A Fine Madness by Alan Judd (best classic books TXT) 📕

V had pronounced another excommunication upon Her Majesty as a bastard heretic schismatic whom it was the duty of any Catholic to murder. The letter told us that this new papal bull was to be smuggled into England by one Gilbert Gifford who would land at Rye under another name and distribute the bill among the underground priesthood here. When Christopher arrived with it I was in Whitehall working on Spanish ciphers and was summoned to receive him downstairs. He was tired, his pale face reddened and roughened by the sea like any sailor’s. He had boarded a boat for Dover but the winds were contrary and they were buffeted days and nights before finally making landfall at Rye.

‘I should not be sorry never to go to sea again,’ he said.

Had he landed at Dover he would have spent the night at his home in Canterbury but now he felt he should return to Cambridge without seeing his family. The college authorities had already complained about his absences.

‘But they remain ignorant of what you are about?’

‘Of course. They wouldn’t complain otherwise.’

I suggested he rested in Whitehall awhile and then spent the night at Mr Secretary’s house. I sent out for food and drink and promised to accompany him there later. Then I retired to open the packets and decode Nicholas Berden’s letter. From that, and from a note scribbled hastily upon it, I realised that Christopher must have seen the man Gifford in Paris. I went down to him again when he had eaten. We sat on a long bench away from others where we could talk privately.

‘Where were you when you were given the packets by the man you met?’ He did not know Berden’s name.

‘Behind Notre Dame, on the point of the island, as instructed.’

‘What did he say?’

‘The same as last time: “Greetings, Mr Noakes, what brings you here?” And I say, “I seek food for thought.” And he says, “In that case, I have some sweetmeats for you.” That is supposed to signify that neither of us suspects we are being watched.’ He shrugged. ‘Doesn’t mean we weren’t, of course.’

‘He said nothing else?’

‘No. Well, not then.’ He yawned and scratched his stubble. ‘We walked for a while by the river, speaking of trade as if we were in business together. Except that when we passed a stall selling fruit he told me to look well at a man buying some. “You may see that man when you sail,” he said. “Have nothing to do with him.” When I asked why he said, “I may not tell you but if you hear him say his name, report it when you deliver your letters. But do not speak to him yourself.” ’

‘Did you hear his name?’

‘No. We didn’t travel together. He wasn’t on the boat. I never saw him again.’

‘Would you know him if you saw him?’

‘Oh yes.’ His gaze focused as if on a painting on the wall opposite. ‘He has curls, fair curls, and blue eyes.’

This glimpse of Christopher’s meant that his return to college was further delayed. When I reported it to Sir Francis he despatched a rider to Rye forthwith with orders that any man of Gifford’s description landing from France should be detained. He then ordered that I should post to Rye with Christopher the next morning to identify Gifford. We were to wait for up to a week. I was not best pleased by this for I had had my fill of travel and a hectic journey through the heavy clinging clay of Sussex tracks was not to my liking. Sometimes it was quicker to take ship down the Thames and round the coast, but not with the winds we had then. Nor was Christopher best pleased to retrace the steps he had so recently and wearily made. But there was no gainsaying Mr Secretary.

The journey was long, wet and wearing. We stayed the night in a wretched inn south of Tonbridge where the fleas persecuted us mightily. It was better when we reached Rye and put up at the Mermaid, a commodious establishment serving plentiful fish and good mutton from the Romney Marsh. The harbourmaster assured us that his searchers had been alerted to look for anyone of Gifford’s description but that there had been none on the last two vessels from France, both diverted like Christopher’s from Dover. The sea was still surly and the wind fitful; local vessels did not venture far from the shore. We were there two days with nothing to do except to explore the small town, waiting and watching as is so often the way in our profession.

We must have talked a good deal but I am afraid I cannot now recall much of what we said. I do remember that Christopher was always keen to hear of life at Court and of the doings of the great men there. Although I dwelt but in the suburbs of that world, I knew some of its denizens and heard much about it from casual gossip. I’m sure he also spoke about Ovid and probably about his own ambitions in poetry and theatre, but I recall nothing of it.

Actors, you say? Actors he was fond of? Did he mention any? Not that I recall.

Anyway, late afternoon on the second day we heard there was a ship sighted off the harbour mouth. We hurried down to the quay and saw a vessel labouring in heavy seas, making slow progress. One of the searchers recognised it as a French vessel out of Rouen. When it finally made it to the quay we stood back among the tall net huts to watch the people come ashore. Some poor souls could barely walk and had to be helped, all the others were unsteady on their legs, staggering like drunken men. They looked exhausted and a few simply sat on their bundles, heads bowed between their knees until they found strength to offer thanks to God for their deliverance. Among the first to recover