Execution. S. J. Parris
well known Italians are all sodomites,’ he said, though quietly. I laughed again; I almost admired his defiance.
‘Is that right? You must be nervous, then, the two of us alone here.’ He took a step back, struggling to control his expression. I matched his movement. ‘Careful you don’t back yourself into a corner – who knows what I might do? And tell me – what of the Spanish?’
‘Don’t even get me started on the Spanish.’ His squint intensified as his eyes grew animated. ‘They want to invade us and rape our women, make us slaves to kiss the Pope’s hole. You’re all the bloody same.’
‘It’s a wonder you can tell us apart,’ I said. ‘You must enjoy your work here.’ My hand was shaking with cold; I had to concentrate hard on keeping the knife steady so that I didn’t cut him by mistake. I had no intention of causing more trouble than necessary.
He puffed himself up, despite the blade. ‘My work is keeping England safe from the likes of you. And I am proud of that, yeah. Means I can look my son square in the eye when I go home, tell him he’ll grow up a free Englishman.’
‘Good for you. It must be quite a feat for you to look anyone square in the eye.’
I gave him a sympathetic smile, seeing how much he wanted to hit me. I was half-tempted to tell him of my own work, let him appreciate the irony, but I restrained myself; the truth about my journey was for Richard Daniel only. Squint subsided into silence, shooting me furious glances from the side of his good eye. I considered soliciting his view of the French, but I was too tired and the game had lost its amusement.
At length, the door opened and Adam’s Apple returned in the company of a tall, broad man with black hair and beard who appeared to have dressed hastily, his doublet laced awry. He carried only a lantern, but I could see Adam’s Apple had picked up a hefty stick on his way.
The newcomer held up the light and peered at me through the gloom.
‘So this is the troublemaker. My man here thinks you may be a secret priest, or a spy. Do you have papers?’
‘Richard Daniel?’
He nodded, impatient.
I lowered the knife, sheathed it again in my boot, and showed him my empty hands, before reaching slowly inside my doublet, where I had a pocket sewn inside the lining. I drew out a silver ring and held it out to him. He lifted it to the light, examined the emblem engraved on it, and nodded again.
‘Come with me. I will take you somewhere we can talk. You look as if you need food and dry clothes.’
‘What I need is a fast horse,’ I said, my legs weak with relief. I couldn’t help feeling a small triumph at the disappointment on the searchers’ faces.
‘We’ll discuss it. For now you look barely able to sit upright on a chair. Your face is green. Come and eat.’
I realised the floor was swaying beneath me like the deck of the boat; I let my head hang slack and followed him, to the sound of muttered insults from the two men we left behind.
He led me uphill, along a narrow, curving street of pretty cottages, lime-washed fronts pearly in the moonlight, to a timber-framed building where the sign of The Mermaid creaked over the entrance. I followed him into an oak-panelled tap-room, empty now and silent, where stubs of candles burnt low in sconces and the embers of a fire glowed in the wide hearth. He ushered me to a stool by the fireplace and disappeared through a side door. I took off my wet cloak and huddled towards the fading warmth in the grate, catching a low exchange of voices from the passage outside. At length Daniel returned, yawning as he drew up a chair alongside me.
‘The maid will bring warm food and wine in a moment.’
‘Is it your tavern?’
He shook his head. ‘I have the use of a room when I’m on duty. Even the Queen’s searchers must catch a few hours’ sleep now and then.’
‘I’m sorry to draw you from your bed,’ I said, rubbing my hands over my face.
He waved the apology aside. ‘It’s what I’m here for. So you carry Nicholas Berden’s signet ring. Why did he not come himself?’
I caught the edge of suspicion in his voice, and did not blame him for it. Berden was Sir Francis Walsingham’s most trusted agent in Paris; his mark guaranteed the integrity of any document or person who carried it. But the traffic of secret letters between England and France was so fraught now, every network fearful of infiltration by double-dealers, that it was not beyond belief that I might be a Catholic conspirator who had killed Berden and stolen his ring to use as a passport.
‘Berden intercepted a letter, two days ago. He wants it in the right hands without delay. He is well entrenched with the English Catholics in Paris now, they take him for one of their own – he could not leave for England in haste without arousing suspicion, and he did not want to pass it through the English embassy, because he fears it is not secure. So he asked me to deliver it myself.’
He gave me a long look, sizing me up. ‘Why you?’
‘There is no reason my name should mean anything to you,’ I said, meeting his gaze straight on. ‘But we serve the same master. You understand my meaning. I must leave for London as soon as possible.’
‘This letter you carry speaks of some imminent threat, then?’ He watched me carefully, doubt lingering in his eyes.
‘That is for greater men than me to determine,’ I said, with equal care. ‘My instructions are only to put it into their hands. But Berden believes it cannot wait, and I trust his judgement.’
‘He did not tell you what it contains?’
‘No.’ This was a lie, and I suspected he guessed it. We continued to watch one another, until we were interrupted by the arrival of a young girl, cap aslant, eyes blurry with sleep, carrying a jug of wine and a bowl of pottage. Daniel sat back in silence, arms folded, while I attempted to swallow some, my hollow stomach cramping at each mouthful until I began to relax and felt the warmth spread through my numb limbs.
‘So you will give me a horse?’ I asked, when I could speak again.
He pressed his lips together. ‘We have post-horses ready to courier urgent messages to London. But if I may say so again, you do not look fit for the road. If your letter is so important, I should feel safer entrusting it to an experienced fast rider.’ He passed a hand over his beard. ‘Besides, as you have seen, your appearance attracts hostility from some Englishmen. You will have to stop for food and water along the way, and those you encounter will not give two shits for Nicholas Berden’s ring. What then, if your message should be lost, and you the only one in possession of its content?’
‘I know how to fight.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But you are only one man. And you are – forgive me, what age are you?’ He frowned.
‘Thirty-eight. Not quite in my dotage yet, sir.’ I guessed him to be thirty at most, though likely less; sea-winds could age a man beyond his years. I leaned across the table and lowered my voice. ‘I will see this letter delivered into Walsingham’s hands myself, and no one will prevent me, I swear to it.’ I spoke through my teeth, with more confidence than I felt; I knew that everything he said made good sense, better sense than my plan, but this letter was my passport back to Walsingham’s favour and I had not come this far to entrust it to some messenger and lose the opportunity I hoped to gain by it.
Richard Daniel looked at me for a long while, weighing up my words, and finally nodded, a half-smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.
‘I see you are a stubborn fellow,’ he said. ‘Well, then. I shall find you a horse while you change your clothes. But I must insist you take one of my men with you, for protection. He can carry food and water for your journey too.’
I hesitated, but saw this was the best deal I was likely to strike, and I had seventy miles to cover across the Sussex Weald and the