Free Queen & Country by Shirley McKay Page A

William’s objections.
    In confidence to Hew, Phelippes had confessed the purpose of the stay. Derbyshire was known to be a papist enclave, and the well at Buxton, with its ancient superstitions, was a favoured watering place for hatching Catholic plots. ‘There they may be lax, apt to let their secrets drop as loosely as their hose. Bathe with them. Drink with them, make yourself known to them. You an exile from Scotland, out of step with the king. Your father was a Catholic too, you understand their ways. Seek nothing out, but make yourself close to them, quiet, insinuate, earning their trust. Report all you hear of threat to our queen.’
    Though Phelippes had not lied to him, he had not told the truth. Thomas had in mind a more prestigious prize. ‘It is possible,’ he mentioned just before they left, ‘that someone in that house will attempt to contact you. If that happens, I would counsel you to follow your own heart, and what will out, will out.’
    Hew had set out in a spirit of adventure, on a journey which had turned into an arduous one. William was not fitted to the rigours of the road, and had suffered a relapse, as soon as they arrived, taking to his bed. They had not been quartered in the Buxton hall – Thomas had exaggerated, or spent out his influence – but in a smaller lodging house, a short walk from the baths. Hew’s sharp eyes had taken note of soldiers on the route; their papers were examined with a strict security that caused him some concern, but there was little sign of traffic or of bustle in the street. He had entered the earl’s hall, to be welcomed by the porter who was stationed at the door, and who functioned also as the keeper of the baths.
    â€˜You must subscribe your name in the register, here, and beside it, the place you are come from. Next, you will see the doctor, who will make assessment of your present state of health, and will prescribe you your treatments. You pay for your treatment according to your rank, and to the charges there.’
    The charges, which were painted on a board, ascended from a pittance for a pauper to considerable amounts for the highest in the land. A poor man paid fourpence, an archbishop, the sum of five pounds. The archbishop of St Andrews, the wily Patrick Adamson, had come to spend a winter in the south of England, ‘for benefit of health’. His passport application, sent to Francis Walsingham and passed by Laurence Tomson, had been shown to Hew. So snivelling and villainous a missive from a Scotsman he had seldom seen. Scotland was too cold, he should have said too warm for him, to ensure his comfort at that present time. It tickled Hew to think that he might come to Buxton, and pay high for the privilege. Patrick’s sparring partner, the reformer Andrew Melville had been driven down to England later that same year, fleeing the Black Acts. ‘Alsofor his health,’ Phelippes noted grimly. While Melville had found refuge among willing friends in Oxford, Hew felt relief that their paths had not crossed.
    As to himself, he had felt at a loss. He did not feel equipped to call himself a gentleman. He had entered in the register, ‘William Phillips of Leadenhall, London, customer of wool’, and below that, ‘Hew Cullan of St Andrews, lawyer, servant to the same’, and handed back the quill. The physician, he was told, had been called out to the baths, but would soon return, if he cared to wait.
    The keeper had for sale certain books and pamphlets to inform his guests, and Hew had bought two copies of a tract by Doctor Jones, on ‘The Benefit of the Ancient Baths at Buckstanes which Cureth Most Grievous Sicknesses’ , one to keep himself, and one to give to Giles. It occurred to him that he might make a cipher of the text, and send a secret letter, under Phelippes’ nose. Phelippes would no doubt have approved the sentiment, if not the act itself, as becoming to a spy.
    At the