Holy Spy

Chapter 46

Shakespeare pushed open the door. The chamber was in darkness, but the smoke of snuffed candles hung in the air like a poor man’s incense.

He held the lantern aloft and looked around. A large four-poster bed dominated the room and its curtains were drawn. The soft breathing of sleep came from within. Shakespeare gestured to Boltfoot to relight the candles, of which there were ten or more spread around the chamber on table, sill and coffers.

When the chamber was fully lit, he pulled back the bed curtains. A woman lay there alone, beneath the covers, seemingly asleep. She wore no nightcap and her long hair was splayed across the pillows. He could not see her face, for she was on her side, facing away from him. Yet there was something familiar about her.

He touched her shoulder. ‘Wake up.’

She groaned groggily and pulled the blankets up to cover herself more. But Shakespeare had already worked out where he had seen her before and knew from the hastily extinguished candles that her sleep was but play-acting.

‘Get up, Abigail.’

She moaned again, but Shakespeare ripped back the blankets and sheets. Her body was naked, her pregnant belly swollen. She grasped at the bedclothes to cover herself and Shakespeare did not try to stop her. She huddled back against the head of the bed, her eyes aflame, staring at him with loathing.

‘I have come for Huckerbee.’

‘He’s not here. He went when the shooting started.’

‘No, he’s here.’

Boltfoot was already searching the room. He opened a coffer and poked around inside amongst the linen, then he looked under the bed but there was nothing save a truckle there. At last he came to a closed cabinet. He looked back at the woman in the bed and saw from her eyes that he had found his quarry. He aimed his caliver at the door and stood back.

‘Come out, Sir Robert, you have been discovered.’

For a few moments nothing happened but then the door began to open. The elegant figure of Sir Robert Huckerbee stood there, half clothed, wearing no shirt but only breeches. He had his back to the panelling at the rear of the cabinet. He was a wretched sight.

‘With your hands up, step out slowly. No sudden movements. Mr Cooper is a very good shot.’

Huckerbee raised his hands above his head and stepped down from his meagre hiding place. He began to protest in his courtly, languid tones. ‘I don’t know what any of this is about, Shakespeare. We heard shooting. I hid to protect myself. May I put my hands down now? Your man is frightening me.’

‘See if he is armed, Boltfoot.’

Boltfoot moved forward, the caliver still pointing at Huckerbee. With one hand, he patted the man’s breeches, then looked at his master and shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Good. Now you may lower your arms, Sir Robert.’

‘You realise of course that this will all be reported to Lord Burghley and Mr Secretary. Do you really think you can treat me this way? Your career is over, Shakespeare.’

‘Speak when spoken to if you hope to live. I know what you and Arthur Giltspur have been doing so do not insult me by denying it. Now, you will write everything you know about the involvement of Arthur Giltspur and this woman in the murder of Mr Nicholas Giltspur, and the reasons for it. You will then come with me to Recorder Fleetwood’s house.’

‘I will do nothing of the sort.’

Shakespeare found himself laughing, though there was little enough to amuse him with the minutes vanishing like sand through his fingers. ‘Or, Sir Robert, I will take you from here to the presence of Mr Cutting Ball and you can face his brand of justice, for he does not like to be robbed. You may think you were skimming Treasury money, but I doubt Cutting Ball will see it that way. Nor will he like to hear that his man Wicklow has been shot and may die. The choice is yours – Fleetwood’s justice or Ball’s.’

Fleetwood’s house lay a little west of Aldermanbury at the junction of Foster Lane and Noble Street. The sun was not up but the sky was lightening across the rooftops to the east of town and the early risers were already going about their business, trudging to work, setting up market stalls, preparing for the day ahead. Many others were making their way east – and Shakespeare realised with a shudder that they were seeking a prime spot at a double hanging.

William Fleetwood, Serjeant-at-Law and Recorder of London, was still in a deep sleep when his four visitors arrived. With age, he found it ever harder to shift his grey head from his soft feather bed in the morning and today was no different.

As they waited at the door, Shakespeare could not take his eyes off the sky. It seemed that any moment dawn would break upon them and it would all be over. He knew the way things worked at Newgate; Kat and Sorbus would have eaten their final meal if they had the stomach for it, and would now be bound, standing in the courtyard ready to mount the cart that would haul them to the scaffold.

Here, at the door to the house, Sir Robert Huckerbee, gagged and with hands bound behind his back, stood beside him. Then came Abigail Colton, also bound and gagged. Behind them was Boltfoot, his caliver covering them in case they tried to run.

The maidservant returned to the front door. ‘Forgive me, master, we are having difficulty rousing Mr Fleetwood this morning.’

‘We’re coming in.’ He nodded to Boltfoot. ‘Take them to the parlour and remove their gags but not their bindings. I will go to Fleetwood.’

He pushed past the flustered maidservant who tried in vain to bar his way into the hall. ‘Where is his chamber?’

‘Please, master, Mr Fleetwood will brook no disturbance. I will lose my position if I allow you-’

Shakespeare was already moving away. He could hear snoring. Thunderous snoring. Like a hog in a storm. Without hesitation he ascended the wooden stairway and pushed open the chamber door. Fleetwood was lying on his back, his head and the top half of his face swathed in a linen nightcap. His mouth was open and his body rose and roared with a great drawing-in of breath. Shakespeare clapped his hands, then leant across the bed and shook the judge by both his shoulders. ‘Wake up, sir, wake up. I must talk with you.’

Fleetwood sat upright, scrabbling with his hand to remove the nightcap from his eyes. His mouth, which had closed, fell open again. ‘Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Your honour, Mr Fleetwood, I beg your forgiveness for this intrusion, but I crave a most urgent favour of you: an immediate stay of execution for Katherine Giltspur and Abraham Sorbus. They are due to die within minutes.’

The old judge shook his head so violently that his nightcap fell off. ‘Impossible. They are guilty. The maid’s evidence was conclusive.’

Shakespeare pulled a sheet of paper from his doublet. ‘I can prove otherwise. I entreat you, sir, read this: there is no time to lose.’

‘Find my spectacles. Where are they? I cannot read a word without them.’

‘I have them here, master.’ The maidservant had followed Shakespeare to the chamber and now held out the round-framed glasses to Fleetwood. ‘They are cleaned and polished, sir.’

Fleetwood pushed the spectacles onto his nose, then flattened the paper and moved his nose to within four inches of it. His head moved from side to side quickly as he scanned the words.

I Robert Huckerbee, knight, do hereby testify that I have information pertaining to the murder of Nicholas Giltspur, gentleman, lately killed by stabbing in Thames Street. It is my certain knowledge that the crime was committed by one Wm Cane at the behest of Arthur Giltspur, gentleman, and that no blame can be attached to the deceased’s widow, Katherine Giltspur, nor his steward, Mr Abraham Sorbus. The aforesaid written this day with my right hand, my left upon the Holy Bible.

It was dated and signed. The hand was scratchy and unsteady and there were several blottings. ‘Where is Huckerbee now?’ ‘In your parlour.’

Fleetwood rose from his bed, assisted by Shakespeare with a hand beneath his elbow. ‘My quill and ink,’ he barked at the maidservant. ‘Quickly, girl, quickly. Have them ready in the parlour. And my seal and wax.’ He turned to Shakespeare. ‘First, I will talk with Sir Robert. Take me to him.’

‘Remove his bindings, Mr Shakespeare. And Mistress Colton’s. This is most irregular.’ He sighed. You make a sorry sight, Sir Robert.’

‘Indeed, your honour, but it is none of my doing. I beg you take no notice of that paper in your hand. It was written under duress, at the point of this brute’s gun.’ He thrust out his chin at Boltfoot and creased his mouth as though indicating something putrid and pleasant.

Neither Shakespeare nor Boltfoot made any move to remove the prisoners’ bindings.

‘With your hand on the Holy Book?’ Fleetwood peered above his spectacles at Huckerbee.

‘No, sir, I would not write lies with my hand on the Bible. I wrote that because I was ordered to and would have had my head blown off had I not. This man Shakespeare and his assistant are felons. They should be removed to Newgate forthwith.’

Shakespeare clenched his hands into fists. ‘You have seen the paper, Mr Fleetwood. I entreat you – on bended knee if you wish – to sign the stay of execution. If later you have doubts, then it can all be argued before you in your court of law and you can reverse your decision. But for the present, two innocent lives are at stake. If you do not sign the stay now, then your decision is irrevocable.’

Huckerbee gave the judge an unctuous smile. ‘Mr Fleetwood, you and I are men of standing. Surely you would not take the word of this common felon above mine. He is the lowest of the low in the service of Mr Secretary.’

Fleetwood did not reply. Instead he turned his gaze to Abigail Colton. ‘And you, mistress, what do you have to say?’

‘They are liars.’ Her countenance, which Shakespeare had once thought comely, was set hard and hostile. She turned her head to one side, refusing to meet the judge’s eyes.

‘You were most convincing in the courtroom, Mistress Colton.’

‘Because I was telling the truth.’

‘Did she tell you that she is the paramour of this man Huckerbee, who is himself engaged in a criminal enterprise with Arthur Giltspur – the man who will inherit his family’s fortunes now that his uncle is dead and the widow is to hang?’ The words ran from Shakespeare’s mouth like quicksilver; there was no time for subtle dealing. ‘Tell me, Abigail, did your other lover, William Cane, know that you were bedding this man?’

She jerked her face towards him, hatred in her blazing eyes. ‘Will Cane? I cared not a jot for him . . .’ She stopped, realising she had already said too much. Simply admitting the thing she had denied in court, that she knew Cane, was enough.

Without another word, Fleetwood sat down at the table, his ears deaf to the protestations of Huckerbee and the sobs and howls of Abigail, and scrawled out two notes – one addressed to the keeper of Newgate, the other to the officer in charge of the execution. He then sealed them and handed them to Shakespeare.

‘Thank you, Mr Fleetwood.’

‘Go. And I will keep these two here under my servants’ watchful eyes. God speed, Mr Shakespeare. I fear the sun is up.’

The crowd was dense. They had come out in their thousands, relishing the prospect of the hanging of the dirty, murderous Giltspur witch and her sordid partner in lust and crime. They had heard she was beautiful and they wanted to see her face. How could a face be both beautiful and evil? Was that the likeness of a succubus?

The execution was to be a grand affair. It would all be the most delightful appetiser for the greater spectacle that was to come: the godly butchery of the plotters who planned to kill the Queen and throw open the ports of England to Spanish men-at-arms.

Shakespeare and Boltfoot had remarkable difficulty driving their horses through the thronged streets. Every street for a quarter-mile was blocked by the press of people and the stalls selling ale and cake, the jugglers, the broadsheet sellers, the cutpurses and minstrels.

He urged his horse on, ruthlessly pushing aside men and women. In his urgency and frustration he lashed at shoulders and backs with his crop. Some men tried to pull him from the saddle, but Boltfoot, just behind his master, held them at bay with the muzzle of his caliver.

Being on horseback, they could see above the heads of the throng. In the distance the crossbar of the scaffold was visible. It was so close, yet still out of reach. From a hundred yards away, they heard a loud gasp from the front rows of the enormous crowd.

Shakespeare’s horse was bucking and jinking. It was going to kick someone to death if he carried on. He slid from the saddle and handed the reins to Boltfoot.

‘I’ll go ahead on foot. Tether them, then follow.’

Though he was tall, he could no longer see above the mass of people. Everyone wanted a better look and they all surged forward. Using elbows and hands he propelled himself through gap after gap. Each gasp of the crowd, each shout sounded like a death knell.

‘You, get back.’ A thickset man whom he had jostled grabbed his arm and punched the side of his face with venom. Shakespeare took the blow and wrenched his arm free and thrust into a breach between two old women, moving ever onwards, a yard at a time, towards the platform of death.

The two black-hooded figures, both slender and of a size, twisted and turned in the early morning air. Their arms were bound behind their backs, their legs bound at the ankle. The hemp ropes suspending them creaked against the rough wood of the gallows. Was the wind moving them? Were they struggling? Were they alive or dead?

Shakespeare leapt up onto the scaffold. Justice Young stood in his way, his sword drawn and held two-handed, ready to deliver a thrust into the belly or throat of any man who tried to get past. Shakespeare threw the hastily written document at him. ‘There’s a stay!’ Then he brushed him aside as if swatting a fly.

His sword was already drawn. Two guards pounced forward with their halberds to bar his way, but he was too quick. With a mighty slash, he hacked at the rope above the first figure’s head. But the cut did not sever the hemp. The fibres were frayed but held the body still. He hacked again. And again. Arms tried to grapple him, but with the strength of a madman he fought them off, drew his dagger and sawed through the remaining fibres. As the figure fell, he tried to break its fall, but stumbled. He watched helpless as the knees cracked into the wood of the scaffold, then the body tumbled forward. No sound came from the lifeless form. He tore at the tight noose, to loosen it. He did not have time to see whether there was any sign of life.

Justice Young was holding his arms. Shakespeare tried to tear himself free. ‘God damn you, Young, read the order staying this execution. Help me . . .’

Before he could say more, the butt of a petronel smacked into his chest like a smithy’s hammer on the anvil and he was thrown backwards, falling awkwardly against the sharp edge of the scaffold, and then crashing down into the street, head first. Into oblivion.

A buzzard circled high above the verdant countryside. Wafted on the warm air, it rose to ever-increasing heights, its sharp eyes questing for prey on the greensward below. It was looking for mice and shrews and small birds. Had it had but eyes to see, it would have spotted prey of a different nature.

But the raptor had no interest in the carriage of the Queen of Scots that trundled from her prison at Chartley on a three-mile journey towards the deer park of Sir Edward Aston at Tixall.

Like the mouse or shrew, Mary was unaware of the encircling forces that sought her death. She was in holiday mood. Her keeper, Sir Amyas Paulet, had allowed her this rare excursion to join the hunt. She was, too, in remarkably good health, the pain in her legs all but gone and her stoutness reduced by increasing amounts of exercise.

She gazed from the carriage window. In the distance she could see a new building which she was sure must be Tixall Hall, but one of her secretaries put her right. ‘It is the new gatehouse, Your Majesty. Note the turrets and cupolas.’

A gatehouse as big as a palace. Her spirits rose. After months of confinement at Chartley, she was at last to enjoy the glittering life to which she was born, even if only for a day. Then she looked to the side. At the edge of the woods, she saw a band of horsemen. At first she thought it must be the Tixall hunt. But they were not attired for the hunt; they were men-at-arms.

She drew a sharp breath and her whole body tensed. Was it true? Was this was the troop of young men come to free her, the one promised by loyal Mr Babington? She tried to count their strength. There were many of them – surely enough to outgun her guards. It was really happening.

There had been so many disappointments in the eighteen years of her captivity, but now at last she could dare believe she was truly to be brought to freedom. More than that; the throne of England was now within her grasp . . . God willing. She put her hands together and intoned a prayer.

The carriage stopped. The horsemen were approaching – fifty strong, in military attire, the horses caparisoned. All were armed with pistols and calivers. She searched for Babington’s handsome face; it was not there. Mary Stuart’s heart pounded, like the mouse the moment it feels the hawk’s talons on its back. The colour drained from her already pallid face.

She opened the carriage door and stepped out. Nearby, just out of earshot, she saw that the captain of the troop of men was conversing with her keeper, the Puritan Sir Amyas Paulet. She began to walk towards them. The captain slid from his horse, bowed low to the Queen of Scots.

‘My lady,’ he began. Not the Your Majesty that her own people would use as a mark of respect. ‘My lady, a plot has been uncovered to kill the Queen. I am under orders to take you into custody and await instructions.’

‘A conspiracy, Captain? What has this to do with me?’

‘I simply obey. You will come with me now.’

Whether she was overcome by a slight fainting fit or whether it was an act of defiance was unclear, but she instantly collapsed to the ground and sat on the grass. ‘I will die here. Shoot me if you will.’ And then she put her hands together and began to pray.

Did they look like farmworkers? Could five young men, gently born and reared, truly transform themselves into peasants with a change of clothes, rough cutting of hair and the application of walnut juice and dirt to weather their faces?

Anthony Babington had his doubts, but he had no other notion of what to do. His companions – John Charnock, Robert Gage, the Irishman Robert Barnwell and Henry Dunn

– looked to him for leadership and so this was his decision. Somehow they would make their way out of this wood, find horses and go their separate ways to the coast where they would try to secure passage to France.

After days without food or shelter, they were in a hayloft beneath the roof of a barn on the estate of the moated manor of Uxendon Hall, home of the Bellamy family. They would find assistance there, for none in England was more true to the old faith than the Bellamys. Henry Dunn had already gone to sound out the family. Babington was certain he would return soon with food and the promise of horses.

He heard a sound outside and signalled with his hand for silence. Peering down to the gaping doorway of the barn, he sighed with relief. It was Henry, and he had two of the Bellamys with him, Bartholomew and Jerome, both of them good Catholics and occasional members of the Pope’s White Sons. They were carrying a basket, covered with white linen; so there would be food and ale.

Hope had been in short supply these past few days, sleeping in the bracken, listening for sounds and then hurriedly moving on when they heard the barking of dogs as the searchers mounted their hue and cry. But there was hope now. God and this godly family would save them.

No one was better than Jonas Shoe at watching and waiting. He had been in the woods near Uxendon Hall for five days, observing the comings and goings of the household. And now it had paid off. He allowed himself a smile. A young man poorly disguised as a farmworker, with neither the strength of arm nor the gait of a labourer, had appeared at the back door to the old manor house. Now, an hour later, he had emerged and this time he had two of the young men of the house with him.

It was the easiest thing in the world to follow them, for it did not even seem to occur to them that they were being watched. So here they were at last, walking into the barn. Shoe moved closer and listened. Yes, there were other voices there. With the newcomers, he was certain there were at least six. He had found his quarry. All that remained now was to fetch the pursuivants.

Shoe slipped away into the woods and headed for the eastern highway.