Temperance was perturbed. ‘Lord! Perhaps I will ask Preacher Hill to lend us something instead. He has some books in his room.’
‘Religious ones,’ said Chaloner dismissively, before it occurred to him that the Puritans would probably prefer them to philosophy or legal texts.
‘His room?’ pounced Faith, eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know?’
‘He told me about them,’ said Metje quickly, earning a grateful smile from Temperance. ‘Where is the turkey? Is it safe to leave through the front door?’
‘It is in the kitchen eating nuts,’ replied North resentfully. ‘We shall have nothing left soon.’
Once away from the North house, when he was sure Temperance was not watching from her window, Chaloner grabbed Metje’s hand and pulled her up the stairs to his room, wanting to give her the gifts he had purchased. She was delighted, and they ate some of them sitting on the floor in front of the fire. Then, since he still had Kelyng’s silver crown, she declared Temperance’s musings had put her in the mood for a play, so he took her to see The Villain by Thomas Porter at the Duke’s House in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He fell asleep during the second act, although she was captivated until the closing curtain. After, they returned to his rooms, and he played Dutch folksongs on his viol.
Metje seemed happier than she had been in days, and confided that her ill temper had arisen from the fact that she had not known whether he would be pleased or angry with the news of the baby. He stroked her hair while she told him how the turkey had stood defiantly in the sitting room that morning, daring anyone to lay a hand on it while it gobbled its way though a bowl of chestnuts. North had responded by going to buy a chicken – a dead one – so they would at least have something to eat in the event of a postponed execution.
‘He thinks you might be persuaded to dispatch it,’ she said with a giggle. ‘When I asked him why, he said he thought you might like to redeem yourself after losing his burglar the other night.’
‘I am not killing it,’ said Chaloner sleepily. ‘He can do it himself, if he wants to eat it that badly.’
‘If you will not oblige, he says he will hire the Tower’s executioner. Sir John Robinson said that man will kill anything for a shilling. Mr North will devour a roasted bird tomorrow, regardless of whether or not you accede to his request.’
‘Poor turkey,’ said Chaloner.
‘You are sorry for a turkey? Is it because you spent time with Kelyng, and his fondness for dumb creatures rubbed off on you? Tell me the tale again – from the beginning.’
‘Not tonight,’ said Chaloner, aware of what happened when an untrue story was told more than once: inconsistencies crept in, and he did not want her to catch him in even the smallest of lies.
‘It is a bad idea to keep a menagerie in a castle. The King should send the animals back to where they came from – especially the lions. Those tiny cages are cruel.’
He regarded her in surprise. ‘You have seen them?’
She nodded. ‘One Saturday, when you were off on some mysterious jaunt, and the Norths were at chapel. Will Bennet die, do you think – like that poor man Wade, who fell from the wall?’
‘No, although his days as chamberlain are over. Kelyng was furious when he learned what had happened. He is fond of Sonya – probably recognises a kindred spirit in its damaged mind.’
She twisted around to look at him. ‘It was not Kelyng who invited you to the Tower, was it? I would not like to think you were so desperate for work you that would take Bennet’s place.’
He shuddered, genuinely appalled. ‘God forbid! When I meet people like Kelyng, I understand why gentler souls have taken a stand against his brand of militancy.’
‘What are you talking about?’
He shrugged, and wished he had not mentioned it. ‘There is a certain society that preaches against fanaticism. But let’s not talk about religion tonight. It is Christmas.’
‘But Christmas is …’ She saw he was laughing at her, and slapped him on the knee before settling again. ‘So, you bought me a brush for my hair. Do you think it a tangled mane, then? I always imagined you considered it rather beautiful, like a painting by Rubens.’
He smiled, thinking about what Sarah Dalton had thought of the old Dutch Master. ‘You are not fat enough to be one of his subjects.’
‘It is nice in here with you tonight, Tom – quiet, safe and warm. I wish it could last.’
‘It will,’ he said. ‘We have the rest of our lives together.’
‘Yes,’ she said, but her voice was wistful and held no conviction. ‘I suppose we do.’
On Christmas morning, Chaloner rose hours before dawn and scrambled over the wall to the back door of North’s house, hoping there would be no repetition of the furore that had ensued the last time he had done it. He fiddled with the lock, working quickly and silently in the darkness. When the door was open, the turkey marched past him, its head held high, as though it had business of its own planned for that day. Then he returned to his rooms before Metje realised he had been gone.
He insisted on walking with her to the chapel, claiming he did not care if North saw them. He pointed out that it was only a question of time before she could no longer conceal what was happening to her, while she maintained she would rather inform North herself than be seen stalking brazenly out of his neighbour’s bedchamber. Chaloner felt his spirits soar, making plans and thinking about the pleasant changes the future would bring.
‘Marry me today,’ he said, taking her hands and stepping inside the chapel’s dark porch. ‘We can ride to Buckingham tomorrow, and Meg can be born on my family’s manor.’
She smiled, although there was a sadness that should not have been there. He understood her unease: she was past thirty, and the two boys from her previous marriage had died in infancy. ‘I thought you wanted to be a London clerk.’
Chaloner thought about his unsettling interview with Kelyng, Bennet driving lions at him, Snow blasting away with pistols, horsemen with swords and Robert Leybourn challenging him to duels, and realised he no longer wanted the life of a spy. Suddenly, nothing seemed as important as Metje and the spark of life inside her. Thurloe and Clarendon would not miss him, and he certainly would not miss them. In fact, ever since he had chased after Thurloe’s empty satchel, events had spiralled out of his control, and he no longer wanted any part of them.
‘My brother will give us a few fields,’ he said. ‘And I can teach.’
‘But I do not want to be a farmer’s wife, thinking about chickens and pickled apples. I want to shop in busy markets, see plays and watch the King go riding. I would suffocate in the country.’
‘Then I will ask Dalton if he can find me something more permanent.’
‘You said you had already spoken to him,’ she pounced accusingly.
‘I mean I will ask again,’ he prevaricated.
She looked hard at him, then relented. ‘Meanwhile, I can earn a little more before Mr North realises he has harboured a harlot all these months. And then I will marry you.’
‘Chaloner,’ he said suddenly. ‘My name is Thomas Chaloner. My uncle was a regicide, and I worked as an intelligence officer under Spymaster Thurloe. That is what I was doing in Holland – gathering potentially damaging information about your country.’
She gazed at him. ‘So I was right when I accused you of underhand activities? You really are a spy?’
Chaloner pressed on with his confession, wanting to finish now he had started. ‘I sent weekly reports to Thurloe, telling him all I had learned about the movements of Dutch ships, militia and arms. Although I worked for Downing, Thurloe was my real master. He secured me a post with the Lord Chancellor on Monday, although I am not sure how long I can keep it. These are the reasons I go out at odd hours, and why I have never been able to tell you what I do.’