Bartholomew Fair

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Authors: Ann Swinfen
Tags: Historical, Thrillers, Mystery, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense
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cubbyhole, where we could soon hear the sound of his tiny tools carving a new seal. I went over to the window and pushed it open a little wider, so that the air from outside might counteract the heat of the fire. Phelippes grunted and placed a weight down on the pile of papers on his table to stop them blowing about. He rarely seemed to feel the heat. I removed my doublet, hung it on the back of my chair, and sat down to work in my shirt sleeves. Sara had made my new shirts with plenty of fabric, so that they bloused out generously, and I had no fear of being seen without my doublet, at least not by Phelippes, who was short sighted and anyway barely took notice of anything but the documents he was working on.
    For an hour or so we worked in silence. Rikki had curled up under my desk, resting his head on my feet. After a while they began to feel a little numb, but it was so pleasant to have his companionship, I endured it. There was no sound in the room but his occasional sigh, the scratching of our quills, and faint noises from Arthur’s room. The window here, like the one in Sir Francis’s office, faced the quays, and we could hear the distant creak of the cranes, the occasional shouts of the seamen and dockers, and now and then a faint thump as some crate hit deck or quay.
    Finally Phelippes laid down his pen, sanded his ink, and shook the excess into the bin beside his table. He laid the sheet down on his finished pile of documents.
    I took the opportunity to pose a question which had arisen from my own work.
    ‘Who is David?’
    He ran his hands through his hair again.
    ‘We don’t know. It could simply be another identity for a known spy, but I don’t think so.’
    ‘No,’ I said, holding up the document I had been deciphering. ‘I don’t recognise the hand. It’s a skilled hand. A swift one. He doesn’t labour over the coding as some do. He writes it as easily as the alphabet.’
    ‘Aye.’ Phelippes allowed himself a tight smile. ‘Like yourself, do you think?’
    He had often teased me about my pride in writing quickly in code.
    ‘Perhaps. Even when it is deciphered, the meaning of all this is very obscure. He seems to be referring to a trip – to England, perhaps? And a “project”. I do not like the sound of that. A “project” usually means trouble. Another attempt on Her Majesty’s life, do you suppose?’
    He gave me a sombre look. ‘That could well be the meaning. Can you make anything of it?’
    ‘Not really. I think there must have been other letters before this, which would have made the meaning clearer. There are no others?’
    ‘None from this source.’
    ‘Although it is written in French,’ I said slowly, ‘I think the writer is Spanish. Just by a few turns in the language, and one spelling mistake.’
    ‘Well, it came from someone in Mendoza’s service, that much we know, so the writer may be Spanish. But if it is addressed to the French embassy, that is no doubt why it is written in French.’
    ‘Aye.’
    The relationship between France and Spain in recent years was constantly volatile. Both were Catholic countries, both hated Protestant England. However, France was riven by internal conflict, where those Huguenots who had survived the Bartholomew’s Day Massacre of 1572 formed a strong opposition to the Catholic court. The French were also more than a little uneasy at King Philip’s ambition to rule the entire world. Non sufficit orbis. Moreover, his armies’ exploits in the Low Countries came dangerously near to France’s borders. The two nations would join forces when it suited them, but could turn on each other at times. The third player in the forces ranged against us was the Pope. According to Papal decree, our Queen was a bastard, a heretic, and an excommunicant. The Pope had granted a blessing and pardon in advance on any man who assassinated her.
    It was little wonder that rumours of a world of tension and suspicion at the English Court were widespread

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