Holy Spy

Chapter 23

Boltfoot Cooper was finding it hard to think clearly; he was almost overwhelmed by the intense stink of pig manure. That and his raging thirst. His hands and feet were bound and he had been thrown here, into this enclosed place, like an unwanted sack of rotting turnips.

At least it was daylight now. They had brought him here many hours ago and seemed to have forgotten about him.

He had been caught close to the Thames, within sight of the river stairs where the water-bearer was waiting for him nervously. There had been three men – brutish individuals with bare arms and bulging muscles – and two women: the whore named Aggy who had led him to the home of Will Cane, and Em Ball.

‘That’s him. That’s the dirty little turd,’ Aggy had said, pointing at him.

Boltfoot had nowhere to go and no way to defend himself. His caliver and cutlass were still with the water-bearer, a matter of yards away but as good as a mile for all the use they were to him.

There were plenty of people about, but none that would try their luck against three of Cutting Ball’s crew. Everyone knew who the men were by the sleeveless leather jerkins they wore and the curling serpents carved into their arms.

‘Well, Mr Cooper, you can come with us easy or with broken bones.’

Boltfoot had looked towards the stairs and the timid Tom Pearson. The terror in the water-bearer’s eyes suggested that he had had no part in this. Pearson backed away into the crowd, and why should he not, thought Boltfoot? No reason for a decent working man to sacrifice his life for a stranger. Boltfoot met the cool stares of his would-be captors; they hadn’t even bothered to draw their weapons. He shrugged. ‘Let’s make it easy.’

They marched him down to the water stairs, where they hauled him into a rowing boat and cast off into midstream. A hood was placed over his head. Apart from the lapping of the water and the cawing of the gulls, the only thing he heard was the macabre wit of his abductors. ‘We could always drop him in here.’

‘It would save him much pain.’

‘No,’ Em Ball replied – he knew her voice – ‘Mr Ball will have other plans for him.’

Within a few minutes the boat had come to another mooring, away from the crowds, and he was dragged out, then thrown over the back of a horse and tied in place. His wrists were attached to his ankles beneath the horse’s belly. An uncomfortable ride of about three-quarters of an hour ensued.

Only at the last minute, when he was untied from the horse, was the hood removed from his eyes. Then he was bound tight again and flung here in this pigsty. Apart from the remarks on the river, his captors had said nothing and given him no clue as to what was to happen to him. He guessed that he was probably back by the barn where he had met Cutting Ball, and that his fate was likely to be an unpleasant death.

All his attempts to free himself from his bindings had been in vain. He had stayed awake until it was dark, then he tried to sleep. It was uncomfortable but no more so than some of the berths he had had in his time; ships were not constructed for those who valued soft feather beds. He used a trick he had often employed to make sleep come: summon up the face of a beautiful woman. This time, it was easy; the face and shape of Will Cane’s widow came to him, blotting out his pain and the stench of his surroundings.

But now he was awake. From outside he heard footsteps, then a scuffling at the entrance and the bearded face of one of his captors peered in.

‘Good morning, Mr Cooper. A pleasant night’s sleep in our hostelry, I trust.’

‘Never slept better.’

‘Good, then you will have strength for the ordeal that awaits you.’

Anthony Babington was not impressed by the painting.

‘I believe I have captured the likenesses most precisely,’ the artist said with no hint of irony.

‘Indeed, do you, sir?’ Babington said. ‘And which one am I?’

‘Why, you are the chief gentleman, Mr Babington.’ He stabbed his slender finger towards the centre of the painting, without quite touching it. ‘Here, in the king’s position, in all your dignity and magnifience, sir.’

Babington turned away from the easel. He did not have the energy to argue. The very sight of the picture made him despondent, for it was just one more sign that everything was falling apart.

Thomas Salisbury grinned and patted him on the arm. ‘It is not so bad, Anthony.’

‘It is worse than bad,’ Babington said in a muted voice, but loud enough for the painter to hear. ‘It is yet shabbier than you, Thomas! That is how rough it is. Come, let us away from here before I take a taper to the wretched thing.’

Ignoring the painter’s yelps of protest, they walked from Mane’s barber shop out into the street. Chidiock Tichbourne was leaning against a tree, smoking his pipe in the welcome shade, and he hailed them over, pointing along the street. Two horsemen were approaching.

‘Captain Fortescue and Mr Gage!’ Salisbury said.

The two horsemen reined in. Their mounts were flecked with foam and dust; the riders clearly exhausted.

‘Thank God you are here, Captain Fortescue,’ Babington said.

‘Indeed, welcome, sir,’ Salisbury said. He cupped his hands to make a stirrup, but Ballard did not move from the saddle.

‘A word, Mr Babington.’

Babington approached. He had expected Ballard to return in triumph but instead he and his companion seemed disturbed. Babington’s blood began to run cold. ‘Where, pray, is Mr Maude?’

Ballard beckoned Babington yet closer, then leant forward across his horse’s neck. ‘I fear we have been betrayed,’ he whispered.

If John Shakespeare was surprised to find Anthony Babington and Thomas Salisbury at his front door, he did not show it.

‘Why, gentlemen, how delightful to see you – please come in.’

‘We need your help, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Then I am, as always, pleased to be at your service. What is it you desire?’

‘We want passports for France.’

Both men were clearly agitated; Salisbury in particular looked even more wild and unkempt than usual. Shakespeare tried to conceal his dismay. The last thing Walsingham would want was these men fleeing the country. He maintained an even tone. ‘Do you have business there?’

‘We do – and we may be some little while. We fear our estates will be compromised without passports.’

It was an offence for anyone to leave the country without permission for more than six months, on pain of having all their property confiscated. This had been enacted to deter Roman Catholics fleeing abroad to the seminaries, and to punish them if they did so. Anthony Babington was a very wealthy young man; the prospect of losing his Derbyshire estates would be a heavy blow to both him and his heirs.

‘And how do you hope I will obtain the papers for you?’

‘From Walsingham,’ Salisbury said.

The change in Salisbury was remarkable. He seemed drained and timid, a blank stare of panic in his eyes that usually burned with uncontainable fervour.

‘You enjoy the Principal Secretary’s trust, Mr Shakespeare. Your word will be enough.’

‘Gentlemen, this is most difficult. I must think the matter through carefully.’ Perhaps this might not be the disaster that he had initially feared. Indeed, it might be just the opportunity he had been waiting for. Yes, he was beginning to see possibilities here. His face remained grave. ‘Given the febrile nature of our relations with France, Mr Secretary would be unlikely to grant such documents without first interviewing you himself.’

Babington’s expression turned to one of disbelief. ‘You truly think he would want to see us?’

‘It is likely. Do you wish me to inquire on your behalf? He would need a full and convincing account of your reason for wishing to travel.’

Babington and Salisbury looked at each other. Go to Walsingham? It was like being asked to walk into the lion’s den.

‘Advise us, Mr Shakespeare. Is this really a possibility?’

‘Well, yes, a possibility . . . I would put it no stronger than that. My first thought is that it would be best if only one of you applied. If you apply together, he is more likely to become suspicious. I would suggest you, Mr Babington.’

‘Why me?’

‘You are already known at court. You have charm and wit. By which I mean no disrespect to you, Mr Salisbury.’

Babington hesitated, then nodded cautiously. ‘And what would you have me say?’

‘Well, what exactly is this business on which you are engaged? What is the purpose of your journey? He will insist on knowing the details, so you would do well to tell me here and now.’

Babington shuffled his feet. ‘The summer is suddenly become too hot.’

‘I fear such an explanation will not serve your purpose.’

‘Then what?’

‘Well, you might say that you wish to tour the Italies, perhaps, that you have a great desire to collect books and works of art. I am sure he would look favourably on such a request, though he would ask favours in return.’

‘Favours?’

Shakespeare laughed. ‘Come, come, Mr Babington, you know what I mean. Mr Secretary requires information of anyone who travels. You would be required to spy for him. He would want word of developments at the Jesuit college and he would have you send word of any great men and women you meet.’

‘But he would never know if I wrote him the truth or not.’

‘Indeed, he would never know.’

‘When can you arrange this meeting, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘He is a busy man. If you are fortunate, he may issue a passport without summoning you. If you are unfortunate, he will merely turn you down flat, with no meeting and no explanation. We can but hope for the best.’

Babington clasped Shakespeare by the hand. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you.’

After they had gone, Shakespeare called Jane and ordered food and ale, then climbed to the top of the house. He pushed open the door to his solar.

‘Good news, Mr Shakespeare?’

He glared at his visitor. ‘Not exactly, Harry.’