‘Abingdon, go to Abingdon,’ he was saying. ‘Find George Eliot and tell him to bring the magistrate and a force of men, as many as he can, and come with all speed. There are rich pickings here and I don’t doubt he will be well rewarded.’
The other man said something I couldn’t catch and Red Beard shook his head. ‘Now, with all speed. Go now.’ He stepped back and slapped the horse’s neck as the rider turned away.
I could hear him trotting briskly along the path towards Wantage. Red Beard stood watching for a moment before turning back towards the manor. I waited for his footsteps to fade before creeping farther forward. Through the massed leaves of a holly I saw the back of him as he disappeared around a bend, a broad back, burly, clad in a brown leather tunic and clumping along in heavy riding boots. I could have followed but did not want to risk his turning and seeing me. Instead I returned to the inn.
I visited the tree again early that evening but there was still no Christopher and no message. Worried that something might have gone wrong in the manor, that he might have been discovered, I advanced through the trees towards the house, keeping parallel with the path. It was difficult to move silently through the undergrowth but I took my time and eventually had a view of it. The drawbridge was still down but there was a man watching it from one of the turrets. He took no care to conceal himself, looking outwards all the time, either down at the grounds or scanning the horizon and shielding his eyes with his hands. Twice he looked directly at the trees concealing me. I kept still. Then, while I watched and wondered what I could do – which was nothing, of course – Red Beard appeared on the far side of the drawbridge leading a sturdy bay horse. Once across the bridge he mounted and trotted back along the path towards Wantage, passing close enough for me to smell the horse. The man in the tower watched him for a while before turning away and disappearing. He was back two or three minutes later, having presumably reported.
A few minutes later Christopher strolled out of the house onto the drawbridge. He gave the appearance of one at ease and taking the air. He crossed the drawbridge and loitered on the bank, examining the water-lilies. Then he strolled towards the trees on the other side of the path from me, fingering and examining the lower branches. Next he bent a hazel branch until it half snapped, then from beneath his tunic took out the dagger I thought he had promised to leave behind and cut the branch free. Next he strolled along the path past where I was hiding, using his knife to shape one end of the branch into a rough handle. He looked like a well-fed idler on a fine day, a youth without thought or care.
I let him pass before creeping back through the woods to our oak. He had beaten me to it but was no longer the dreamer with time on his hands. He cut off my account of how I had followed him, stabbing the ground with his stick.
‘You must act now. Father Campion is here for the taking. He arrived last night and preached this morning. He said Mass, I was there. They will hide him until tomorrow. But they are watchful, suspicious of another man there, a man called Frizer. He’s a bit of a ruffian but friendly with the cook with whom he used to work at the house of Thomas Roper in Canterbury, which is where I come from. Roper is grandson to Sir Thomas More, good Catholic family, which was why the cook vouched for Frizer. But they don’t trust him, they suspect he might be doing what I’m doing, especially as he left suddenly on horseback just now without word to anyone.’
‘Any sign that you are suspected?’
‘I don’t think so. He and I quarrelled.’
‘How? What about? Describe him.’
He described Red Beard and I told him what I had overheard. Also, that I had been warned of him and that he worked for the Earl of Leicester. ‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to complicate your task. What was your quarrel?’
‘He challenged me in front of others, asking did he not know me by sight, was I not the cobbler’s son from Canterbury? I don’t remember him and had no reason to think he’d recognise me but he evidently does. In which case I can’t think why he’d say so publicly unless to deflect attention from himself. I denied it, of course, but he kept on about it and so I said he must know me from Cambridge where I now suddenly remembered seeing him with soldiers and burghers of the town. He’d helped arrest some scholars suspected of being Catholics about to flee abroad. He denied that of course and cuffed my head, cursing me for a lying whelp. Which was true, of course. Then we fought.’
‘You fought?’ The Frizer I had glimpsed was a burly grown man but Christopher looked unharmed, his skin unblemished, his skull unbroken.
‘Only briefly. Others intervened. But not before I split his lip with a pewter mug.’ He smiled. ‘I did not pull my knife. You should
