Holy Spy

Chapter 8

‘Boltfoot, have you heard of a man named Cutting Ball?’

‘Yes, master. I do believe every man and woman in London town knows of him.’

‘What have you heard?’

‘I know that he is reputed to be an infamous villain, much given to violent persuasion in the getting of coin. I know, too, that he is held in dread, especially in the wharfs and quays east of the bridge. It is said he demands one part in a hundred of all cargoes unladen from the Indies carracks and has some hold over the wharfingers and lightermen. Some say his true name is Ball and that he is called Cutting for his custom of cleaving men’s balls from their bodies, very slowly, before he kills them.’

Shakespeare was surprised to detect an edge of awe, even fear, in Boltfoot’s description. Had he perhaps encountered some of Cutting Ball’s men during his time as a ship’s cooper? There must surely have been times when he was docked in the reaches of the Thames where the outlaw held sway. But Boltfoot afraid? No, that could not be so; Boltfoot was frightened of nothing under heaven.

They were in the kitchen, which already seemed a lot less dusty and more polished in the few hours since the arrival of Jane Cawston. She opened the door, looked in and saw the two men at the table, bowed quickly, then scuttled away like a startled rabbit.

Shakespeare followed Boltfoot’s gaze. ‘A comely girl that, Boltfoot, would you not say?’

‘Comely enough, master,’ Boltfoot growled as though the words were torn from him with a hot iron. He raised his eyes with mild defiance. ‘But take a look in the larder for that’s where you’ll find her true worth. She’s been to market and brought home food.’

Shakespeare held up his tankard of ale. ‘And a fresh keg, too. Perhaps you were right after all.’

Boltfoot grunted and took a quick draught of his own ale.

‘I have a task for you, Boltfoot. I want you to go to the taprooms and hovels where Cutting Ball rules and find out what you can about a felon named Will Cane, who was hanged yesterday.’

‘The one who killed the merchant? It’s the talk of London. The wife paid Cane to kill her husband so she could inherit all his wealth.’

‘So it is said. And do you know the wife’s name?’

‘No, master.’

‘Katherine Giltspur, born Katherine Whetstone.’

Boltfoot had known Kat as long as had Shakespeare, and he had been here during the years she shared Shakespeare’s bed in this house. The blood seemed to drain from his weather-worn cheeks and his brow furrowed in bewilderment and disbelief. ‘Kat . . .’

‘Yes, Kat Whetstone. Our Kat.’

‘But how . . .’

Shakespeare shook his head. ‘It is all as much a mystery to me as it must be to you. She married him two months ago and is now a widow, in hiding, wanted for his murder.’

‘Not Kat!’

Shakespeare shrugged. ‘I want to agree with you, and so I would like to discover more – especially about Will Cane, who was a known associate of Cutting Ball. Find his haunts and talk to those who knew him or knew of him. What sort of man was he? Had he killed before? Who were his friends? Was he married? Listen to tittle-tattle; sometimes there is a semblance of truth there. But bear in mind the hard possibility that the truth may be as simple as everyone believes: that Kat paid Will Cane to murder her husband.’

‘No, Mr Shakespeare,’ Boltfoot said stoutly. ‘No, I will not believe that.’

‘Then find me a better explanation. For if we do not, our Kat will surely die with a noose about her pretty neck.’

Anthony Babington gazed through the clouds of tobacco smoke at his assembled friends and felt a surge of pride. They were here, at this feast in an upper room at the Plough Inn on the south side of Fleet Street, near Temple Bar, because of his presence. He was their leader and their inspiration.

He rose from his chair, hammered his tankard down for silence, sending up a spray of strong beer, and called the gathering of young men to order. As their hubbub subsided to a murmur, he raised his tankard.

‘Raise your cups! The death of usurpers!’

The sixteen other men around the table all stood up, held their own tankards aloft, roaring their approval. ‘Death to usurpers! Death to usurpers!’ They threw the contents of their drinking vessels down their gullets then brought the empty tankards onto the tabletop with an explosion of banging.

‘Now charge your goblets and tankards and let us drink to the Pope’s White Sons!’ Once more they shouted and drank. Babington sat down and the other men followed his lead. He looked about once more. At his right hand sat John Shakespeare, one of the newer young gentlemen, recommended by Goodfellow Savage as a fellow of influence and secret knowledge; just the sort of man they needed. Was he to be trusted, though? He knew the mass well enough, but any spy worth his salt could learn that. On the other hand he was too valuable to be dismissed. He had already brought information about the inner workings of Sir Francis Walsingham’s intelligence network and promised more. Well, they would watch him carefully. And use him ruthlessly. Walsingham might think himself cunning, but Babington knew that he was a great deal cleverer. If Shakespeare was a spy, he would find out soon enough.

Shakespeare was becoming more than a little drunk, yet even through the fog of smoke and alcohol he could not rid himself of the tautness in his neck that came with playing a part. An hour earlier he had betrayed his religion to hear mass with these men at a house nearby. Now he was seated at Babington’s right hand, drinking to the death of the Queen he had sworn to serve loyally.

Through the haze of his inebriation, he studied Anthony Babington: the doublet of gold and silver threads shining in the candlelight; the long, carefully tied hair, so soft and clean; the small gold earring; his puffed-up pride. The word popinjay might have been coined for him.

A sudden hubbub of hail and welcome made Shakespeare look towards the door. Two late arrivals were entering – Edward Abingdon and Charles Tilney. Shakespeare knew them well and a sudden chill crept over him. Abingdon and Tilney were courtiers with access to the Queen, honoured members of the Queen’s Guard. And here they were among a group of malcontents and putative traitors with insurrection and assassination in mind.

He put his fears aside for another day. For the present, nothing must be said or done to raise alarm in the minds of those gathered here. Instead Shakespeare raised his tankard to the two men. Tilney came and clapped him on the back and pushed his way onto the bench on his right side.

‘Well, well, Mr Shakespeare, I had not expected to meet you here.’ His voice boomed.

‘Nor I you, Mr Tilney. It seems we both have a taste for interesting company.’ He moved a little way further from his new companion, who was known as ‘Roarer’ Tilney with good reason.

‘Does Mr Secretary know you are out?’ Tilney shouted.

Shakespeare grimaced. ‘Mr Secretary may own my body, but he does not own my soul. And what of you, Mr Tilney? Does Her Majesty know that you are here? I had thought you to be a Gentleman Pensioner with care for her safety. Should you not be guarding her royal body with your life?’

‘Why, she does not need me! She has God on her side!’ Tilney bellowed with laughter at the preposterous notion that a Protestant God could protect anything or anyone. Eyes turned his way and then, seeing who it was, turned away again.

‘You speak so loud, I suspect you are heard at Greenwich, Mr Tilney. Watch your roaring lest you ruin us all.’

‘They are looking for men who huddle and whisper, Mr Shakespeare. When I roar, the spies know I can have nothing to hide. And what of you? You talk in hushed tones here, but are you not heard at Seething Lane?’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Shakespeare’s senses sharpened, despite the ale he had drunk.

Tilney shrugged. ‘It was but a jest. I have come for ale and good roasts with fine company, no more.’

‘It was no jest. I do not like your insinuation.’

‘Insinuation?’

‘You know why I work for Walsingham. I will not be defamed by you or anyone else.’

Tilney shrugged. ‘I meant nothing by my remark. If you inferred anything, examine your own conscience.’

‘Damn you, Tilney, I will not listen to this.’ Shakespeare turned away, as though nursing hurt pride.

Anthony Babington had evidently been listening to the exchange. ‘Pay him no heed, Mr Shakespeare. The likes of Tilney are a mischief that must be endured. We need such men.’

‘Forgive me. I am too sensitive.’ Shakespeare changed the subject. ‘Is there word from Captain Fortescue and Mr Maude? We must hope they return soon.’

‘Indeed, Mr Shakespeare. They are much missed, but they are doing God’s work.’

‘In the north?’

Babington raised a finger, like a schoolmaster. ‘We do not ask such questions. It is enough that they are God’s soldiers, which is a noble calling. Are you a soldier of God, Mr Shakespeare? Will you take up your sword and pistol and follow me?’

Shakespeare was momentarily nonplussed, surprised by the openness of the invitation. At last he found a light way to reply. ‘My weapon is my mind. I fear I would make a better target than a shooter. But I will do all that is required of me. I am yours to command.’

‘What then, Mr Shakespeare? What will you do when God calls you?’ Babington gazed around the room at his drinking companions with a measure of scorn. ‘Will you crawl back into your hole and tell yourself that it was nothing but a brandy-fuelled game, more to do with feasting than carrying out His holy work?’ His voice lowered. ‘Or will your blade taste blood for Him?’

‘Do you doubt me? Perhaps you doubt the other fellows here?’

‘They will do well enough. But I am intrigued by you. Mr Savage says you are to be trusted, but I do not know you as well as he does. And you answer my question with questions.’

‘Let my actions speak while others boast.’

‘Then I will trust you.’ Babington’s smile did not extend to his eyes.

Although all those present looked up to Babington as their leader, for he was their senior in wealth and swagger, Shakespeare thought of him as a boy leading boys. The test would come when they were required to be men.

‘And if you are as true as I must believe, then you are indeed of the first importance to us,’ Babington continued.

Shakespeare gave a little bow of his head. ‘Indeed, Mr Babington, I do not know whether to be flattered or afraid.’

‘I do not flatter. If you are afraid, you must conquer it. As for these others . . .’ Babington gazed once more around the noisy room, ‘their comfortable life cannot endure much longer. The real work must begin. You, Mr Shakespeare, are the dog in the yard to warn us of impending harm. You will be the one to bring word to us if the satanic Walsingham begins to take an unhealthy interest in those gathered here.’

Shakespeare bowed again. ‘Mr Babington, I must tell you that he already takes an interest in you. He takes an interest in everyone, both in England and across the great capitals of Europe. It is said he even has agents in Peru and the Indies.’

‘But us in particular?’

‘I have told you about the information he receives from street spies.’ Half-truths, Shakespeare thought wryly; he would not mention the spies who watched from the inside, men like Slide and Gifford and Shakespeare himself. ‘Mr Secretary knows the Pope’s White Sons as recusants of noble and gentle birth. But there are many such in London and further afield. In some counties of the Midlands and the north, there are many more Catholics among the gentry than there are Protestants. Walsingham does not like them, but nor does he take most of them seriously.’

‘But we are not in the shires.’

‘It means nothing. Why, the court itself has its share of men and women who stand firm to the true faith. Walsingham knows all their names. He watches them all, but will only move against them if they are too open in harbouring priests or engaging in sedition. And so he will keep a watchful eye on you and your friends, but no more than he does with any other young men he suspects of being unsound in religion, as he sees it.’

‘And does he never suspect you?’

Shakespeare laughed, although to his own ears it sounded somewhat forced. ‘He suspects me every day. But I would say he suspects all those he employs and every man he works with. I would not be surprised to learn that he even suspects old Lord Burghley. The Queen herself, perhaps!’

‘Then be a good watchdog for us. Bark loud when you sense danger.’ Babington’s own voice lowered to a whisper. ‘Protect us well and we will have a new world shortly. Before this summer’s end a fatal blow will be struck against the usurpers. I have had this promise from Captain Fortescue, who has the ear of Mendoza himself.’

Bernardino de Mendoza, Spain’s ambassador to Paris. Here, between the twin cities of Westminster and London, the beating heart of England, this man Babington was speaking with reverence of his country’s most lethal enemy. At times these young men, these Pope’s White Sons – the Bishop of Rome’s innocent children as they would have it – seemed almost harmless, but Shakespeare knew that there was a great deal more danger here than a casual observer might ever imagine.

Babington patted Shakespeare’s arm, then stood up and signalled for quiet. His tone was serious and solemn. ‘Tonight we drink to absent friends and pray that they are with us before too long. A health to Captain Fortescue and Mr Maude and their faithful servant Mr Gage as they return from their great good work in the service of God. We wish them God speed to our bosom and promise that we will do all we can to emulate them by carrying out our own work. Each man must find his own path to salvation, but I believe in my heart that all here are resolved to work for the true faith. I would wish for a peaceful transition, but wishes sometimes need a little poke.’

The young men all rose again. Shakespeare drank with them, but could not conquer the churning in his stomach; all those present knew that Captain Fortescue was, in truth, the priest John Ballard, a conspirator who would wash this land with English blood in the cause of his faith. But only Shakespeare knew the real identity of his constant companion, Bernard Maude. In truth, Maude was Harry Slide, the slipperiest of the earth’s creatures, an intelligencer for Shakespeare and Walsingham.

Shakespeare was alone when he left the Plough soon after midnight. He was unsteady on his feet but that could not be avoided. As a relatively new recruit to Babington’s circle of drinkers and debaters, he had to gain their trust by drinking as heavily as they did. Now, however, he had no alternative but to ride, for he had no intention of walking all the way across London at this time of night.

He took a deep breath of the cool air. Above him the sky was clear, purified by the rain. It promised fine weather come morning. He tried to shake himself sober, but his head was swimming. All he wanted was his bed and a blanket.

At the west side of the inn there was an arched entrance through to the mews where carriages were parked and a bank of stalls was set aside for customers’ horses. Shakespeare stumbled into the archway, unable to see his way, for the wall lantern had gone out. He looked around, bleary-eyed, hoping to find the night ostler; he’d find the nag and help him up. But first he needed a piss. He faced the wall, splayed his legs, and fished in his hose for his prick.

He failed to hear the sound of footsteps behind him.

The first blow was a kick to the back of his legs, just behind the knee. The strike crumpled him instantly and was followed, as he went down, by a hard push in the small of his back. The surprise of the attack gave him no chance. He fell helplessly towards the cobbles, only putting out his hands instinctively at the last moment to prevent his chin and face smacking into the stone. Sprawling on the ground, he tried to climb back to his feet, but a rough-edged boot caught his ribs, then a hobnailed toe smacked into the side of his head.

‘Papist vermin. Pope’s dirty son!’

He cried out, more in bewilderment than pain, and scrabbled backwards. There were three of them; spotty youths in apprentices’ blue tunics and aprons. He reached towards his belt for his poniard, but one of them kicked it out of his hand, and then brought his own dagger close to Shakespeare’s face.

‘Let’s carve something pretty on you.’

Shakespeare smelt his fetid breath through the fug of his own alcohol-laden senses.

‘A cross? A picture of the scarlet whore? What’ll it be, vermin? What shall I carve?’

Shakespeare grasped the knife-hand and twisted hard at the wrist. The attacker yelped, but his friends moved forward, their eyes angry beneath their flat caps. One of them wrenched Shakespeare’s hand away; the other put his boot on Shakespeare’s chest and thrust him backwards, so that he fell against the wall.

‘Let’s do the filthy boy-priest!’

‘Slit the verminous rat’s throat! See the blood all scarlet like the Pope’s rotten robes!’

One of them grasped Shakespeare’s throat in a shovel-sized hand and squeezed. ‘Give us the dagger,’ he growled at one of his fellows. ‘I want to burst his eyes.’

‘Here.’ The blade was handed over. ‘And then you can stick it up his arse. That’s what these foul boy-priests like. That’s what they do with each other in their rancid beds a-night. Christ’s fellows every one.’

Had he been sober, Shakespeare would probably have fought them off, for they were not strong, but he was floundering and couldn’t focus clearly enough to fight or reason with them. The point of the dagger was coming closer to his right eye. ‘I have money,’ he rasped, the grip tightening on his throat. ‘My purse . . . take my purse.’ He tried to fish for the purse at his belt.

‘We’ll have your glazers and your purse.’ An unpleasant sniggering, breath like a dunghill dog’s.

And then the hand was no longer gripping him and the dagger fell away. For one terrifying moment he thought it was being pulled back for the final plunge into the watery heart of his eyes. He closed his lids tight, but immediately opened them again and saw three other shapes behind his attackers, pulling the youths away. He heard a groan as a punch connected with a stomach, then an oath followed by an anguished groan and the sound of running footsteps.

Shakespeare put his hand to his throat and gasped for breath. He rested his head back against the wall, desperate to dredge up some strength.

‘Mr Shakespeare?’

It was Anthony Babington, holding a lantern and peering down at him.

‘I drank too much . . . they set on me . . .’

‘Have they hurt you? Let me see.’ He gave the lantern to one of his comrades, then knelt down beside Shakespeare’s trunk and began to examine his head, holding it this way and that with soft, gentle hands. Satisfied with what he saw, he turned his attention to Shakespeare’s body and limbs, moving them to test for fractures.

‘I’m not hurt. I must ride home.’

‘Your head has taken a blow.’

‘It’s nothing. A kick by a boy. Please, help me up and I will trouble you no more. Thank you for assisting me, Mr Babington.’

Babington and one of his companions took Shakespeare under the arms and lifted him slowly to his feet. ‘No bones broken?’

‘Maybe a bruise or cut, that’s all. I thank you again.’

‘It was nothing. We are brothers in Christ, are we not? Who were they?’

‘Apprentices, curpurses, I don’t know. They called me papist vermin, so they clearly had an idea who I was.’

‘Ah.’ Babington shook his head. ‘Maybe someone in the Plough alerted them to our presence. It would not be the first time something like this has happened. A group of them beat poor Chidiock here outside the Three Tuns last month.’

Shakespeare studied Babington’s two companions: Chidiock Tichbourne and Thomas Salisbury. They had both been at the feast, his closest friends.

‘Can you walk unaided?’

‘Yes. Please, I entreat you, pay me no more heed.’

They released his arms and he took a couple of paces, but caught the side of his foot on a cobble and stumbled into the archway wall.

‘Come on, you’re coming with us.’

‘No . . .’

‘We will brook no argument. Thomas lodges near here. We will help you there and put you to bed until you have regained your balance.’

Shakespeare no longer had the strength to argue. And somewhere in the deep recesses of his befuddled mind, he realised that he would rather like to see inside the quarters of the treacherous Thomas Salisbury.