The boy returned from the Theatre soon after I had changed back into my normal clothes, saying he had given the message into Simon’s hands. Between  mouthfuls of cake he added that the gentleman had wished me God speed on my journey.

‘Are you going away again, Master Alvarez?’ he asked.

‘Only for a few days, just into Staffordshire.’ I might as well have said the Spice Islands from the look in his wide eyes. So the neighbours had noticed my various absences. I hoped they would not be traced back to Walsingham.

Just after dawn the next morning I was on my way, having collected the forged letter and map from Phelippes, and Hector from the stable. It would be a long journey, about a hundred and twenty-five miles, Phelippes reckoned. At the very least it would take me three days, riding from dawn to dusk. Had I been an official messenger on state business, I could have commandeered a change of mounts at regular intervals, but I was posing as a boy sent by Barnes, so I must ride one horse all the way without tiring him.

The easiest route was to head west along the river first, as far as Windsor, then turn north on the Oxford road.

‘You must judge for yourself,’ Phelippes said. ‘It took me four days to make the journey to Chartley earlier in the year. You should be able to reach Oxford today, for you are a more experienced rider than I am. But it must be fifty or sixty miles. If you find it is late and the horse is tired, you will need to stay the night before you come to Oxford. It is a well travelled route, so there will be plenty of clean, respectable inns. In Oxford, try the Mitre. After Oxford, Warwick should be a suitable stage, not as distant as Oxford is from London. Then you should reach Lichfield by the evening of the third day. That will be the shortest stretch. The next morning you will be able to make the short ride to Chartley.’

‘How far is that?’

‘Less than twenty miles.’

‘I had not realised it was so far.’

I could see that the distance, and the time it would take me to travel it, irritated him. He was anxious to set his plan in motion with the forged letter and he was used to sending trained riders with despatches, who, with their constant changes to fresh horses and their hard riding, would probably make the journey to Lichfield in just two days. Well, it could not be helped. I was not going to drive Hector too hard.

At first it was not as pleasant a ride as my journey to Hartwell Hall some weeks before. In the full heat of summer the road was covered with loose dust which flew up everywhere, filling my lungs and peppering my eyes with grit. The road to Windsor was also very busy, crowded with carts and carriages as well as riders. Even when I turned on to the Oxford road it was not much better. Once the crowds thinned out a little, however, I set Hector to an easy canter, the road was less dusty, and the miles slipped by more easily.

At midday we stopped in a grassy meadow by a stream, where I ate some cheese and a hard-boiled egg, and I let Hector graze for half an hour. As I sat with my back to a tree, I nearly fell asleep. The heavy June sunshine was thick with the drone of bees and I had slept little the previous night, anxious about the journey. If Hector had not blown a wet and grassy breath in my face, I might have slept the day away.

As it was, we were still ten miles from Oxford by late afternoon, according to the fingerpost but, despite having cantered much of the way, Hector did not seem unduly tired. I decided to carry on, holding him down to a walk the last five miles or so. We rode into Oxford, my eyes taking in greedily the honey-coloured stone of the colleges, the flower-filled gardens, and the rivers. Being high summer, it was out of term time, although I noticed several older scholars, the college fellows, in their academic gowns, which reminded me achingly of my father at Coimbra University. And there were bookshops! But I had no money for books, only the money Phelippes had given me for my lodgings.

I found the Mitre Inn, mentioned by Phelippes, and paid for a room to myself as well as stabling for my horse. It was only when I sat down to eat the mutton stew served in the inn parlour that I realised how tired I was. I had been in the saddle for twelve hours and the muscles of my legs and back made me all too aware of it. As soon as I had finished eating I retired to my chamber, along a meandering corridor linking the maze of rooms. I pulled off my boots and cap, and lay down for a minute on the bed. When I woke it was full dark. Groaning a little from my stiffening muscles, I stripped down to my shift and fell into bed. I can vouch for the comfort of the Mitre’s beds, for I did not wake again until broad daylight.

In the morning I asked the innkeeper how far it was to Warwick. He scratched his head, then called out to the potboy.

‘How many miles to Warwick, Henry?’

The potboy also scratched his head. ‘Forty, forty-five miles, I reckon, master.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Thank you. Far less than I rode yesterday.’

‘Came from Lunnon, did you, lad?’

‘Aye.’

‘That’s a good way, that is.’

He looked at me respectfully, but I was glad he called me ‘lad’. It seemed I looked the part.

We left Oxford, heading north on the Banbury Road, leaving the church of St Giles on our left, and reached Warwick by the late dusk of this summer’s day. Even though it had been a much shorter ride, by now Hector was tired, and so was I. However, we found one of the inns Phelippes had suggested and by the next morning were on our way again.

The road from Warwick to Lichfield ran through fat farming country, deep in the heart of England. This whole journey had laid open England to me, for until this year I had barely stirred outside London. I did not feel particularly grateful for my service to Walsingham, but in my heart I admitted grudgingly that it had opened my eyes to my adopted country. It was not the land of my birth, which I had grown to hate. But this country, less dramatic, less ostentatious, was becoming very dear to me in recent months. I was beginning to understand why Englishmen, normally reticent and reluctant to show their feelings, could become so passionate about their love of this land. I found it difficult to put into words, but I felt somehow nourished by it, embraced by it. The countryside smiled at me, and I smiled back as I rode. This was a country worth fighting for.

My inn at Lichfield was near the cathedral, so the bells tracked the hours for me during the evening and into the night. Until I reached the city my mind had been concentrated on the long journey, but now I began to grow apprehensive of presenting myself at Chartley Manor. The name had been no more than that, a name written on letters, a place somewhere in Staffordshire. A house where the Scottish queen lived with her exiled court under strict supervision. Somehow, it had not seemed quite real. Tomorrow I would ride up to it, and present a letter which was a forgery, posing as what I was not. My whole life was a lie, in my pretended skin as a boy, but now I was play-acting again, this time as a servant boy, messenger for a renegade Catholic, who had entered the country illegally and was offering his services to the Scottish queen.

Except he wasn’t.

It was Phelippes who was spinning this web.

As far as I knew, Barnes was still in London with Barnard, one of the chief players in the conspiracy, who was urging Babington to action, along with the double agent Poley. But what if Barnes had left London and come himself to offer his service to Mary? Having been a courier for Walsingham, he would know the route in detail, could probably even afford post horses along the way. Even if he had been in London when I left, he might have overtaken me on the way.

These were irrational fears, but they kept me awake, listening to the cathedral bells sounding out the hours. I began to feel sick with apprehension.