Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon (читать книги онлайн полные версии .TXT) 📗

John confirmed that the young knight had left at first light, with a small basket of pies and cheese to sustain him for his next day’s ride.

After a bowl of porridge, Thomas pulled on a thick hooded cloak and set off on foot across the fields of his estate to the farm of one of his tenants. There were trees that needed felling in one of the copses that grew on his land and he had arranged to join the farmer and his burly sons to cut them down. It was hard labour that Thomas might easily have left to them, but he relished the exercise and the warm glow of satisfaction at seeing the pile of logs that had been amassed by noon. After bidding the others farewell, Thomas strode back to the hall, feeling purged of the thoughts that had troubled him the previous night. He resolved to leave for Malta within the week.

It was at that moment that the second messenger arrived.

The rider came through the arched gateway just as Thomas was kicking the snow from his boots by the porch of the main entrance to the hall. The hooves of the messenger’s horse had been muffled by the snow so there was no warning of his approach. Thomas looked up quickly as he sensed movement and saw the rider jerk the reins to direct the horse across the courtyard towards him. He wore a blue cloak and the new breeches that had become fashionable in London. The blue of the cloak marked him out as the servant of a wealthy household. As he approached he raised a gloved hand and pointed at Thomas.

‘You there! A word with you.’

Thomas straightened up and folded his arms as the rider’s mount trotted across the snow, the hooves of the horse kicking up little sprays of white crystals in their wake. He stopped a dozen yards from Thomas and plumes of breath swirled from the muzzle of the horse.

‘Can you tell me if this is Barrett Hall?’

‘It is.’

The rider nodded with relief and then swung himself down from the saddle and landed softly in the snow, still holding the reins in one hand. He offered Thomas a smile. ‘Been on the road from London since dawn. Turned off at Bishops Stortford on to some forsaken track. It’s taken me hours to find this place. Hardly anyone on the road had ever heard of it.’

‘We like to keep to ourselves,’ said Thomas. ‘The fewer visitors the better.’ His tone was not hostile yet the rider’s expression hardened at the presumed insult and he addressed Thomas with a haughty look.

‘Fellow, is your master home? I am told he rarely ventures far from this place in recent years.’

‘That is true.’ Thomas nodded.

‘Is he within?’ the rider asked tersely. ‘I have no time for games. I must away to London as soon as my duty is done.’

‘The master is not yet within. What is your will with him?’

‘That is for me to say directly to his face, not to his servant.’

‘Then speak it.’

The other man’s irritable expression darkened for an instant before realisation struck him and at once his demeanour changed and he bowed his head. ‘My apologies, sir. I did not know.’

‘Then why presume to treat me as an inferior?’

The man raised his head and gestured towards Thomas. ‘Sir, your apparel is not that of a gentleman. I assumed—’

‘Assumed? Presumed? Do you always judge a man by his appearance?’

‘Sir, I ... I ... I can only apologise.’

Thomas stared hard at him, until the rider looked down. The man had made an honest mistake and no ill will had been meant, yet it rankled with Thomas. The rider was typical of the society that filled the royal court and those lesser circles that clung to its periphery. The appearance of a person was everything, while the substance of their character was largely ignored. It offended Thomas’s understanding of men and the world, and he felt a sour resentment settle on his spirit over the fact that his privacy had been invaded twice in less than a day.

‘Very well, what news for me?’

‘A summons, if you please, sir.’ The rider looked up again, and spoke in a respectful tone this time. ‘From my master, Sir Robert Cecil. He requests that you attend him at his house on Drury Lane in London tomorrow, at six of the clock.’

‘He requests? And if I say no?’

The servant’s jaw slackened momentarily, as if he had not understood, as if there was no question of an alternative to simple acquiescence to his master’s will. He swallowed nervously before he replied. ‘I have no instructions concerning your refusal of his request, sir.’

‘A pity.’ Thomas shrugged. ‘Then it is a command that you bring me. In which case I am compelled to attend. Very well, tell your master that I will be there at the appointed time.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Thomas looked at him for a moment. The servant had been in the saddle for over half the day and would not return to the capital before dark. The gates would be shut and like as not he would be compelled to find a place to sleep outside the walls of London. It would be a kindness to offer him refreshment and rest before he left the hall, as he had done for the Frenchman. But then he had not had to endure such haughtiness from his other guest. For that reason Thomas did not move from his place in front of his door.

‘I have your message and you may go.’

‘Aye, sir.’ The servant nodded, willing enough to quit his presence. He grasped the pommel of his saddle in one hand and placed his boot in the stirrup. He made to rise into the saddle but the cold had made his joints stiff and he slipped back on to the ground. With an irritable grunt Thomas stepped up, bent down and hoisted the servant up into the saddle.

‘My thanks, sir.’

Thomas nodded and the servant took in the reins and wheeled his mount round, spurring it into a trot back across the courtyard and out through the arch, the soft thump of the hooves fading swiftly away. Thomas stared at the gateway for a while, and then turned and strode into his home, calling out loudly, ‘John! John! Damn you, man! Where are you?’

‘I’m coming, sir!’ came the reply from the kitchen. A moment later the door opened and the old retainer came hurrying out, wiping crumbs from his chin.

‘I shall need my saddlebags, riding cloak, boots and sword for the morrow. See that they are cleaned and ready for the morning. I ride to London.’

‘Yes, sir.’ John tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘Might I ask how long you will be gone?’

‘Who knows?’ Thomas smiled faintly. ‘It would appear that it is not in my power to say when I will return.’

CHAPTER NINE

London

Dusk was gathering as Thomas approached the capital which sprawled across the landscape like a dark stain some miles ahead. The Great North Road had frozen hard and the heavily rutted surface had forced Thomas to slow his horse to a walk as he settled in behind a wool merchant’s cart in the long column of wagons, riders and travellers on foot making their way to London before the gates closed for the night. Thomas had been content to ride at the pace of the column, unlike the handful of post riders who had hurried past during the day. On either side of the trampled snow and exposed streaks of frozen earth a blanket of white lay over the fields and copses. The sky was overcast and there had been brief flurries since noon and a fresh fall of snow looked likely. Thin skeins of smoke trailed into the sky from the chimneys of isolated farmhouses and villages that dotted the landscape. Here and there a rosy glow shone through a window and made the travellers long for the comfort of a warm hearth.

Even though the day had been long and the cold had seeped into his flesh so that he hunched into his thick cloak, Thomas’s thoughts were elsewhere. Only a small amount of his attention, as much as was needed, was fixed on guiding his mount and paying occasional attention to his surroundings. For the rest, he was concerned with the reason behind this summons to the home of Sir Robert Cecil, the Queen’s Secretary of State. Thomas knew that Cecil had been a firm supporter of Elizabeth in the difficult years before she had succeeded to the throne. Like her, Cecil was a devout Protestant and the prime mover behind efforts to suppress the influence of Catholics in England. He wielded great power and was the foremost statesman in the country, so what could he possibly want with an obscure knight who had not shown his face in London these last three years?