Chapter 19: The Road to Dover

The rain had not relented by dawn. It fell in grey, relentless sheets, turning the lanes of Morland into rivers of mud and turning Edmund’s mood as sodden as his boots. He stood in the stable yard, cloak pulled tight, watching the grooms saddle two horses—a sturdy bay for himself and a dappled grey mare for Cecily, who had insisted on accompanying him despite his protests.

“You argue like a man who has already lost,” she said, emerging from the house with a leather satchel slung over her shoulder. Her hair was pinned severely beneath a riding hood, and her eyes held the sharp gleam of someone who had slept little and thought much.

“I argue like a man who prefers to travel alone,” Edmund replied. “It is a less exhausting enterprise.”

“And yet you have never once travelled alone since we met.” She stepped past him and mounted the grey with an ease that suggested she had been riding since childhood. “Your preference, my lord, is a fiction you tell yourself.”

He had no answer for that, so he climbed onto his own horse and urged it forward, the rain stinging his face. The road to Dover would take the better part of two days, and every hour was a gift to the conspirators—if Hunsdon indeed stood at their heart.

They rode in silence for the first mile, the rhythm of hooves and rain filling the air. Edmund’s mind churned through the letter he had read a dozen times in the privacy of his study. Lord Hunsdon. The Queen’s cousin. A man who had spent a lifetime guarding her, and who now apparently wished to see her replaced by a woman who had spent nineteen years in English prisons. It made no sense—unless ambition had curdled into something darker, something that saw the realm’s salvation in a different face upon the throne.

“You are thinking too loudly,” Cecily said, breaking the quiet.

“I am thinking about treason,” he replied. “It is a noisy business.”

“It is a quiet business until it fails.” She glanced at him, rain beading on her lashes. “Tell me what you know of this merchant.”

“Little enough. He came to me three years ago, seeking a loan for a shipping venture. He offered information on Spanish movements in the Channel as collateral. I took the information and gave him the loan. He has repaid both.”

“And you trust him?”

Edmund considered the question. “I trust that he is a man of commerce. Such men are predictable. They will betray anyone for the right price, but they will not betray a creditor who has never pressed them.”

“That is not trust, my lord. That is arithmetic.”

“It is the closest thing to trust that exists in this realm.”

They pressed on through the morning, stopping only briefly at a wayside inn to change horses and swallow a hurried meal of bread and salted meat. The innkeeper recognised Edmund’s arms on his saddlecloth and offered a low bow, but his eyes lingered on Cecily with a curiosity that Edmund did not care for. He paid for the meal and left without comment.

By afternoon, the rain had slackened to a drizzle, and the landscape opened into the flat, wind-scoured country of the Kentish Weald. The road here was better—packed chalk that drained quickly—and they made good time. Edmund’s legs ached, and his neck had developed a stiffness that no amount of adjusting his cloak could ease. He had not realised how much he had come to depend on his daily naps until they were denied him. He felt the lack like a physical wound.

“You look as though you are dying,” Cecily observed. “Is this what espionage does to a man?”

“This is what a horse does to a man who prefers a cushioned chair and a warm fire.” He shifted in the saddle. “I was not built for pursuit.”

“You were not built for anything, as far as I can tell, save for avoiding it.”

He laughed despite himself. “You have a singular talent for making idleness sound like an accusation.”

“It is an accusation, my lord. You have a mind that could move mountains, and you spend it on lute music and hunting.”

“Mountains are overrated,” he said. “They block the view.”

She shook her head, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. For a moment, Edmund allowed himself to enjoy the sight of it—the way it softened the sharp lines of her face, the way it made her seem less a puzzle and more a person. Then he remembered that she had her own secrets, her own purpose in this tangled web, and the moment passed.

They reached Dover as the light was failing. The town clung to the cliffs like a barnacle, its streets narrow and crowded with sailors, merchants, and the constant press of those who lived by the sea. The harbour was thick with masts, and the smell of tar and fish hung heavy in the air. Edmund found them lodging at a modest inn near the quay—the Golden Anchor, a name so common it could not possibly attract suspicion.

The merchant’s name was Bartholomew Crane. He kept a counting house on the harbour front, above a warehouse that smelled of wool and spice. Edmund sent a note ahead with a boy, and within the hour Crane appeared at the inn, a thin man with a face like a ledger and hands that never stopped moving.

“My lord Morland,” Crane said, bowing. “I had not expected to see you so soon. Your message said only that you required my services.”

“I require information,” Edmund said, gesturing for the man to sit. “And discretion.”

Crane’s eyes flicked to Cecily, then back to Edmund. “You may speak freely, my lord. My ears are as closed as my books are open.”

Edmund leaned forward. “I need to know who in Dover handles correspondence for the Scottish queen’s household. Letters, parcels—anything that moves between France and England without passing through the usual channels.”

Crane’s face did not change, but his hands stilled. “That is a dangerous question, my lord.”

“All my questions are dangerous these days. It has become something of a habit.”

The merchant was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “There is a man called Jan Vos. A Dutchman. He keeps a warehouse on the eastern quay, and he ships goods between Calais and here. Nothing remarkable—cloth, wine, the occasional painting. But I have heard whispers that his cargo sometimes carries more than merchandise.”

“What kind of whispers?”

“Letters,” Crane said. “Coded letters, sewn into linings, hidden in hollow casks. I cannot confirm it, but the pattern is there. He receives more from Calais than he ships, and he always pays his customs in coin, never credit.”

Edmund exchanged a glance with Cecily. “Can you arrange a meeting?”

“I can arrange for you to be near him,” Crane said. “Whether he will speak to you is another matter. He is wary of strangers, and he has a habit of disappearing when questions are asked.”

“Then we will not ask questions,” Edmund said. “We will simply observe.”

Crane nodded slowly. “I will do what I can. But I would be remiss, my lord, if I did not warn you—Jan Vos has connections. If he is involved in what you suspect, he will have protectors. And they will not hesitate to act.”

Edmund rose, feeling the weight of the day settle into his bones. “I have never been fond of hesitation, Master Crane. It only gives the enemy time to think.”

After the merchant had gone, Cecily turned to Edmund. “You do not intend to simply observe, do you?”

“I intend to do whatever is necessary,” he said, pouring himself a cup of wine. “And then I intend to sleep for a week.”

But even as he said it, he knew the sleep would not come easily. The name of Jan Vos hung in the air like a challenge, and somewhere beyond the harbour, the sea churned with the promise of ships and storms. The Armada was coming, and every thread he pulled brought him closer to the heart of the conspiracy—or to the noose.

He drained the cup and set it down. “Tomorrow, we visit the eastern quay.”

Cecily nodded, her eyes unreadable. “And if Vos is not there?”

Edmund smiled, though there was little warmth in it. “Then we will find him. I did not come this far to let a Dutchman ruin my afternoon nap.”