It was more difficult to find travelling companions for the journey from Oxford to Hatfield. Most people were going to London, which was out of Ned’s way. While waiting he fell under the spell of the university. He liked the lively discussions about all kinds of topics, from where the Garden of Eden was to how the Earth could be round without people falling off it. Most students would become priests, a few lawyers or doctors; Ned’s mother had told him he would learn nothing at a university that could be of use to a merchant. Now he wondered if she had been right. She was wise, but not omniscient.
After four days he joined a group of pilgrims going to St Albans Cathedral. That took another three days. Then he took a chance and walked alone the last seven miles from St Albans to his destination.
King Henry VIII had confiscated Hatfield Palace from the bishop of Ely, and had used it as an occasional nursery for his children. Elizabeth had spent much of her childhood there, Ned knew. Now Queen Mary Tudor, Elizabeth’s older half-sister, liked to keep her there. Hatfield was twenty miles north of London, a day’s walk or half a day’s fast ride: Elizabeth was out of London, where she might have been a nuisance, but close enough to be watched. Elizabeth was not exactly a prisoner, but she was not free to come and go as she pleased.
The palace was visible from a distance, atop a rise. It looked like an enormous barn built of red brick with leaded windows. As he climbed the slope to the entrance arch, Ned saw that in fact it was four linked buildings in a square, enclosing a courtyard big enough to hold several tennis courts.
His apprehension grew as he saw the busy crowd in the yard, grooms and laundresses and delivery boys. He realized that even though Elizabeth was out of favour she was still royal, and she maintained a large household. Probably lots of people would like to work for her. Perhaps the servants turned applicants away every day.
He walked into the courtyard and looked around. Everyone was busy, no one noticed him. Cecil might be away, he realized: one reason the man needed an assistant was that he could not be at Hatfield all the time.
Ned went up to an older woman placidly shelling peas. ‘Good day, mistress,’ he said politely. ‘Where might I find Sir William Cecil?’
‘Ask the fat man,’ she said, jerking a thumb at a well-dressed heavy-set figure Ned had not previously noticed. ‘Tom Parry.’
Ned approached the man. ‘Good day, Master Parry,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see Sir William Cecil.’
‘A lot of people would like to see Sir William,’ said Parry.
‘If you tell him Ned Willard from Kingsbridge is here, he will be glad of the information.’
‘Will he, now?’ Parry was sceptical. ‘From Kingsbridge?’
‘Yes. I walked here.’
Parry was unimpressed. ‘I didn’t think you’d flown.’
‘Will you be so kind as to give him my name?’
‘And if he asks me what business Ned Willard has with him, what shall I say?’
‘The confidential matter he and I discussed with the earl of Shiring on the Twelfth Day of Christmas.’
‘Sir William, and the earl, and you?’ said Parry. ‘What were you doing – serving the wine?’
Ned smiled thinly. ‘No. But the topic was, as I mentioned, confidential.’ He decided that if he submitted himself to any further rude interrogation he would begin to seem desperate, so he ended the conversation. ‘Thank you for your courtesy,’ he said, and turned his back.
‘All right, no need to take umbrage. Come with me.’
Ned followed Parry into the house. The place was gloomy and somewhat decrepit: Elizabeth might have a royal income, but clearly it did not stretch to refurbishing a palace.
Parry opened a door, looked in, and said: ‘Do you want to receive a Ned Willard from Kingsbridge, Sir William?’
A voice inside answered: ‘Very well.’
Parry turned to Ned. ‘Go in.’
The room was large, but not richly decorated; a working office, with ledgers on shelves, rather than a reception room. Cecil sat at a writing table, with pens and ink, paper and sealing-wax. He wore a black velvet doublet that looked too warm for summer weather – but he was sedentary, and Ned had been walking in the sun.
‘Ah, yes, I remember,’ Cecil said when he saw Ned. ‘Alice Willard’s boy.’ His tone was neither friendly nor unfriendly, just a little wary. ‘Is your mother well?’
‘She’s lost all her money, Sir William,’ Ned replied. ‘Most of our fortune was in Calais.’
‘Several good men have suffered a similar fate. We were foolish to declare war on France. But why have you come to me? I can’t get Calais back.’
‘When we met, at the earl of Shiring’s banquet, you said you were looking for a young man a bit like myself, to help you in your work for the lady Elizabeth. My mother told you I was destined to work in the family business, and therefore unavailable – but now there is no business. I don’t know whether you found someone . . .’
‘I did,’ said Cecil, and Ned was crestfallen. Then Cecil added: ‘But he turned out to be a bad choice.’
