Holy Spy

Chapter 41

The pursuivants came to a juddering halt on the highway. There were twenty men, all attired in black leather jerkins, complete with the Queen’s escutcheon, just as Walsingham had ordered. Their horses were flecked with foaming sweat, their faces coated with dust.

Topcliffe drew his sword, rested it across his lap and urged his horse forward until its head was beside the head of Shakespeare’s mount, their breaths mingling. He gazed first at Savage, then at Shakespeare.

‘Hand over your weapons or die here like dogs.’ He wiped his sleeve across his besmirched face, turning his head sharply.

‘I do not need you, Topcliffe. This man is arrested and is now under my charge. I have his pistols already.’

Topcliffe raised his arm as a signal to the men behind him. They all drew their own weapons, swords and pistols. ‘Your weapons, Shakespeare.’

‘What is this?’

‘Your weapons. All of them. I will not ask again.’

Shakespeare suddenly understood. ‘This is madness. You will not get away with it.’

Topcliffe laughed with scorn. ‘When you are pacing your cell, waiting to die a traitor’s death, I will be safely abed, sleeping as sound as a newborn, knowing that I have done my duty by God and Her Majesty.’ He raised his hand again and the pursuivants began to move forward, waiting for the hand to drop as a signal to fire their pistols.

Shakespeare realised all too clearly that Topcliffe would do it. He could kill both men here and now and he would get away with it. To survive, Shakespeare could neither fight these men, nor defy them. He threw the petronel and the pistols to the ground, and then the swords.

‘There, grovel for them.’

Topcliffe gestured to five of his men, who immediately dismounted. One of them began gathering up the array of firearms and blades while the others wrenched both Shakespeare and Savage from their saddles and forced them to their knees, with their hands on their heads.

‘Where’s the other one, Shakespeare?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Savage was with another – a young one. You followed them. Did you think you were not watched? Did you think we would not discover your foul plan to murder the Queen?’

‘There was no one. Savage alone had the plan and I captured him. He is my prisoner.’

‘Bind them across their horses,’ Topcliffe ordered, then waved two men forward. ‘Tom, Jacob, you carry on along the highway towards Richmond. Go at speed. If the young one is there, arrest him or kill him. I care not which. It is these two I most want for questioning.’ He pointed his sword at Shakespeare and Savage. ‘Let us see how they enjoy my entertainment in the Tower. I am sure we shall have them dancing like bears for our pleasure.’

‘Mr Secretary will not let you get away with this.’ Even as he said the words, his hands were being tied with thin cord that bit into his wrists, as were Savage’s.

‘And how, pray, will he know of it?’

‘God damn your stinking hide to hell, Topcliffe.’

Topcliffe laughed again, then leant from the saddle so that his mouth was close to Shakespeare and his fetid breath assailed his nostrils. ‘I have fine news for you. Your murdering whore is in custody, awaiting the hangman in short order.’

Shakespeare’s blood ran cold. He tried to get up, but was instantly tripped and his captors set to work binding his feet.

‘Indeed, I am led to believe she gave herself up. Walked all alone to Richard Young’s house and turned herself over to his mercy. But that will not save her; no soft womanly entreaties or feigned remorse will save her neck.’

‘And if she is innocent?’

‘Innocent? She is as guilty as you, and you will both die. You are an accessory to murder and a traitor. The company you keep is all the evidence needed. Indeed, the judge may have to invent a new form of execution to reflect the depravity of your crimes.’ Topcliffe had his silver-tipped blackthorn stick strapped to the horse’s flank. He pulled it out and jabbed at the silent figure of Goodfellow Savage. ‘Your friend is very quiet, Shakespeare. He won’t be so quiet when I burn him with irons.’

Anthony Babington scraped his knife across the trencher, pushing his food to the side. He had eaten almost nothing. John Scudamore, meanwhile was eating with great relish. He cut an enormous chunk of pork, wrapped it in a hunk of buttered bread, then dunked it into the middle of a fried duck’s egg, so that the yolk burst forth like a golden sun and covered the bread. He forced the whole into his mouth and chewed with enthusiasm.

‘This is fine fare,’ he tried to say, then took a sup of ale to wash the mouthful down. ‘I say this is fine fare, Mr Babington.’

‘I have no appetite.’

‘So I see. Perhaps you would allow me to finish your food for you.’ He was sitting opposite Babington in a small booth and pulled the trencher towards him and piled the food on top of his own. ‘It would be a crime to waste such fare, for it will only go as fodder for pigs or dogs if I do not eat it.’

The tavern was almost empty. This was a working day. Scudamore tucked into Babington’s meal, looking at him occasionally with what he clearly intended as a reassuring smile, but saying little.

The reassuring smiles did nothing for Babington, who was as tense as a line with a trout on the hook. He was horribly aware that he was the catch. He leant back. His sword-belt and cape were slung casually over the back of his chair.

The terror was worse here, in this mundane place in the company of this pleasant, ravenous man. The visions of blood were more real now; he saw his own blood washing into the earth but also that of his friends – Tom Salisbury, Chidiock Tichbourne and the rest.

What had he done? Oh dear God, what had he done to them? Neither man had been a willing accomplice when first he mooted Ballard’s deadly schemes. Tom would never have become involved in such things without his insistent urgings. And now poor Tom was to die, as were they all.

And yet, surely there must still be hope of escape.

The tavern door opened and Scudamore looked up and nodded. Babington turned. He thought he recognised the newcomer from court, but he was not sure. He was tall and bent and dressed in the sober attire of one of Walsingham’s men. Without a word or other acknowledgement of Babington’s presence he walked up to Scudamore and handed him a sealed note.

‘Thank you, Mr Mills.’

‘My pleasure, Mr Scudamore.’

‘Will you have some ale with us?’

‘Indeed not, I must be away. Good day to you.’ He departed without another word.

Babington watched as Scudamore took his dagger and sliced open the seal on the note. Trying not to make himself obvious, he strained to read the words upside down. He had to stifle a gasp. There was his own name. And another word: arrest. Scudamore had been ordered to arrest him.

Babington stood up. ‘This was my idea, Mr Scudamore, so I shall pay the shot.’

Scudamore merely grunted. He was reading the note.

Without touching either his sword or cape, which he left slung across the back of his chair, Babington strolled towards the counter to pay the reckoning. He asked the sum, then handed over a half-crown. He noted that his hands were shaking. ‘Keep the small coins, Master landlord.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Babington glanced back at Scudamore. He was still engrossed in the note. As silently as possible he opened the door, stepped outside, and began to run, harder and faster than he had ever run before.

The journey to the Tower was long and exhausting. Strapped face down over the barrel of his horse, the pressure of the constant movement of the animal along the bumpy highway continually knocked the breath from Shakespeare’s lungs.

He was desperately fearful for Kat. If she was now in custody, he knew there would be little delay before her trial and execution. Somehow he needed to find the proof of her innocence at great speed. And he could not do that incarcerated in a cell. Even a day’s delay could prove fatal to her.

As he was being unstrapped from the horse, he looked up at the bleak, impregnable walls of the Tower and its mass of turrets. This notorious and doleful place, the young Princess Elizabeth had called it when she was brought here one wet and miserable day thirty-three years earlier on the orders of her sister Queen Mary.

Notorious and doleful. Though the day was warm, Shakespeare shivered with foreboding.

He and Savage stood side by side at the gate as they prepared to be received into the custody of the Tower warders. Shakespeare tried to protest, but the chief warder merely said, ‘Save it for your examination.’ He turned to Topcliffe, who was still mounted. ‘I am uncertain how to proceed, Mr Topcliffe. We have orders that Savage is to be taken to Ely Place for his interrogation. They are being sent to many different gaols and great houses in the first instance.’ He indicated Shakespeare. ‘I have no orders regarding this prisoner.’

‘This is a most notorious conspirator and spy, sent by the Antichrist. You will find accommodation for him here before the Council decides how to proceed with him. As for Savage, you will depute a well-armed squadron to remove him to Ely Place, if that is what is required. I will be back soon enough.’ Wheeling his horse, he pushed the animal into a walk and turned back towards the heart of the city.

The chief warder knew better than to gainsay Topcliffe. He ordered a detachment of men to escort Savage to Ely Place, the home of Sir Christopher Hatton, then he handed Shakespeare into the care of one of his men and he was marched towards the south-east corner of the Tower.

‘This will be your home until the trial, Mr Shakespeare,’ the warder said as they halted outside one of the turrets, topped by battlements. ‘The Salt Tower. You will be brought ale and some supper before dark and in the morning there will be bread. If you require a bed, then that will be for your friends to provide. Otherwise you will have a scattering of straw on which to recline.’

Shakespeare wished he could have said a proper farewell to Goodfellow Savage, his beloved enemy. He would like to have embraced him, or at least promised to say a prayer, but he knew that any such gesture would be used against them both by Topcliffe.

‘Up the stairs, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Can you get word to Sir Francis Walsingham for me?’

‘No, sir, I cannot. The instructions from Mr Topcliffe are clear and specific, and accord with the Lieutenant’s wishes.’

‘I will give you gold.’

‘And I will report to the chief warder and Mr Topcliffe that you have attempted to bribe me. I know from experience that that will not sit well with either of them.’

‘How then am I to ask my friends for furnishings?’

‘That, sir, is not for me to say. I am merely obeying Mr Topcliffe’s command.’

‘At least talk to the Lieutenant of the Tower. Tell him I am here and that I am an officer in the employment of Walsingham. I am a Queen’s man.’

‘Indeed, Sir Owen Hopton will already know that you are here. He is expecting the arrival of many others and I don’t doubt there will be protests and complaints from all of you.’

Shakespeare’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. The only light he had in the small room came through arrow slits. The only thing he had to occupy him was trying to decipher the marks in the stone where former prisoners had carved their names or prayers. Many men and, perhaps, women must have spent their last night on earth in this little cell. Their ghosts were all around him, filling the space.

The Salt Tower warder came back soon before dark and threw down a little straw as promised, then put down a blackjack of ale, along with a platter containing bread and half a pound of cheese. ‘You are fortunate to be here rather than the city gaols, for here you will have dinner and supper at the Queen’s expense.’ He was a man of good humour and he bade Shakespeare goodnight, then left, locking and bolting the door.

Shakespeare drank half the ale and retained the rest, then arranged the straw as best he could as a bed. When darkness came it was all-enveloping, like the darkness falling over England. There was no candle, nor any glimmer of moonlight. He had nothing to do but sleep. But sleep refused to come, and so he was left with his thoughts: the grisly fate awaiting Goodfellow Savage and the other conspirators; the fate of poor Kat and Boltfoot. Never had Shakespeare felt so utterly desolate and despairing. He had failed everyone. At last sleep came, but it was fitful and brought no peace.

He was awoken by the drawing of bolts and the rattling of keys. The door was thrown open. Richard Topcliffe stood in the doorway, his cold face and white hair lit by the guttering light of a torch. He had four men behind him, all bearing torches and swords.

‘Get up, Shakespeare. There is something I wish you to witness.’

Shakespeare had to go where he was led, along the lantern-lit passages and well-guarded ginnels of the Tower until at last he came to the Lieutenant’s lodgings. He knew the place. It was pleasantly appointed and his hopes leapt at the prospect that the Lieutenant might be about to release him. But the man wasn’t there and, instead, he was forced through a concealed doorway into a short subterranean passageway.

They stopped. ‘You know where we are now, Shakespeare?’ Topcliffe’s thin lips were moist with unwholesome pleasure and excitement. ‘Directly beneath the White Tower. I am sure you have heard of this chamber.’

The entrance was dark, but as they stepped inside the light of the torches and the addition of light from a cresset of red-hot coals illuminated the immense vaulted chamber. He thought he knew the Tower well enough, for he had been here before to examine prisoners in their cells. But he had never been to these vaults. He knew instantly, however, that this place was the rack room.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the red and black gloom, the sight that greeted him was a scene from the darkest and vilest corners of hell.

The evidence of torture was all around him – instruments of pain were scattered carelessly about. The foulest refinements of torment known to man. Even the Inquisition could boast nothing worse.

To the left stood the rack, its ropes and pulleys vacant and unused. To the right were the manacles, gauntlets of iron that could hold a man suspended from the ceiling for hours on end. Then there were the red-hot irons in the fire that might brand a man, burn his parts into impotence or, when necessary, cauterise wounds. On a table lay a range of fine-honed knives for cutting.

The true obscenity that confronted him was a melding of naked flesh and black iron, in direct line of vision, not ten feet from him. At first he could not comprehend exactly what he was witnessing. A man was on his knees, his body folded like a cat at prayer. Two circular bars of iron enclosed him, meeting above his straining back, holding him down in a most unnatural position, crushing his spine and causing untold pain. How could a man even breathe when pressed so?

Shakespeare gritted his teeth in shock and fury. ‘This is a crime against God and man.’

‘You talk of crimes against God and man. Have you met Mr Ballard, priest and conspirator, otherwise known as Captain Fortescue? I am sure you know him well, Shakespeare. And I am sure you must know what crimes he had planned – the murder of the Queen and the destruction of England at the hands of the Pope and his blood-soaked demons.’

‘You are the devil, Topcliffe. Have you no shame?’

‘Say good day to Ballard. He knows you well enough. He calls you conspirator and assassin. He has heard you say the Queen must die and the Queen of Scotland must take her place. He is very talkative. Indeed, I would have to cut out his tongue to stop his mouth, so eager is he to tell me everything he knows.’

‘What is this wicked engine? I welcome the taking of Ballard as much as you, but I would not treat the lowest of earth’s creatures in this way.’

‘Have you never seen the Scavenger’s Daughter? It is remarkable effective in eliciting information. But not all survive it . . .’

‘You will pay for this, Topcliffe. You know well that torture is the last resort and is not permitted without a warrant from the Privy Council.’

Topcliffe held aloft a paper. ‘I have it here. Read it yourself. It is clear enough. Ballard is to be examined by all means to reveal everything he knows about the Pope’s White Sons and their designs. And he knows a great deal. How much will you tell, Shakespeare? The rack or the Scavenger’s Daughter – which shall we choose?’

Shakespeare took the warrant. You shall by virtue hereof cause the prisoner John Ballard to be taken to the Tower and there be put to the rack, manacles or Skevington’s Irons and such other torture as is used in that place. It was genuine, complete with the signatures of three Privy Councillors, Leicester, Burghley and

Hatton, but not Walsingham. Was Mr Secretary still distancing himself from these events? He dropped the warrant to the ground at Topcliffe’s feet.

Topcliffe picked it up with a light laugh. ‘I expect the warrant for you to be put to the rack shortly. And then the remainder of your friends, when we have discovered them all. Babington and some others are presently cowering in the woods north of Tyburn. There is no way out for the paths are all guarded. The mastiffs will have them soon enough. Others have been taken in the west and messengers have gone forth with names and descriptions into Wales and the north. Your conspiracy is done for and you will all die.’

Shakespeare did not bother to argue. He began to turn away. Topcliffe was well aware that he was a Walsingham man and that he had been working as a spy – but that did not mean he was safe. The worst thing was that every hour he spent imprisoned here was an hour closer to the death of Kat Whetstone for a murder she had not committed.

Topcliffe grasped his shoulder and tried to make him turn back. ‘Feast your eyes on the priest. That is what happens to traitors.’

The stench of fear and ordure was in Shakespeare’s nostrils. It occurred to him that to be constricted into immobility in such agony must be a hundred times worse than the pillory. He did all in his power to avert his gaze; he could no longer bear to look upon the priest. Topcliffe would not have it. He held his dagger point to Shakespeare’s throat and with the other hand pushed his face so that he had to look. Shakespeare closed his eyes. If he died here at the tip of Topcliffe’s blade, so be it.

‘Smell him, Shakespeare. Smell the fear and the shit. You told me once that torture is worthless because men will say anything when examined in such circumstances. But look on this man. Look on him. He refused to talk, but now he will beg to tell me everything he knows: the name of every papist traitor in England. Nobles, gentry and common men – he will give me names by the dozen. Men and women at court and in the shires. He knows them all and he knows the priests’ hideyholes. Now tell me that torture does not work!’