Harry Thomas

This Blessed Plot

Chapter One

Sir Thomas’s legs felt steady despite the Queen’s men blowing white plumes into the chill dawn mist. He’d hobbled his horse in the dead ground of Briar’s Hill and now he picked his way through the dewy woodlands at the estate’s edge. Each step was cloaked only in birdsong, each snapped twig echoing in the hush. Sir Francis Walsingham’s jaw tightened beside him, a warning Thomas met with a slow nod before pressing on in silence.

Thomas reminded himself why he’d lent five men to the raid: not necessity but duty. His rank as Earl of Suffolk, and his proximity to Hengrave Hall, would lend weight to any warrant. He resented playing courtier to Walsingham, yet refusal would have been noted at court. He wasn’t here to enforce the law. He was here to make it look palatable.

Walsingham’s stocky frame stood unshaken by the chill. Thomas watched the spymaster’s breath curl away—no land of his own, only a knighthood earned hunting priests under the patronage of Robert Cecil, that weaselled hunchback who now held the Principal Secretary’s seal. He didn’t trust Walsingham and trusted Cecil even less. One word from that crippled clerk, and a man could find his estate under audit, his letters opened, his name whispered like a curse.

It was Elizabeth’s campaign against the Catholics that had dragged him from a warm bed. Rumours of the Queen’s faltering health hadn’t slowed the Crown’s orders. Any hint of mass was enough to warrant a raid. Thomas frowned. He’d parroted the rhetoric when required, but calling secret worship a threat to the realm seemed a stretch even to him.

Twenty men‑at‑arms broke cover from the tree line, and Hengrave Hall’s red-brick façade slid into view. Walsingham shook his fist twice. Thomas recognised the military signal to break into a run, and the shadows sprang forward, boots gouging dark divots in the manicured lawn.

He admired the fountain’s vast basin as he climbed the rear stone steps, pausing at its elegant curve and looking past it to drawn curtains that cast the windows in shadow. No sign of life yet. Servants still slept below, but not for long—soon they’d rush from hearths to kitchens, fling open drapes, and warn their master.

The men fanned out around the stone ambulatory. Its span was too broad to cover every exit while breaching the main door, but it seemed Walsingham was well practised at visiting noble sympathisers. He left a handful at the rear, with more on the wings to relay messages.

The final twelve closed on the oak‑and‑iron Tudor entrance, a relic seemingly capable of repelling armies. Thomas recalled pointing out Hengrave’s strength on the night ride and Walsingham’s sure answer: “You’re right, Sir Howard, but beauty betrays these halls. Every building must admit light.”

The spymaster’s confidence sent a chill through Thomas. He leaned against the stone column and realised grimly that Walsingham spoke truth: tall, narrow windows, each wider than two men, lined the red brick estate. Thomas made a mental note to reconsider Wexham Hall’s design; he’d not be undone by something so trivial as windows.

Walsingham took up position on the opposite column and waited for his men to settle. He needed only a moment. Then he drew his sword and struck the door with the ball of its hilt.

“Open in the name of Her Majesty the Queen!”

At the same time, a similar command thundered from the rear grounds. Walsingham’s men renewed their barrage while he stepped back to watch the windows. Soon a drape twitched. Walsingham nodded, and with a crash, the men drove their cudgels through the glass, splinters scattering across the sill and into the house.

The thudding grew louder as more joined the assault, their practised shouts hoarse with effort. Inside, the Lord of the house bellowed in rage:

“How dare you attack my home! The court will hear of this. Who are you to demand entry of me?”

The knocking subsided, letting the lord’s outrage echo clearly. Thomas saw Walsingham’s expression darken. His legendary contempt for noble conceit surfacing instantly.

“I am here on behalf of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth,” Walsingham spat back, “to whom you are a sworn vassal. I answer to no one save Robert Cecil, Principal Secretary. Open this door at once, or by God, I’ll have you and your property burned to the ground for defying the lawful command of the Queen.”

Thomas felt the threat land like a stone in his gut—but his face remained unreadable. There was a sharp intake of breath from behind the door, followed by the steady voice of a woman. Thomas guessed it was Gage’s wife, rumoured to possess twice her husband’s intellect.

A dull scrape came from behind the door, then the heavy thud of a bar withdrawn. With a softer click, the doors swung open, revealing a red-faced servant who quickly stepped aside.

Behind him stood a striking young woman with auburn hair, partially restrained beneath a linen coif. Thick plaits dipped around her ears, woven back in a style Thomas imagined continued further than he could see—a thought that brought a flush of shame. Her gown was immaculate, deep velvet of red and blue fitted closely to a slender frame. She stood poised, radiating quiet strength without the threat of violence.

She offered a shallow curtsey, meeting Thomas’s gaze just briefly before lowering her emerald eyes. They shone vividly against pale, flawless skin. Thomas stood captivated, momentarily lost in silence, until Walsingham’s broad frame barged across the threshold, shattering the moment and blocking her from view. A footman held the door, arms trembling. He didn’t flinch at Walsingham’s passing—but Thomas saw how hard he was gripping the wood, as if that one task might spare him.

*

Elizabeth Gage stepped back alongside her sister and mother. She had no intention of preventing entry to these men, and her husband should have known better than to question their authority. Only the Queen’s men would hack at their door in a dawn raid, and only the Queen’s men would dare incur property damage over a slight delay. She could still hear faint sobs from her maids in the adjoining rooms, hastily gathering shards of broken glass. She folded her arms, not in defiance, but to keep her hands from trembling.

She had hurried to counsel John in his chamber the moment shouting began, but her husband’s stubbornness was formidable. The twenty years between them deafened him to her, though she doubted age was the true barrier; John would scarcely listen to wisdom that came from a woman. Perhaps if they’d had children, he might have been less reckless in his flagrant loyalty to the Pope. She had tried her best on both accounts, to no avail. Now she would be unable to contradict him openly, and the unfolding drama would inevitably be driven by his foolery.

“What is the meaning of this?” John roared, though his voice cracked midway. Sweat prickled at his neck, and the sword belt—poorly fastened around a bulging gut—jangled awkwardly as he clattered down the polished staircase. Elizabeth closed her eyes in frustration, sending up a silent prayer, then glanced at her sister, whose knuckles whitened around a candlestick. She could offer no comfort, not with the wolves already inside.

Walsingham gestured sharply, and his men stripped the sword from Sir John’s waist.

“It’s not that I imagine you to be a great swordmaster, Sir Gage,” Walsingham sneered. “It’s that I fear you might take your wife’s pretty head off by mistake.”

The men laughed heartily, their mockery echoing through the grand entrance hall. Thomas stepped past the group, carefully scanning adjoining rooms for any threat that might lie in wait. It was doubtful anyone but frightened servants remained, but he valued his life more than his pride. The hallway floor, a Venetian pattern of black and white checks, reinforced his envy of the estate’s elegance. The arrangement made the opposing groups appear like warring chess pieces. His eyes sought Elizabeth—recognising her immediately as the queen in the grim tableau. He caught himself questioning his own place in the game, but was distracted by the spymaster.

“Sir Gage,” Walsingham began again, voice now solemn and commanding, “I ask you plainly, before these men and your own family: are you harbouring a priest here? Did you partake in Catholic mass this past evening?”

Gage’s face had already taken on a crimson hue from the earlier humiliation, but now it paled.

“Absolutely not!” he spluttered—though even he seemed uncertain whether he believed it anymore.

Walsingham stepped forward. “Understand clearly, sir, that should such a priest, or any evidence of forbidden worship, be discovered on your property, you will have broken Her Majesty’s law and shall face punishment.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice with unmistakable menace. “And as Her Majesty is in London, and I am her sworn representative, it is my justice you will face.”

Gage looked close to breaking, but Walsingham had already lost interest. He straightened and waved casually to his men.

“Search the house,” he said pleasantly, “and let’s see if the kitchen has anything worth drinking.”

Chapter Two

Samuel kept an eye on his father and brother as he raced along the tree line. It wasn’t hard—they were both knelt on a lame sheep, struggling against its panicked kicking. The meadow sloped downward towards the City, and from the wooded height Samuel could just make out London's shadowed lowlands.

‘Samuel,’ Beth’s voice drifted breathlessly over the gentle breeze. ‘Mother says bring water—I can’t manage alone.’ She carried the wooden pail over one shoulder; her left hand, crippled since birth, was folded inward. Samuel could see she was struggling.

The sun was falling, casting long amber shadows across the grass. It would soon be Vespers, Samuel thought; they would have to hurry. He took the rough rope handle from his younger sister, and Beth straightened up indignantly.

‘You go back and get ready—I’ll be quicker.’

She scowled, hand on hip, but didn’t argue.

Samuel raised an eyebrow, then smiled gently. ‘Alright, but I won’t hold back.’ He rolled the hem of his woollen tunic, preparing for the sprint, just as Beth dashed past him.

Across the field their father shouted something indistinct, but they didn’t pause until they reached the brook. Samuel nearly lost his footing, splashing heavily into the cold stream; his ankle-bound leather wraps filled quickly with water. Beth arrived a moment later, too breathless to protest the race, she leant forward on one knee, drawing exaggerated breaths.

A horse snorted through the undergrowth, and Samuel froze. Another pony echoed the sound, and they both turned sharply towards the village track.

A dark figure had reined in to watch them. He wore a black cassock, tied neatly at the waist by a thick leather belt, white lace dancing at his sleeve cuffs. His eyes were deep-set, hollow-looking; Samuel couldn’t decide if he was foreign, ill, or both. Two men-at-arms halted beside him, their breastplates dull in the fading daylight, linen sleeves rolled loosely around bare arms. Open helmets framed faintly amused faces, clearly enjoying their respite from the road.

The leader lowered a velvet neckerchief covering his mouth.

‘Why aren’t you in church?’ He ignored Beth completely, directing his gaze sharply at Samuel.

Samuel bit back his retort, remembering his mother’s warnings about their vulnerable position. The man was Protestant, or possibly Puritan, judging by his grim eyes. Better to offer no offence—even to a foolish question. Besides, he was fourteen and had already learned the painful cost of insolence.

‘We’re on our way now,’ Samuel replied cautiously, indicating the wooden pail. ‘Just collecting water for the evening.’

The figure studied them intently, eyes lingering with open distaste on Beth’s twisted hand. The silence thickened until the sound of approaching horses broke through. The trio turned to face an incoming band of riders. Beth scrunched her face mockingly at the minister’s back, Samuel winced and swiftly pushed her away. She was only ten and didn't yet fully understand the danger of their family’s position.

Samuel counted at least twenty armed riders bypassing the village, clearly expected by the minister, who glanced back briefly as the children moved away. Samuel lingered just long enough to glimpse a short, bound man, riding double with a soldier. His face was bloodied, nose twisted grotesquely, but his black eyes widened through bruised lids as they met Samuel’s gaze.

He turned and ran, chasing after Beth.

*

‘Why would a minister be out on the road at this hour?’ his mother asked sceptically as she moved around the kitchen. Samuel hadn’t mentioned the additional men—or the prisoner, though he was certain the bound man was exactly that.

The cottage had two rooms downstairs. The larger contained a fireplace, a bench with stools and drying clothes hung stiffly over the hearth. The other was a plain stone floor scattered with hay, where they slept alongside Butcher, the dog, who found himself imprisoned for the duration of Vespers. Their father had talked of boarding the rafters for more space, but he often talked of things he would never do.

His mother Mary wasn’t cooking; she was anxiously wiping down the table for the relics. Her husband John stood rigidly at the doorway, waiting for the Plinter and Gail families. As eldest son, Timothy, sixteen and overly proud of it, waited beside him. Samuel shook his head at his brother’s gormless false piety.

‘I don’t know, but he looked important.’

‘No one is more important than Christ.’

‘I didn’t say he was more important than Christ.’

The relics consisted of an olive-wood crucifix rescued from the old church a hundred years earlier; a vial of holy water said to have come from Lourdes, though Samuel suspected his grandmother had been stretching the truth; a book of liturgical prayers; and the stole of a local Catholic priest who hadn’t survived King Henry’s purges.

Samuel found it strange that God hadn't protected His own representatives during the reforms—stranger still to pray over the scarf of a dead man. He didn’t dare say it, but he wasn’t sure he believed in God. More importantly, he didn’t think there was a soul alive who deserved to eat more than his little sister, and that included preachers and queens.

‘Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Samuel.’ His mother was always nervous before Vespers, no matter how often they gathered. Now that he was older, Samuel realised it was pride, just as much as fear, that unsettled her. She wanted the services to appear proper, her neighbours to think well of her—and in the absence of the travelling priest who appeared sporadically at night, it fell to his father to lead a stilted half-service. John knew no Latin and Samuel sensed the ceremony was awkward even for the adults.

A solemn clanging echoed through the dusk as Anglican bells called out Evensong to Northwood Parish. His mother didn't react, always pretending not to hear. Faint shadows moved towards the church beyond the cottage window of stretched linen. Samuel saw his father and brother step back cautiously from the doorway, careful not to draw attention.

Peter and Catherine Gail rushed inside with tired smiles and quick handshakes, their twin boys jostling each other to be first across the threshold. As natural light faded, his mother lit waxed rushes around the room.

The bells ceased, and his father frowned. ‘The Plinters?’ he asked.

The room was silent except for Peter Gail, who shook his head with a grunt.

Samuel watched his father’s reaction. He remained still for a long moment before speaking. ‘I see.’

‘Well, I’m sure they have their reasons. These are difficult times—very difficult.’

Mary eyed her husband, urging him silently towards the head of the table. Catherine Gail began sobbing quietly into her handkerchief. Apostasy was a sin against God.