Holy Spy

Chapter 35

‘Mr Scudamore, you will begin to clear the gaols. We must make space for many men.’ Sir Francis Walsingham was in businesslike mood. Ebullience could wait until they had the head of Mary Stuart on the block, but no one here in this small room in Greenwich Palace doubted that they were halfway there. All that was needed now was for the Queen of Scots to take the bait; Walsingham was certain she would do so. He had been studying her character these eighteen years and believed he knew her as well as any man.

‘Yes, Mr Secretary. How-’

‘Those awaiting hanging, dispatch. Send other priests to Wisbech, where they may rot. Free those petty criminals and recusants who are no danger to the commonwealth.’ He handed a sheet of paper with names on it to his clerk. Shakespeare saw the macabre heading: Prisoners to be disposed of. Walsingham continued his instructions. ‘Double the watch on the ports. It is said two Jesuits have arrived: Garnett and Southwell.’ He turned to Francis Mills. ‘Frank, you will find them and apprehend them.’

The atmosphere at this meeting was very different from that of the gathering when plans were first mooted. Now, at last, the impossible seemed almost probable. And imminent.

Phelippes ran a hand through his lank yellow hair and continually pushed his small round metal-rimmed glasses up along his slippery nose. It seemed to Shakespeare that he might dance for joy.

‘And you, Tom,’ Walsingham continued, jutting his beard in the direction of Phelippes. ‘Return home to Leadenhall Market with the letter and apprise Mr Gifford of our plans. You are both to ride for Chartley, but separately. Offer him whatever he wants, for I still expect him to slip away from our grasp. Let him know that he is in line for a magnificent pension from the Treasury. Threaten him, too – remind him that my reach is long if he should let us down.’

‘And the letter?’

‘You will retain possession for the duration of the journey. Only when you are in the county of Stafford will you pass it to him and he will take it direct to the brewer at Burton. He will brook no procrastination from the brewer. It must go in with the next delivery of beer, though he demand twice his usual fee. Threaten him, if need be. Go now.’

Phelippes puffed up his slender chest, bowed, threw sly, triumphant glances at all those present, then slid from the room.

Walsingham turned back to Mills. ‘Frank, I wish certain Catholic houses entered and disturbed. The Vaux house, Arundel in the Strand. That old fool Swithun Wells. The Copleys at Gatton. Hunt for priests on the pretext of looking for Southwell and Garnett. Use the services of Mr Topcliffe and Justice Young. Have them raise a standing squadron of pursuivants, fifty strong. I want them seen around London, their escutcheons and weapons visible and bold. But make sure they avoid the immediate families of the Pope’s White Sons.’

Shakespeare understood his reasoning. He wished to sow fear and confusion in the ranks of the conspirators. The committed hardliners would react to the provocation of night raids by bringing forward their plans for insurrection and firming their resolve. Those who vacillated or wished no part in the plot would melt away to their country estates and could be forgotten.

‘John . . .’

‘Mr Secretary?’

‘These Pope’s White Sons. Do they still trust you?’

‘I know not. Someone tried to shoot me last night outside my house.’

‘You look well enough.’

‘I was saved by the staff of our ward watch.’

‘Then be wary. I would rather you stayed alive for the present. Feed Babington little nuggets. Let him believe you to be indiscreet and on his side. Keep company with Savage and the others. Do not be deflected from your purpose. Their conspiracy must not decay on the vine, but nor must it come to fruition. Savage must not get anywhere near Her Majesty. The court moves soon to Richmond where she will walk in the gardens unaccompanied. I will post guards where I may, but she will never be safe there.’

‘Can the move not be delayed?’

‘Have you no sense of smell, John? It is high summer and this palace has become a stinking jakes. We have already been here far too long. She harangues the Lord Chamberlain every day to bring forward the move, not delay it. We leave by week’s end.’

‘What of Robin Poley?’

‘He has done well, has he not? Two days ago, Anthony Babington had set his heart on a life of quiet contemplation and poverty in a monastery. Now he is raising a hundred men to attack Chartley. This is Robin Poley’s influence.’

Perhaps, thought Shakespeare. It had been his own suggestion that brought Poley into the intrigue in the first place. And yet he was inclined to believe that Gilbert Gifford had the greater influence. It was almost as if he had taken the damning letter to Babington fully written and had merely said, ‘Make your mark here.’ But such a thing would be unthinkable. Would it not?

As he passed through the elegant hall that faced the river, Shakespeare was taken aback to see Arthur Giltspur, his tennis racket slung over his shoulder, deep in conversation. Yet why should he be surprised to see him here? He was a wealthy young man and had friends among the nobility, so of course he would come to court. And from his racket and attire of loose chemise and soft shoes he had clearly been playing a set or two. Perhaps he had finally managed to get his match against the dashing young Earl of Essex. Now that would be a contest to see.

It seemed a good time to talk to him about the gold missing from the family coffers. It was possible he had some ideas, however vague. Perhaps, too, he had heard of the disappearing lady’s maid Abigail and her connection to the murderer Will Cane. Shakespeare turned and began to walk in his direction and almost immediately stopped dead in his tracks.

The man Arthur Giltspur was talking with was Sir Robert Huckerbee, who was also dressed in loose-fitting clothes suitable for tennis.

Shakespeare quickly turned away, certain he had not been seen by them. He rounded a corner, leant against a wall and breathed in deeply. His heart was pounding, as though he had stumbled on something shameful. What was he thinking? Why had he avoided them? Why had he not wished them to see him?

He pushed away from the wall, held back his shoulders and strolled once more into the hall. Arthur Giltspur was alone now and walking away. Shakespeare hastened after him and tapped him on the shoulder.

Giltspur turned at the touch and a smile lit up his handsome face. ‘Why, Mr Shakespeare, what a pleasure, sir.’

‘Good day, Mr Giltspur. I saw you deep in conversation with Sir Robert Huckerbee and did not wish to intrude.’

‘Hah! He still believes he can beat me, poor fool. No, I shouldn’t speak so, Sir Robert is not a bad tennis player. In truth he taught me the game, but the novice now outstrips the master, which vexes him greatly.’ He laughed and clapped a hand around Shakespeare’s shoulder. ‘Come, sir, let us find a beer, for after my exertions I have a thirst to quench – and you can entertain me.’

Shakespeare was about to decline the offer, but instead he nodded. ‘Yes, I will, Mr Giltspur.’

Giltspur raised a hand and a footman hurried over. ‘A pitcher of beer and a pair of blackjacks. We’ll take it outside by the river.’

The footman bowed low and backed away. ‘Cover your nose, Mr Shakespeare and let us find a spot beside the Thames and watch the ships glide by.’

‘Mr Giltspur, did you know your grandmother summoned me?’

Giltspur lounged back on his elbows, his lean legs swinging over the edge of wharf. ‘Yes, Mr Shakespeare, I did. I am not such a sybarite that the whole world passes me by. Frankly, I am shocked and appalled. Did Katherine really rob us?’

Shakespeare took a deep draught of his beer, which was too warm to be truly refreshing. He looked out across the Thames, which here was turbid and dark. He watched as a bark, heavy-laden and wallowing, drifted upriver on the rising tide, its sails full with the blustery wind. Closer to shore the bloated body of a black-and-white cat rose and fell on the swell, in a tangle of human waste and detritus. ‘I don’t know, but I would like to find out. Did you also hear about Abigail Colton and Will Cane?’

‘Words fail me, sir. Sorbus insists the man never set foot on our land, but I do not know whether to believe him. If such men have been wandering around Giltspur House, then none of us can sleep easy in our beds.’

‘You see, what worries me, Mr Giltspur, is how Kat – Katherine – gained access to the strong room and how she was able to remove so much gold and silver unseen. From what I know of Giltspur House, you have many guards. How would she effect such a crime undisturbed? Nor can I understand how she did it without the aid of an accomplice. So much precious metal would be no easy thing for a young woman to drag away. Unfortunately, your grandmother refused to sanction a search of the house, which might have revealed much.’

‘And who would do the searching? She would never allow strangers to trample across her property.’

Perhaps, thought Shakespeare, there were too many other secrets concealed within those walls.

‘You believe then that she did not work alone?’ Giltspur continued. ‘You seem to be saying this Will Cane was her partner in the crime of robbery as well as murder.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘But the implication . . .’

‘Was yours to read. For myself, the whole thing is a maze or puzzle. Cane said he was offered a hundred pounds. From what I know he was quite specific about that. That does not sound like a man taking a share of thousands of pounds. Nor does it explain why he killed your uncle or why he was so quick to implicate his so-called acomplice, Kat.’

‘Your point is taken, but the riddle is far from solved. I still find myself wondering whether Cane and Katherine were . . .’

He hesitated, then spoke the word low. ‘Lovers. If he was in the

lady’s maid’s chamber, why not the lady’s too?’

‘Do you believe that, Mr Giltspur? For I do not.’

‘Well, as you say, it is indeed a puzzle. Grandame and I would be most grateful if you could solve it. The Giltspurs are a wealthy family, but that will not last long if our gold and silver disappears in such quantities. Did she tell you, too, that the Giltspur Diamond is missing?’

The small hairs on the back of Shakespeare’s neck stood up. ‘No. She refused to even discuss the jewel.’

Arthur Giltspur all but laughed. ‘I think she is ashamed as much as she is distressed at its loss.’

‘Ashamed?’

‘Such a valuable piece. One hundred carats. It is the size of a small egg. I had always thought she kept it separate from the other treasures. Now I am not so sure. She is extremely secretive about such matters.’

Shakespeare tried to make sense of this news. Why would the old woman call him in to investigate the disappearance of the gold and silver but not mention the Giltspur Diamond?

‘I believe Grandame has promised to reward you handsomely if you can bring the culprit to the noose.’

Shakespeare met Giltspur’s eyes. ‘I think you must know that money is not the reason I have agreed to help with the inquiry, sir.’ Shakespeare finished his beer and stood.

‘Off so soon, Mr Shakespeare? Perhaps I could teach you some strokes.’

‘Your sporting prowess is remarkable. I can imagine you must be an exceedingly fast runner.’

‘I suppose I am. Yes, I skip about the tennis court quickly enough. But what a strange thing to say, Mr Shakespeare.’

Shakespeare smiled again and handed his empty blackjack to a passing footman. ‘Think nothing of it, Mr Giltspur. My mind sometimes travels in curious directions, that is all. One more thing: did Sir Robert perhaps mention the Smith sisters?’

Giltspur frowned in curious bewilderment. ‘Smith sisters? What are they?’

‘Whores, Mr Giltspur.’

‘Well, well, the Smith sisters, eh? Has Robert been up to some mischief ? I shall make a fine jest of it at his expense.’

‘Indeed.’ Shakespeare nodded his farewell and began to walk away. He could not get the picture of Huckerbee and Giltspur out of his mind. Somehow seeing them here in the different context of court, with thoughts of gold in his head, changed everything.

Shakespeare found Goodfellow Savage in the King’s Head, by St Giles in the Fields. He was drinking with Dominic de Warre, at the younger man’s expense. De Warre looked at Shakespeare through bleary eyes and offered no word of welcome, merely continued to sup unsteadily.

‘We are all to meet at the Three Tuns in Newgate Street,’ Savage said when Shakespeare had ordered himself wine. ‘Will you come with us, John?’

‘I will.’

Dominic de Warre grunted and announced to no one in particular that he needed a piss. With glazed eye and teetering step, he stumbled outside into the night.

‘He is as drunk as a seasick dog.’

‘Don’t blame me, John. He has been boozing all day. He called on me this evening and begged me to go out with him. I only agreed to accompany him so that I might keep an eye on him, for I feared he would be easy meat for footpads.’

‘But why do you have anything to do with him? If you need a few shillings, I can help you.’ He poured a few coins from his purse into his left hand and held them out to Savage. ‘Here, take this.’

‘I have no way of repaying you, nor any prospect of ever being able to do so.’

‘It would please me, Goodfellow. Take it.’

Savage hesitated, then nodded. ‘Thank you, John. You are a good friend.’ He looked at the coins and counted them out. Two pounds and an angel. ‘This is too much.’

‘No, it is not, and nor am I a good friend. I wish to God that you had never entrusted your secrets to me. If you want to repay me the loan, keep young Dominic de Warre away from Babington. We all know the dangers, but to him it is a fine game. He should be at his studies, not talking sedition.’

‘Then let us convey him back to Barnard’s Inn and put him to bed. He will sleep like a babe while we head for the Three Tuns. I am told that Anthony has tidings of great moment to impart to us.’

De Warre came back into the taproom and stood in front of Shakespeare, his face so close that Shakespeare could smell his beer-drenched breath.

‘You are Walsingham’s man. You work for the tyrant.’

Shakespeare stood back and threw a look at Savage. ‘I think it is time to go.’

‘Mr Shakespeare is one of us, Dominic.’ Savage’s voice was quiet. ‘You would do well to listen to him.’

‘You look a good man, Mr Shakespeare. Are you a good man, or are you a tool of the tyranny? Do you stretch men on the rack and press women to death for the crime of being a Catholic?’

‘You are drunk, Mr de Warre.’

‘And so I speak false because I have taken beer?’

‘This is a public place. Walsingham’s spies are everywhere.’

‘One day, Mr Shakespeare, men and women will worship free in this land. All will be as one. And none shall have their bellies ripped open to spill their bowels for their faith. Would you say that were a good world to hope for?’

Shakespeare did not reply.

‘I drink to the Pope and the death of tyrants.’ De Warre said the words without lowering his voice. Though his speech was slurred, the words were all too easily heard. Two men drinking nearby turned and looked upon him as though he were mad.

Savage was behind de Warre. He had his upper arms in an iron grip and was pulling the young man towards the door.

‘All tyrants,’ Dominic bellowed. ‘Topcliffe, Torquemada, Protestant and Catholic. I curse the torturers-’

But before he could say any more, he was out in the street and Shakespeare was wrapping a kerchief about his mouth to shut him up.

They left a subdued de Warre at his lodgings in Barnard’s. He stood unsteadily, glaring through half-closed eyes. ‘I am coming with you, Goodfellow,’ he said.

‘No, Dominic, you are cup-shotten. Bed is the place for you. I think you will need a seven-night to sleep it off.’

The youth stood in the doorway to his small chamber, gazing blankly at Shakespeare and Savage as they took their leave.

‘He is confused,’ Savage said after the door was closed.

‘Is he, Goodfellow?’ It seemed to Shakespeare that Dominic de Warre had spoken much sense for one so young and intoxicated. He, too, loathed the torturers, be they Catholic or Protestant. He despised Richard Topcliffe, chief torturer and persecutor of priests, and he was certain he would have felt the same way about Tomás de Torquemada, the founding Grand Inquisitor and the cause of so much death and misery in Spain and beyond.

Perhaps there was more to Dominic de Warre than met the eye. His idealistic fervour reminded Shakespeare of himself at that same age, though a great deal less restrained.

They walked slowly westwards in the direction of Newgate Street. Gusts of wind blew dust and debris into the air. Shakespeare felt uneasy; high winds were harbingers of change and they unsettled him. As they came to Holborn Bridge, a band of horsemen came towards them at a hard trot. Savage and Shakespeare both saw what they were: pursuivants, all dressed in black leather quilted doublets. There was no room for pedestrians on the bridge while the horses were coming, but instead of making way, Savage deliberately placed himself in the centre of the bridge, as though a man alone could bar the way of a dozen steeds. Shakespeare tried to drag him away, but Savage shook him off.

The horses came to a halt. Shakespeare noted with revulsion that four people – two women, a girl and a boy of about twelve, all bound by the wrists – were being dragged behind the rear horses. They were probably being taken to the Fleet prison or Bridewell. Their crime? Most likely the sin of having a priest in the house or being in possession of forbidden Catholic books.

Shakespeare whispered urgently in his companion’s ear. ‘Don’t do this, Goodfellow. Don’t draw attention to yourself.’

‘They are the devil’s riders. I’ll take them on. One at a time or all at once.’

‘You will be of no use to anyone if you are trampled underfoot. We can do nothing here. Come, Goodfellow, our feasting awaits us. Let us hear what Mr Babington has to say.’

‘First these.’

The lead rider walked his horse forward. He was a man in his sixties with no cap, his white hair hung about his ears. Shakespeare recognised him instantly as Richard Topcliffe, and shuddered with loathing. Their paths had crossed before, and no good had come of it.

The rider looked down with disdain at the two men blocking his men’s way. ‘What is this? Do you wish us to beat you from our path?’ He raised his crop and was about to crack Savage about the head when he noticed Shakespeare and his hand faltered.

‘Satan’s turd, it is Shakespeare . . .’

‘We are going about our business, Topcliffe. My friend has had a drink or two. I will move him from your path.’ He wrenched at Savage’s arm and growled, ‘Come away, Goodfellow. I know this man. He will kill you if you cross him.’

Savage did not seem at all perturbed. He narrowed his eyes as though to imprint a portrait of the infamous pursuivant into his brain. ‘So you are Topcliffe,’ he said, not moving an inch. ‘The man who torments women and children. And I see you are such a brave man that you have friends to help you.’ He raised his fists like a pugilist. ‘Dismount and try me man-to-man. If you dare.’

Topcliffe glared at Savage with such seething hatred that Shakespeare feared he would draw his sword and cut him to death there and then, but something held him back. He raised his hand to signal his men to move forward, then leant low in the saddle and spat words into Shakespeare’s ear. ‘Take this man in hand, Shakespeare for if I see him again, I swear I will do for him.’

He shook the reins and urged his horse forward, brushing past Savage and knocking him away. The other pursuivants followed, finding a path through the two men. And then they were past. Topcliffe kicked on into a trot, and the others followed suit, making their captives stumble and run just to keep up. They disappeared into a cloud of dust.

‘The devil damn you, John. Do you not know about that man? Did you not see those poor women and children he held? I wanted to kill him.’

‘I know him better than you, Goodfellow, and I despise him as much. But there were a dozen of them. You would have died

– and your vow to God would have died with you.’

Savage would never know it, but Shakespeare was certain that the only thing that had saved his life was his own presence there. Walsingham’s command that the Pope’s White Sons were to be allowed to go unmolested must have been forcefully made. Even Topcliffe had noted it.

‘Perhaps it would have been better that way,’ Savage said. ‘If I had but killed Topcliffe, my own death would have at least served some purpose. Death has never held terrors for me, John. It would have been an end to all my troubles.’

Shakespeare gripped his friend by the arm. ‘You have said enough.’ In the pit of his stomach, he felt sick with apprehension. Darkness was enveloping his world. A great deal of blood would spill forth before the light of hope returned.