Holy Spy

Chapter 19

‘Grandame, allow me to introduce you to Mr John Shakespeare. Sir, this is my grandmother, Mistress Joan Giltspur.’

Shakespeare bowed low with the courtesy due to great age. Mistress Giltspur was in her bed, reclining against a bank of downy pillows. Shakespeare took her to be eighty, perhaps more – perhaps as old as the century itself. ‘It is my honour, ma’am.’

She waved him up with a brisk, bony hand. ‘Please stand up properly, Mr Shakespeare. I am not the Queen of England and nor am I feeble-minded.’

‘Forgive me.’

‘There is nothing to forgive. It is I who must apologise for allowing you to see me like this. My mind is still there but my bones are brittle and afflicted by great pain. Now then, what do you want? Arthur tells me that you are an assistant to Sir Francis Walsingham and that you are investigating the death of my beloved Nicholas.’

‘That is so.’

‘He says you do not believe that Katherine was behind it?’

‘Indeed, I have my doubts.’

‘And she was once your paramour. Do I have it thus far?’

‘It seems you know everything about me.’

‘I doubt that very much. Sir Francis’s men tend to come with a great many secrets attached. So tell me, what is it you hope to discover?’

‘I want to know whether Katherine is innocent or guilty. And if she is innocent, who truly ordered the killing of your son. Nothing more.’

‘An admirable ambition. How can I help?’ Her voice was quiet but firm.

‘Perhaps you cannot. But as I said to your grandson, rich and successful men tend to have enemies. I would know the identities of your son’s enemies, for if Katherine is innocent, then the true killer must surely lurk among them.’

‘If you are seeking to find Nicholas’s enemies, then you are indeed on a hopeless mission. He was known for his charity, honesty and kindness, a faithful Christian of the reformed Church but with no animosity towards the old faith in which I was raised. A man of old-fashioned virtues, not often seen these days when men will crawl over each other for a few shillings. He treated those who worked for him with decency and allowed them their dignity. He would accept no cruelty aboard his vessels, and when a ship was lost he paid generous recompense to the fishers’ wives and children.’

‘Did you know much about the trade he pursued?’

‘How should I know about such things’ The old lady laughed, and then began to cough. Her grandson went to her side, but she brushed him away. ‘Water, Arthur. A sip of water. Don’t fuss so.’

He stood up from the bed. ‘Abigail!’

The maid, a plump and pretty young woman, came scurrying in. ‘Yes, Mr Giltspur?’

‘Bring a cup of water,’ Giltspur said.

‘And laudanum. I would have laudanum.’

The maid curtsied quickly. ‘Yes, Mistress Giltspur.’

When she had hastened away to fulfil her mistress’s demands, Shakespeare turned again to Giltspur. ‘Is that the Abigail who was Katherine’s lady’s maid?’

‘Yes. Grandame’s own maid is in a wretched way and will most likely go to God within a day or two. Abigail has taken on her duties.’

The old widow raised her hand. ‘It is my curse, Mr Shakespeare. I am doomed to outlive everyone I love, even my maid.’ Her cough was easing, but her voice still rasped a little. ‘I sometimes wonder whether God has forgotten about me. Do you know how old I am?’

‘I would not care to hazard a guess for fear of offending.’

‘Eighty-one, Mr Shakespeare. I am eighty-one. Sixty years ago I danced with the Queen’s father. He was charming to me and I knew he was trying to win me to his bed with pretty words, but I would have none of it, for though he had not then become the great killer that we now know him to have been, yet I saw the darkness in him and knew him for a cruel and capricious man.’

Abigail returned with water and a tincture of opium in a small silver goblet, which she handed to her mistress with great care.

The old woman sipped some water, swallowed the opium, then let out a great sigh of contentment. ‘Nicholas always told me I should refrain from laudanum, that it would be hazardous to my health. But to me, it is a blessing that relieves all pain. And you know, Mr Shakespeare, there really is very little danger of me dying young.’ She attempted to laugh again, but this time it was more a soft tinkle than the cackle of before. ‘Now, you asked me about enemies . . .’

‘One man in particular interests me, though there may be others. A man known as Cutting Ball.’

‘Oh yes, we have heard of him, haven’t we, Arthur? Abigail? Is he not a Robin Hood or Jack Cade?’

Shakespeare studied the lady’s maid. She was a remarkably well-favoured woman with milkmaid skin and large breasts. How would she have got on with Kat? Shakespeare tried to imagine the two of them together; mistress and maid. Somehow it didn’t work.

‘There are exciting tales told of his exploits, mistress,’ Abigail said. ‘I have heard that men often admire him.’

How had Cutting Ball become a folk hero? ‘There is nothing valiant about Mr Ball. He does not steal from the rich to help the poor; nor does he seek to improve the lot of the labouring man. He steals from everyone to enrich himself and he murders and maims those who stand in his way.’

There was silence in the room and Shakespeare realised he had revealed himself a little too clearly. He looked at the woman in the bed. She was becoming drowsy, but there was something in her eye that told him she was playing with him. She knew very well who Cutting Ball was and what he did.

And then it struck him: she was not simply the doddering matriarch of this family. She was the very heart of its trading empire. If the Giltspurs had ever paid money to Cutting Ball to protect their ships from his malicious attentions, then she knew all about it. She knew everything. Arthur’s father and uncle had not built the clan’s great riches; they had merely worked for their mother, done her bidding, been the public face. Mistress Giltspur – Grandame – was the power in this household.

‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘I would value your opinion. Do you believe your daughter-in-law paid Will Cane to murder your son?’

Her breathing was more pronounced, almost a snore. A few words seemed to escape her lips, but Shakespeare could hardly discern them.

‘She will be asleep any moment,’ Giltspur said. ‘I think your questioning is at an end, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Did she say something? I could not catch the words.’

Arthur Giltspur smiled. ‘You will get nothing more from her now. When she is awake she is usually lucid. But then the laudanum plays games with her . . .’ He paused. ‘She wants the diamond. Sometimes she sleeps with it. She says it brings her comfort.’

‘The Giltspur Diamond?’

‘It is famous, I think. A rare piece. A diamond of one hundred carats, brought from the Africas. It hangs as the centrepiece of a necklet.’

‘Is it here with her now?’

Giltspur affected a puzzled expression. ‘Your questions go in remarkable odd directions, sir. She either has it with her or it is locked away in the strongroom. It is hers, so I know not.’

For a few seconds more, Shakespeare gazed upon the ancient, lined face and thought he saw the beautiful young woman whom Great Henry had held in his deadly arms. He imagined her wearing her great diamond about her neck, its brilliance catching the light and dazzling all eyes. He saw something else, too: Kat Whetstone, now Katherine Giltspur, fugitive and widow. Though separated by two generations, Kat and the old grandmother shared beauty, immense ambition and unstoppable willpower. When Nicholas Giltspur fell for Kat, he had found a replica of his mother.

‘Are you done with us, sir?’

‘I am, Mr Giltspur.’

Arthur Giltspur touched Shakespeare’s arm. ‘Grandame had hoped that Katherine would give her another grandson, to carry on the family enterprise. She despairs of me. The truth is, I have no interest in ships and the sea. Nor fish.’

‘You have never explained how you were freed from the Fleet gaol so early, Mr Maude. I was told that you were sentenced to three years for extorting money from the archbishop, yet it seems you served little more than half that time.’

Harry Slide was taken aback by the sudden turn of Ballard’s questioning. They had been consoling themselves with a well-earned meal after another fruitless day trying to extract pledges of support from Catholic gentry. No one in Nottinghamshire was interested. The lords and knights and burghers had land to be farmed, mines to be dug and, anyway, they all had seminary priests in residence to attend to their spiritual needs. The last thing they wanted was insurrection and civil war. Memories of the 1569 Northern Rebellion and the 1536 Pilgrimage of Grace were all too fresh. Each had ended in ferocious reprisals.

‘What a curious question, Captain.’ Slide’s knife, with a fine slice of beef attached to it, hung in the smoky air, halfway to his mouth.

‘I had a dream last night, Mr Maude. It seemed to me that something was not quite right about you.’

Slide shrugged, pushed the beef into his mouth and chewed. He had a mighty hunger from the day’s wasted efforts.

‘Do you hear me?’

He put down his knife, pointedly. ‘Yes, I hear you. A dream, you say? Are you a sorcerer that you take note of such things?’

‘It was most vivid. I saw you cloaked in treachery, come to us with a knife behind your back. A winged angel swept you away and dropped you into the pit.’

Slide picked up his knife again and held it towards Ballard. A red drop of beef juice dribbled down its sharp edge. ‘This knife, Captain Fortescue? Was this the knife that I held behind my back? Take it. It’s yours if it worries you.’

‘I don’t want your knife.’

‘Dreams! Perhaps you will converse with your winged angels next – like Dr Dee. I am surprised and not a little disturbed that you should ask me such things. Do you think I am some sort of spy? Or perhaps you think me a fugitive from justice and would have me returned to the Fleet.’

‘I know not, but I would like an answer nonetheless.’ He looked to his other companion, Robert Gage. ‘We would like an answer. Why did you serve but half your sentence?’

‘And all for a dream.’ Slide shook his head as though this conversation was altogether too tedious ‘Very well. If you must. I was released early at the archbishop’s own request. I am told he felt my continued presence in gaol only served to prolong the mockery and derision aimed at his person. He wished the whole thing forgotten as quickly as possible.’ Slide snorted with laughter. ‘A vain hope! Men will make merry at the expense of the dirty Archbishop of York and the landlord’s bawdy wife for many generations to come. Does that satisfy you, Captain Fortescue? May I return to my beef while it yet has some warmth to it?’

He met Ballard’s eye. It was a dark, scowling thing. He was in his late thirties, mad-eyed and dark-bearded, wearing an extravagant cape laced with gold, and a satin doublet with slashes; attire most uncommon here in the east Midlands. At his side, on the bench, was a hat adorned with silver buttons. He wore the guise of a rich and generous captain-of-war with assurance, as though born to the role; the very image of a soldier of fortune. Why, Slide wondered, had such a man – with a taste for assassination and insurrection – not joined a real army rather than the priesthood? Would he not have preferred the blood and thunder of a true man-at-arms to the sneaking and slithering of the underground clergy?

Slide looked away, but was still aware of Ballard’s eyes boring in to him. He ignored them, ate his beef greedily and tossed back his strong beer. What a pleasure it would be to observe this priest’s blood washing into the Tyburn soil.

‘Is that true?’ Ballard pressed.

Slide sighed. ‘Yes, for pity’s sake. Otherwise I would not be here, but manacled in my cold cell.’

Ballard attempted a smile, but it was more like a grimace. ‘Forgive me. These checks and disappointments . . . I begin to see enemies in the shadows.’

‘Well I am not your enemy. Now eat your beef and allow me the same courtesy.’ Harry Slide had no more time for this. He had spotted a face across the taproom floor, studying him closely. Was it someone from the past when he lived and operated in these parts? Slide always remembered a face, but in this case he was uncertain. Only one thing for it: find out.

Shakespeare rode to meet Goodfellow Savage at Barnard’s Inn. The street here at Holborn Bars was a scene of chaos, with building work proceeding on Staple Inn next door to Barnard’s. The new inn was designed as an extension to Gray’s and the work was disrupting the movement of livestock and wagons. A delivery of timber had just been unloaded and was strewn across the highway. Shakespeare had to pick his way over piles of oak.

Savage was at his studies, his head bent so low that his eyes were scarce three inches from the paper he read. He had his hands over his ears to blank out the sounds of hammering and shouting from the nearby building site.

Shakespeare clapped his hands. ‘Come, Goodfellow,’ he shouted. ‘Let us remove ourselves from this din.’

Putting down his quill, Savage rubbed his tired eyes and blinked. ‘They do their damnable work from dawn until dusk. There is as much noise here as on the field of battle.’

‘Let us dine together. I will pay the reckoning.’

Savage stood up from his table and stretched his arms so that he touched the ceiling. ‘Free food and ale? You are most persuasive, John Shakespeare.’

‘Good.’

Shakespeare looked about the cheerless room where Savage lived, slept and worked with his three fellow lodgers, including Dominic de Warre. Apart from the table there was a basin and four poor beds of straw, but today Savage was alone, red-eyed from his long hours of study.

Together, they walked out into the warm evening air and headed east, away from Holborn Bars towards the Silver Grayling. As they passed Hern’s Rents, Savage stopped and looked up at the six-storey tenement. ‘Shall we call out Anthony Babington?’

He wanted Savage to himself. ‘Another time. Let us talk of women, wine and the hunt. There are days when a man needs nothing more serious than the fellowship of a good friend and a jug of good beer.’

‘I hoped you would say that. He pushes me incessantly.’

‘Pushes you? In what way?’

For a moment it seemed to Shakespeare that Savage was about to reveal his murderous vow, but he merely smiled. ‘You know – the way he pushes us all. Do you think it will ever happen, this rising?’

‘One must hope. There is much to plan, many preparations to be made. God will surely show us the way, but we must do our part, too. He gave us free will so that we might choose to follow his path or take the other way. The brave man’s path – or the coward’s way-’ Shakespeare stopped short.

Savage stood rigid, his head held high, his long soldier’s beard thrust forward, like a statue, frozen in stone, eyes wide open and staring.

‘Goodfellow – is all well with you?’

He shook himself and gasped for air. ‘I . . . forgive me, John.’

‘What is it?’

‘I saw the cross before my eyes. I saw Christ’s blood, flowing like molten gold from his wounds. His mouth did not move but I heard his words. He was talking to me.’ Another deep gulp of air. Savage closed his eyes.

‘Goodfellow?’

‘I think it was a sign.’

Shakespeare placed a comforting hand on his companion’s arm.

‘John, I am sore troubled. What do you believe the Church’s teaching to be on the matter of taking one life to save a nation’s soul?’

‘You mean assassination?’ Shakespeare barely whispered the word. His heart was pounding. He did not wish to be told this secret. The fact that he had learnt of Savage’s vow from Gifford rather than from his own lips somehow made it distant and he had always secretly hoped to find some way to save him. But if he were to have this man’s confidence, it would be altogether different. How could he keep such a secret when it flew against all that he believed in? Oh that my ears should fill up with mortar and that deafness should suddenly take me.

And yet this was his work: the defence of Queen and realm. His country before his friends. He chose his reply with care. ‘I have heard it said that if such an act is carried out for God, and not for man, then there will be rejoicing in heaven.’

‘Regnans in Excelsis seemed to make it clear, but since its suspension . . . How can a man know where he stands?’

Shakespeare nodded his head gravely. Regnans in Excelsis. This proclamation of Pope Pius V in 1570 excommunicating Elizabeth had, in essence, ordered her subjects to rise up against her or risk excommunication themselves. It had supposedly been suspended in 1580, but all that had happened was that the people of England were given freedom to obey her orders to save their skins – all the while waiting, hoping, praying and scheming for her death and the destruction of her regime.

‘Do you think it still gives a man freedom to-’

‘I think you have said too much, Goodfellow.’

Savage was not to be stopped. ‘You are the only man in England whose opinion I trust and respect, John Shakespeare. If I cannot talk with you, then I am alone.’

Shakespeare put his finger to his lips. ‘Say nothing.’ The street was busy, as always, but they were cocooned in their own private world. Their voices were low. It was safer here than in the tavern. The Silver Grayling could wait.

And then it came out, unstoppable like a flood. ‘I have made a vow to kill her. I made it in church, on my knees, before the cross, before God himself. It is a vow I cannot escape – and yet I cannot bring myself . . .’ Savage seemed to struggle for breath again. Then he pulled out his sword and held it by the hilt in his huge hands. ‘See how my hands shake? Never in the heat of battle did they quiver so. This thought, this unbreakable pledge, turns me to jelly.’

By now bystanders were starting to look. Shakespeare’s hand tightened on Savage’s arm and he pulled him into a narrow alleyway. ‘You will get us both hanged if you speak so publicly!’ he hissed.

‘I had to tell you, John.’

‘Why are you sacrificing your life? What made you promise this?’

‘We are all risking our lives – you included, John Shakespeare.’

‘But your death is certain.’

Savage’s smile was the saddest thing Shakespeare had ever seen. ‘My life is already done,’ he said quietly. ‘I surrendered it to God on the fields of Flanders. It was only His will that I should survive when others died in battle. He spared me for this greater purpose.’

Who had told him that? Was it Gilbert Gifford, or others at the seminary in Rheims? There were many men of God who were happy to tell others that the Lord wished them to sacrifice their lives, without once hazarding their own.

‘Who else knows of this?’

‘Babington, Gilbert Gifford, two fathers in Rheims, Ballard

– Captain Fortescue, that is.’

‘God’s blood, Goodfellow! How do you know you can trust these men? You are in so deep.’ Shakespeare groaned. ‘I would rather your lips had been sealed and your tongue cut out than that you should have spoken these words to me, for now when I see you, you are in your winding sheet.’

‘I will never utter your name. You will never be named accessory.’

‘It is your life I am thinking of, not mine.’

‘My day is almost done. But you will live.’

‘Will I? Do you think any man living can keep his mouth closed on the rack?’

‘You are safe. I swear to you, John Shakespeare.’

‘So what will you do now?’

‘My vow is made. I await only word from Rome. They told me at Rheims that it was lawful if done for God’s glory, just as you said. But I must have confirmation from the Holy Father.’

‘And who will bring this word to you?’

‘I await letters from Morgan in Paris. Gifford says he will bring them, elsewise I must go there myself.’

‘And the vision?’

‘It has made me unsure . . . bewildered. What do you think

it meant?’ Shakespeare shook his head. What was to be done? Savage was on a course of self-destruction that no one could prevent. For a few moments they stood looking at each other, then Shakespeare took a grip of himself. ‘I think I had better get you roaring drunk, Goodfellow. Come, let us drink the Silver Grayling dry.’

‘And you are paying?’

‘My purse is full. But I must ask you one more thing. The young fellow you brought to Mane’s . . .’

‘Dominic?’

‘That’s it. Dominic de Warre. You said he was one of us. But what more do you know of him?’

‘He is pleasant enough, but hotheaded. Why, what is your interest?’

‘I know his stepfather, Severin Tort. I had not realised the link between them until I saw him at home. It gave me pause for thought. He is only a boy. You and I are men, Goodfellow. If we risk death, that is our choice. But young Dominic . . .’