bulls, even.’
‘There are no fingers in my belongings except yours,’ I said. ‘If you would just fetch Master Daniel, I could explain my business. Here—’ I reached inside my doublet but before I could bring out the object I meant to show him, I felt a blow to the back of my knees; my legs crumpled and I crashed to the ground as the squinting man straddled me, pulling my left arm up behind my back.
‘Madonna porca – what are you doing?’ His weight mashed my face into the packed earth floor; I struggled to push him back enough that I could breathe.
‘He was drawing a weapon,’ the searcher told his colleague, who had leapt to his feet ready to join in.
‘I have no weapon in my doublet,’ I said, through clenched teeth. ‘I only meant to show you something that might make you believe me.’
The man considered for a moment, before shifting off me, loosening his grip. ‘Hands on the back of your head,’ he barked, ‘and stand slowly. I’ll see for myself if you’re armed.’
I folded my hands behind my head and rose to a crouch, my back to him. I could see them both from the corner of my eye, hovering, waiting for the smallest excuse to swing a fist at me, or worse. I began to turn; in one swift movement I bent, whipped out my dagger from the side of my boot and brought the point to the soft, pulsing skin between Squint’s collarbones.
‘I could cut his throat before you’ve even thought about drawing your knife,’ I said to Adam’s Apple, who froze, backing away, one hand to his belt. ‘Now go and wake Master Daniel as I asked so we can all be on good terms again.’ I flashed him a pleasant smile; he hesitated only briefly before lunging for the door. ‘Why don’t you put your hands on the back of your head?’ I said to my captive. He glowered at me, but obeyed.
‘You won’t get away with this,’ he muttered. ‘We broke from Rome to keep people like you out.’
I let out a soft laugh. There was nothing to be gained from trying to debate with men who thought like this.
‘What a curious race you are, you Englishmen,’ I mused, my dagger level at his neck. ‘I never met a people who complained so bitterly about their country and at the same time believed themselves the superiors of every other nation in Europe, just because God saw fit to surround you by sea.’
‘It’s 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.
