travel outside and he will not listen to my protestations. But the weather is kind at least and so I know he will not get cold or wet. Soon we are out on the open road and heading towards Dover.
We travel all day, only stopping to change horsesat Faversham. By nightfall we are at Canterbury. We pass through the high but narrow city gates and into the streets beyond, which are wide and lined with neat, brick-built houses. The coach stops at the Fountain Inn.
Christophe has been in Canterbury once before. He says the city is home to many Huguenots who are employed in the weaving of silk. A Frenchman will provoke no special interest here, so we decide it is safe to spend the night at the inn; a risk worth taking in exchange for a good night’s sleep. Which it proves to be, for our room is clean and there are fresh sheets on the bed and sweet-smelling herbs strewn on the floor. We have food, wine and hot water brought up to the room as before, only this time the food is hot and savoury and the wine strong.
Then, when we lie down and sink into the warmth of the feather bed, we are a little tipsy from the wine and happy that we have travelled safely this far and will soon be at Dover. When my hand reaches out for Christophe in the night, he pulls me in and, for a little while at least, the world outside with all its dangers does not exist.
We leave Canterbury the next morning after a good breakfast and travel on to Dover. The road is uphill and down. I start to feel a little queasy and have to take a little sip of laudanum. But this does not quell the sickness, and I ask to sit by the carriage window so that I can lean out. The fresh air on my face makes me feel better and I pass the journey imagining how Christophe and I might live safe and happy in one of the pretty houses dotted among the hills that rise up all around. And for a while all is peaceful and I am content.
Then, in the distance, five miles at least, is a castle set up on a steep hill and beyond that a great expanse of slate-blue water, glittering in the sunlight and reaching as far as the horizon. My first glimpse ever of the sea!
A fellow traveller, an olive-skinned man with sleepy dark-brown eyes and a kind mouth, seems amused at my excitement. He leans forward and points out of the carriage window. “From the castle tower,” he says, “on a clear day, you can see as far as France and Calais.”
“Have you been there yourself, sir?” I ask eagerly. He says that he has. I say we hope to travel there, but when I ask if he has business in Calais,he just smiles, folds his arms and I think he pretends to be asleep!
As soon as we arrive in Dover – a little place where the houses look cobbled together and the sea only comes in far enough for small boats to moor up – he quickly jumps down from the coach and is gone.
Dover is the furthest from London I have ever been in my life. But Christophe has travelled far in the world and so I have never once thought to ask him how easy it will be to cross to France. And because Nicholas also travels freely abroad and even Ralf… I imagine it is a simple thing to do.
But when I say so later to Christophe, he sighs and says that Nicholas is well known at Court and trusted. He will have a safe conduct document, signed by the Secretary of State. “
Ce n’est pas difficile pour lui
, he will be able to obtain the appropriate documentation. Likewise Ralf, if he is offered work in France.” And I look at him in bewilderment.
“But do we need such a document? And if we do, where might we obtain one?”
“We cannot,” he says and he takes my hand asif he hopes to still my panic, which he can see is rising with every word he speaks. “
Mais calme-toi
, do not worry… for there are smugglers who cross between England and France. They are always willing, for a price, to take passengers too. That is how I travelled to England – on a ship smuggling wines and spirits.”
I am silent at the thought of it. Crossing
We travel all day, only stopping to change horsesat Faversham. By nightfall we are at Canterbury. We pass through the high but narrow city gates and into the streets beyond, which are wide and lined with neat, brick-built houses. The coach stops at the Fountain Inn.
Christophe has been in Canterbury once before. He says the city is home to many Huguenots who are employed in the weaving of silk. A Frenchman will provoke no special interest here, so we decide it is safe to spend the night at the inn; a risk worth taking in exchange for a good night’s sleep. Which it proves to be, for our room is clean and there are fresh sheets on the bed and sweet-smelling herbs strewn on the floor. We have food, wine and hot water brought up to the room as before, only this time the food is hot and savoury and the wine strong.
Then, when we lie down and sink into the warmth of the feather bed, we are a little tipsy from the wine and happy that we have travelled safely this far and will soon be at Dover. When my hand reaches out for Christophe in the night, he pulls me in and, for a little while at least, the world outside with all its dangers does not exist.
We leave Canterbury the next morning after a good breakfast and travel on to Dover. The road is uphill and down. I start to feel a little queasy and have to take a little sip of laudanum. But this does not quell the sickness, and I ask to sit by the carriage window so that I can lean out. The fresh air on my face makes me feel better and I pass the journey imagining how Christophe and I might live safe and happy in one of the pretty houses dotted among the hills that rise up all around. And for a while all is peaceful and I am content.
Then, in the distance, five miles at least, is a castle set up on a steep hill and beyond that a great expanse of slate-blue water, glittering in the sunlight and reaching as far as the horizon. My first glimpse ever of the sea!
A fellow traveller, an olive-skinned man with sleepy dark-brown eyes and a kind mouth, seems amused at my excitement. He leans forward and points out of the carriage window. “From the castle tower,” he says, “on a clear day, you can see as far as France and Calais.”
“Have you been there yourself, sir?” I ask eagerly. He says that he has. I say we hope to travel there, but when I ask if he has business in Calais,he just smiles, folds his arms and I think he pretends to be asleep!
As soon as we arrive in Dover – a little place where the houses look cobbled together and the sea only comes in far enough for small boats to moor up – he quickly jumps down from the coach and is gone.
Dover is the furthest from London I have ever been in my life. But Christophe has travelled far in the world and so I have never once thought to ask him how easy it will be to cross to France. And because Nicholas also travels freely abroad and even Ralf… I imagine it is a simple thing to do.
But when I say so later to Christophe, he sighs and says that Nicholas is well known at Court and trusted. He will have a safe conduct document, signed by the Secretary of State. “
Ce n’est pas difficile pour lui
, he will be able to obtain the appropriate documentation. Likewise Ralf, if he is offered work in France.” And I look at him in bewilderment.
“But do we need such a document? And if we do, where might we obtain one?”
“We cannot,” he says and he takes my hand asif he hopes to still my panic, which he can see is rising with every word he speaks. “
Mais calme-toi
, do not worry… for there are smugglers who cross between England and France. They are always willing, for a price, to take passengers too. That is how I travelled to England – on a ship smuggling wines and spirits.”
I am silent at the thought of it. Crossing
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