Holy Spy

Chapter 13

Shakespeare pushed open the front door and was met by the new maidservant, who appeared to be flustered and a little fearful. ‘What is it, Jane?’

‘You have a visitor, master. He is in your solar.’

‘Jane, you must put visitors in the anteroom. My solar is my own room. I keep private papers there.’

She nodded hurriedly, like a fowl at its feed. ‘Sir, I know that, but I could not stop him. He pushed past me and climbed up through the house. Mr Cooper was not here to help me, so I knew not what to do.’

‘Well, who is this man?’

‘He said he had many names, but that I might call him Mr Gifford or Gilbert if I preferred.’

Many names. Yes, Gilbert Gifford liked to go by a host of different names: in written correspondence, Walsingham and his men referred to him as Number Four or the Secret Party. When abroad in France or the Low Countries, he liked to use the names Pietro or Cornelys. To the French embassy, he was simply Colderin. It was enough to confuse friends, let alone enemies. So he was back from Chartley; surely that could mean but one thing. ‘Very well, I will go to him presently, but first tell me: has there been word from Boltfoot?’

‘No, master.’

‘When he arrives home, tell him not to venture out without first consulting me. I have new information for him. Oh, and Jane, bring small ale to the solar.’

‘Yes, master.’

Gilbert Gifford was lounging on the settle by the window. He had a book on his lap and looked for all the world like a boy at his studies. He did not raise his eyes as Shakespeare entered the room.

‘Mr Gifford, what in the name of God are you doing here?’

Gifford dragged his smooth face away from the printed page. ‘Why, reading this volume while I waited for you to appear, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘You are insane to have come. What if my house is being watched? Are you utterly without wit? You could blow all our plans to dust.’

Gifford laughed, totally unconcerned by the onslaught. ‘I took great care, Mr Shakespeare. No one is watching your house. Perhaps you are not as important to them as you think you are. I believe you are quite safe.’

‘I wish I shared your confidence. You will never come here again. You know how to contact me: send messages via Mr Mills’s office and we will meet at an appointed place.’

Gifford waved a hand in the air. ‘I do not have time for such stuff. I dared to hope my appearance here would be a most pleasant surprise, for I come as the bearer of good news. The fish has taken the bait. It seemed to me that you should be among the first to know.’

‘Indeed?’ His voice retained its sharpness, but he could not fail to be interested.

‘Yes, indeed. Letters from the Scots Queen came out of Chartley in the beer keg two days ago and were then handed to me by the Honest Man. I gave them to Mr Paulet and he passed them to Mr Phelippes who is presently deciphering them. Tomorrow they will be brought up here to London where they will be returned to me, resealed by Mr Gregory, and when Mr Secretary gives the word I will convey them to the French embassy intact.’

‘That is most excellent news. Do we know anything about the letters?’

‘We know that one is addressed to Anthony Babington.’

Shakespeare did not smile but his heart lurched. So the bait was not only taken, but the fish was on the hook. It was exactly as Walsingham had hoped and planned. Perhaps things were moving at last.

‘And so, Mr Shakespeare, I have a night in London with nothing to do . . .’

‘Then we shall dine together here at my expense. I will have food sent in. Fine roasts and good wine.’

Gifford sucked in air through his small white teeth. ‘I had rather hoped to reacquaint myself with the Smith sisters, whose company I find most pleasurable. If you would just tell me where I may find them.’

‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘But you can bring them to me?’

‘It is possible.’

‘Then do it, I entreat you, Mr Shakespeare. It is only the pleasure of their company that keeps me in England at all. Without them, I shall feel compelled to take myself away from these dangerous tasks that I perform on Mr Secretary’s behalf. I know from experience that the young ladies of Paris have much to commend them.’

What was it Walsingham had said? I do not care what Gifford needs or wants, he will have it. For without him, our carefully constructed house collapses. And so he must have the Smith sisters. Thus far, their trysts with Gifford had been arranged by Tom Phelippes, but now it was Shakespeare’s task.

‘Then I shall do my best on your behalf. Allow me a little time, if you would, and I shall secure their services before dark. Will that suffice?’

‘Indeed it will, Mr Shakespeare. Indeed it will. And in the meantime, I should like to become better acquainted with your maidservant, who is a most comely wench.’

Shakespeare shook his head decisively. ‘No, Mr Gifford, that will not do. If I hear that you have interfered with my maid in any way, or even attempted to molest her, then I promise that you will never see the Smith sisters again. I will also see that you are pilloried for lewd dealings – and that your ears are left nailed to the crossbar.’

‘Sir, you drive a very hard bargain. Very well, I shall sit here, as quiet as a mole, and read your Montaigne which, I must say, contains most cunning and forthright guidance on the ways of the world. Here, listen to this if you will.’ He opened the book and quickly found the spot, then marked the passage with his index finger. ‘Quand je joue avec mon chat, qui sait s’il ne s’amuse pas plus de moi que je le fais de lui.’ He spoke with the fluency of a Frenchman, then translated unnecessarily for Shakespeare’s benefit. ‘When I play with my cat, who knows whether the cat is in truth playing with me.’ He smiled. ‘That is a rough translation, but do you not think it sums up our own Mr Secretary and his devices? Always be wary of your master, Mr Shakespeare, for he plays with us all. Even as he lauds my services and dispenses gold and gratitude, I know very well that he is planning my execution.’

‘Your imagination knows no bounds, Gifford.’

‘We shall see. Now go and find the sisters for I have a hunger that must be sated.’

‘I will send for you when I have them at the house in Holborn. Wear your hood and cape. I want none to see your face as you leave this house.’

The ward watch was waiting for Boltfoot at the Postern Gate to

the north of the Tower.

‘Mr Cooper . . .’

He stopped and nodded by way of reply.

‘If you will just follow me, you may learn something about Will Cane.’

‘Where is the woman . . . the whore named Em?’

‘All will be revealed. There is someone else who wishes to see you.’

‘Who? Speak.’

‘I cannot say.’

Boltfoot noticed that the man, whose name he recalled as Potken, seemed timid. But afraid of what – or whom?

‘If you cannot say who I am to see, then why should I come with you? For all I know you have a gang of cutpurses waiting for me. But if that is your plan, it is ill founded for I have brought no money and nothing of value. Any attempt to rob me will bear no fruit.’

‘There is no trap, Mr Cooper. But I warn you now that you will be required to wear a blindfold about your eyes for the last part of our journey.’

The Smith sisters lived in a small stone-built house by the river, not far south of Westminster Hall. The door was answered by a manservant who bowed low and showed Shakespeare through to a comfortable parlour, which was deliciously cool. He was offered refreshment by the brightly accoutred lackey, but declined.

‘Then if it please you to wait, sir, I shall see if the misses Smith are able to receive you.’

The room was rich but not gaudy, nothing to suggest that this was the home of the two most celebrated whores in the proximity of London. It could as well have been the town abode of a sober merchant. The two young women arrived within a few minutes. They were dressed in fine clothes as though they were about to venture forth to the concerts with the goodwives of the guilds. Neither of them would be taken for a harlot, for their attire was neither garish nor unduly revealing. Both of them smiled airily at Shakespeare and curtsied with the merest hint of mockery.

‘Mr Shakespeare, what a pleasure, sir.’

It was the elder of the two who spoke, the one called Eliza. She was about the same height as her younger sister, Beth, and a little fuller of figure, but there really was very little to distinguish them, for they were both slender, smooth-skinned and with eyes that invited men in. They were fair of face and light of manner, both remarkable specimens. He estimated their ages as early to mid twenties, but it was difficult to be sure. Perhaps their tender-seeming age was mere artifice and the lack of physical work beyond the bedroom. That and the absence of child-bearing, the event that wore so many women into old age and early death.

‘Forgive me for coming to you at such short notice, but I have urgent need of your services this night. Mr Gifford has returned and I fear we will lose him if you do not go to him.’

‘Ah, the little pink pigling,’ Beth said, laughing. ‘He is magnificent, is he not, sir?’

‘We love our little Gilbert pigling, Mr Shakespeare.’

Shakespeare almost sighed with relief. He had been ready to do battle with them, preparing his arguments both wheedling and threatening. ‘Then you will come?’

‘Is this at Mr Secretary’s behest?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then if we have any appointments we shall most certainly cancel them. Mr Secretary is our most valued client. Not that he uses our special services for his own gratification, you understand. I believe him to be a man of great austerity and delicacy in matters of the flesh and I know he employs us only for the good of England and Her Majesty. Yes, I believe we shall most certainly accommodate you. Are we agreed on this, Beth?’

‘We are, sister dear.’

Shakespeare looked from one to the other and was pleased to see that they were in earnest. ‘That is exceeding good news. You will be handsomely rewarded, as always.’

‘Mr Shakespeare, it is monstrous vulgar to talk of such things before the service is provided. Time enough, sir, time enough. You do not need to concern yourself about such matters.’

‘Then how long do you need to prepare yourselves? I would have you at the Holborn house as soon as possible, for I am fearful that our pigling will fly without your company.’

‘We will come at once, though it would be a fine thing to see a pigling fly.’

‘Never be careless of your pigling, Mr Shakespeare. Foxes like piglings for dinner and crows do love to pluck out their eyes.’

‘And when their mother sows try to protect them they do oft-times crush them to death beneath their great weight.’

‘Take care of our little pigling, Mr Shakespeare.’

They had curious sing-song voices, tinkling like water over rocks. It occurred to Shakespeare that it was probably an affectation, as, indeed, was their affectionate talk of the pink pigling. They might be costly, but they were whores. Nothing more. That was no concern of his, however, so he played their game. ‘That is what I am trying to do. Now then, let us be moving. Will you change your attire?’

‘Does our appearance displease you?’

‘Indeed not, but-’

‘But you thought we would travel in undergarments of silk with silver ties. No, we shall carry our bag of toys with us and come as we are. Beth, perhaps you would order the carriage prepared.’

‘I shall, sister dear.’ She gave another little curtsy and left the room.

Eliza touched Shakespeare’s arm as though to reassure him. It was only the lightest of touches, but it sent a burning surge of lust straight to his loins so that he gasped. She smiled at him knowingly. Oh, she understood well enough the desire she could inflict with a movement of the lips or eyes or the tiniest butterfly fluttering of her fingers.

‘Will it be the whole night through?’

‘Yes. And I beg you, keep him hungry. Keep him so hungry that he will needs come to you again and again the whole summer long.’

‘No man has wearied of us yet, Mr Shakespeare.’

Shakespeare rode behind their carriage. All he knew about the Smith sisters was that their mother had been in the same line of work as her daughters and that she had been favoured by men of high rank and privilege. Phelippes had told him that Eliza was the daughter of an earl and that Beth’s father had been a baron, but he had said it with a sly grin that meant it could as well be invention as truth.

Within a quarter of an hour, the carriage stopped outside a wood-frame of shops, alehouses and tenements, a little way south and east of Gray’s Inn.

The front of the house had exposed timbers of lightly coloured oak. The housekeeper, a woman of middle years who never asked any questions and provided food and clean laundry for anyone using the house, answered the door and admitted Shakespeare and the two young women with a generous smile.

Inside, the house was pleasantly appointed without being sumptuous. It was a house of many secrets but within the office of Sir Francis Walsingham it was known simply as the Holborn house. The building was rented by Phelippes on behalf of his master and over the years had been used for all manner of purposes: confidential meetings, the concealment of exiles from foreign lands whose lives were threatened, the covert delivery of letters and, from time to time, the night work of the Smith sisters.

Shakespeare accompanied them up to the first floor where they had their chamber, decked in gold and red like an Ottoman’s seraglio, with a large four-poster that Phelippes insisted was as big and grand as the Queen’s own bed. Shakespeare’s eye could not but stray to the small hole in the wall through which he had spied on Eliza and Beth when they were last here with Gifford. The sisters caught his gaze and smiled. Hurriedly, he looked away, but it was clear to him that they must have known they were being watched.

‘I shall leave you now. The pigling will be here within the hour. Will that be time enough?’

‘Enough, indeed. The housekeeper will lay us a fire and bring sweet wine.’

‘You may wish to stay and watch our preparations . . .’

Shakespeare ignored the offer. He was about to take his leave, but then stopped. ‘I hope I am not intruding, but I must ask you a question which has troubled me since I met you. I would say that you both have wit and great beauty. From the appearance of your attire and your fine house, I would venture that you have wealth enough. You could marry well and have families. Why then do you choose to remain . . .’ His voice trailed off.

‘Why do we remain whores?’ Eliza laughed. ‘Because it is what we are good at. Why do you do what you do?’

‘It needs to be done.’ And God knew, there were times when it was foul, discomfiting work.

‘And this needs to be done, too, Mr Shakespeare. We have a heaven-sent talent and work that pleases us. Why should we be at one man’s beck and call with all the swaddling clothes and dull nights, when we can do this?’

‘We have met such men, sir,’ Beth put in. ‘French envoys, Dutch merchants, even a Portingall prince of the blood. Many of them have fine manners and good conversation and know how best to please a lady. What goodwife with a dozen brats at her feet can say the same of her life, all drudgery and routine? And when we are not at work, we can choose fine fabrics, eat fine food and idle away the hours in our house by the river.’

‘But the risks . . .’

Beth smoothed her hands down her bosom and purred. ‘We know all about the risks. We know how to avoid the pox and how not to come with child. When necessary, we have the strength and wit to calm the ferocious beast that resides in some men’s hearts. And above all, we have the secret of giving pleasures unknown, learnt at our mother’s knee. We choose our clients with great care. You, sir, would most certainly fit our requirements and as a Walsingham man, we would wink at the reckoning.’

‘It is a most gracious offer, but one that I must decline.’ If, for one single moment he was tempted, he did not wish to let them know. But they knew.