of our passing horses, I saw a clump of the rare and delicate lady’s slipper orchid.

I had nerved myself to ask if I might ride Hector again, and my request had been granted by Sir Francis himself. The horse knew me at once, whickering in greeting. I hoped it was partly for myself and not merely for my pocket full of June-fall apples. We were at ease with each other, which could not be said of Phelippes, who sat on his horse like a marionette whose strings have been cut, slumped over as if he was still pouring over the documents on his desk. Perhaps I have inherited some affinity for horses from my grandfather, for to be mounted again always lifts my spirits. Phelippes merely endured, like the patient man he was, but he decreed that we would ride no further than Sevenoaks that first day. This was a journey of about thirty miles and by the end of it I could see that Phelippes could have ridden no further.

‘We are to stay in guest rooms at Knole,’ he said, as we rode towards the manor house just outside the village. ‘The estate is owned by the Earl of Leicester but is leased to a gentleman called John Lennard. Sir Francis has been given permission by the Earl for us to spend the night there, both on our way to Rye and on our return. There are, I believe, conditions in the lease which permit the Earl to make use of the house when he chooses.’

‘That must be somewhat trying for Master Lennard,’ I said, as we passed under the great gateway.

‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘But a convenience for us.’

It seemed that the Lennard family was in London at present, but we were made welcome by a very grand steward, who seemed from his dress and manner to rank not much below an Earl himself. I wondered whether he came with the house. At one time, I believe, the land and the original house belonged to the Archbishop of Canterbury, but the great King Henry had such a way with him that many churchmen were only too glad to present him with their properties. His daughter had given it to one of her favourite courtiers, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, though I am not sure whether he ever lived there himself.

We were extremely well fed and wined, as vicarious guests of the Earl, and I slept that night on five mattresses of increasing softness as they towered ever higher above the bed ropes, cradled between hangings embroidered with pomegranates, peacocks’ feathers and cornucopias, in an abundance that signified the enthusiasm of the embroider if little rational juxtaposition.

The next morning we set out early, crossing the Downs as the sun burned away the morning mist. At the highest point of our road, Phelippes reined in and extended his arm, pointing south.

‘Now that the mist has cleared, you can see from here to the coast. There is the sea, directly south.’

I followed his finger and caught the unmistakable glitter of the sea beyond the rolling farmland and scattered belts of woodland.

‘Rye is to the southeast of here,’ he said, waving his hand in that direction, ‘but those woods hide it from view. We’ll spend the night in Hawkhurst, about a twenty-five mile ride altogether today. Tomorrow it will be much shorter to Rye. Only about fifteen miles.’

He seemed more at ease on his horse today and thanks to our early start we reached Hawkhurst in the late afternoon. It was no more than a village, though a prosperous one, boasting three inns. Standing where it did, on roads leading from the south coast to both London and Canterbury, it probably did well out of travellers like ourselves. Phelippes had sent one of our men ahead to book rooms in the largest inn for our party, so that when we arrived we were made welcome by a plump innkeeper and his even plumper wife. I believe you can judge the quality of an inn’s food by the girth of its proprietors, and the Hawkhurst inn did not disappoint.

We took supper soon after we arrived, then Phelippes retired to his rooms to write letters and to peruse papers which reached us by a courier from Sir Francis soon after we arrived at the inn ourselves. It seemed too early on a lovely summer’s evening to withdraw to my room, so I decided to take a walk around the village. I did, however, ask Phelippes’s permission first.

‘Yes, I do not see why you should not,’ he said, ‘provided you stay within the village and do not stray outside. Will you take one of the guards?’

‘No.’ I laughed. ‘I am sure I will be quite safe.’ This was the man who sent me home across the dark and dangerous streets of London alone and after midnight. A quiet stroll along the sunny lanes of the village hardly seemed a threat.

The inn faced on to a broad village green, grazed by a flock of sheep. To one side was a duck pond, where a number of ducklings trailed after their mothers, bobbing about like corks while the older birds dived amongst the weed. Beside the pond, the village stocks, uninhabited at present. I followed the lane which ran alongside the green, past several comfortable cottages, each with its apple and pear trees, its vegetable plot, and a pig being fattened for winter. Apart from the income generated for the inns from travellers passing through, there must be other occupations for these villagers.

In a few of the cottages as I passed, I noticed looms placed near the window in the front room, and weavers at work where they could benefit from the light, but I also became aware of noises coming from further along the road – loud clanging of metal, like a blacksmith’s workshop, but a blacksmith for giants. I could see smoke, too, more smoke than you would expect to see on a fine summer’s evening. The air smelled curious, too. A harsh, metallic smell that caught in the back of my throat.

As I rounded a bend in the road, just past the last cottage, I saw that another lane led off to my left, where all the noise and smoke and smell were coming from. I walked a little way down the lane towards a group of grimy brick buildings, but stopped, unsure of my welcome. A cart was approaching me from the direction of the buildings, drawn by two great Shire horses who strained at the traces. I stepped on to the verge to let it pass. The noise was almost deafening here, but I called out to the carter, ‘Is that an ironworks?’

He did not stop, but removed his hat and wiped his face with the back of his hand, for he was sweating from the heat that rolled down the lane after him.

‘Aye. Hawkhurst iron foundry.’ He peered at me incredulously. ‘Have you not heard of us? Finest cannon foundry in the country.’