Holy Spy

Chapter 16

De Warre took a step backwards and, without thinking, affected an insincere smile, the sort men and women produce as a courtesy when confronted close up with a stranger. But then he must have realised that he recognised the face of the man opening the door, for his brow furrowed in surprise and puzzlement. Shakespeare rather imagined that his own expressions must be going through the same rapid alterations.

Why would Dominic de Warre, the young companion of Goodfellow Savage, be here at the home of Severin Tort?

‘Mr de Warre, what an extraordinary surprise.’

‘Likewise, Mr Shakespeare. Well met, sir. But why, pray, are you here?’

‘I might ask the same question of you. I was visiting my friend Mr Tort. He is helping me with a legal difficulty.’

‘Indeed? I had no idea you were acquainted. Severin Tort is the man I must call my stepfather, though it pains me so to do.’

Shakespeare was gathering his recollections of this young man from their meeting at Mane’s; fervent, indiscreet, dangerous were the three words that first came to mind. But he merely spoke a platitude. ‘Ah, so he is the man who advised you against a career in the law.’ And the man so concerned by your wild and untamed mouth.

‘The very same. And I shrug my shoulder and obey him like a dutiful stepson. Tell me, are you leaving or staying? Perhaps you are off to acquire a pistol to shoot one of the tyrants. Oh, I had quite forgot – you work for them, don’t you.’

Was he speaking in jest or deadly seriousness? Dominic de Warre’s young face was all innocence, but the rashness with which he spoke was terrifying. Such indiscretion in these dark days could cost any man his life, even one this young.

‘Your tongue will cost us all our heads.’

De Warre laughed. ‘Are you afraid, sir?’

‘I have no particular wish to die before my time, Mr de Warre.’

‘Then I will bid you farewell – and safekeeping.’ The young man touched his cap, smiled knowingly, and entered the house.

Shakespeare let him go. Questions buzzed around his head like bees about thyme, but they would have to wait. He looked along the street. It was about eight o’clock and still daylight. The street was not busy; in the warmth of the summer’s evening a group of children played with wooden swords and bows; a few gossips standing with their arms crossed about their motherly breasts talked of the day’s news; workmen strode home.

Among them, he could detect nobody that looked like a watcher. And yet he was certain that somewhere there was one.

He rode west along Fleet Street, past Temple Bar and into the Strand. After two hundred yards, he turned northwards into Little Drury Lane, where he reined in. The narrow street was deserted and he had a good view in both directions. He waited a few minutes until he was as certain as he could be that he was not followed, then carried on northwards until he joined Drury Lane itself.

Tugging on the reins, he arrowed north through a farm gate and rode along a bridle path across Lincoln’s Inn Fields, constantly looking over his shoulder. A few cows looked back at him and a cowherd sitting on a tree stump eating his bread watched him with disinterest. At Holborn, he took another farm track past Gray’s Inn and then on towards Clerkenwell. Every so often he stopped, to be sure that he was not pursued. North of Finsbury Court, he joined the thoroughfare of Hog Lane and rode slowly towards its junction with Curtain Close.

It was a perfect summer’s evening and it would be light for at least another hour. The breeze was so slight that the sails of the Finsbury windmills scarcely had breath to turn. Despite the worries crowding in, he could not but think how glorious this English countryside looked on such a day. The prospect that men could conspire to break this peace and tranquillity, to slay the Queen and invite in a foreign power, was an abomination.

His horse snorted and pawed at the dusty earth. Shakespeare dismounted and allowed it to drink from a small pond, then tethered it to a tree and continued the last fifty yards on foot. He pulled his cap down low over his forehead as he walked past Oswald Redd’s house and gazed in through the ground-floor window, as any passer-by might do. He could see that Redd was at his workbench. There was no sign of Kat.

Twenty yards further on, in the lee of the Curtain playhouse, Shakespeare took a place against the wall of the tavern. The whole dusty street was alive with men enjoying a beer or cider in the evening sunshine at the end of their day’s labours. He ordered a tankard of small ale from a potboy, then drank thirstily, all the time keeping his eyes fixed on the entrance to Oswald Redd’s house.

He realised this could be a wasted effort, that Redd might simply close his shutters when the light went and retire to his bed for the night. But he didn’t think so. If Redd knew where Kat was, he was certain to go to her; there was a compulsion in him that would oblige him to see her whatever the risks, and to assist her. It was the same impulse that made Severin Tort put himself in harm’s way, and John Shakespeare too – though it pained him to admit it to himself. She had that effect on men, and she used it.

Redd emerged from his house just as dusk settled across the rooftops of Shoreditch. He turned left and walked at a steady pace in the direction of the playhouse. Shakespeare shrank back behind a group of drinkers and observed. Redd continued on past the tavern, going northwards, seemingly oblivious of danger, unaware that he might be stalked, for he did not look around.

Shakespeare waited a few moments, then followed at a distance of thirty or forty yards. Halfway along the lane, he slowed down. He was not alone. Another man, in vagabond rags, was ahead of him, on the other side of the narrow street, also following Redd.

The lane was crowded with playgoers, players, drinkers, outlaws and whores, all looking for amusement to stretch the balmy evening as far as they could, and that made it easier to follow Redd and the other pursuer, a small, bent man with a shining pate, stepping cautiously beneath the jettied overhangs to make himself less noticeable.

This man presented a major problem. If Redd was on his way to see Kat, then her whereabouts would be discovered by the pursuer, who would either arrest her there and then at the point of his sword, or report back to Justice Young. Shakespeare could not allow either eventuality to happen. He had to act, and fast.

The pursuer might be wearing rough clothes, but he was good at his job, for no man untrained in such matters would note him – and certainly not Oswald Redd, who clearly had no notion that he was being tailed.

Shakespeare’s hand went to his belt to grip the hilt of his poniard. No, he also had the bollock-dagger that had been used to murder Nicholas Giltspur. With its nine-inch blade, it was a great deal more menacing than the poniard. He drew the sharp-honed weapon, concealing its long blade alongside his sleeve, and quickened his pace.

Ahead of them, Redd was turning right on a track past the Curtain and the Theatre, which Shakespeare knew would lead him into the depths of Shoreditch with its hovels and stews.

Before the turning, there was some sort of cut-through, a narrow alley scarce wide enough to accommodate a horse and certainly not a wagon or cart. This was the moment to move. Shakespeare was at the stalker’s heel. He tapped his shoulder, causing him to swivel in alarm. But before the man’s hand could reach his dagger, Shakespeare’s blade was at his throat.

‘Draw your dagger and you will die.’ He rasped the words as he grappled with the pursuer. His left arm went around the shoulders of the man – who was almost a foot shorter than Shakespeare – and he wrenched hard, pulling him away from the thoroughfare into the passageway.

The man did not scream out, but he was struggling, fighting hard. Though he was a strong man for his size, Shakespeare was too powerful and forced him to the ground, the tip of the dagger still at his exposed throat. He held him down with a knee on his chest, then relieved him of his short-sword and knife.

‘Get off me!’

Shakespeare clamped his hand over the man’s mouth and put his own lips very close to his ear. ‘Do as I command,’ he ordered, ‘and you may yet live.’ He removed his hand from the man’s mouth, ready to clamp it again instantly if he shouted out or screamed.

‘I have no coin. Who are you?’

Shakespeare put a finger to his lips. ‘Say nothing. Just listen when I speak.’

The man had a length of cord about his waist in place of a belt. Transferring his knife to his left hand, Shakespeare used his right hand to unknot the thin rope and tug it free of his waist. He then ordered the man to turn onto his belly.

‘No.’

Shakespeare withdrew his knee from the man’s chest, stabbed the bollock-dagger into the ground then flipped the man over. It was as easy as turning a sick sheep. He pulled back the hands and arms and with a few deft movements tied them together hard, then bound his hands to his feet.

‘I do not have much time, so tell me now: who are you working for?’

‘I tell you this, he’ll do for you.’

‘Who? Young?’

The man said no more, merely grunted with pain as Shakespeare wrenched the knots tighter. There was no time for interrogation; he had to get away after Oswald Redd. He rose to his feet.

‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said.

An old man opened his front door and looked on the scene. ‘What’s this?’ he said, pushing out his chest as though remembering bouts from his youth.

‘Cutpurse,’ Shakespeare said. He picked up the bound man’s knife and short-sword and handed them to the householder. ‘Keep him at your mercy with those while I seek the constable. Do not listen to his stories for I know this felon to be a liar.’ He then nodded to the bewildered old man and began to run, trying to follow the route that he believed Redd must have taken.

Reaching the Theatre, the second of Shoreditch’s two great playhouses, he stopped and looked along the street. Panting heavily, he emitted a curse. Too late; he had lost his quarry.

But then he saw him, his progress seemingly held up by a stream of playgoers leaving the Theatre. Shakespeare stepped onward at a fast walk. In a few moments he had caught Redd, gripping him by the arm. Everything had changed; he could no longer simply follow him unseen.

‘Come with me.’

Redd recoiled, but Shakespeare held his grip.

‘Trust me. We must move away from here with great haste.’ Glancing around, he saw an alehouse into which many of the playgoers were pouring themselves. ‘Over there. I’ll buy you a cup of ale.’

‘What is this, Shakespeare?’

‘Come, sir. Come.’ His voice more urgent now, he was dragging Redd across the dusty street.

All the booths, benches and stools were taken, so Shakespeare pushed Redd through the throng and found a space to stand beside a couple of casks. The taproom was dark and rich with the scent of ale and tobacco smoke, a thing that never failed to surprise Shakespeare, even when his man Boltfoot sat with his pipe of an evening. He released his grip on his captive’s arm.

Redd rubbed his arm, wincing at the pain. ‘Pig’s arses, Shakespeare. Was that necessary?’

‘It was nothing compared to what you face if you do not listen to me and heed my advice. You are in grave danger of having your neck stretched. You were being followed, Mr Redd.’

‘Yes, by you.’

‘By me and by another man. Fortunately for both of us, I spotted him before he saw me. In all likelihood he was one of Justice Young’s men. It must be obvious, even to the most feeble-witted, that he has been keeping watch, waiting for you to lead him to Kat.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘I left him trussed up in an alley. I had no choice, but he will be freed soon enough and then he will look about to find us.’

‘And why, God damn you, Shakespeare, were you watching me?’

‘Because I too wanted to find Kat. But for very different reasons. You are an innocent in the ways of men, Mr Redd. All the wickedness you see is but the playwright’s imagination. This is real – and you have no notion of the danger she is in. Nor yet the danger to your own life, for you will be hanged for harbouring a criminal.’

‘Is that so?’ Redd’s voice was thick with doubt. He shook his head in disbelief. ‘And so once you had attacked this other man, why did you not continue to follow me instead of dragging me in here? I might well have led you to her, might I not?’

Shakespeare sighed, exasperated by the naivety of this love-smitten fool. ‘Because, Mr Redd, I could not be sure that the man I attacked was alone. There might, even now, be another pursuer on your tail, here in this taproom. If I had allowed you to continue along your merry way, we might both now be arraigned as accessories after the fact. Now tell me, quietly, where she is . . .’

Redd turned his head away. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I will not.’

At a wayside inn on the northern highway, just south of the Yorkshire town of Doncaster, Harry Slide was trying to lift the spirits of his two travelling companions. ‘Captain, have you heard of the time I did expose the Archbishop of York for the lewd vermin that he is?’

‘More times than I care to remember, Mr Maude. But tell it again if you must.’

‘No, no, I will not weary you.’

Father Ballard and young Robert Gage looked at each other with knowing smiles. It was, indeed, a story that they had heard before during their travels together through France and England. Bernard Maude was renowned for having extorted a great deal of money from Archbishop Edwin Sandys, having contrived to ‘discover’ him in bed with an innkeeper’s wife. But the crime had rebounded on Mr Maude, costing him a three-year gaol term for demanding money with menaces.

‘It does not weary us, Mr Maude for you brought low a great persecutor of the Catholic religion. But we have heard the story at least a half-dozen times.’

Harry Slide feigned hurt feelings. He would always be Bernard Maude to these men. Perhaps it was the fact that both Ballard and Gage – Captain Fortescue and his faithful serving lad as they would have it – both went under assumed identities that neither of them suspected Maude himself might not be quite the man he purported to be.

‘I fear it is a tale I never tire of telling. And it all came to pass in an inn of good cheer, very like this one and not ten miles from here. But I will spare you the story this night.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Ballard said. ‘I confess I am a little tired. The day did not go as well as I had hoped.’

They were to stay the night at this inn. In the morning, they would ride south into Nottinghamshire, to the great houses and manors of the Catholic nobility, to ascertain their willingness to rise up against the usurper Elizabeth and her government of heretics. How many men would they be able to muster to support the Spanish invasion? Which were the best ports to give entry to Philip of Spain’s galleons? These were the questions that the ambassador Don Bernardino de Mendoza had demanded of Ballard during their recent trip to Paris.

Ballard had assured Mendoza that sixty thousand good Catholic Englishmen would take arms for the Pope – the same number that Spain was promising as an invasion army. But the Spanish ambassador wanted more evidence before a fleet powerful enough for the task could be commissioned. So far, the response had been unfavourable. The Catholics all the way north and into Scotland had spoken reassuring words, but had balked at giving promises. Today had been no more encouraging than any other. They simply did not have the stomach for a fight. Even Ballard was beginning to have doubts.

‘Those who should be most forward are most slow; and the older the colder,’ he had complained to Slide and Gage as they rode to the inn. But Ballard was not a man to remain downcast long. He was certain things would improve in the region of Nottingham; Mendoza would have his sixty thousand Englishmen.

Harry Slide drank deep of his beer, then wiped his expensive sleeve across his mouth.

As though to put the disappointment of the day to one side, Ballard returned to the subject of the archbishop. ‘These Protestants! They are too weak for chastity. They would have wives and whores. Their feebleness will be their downfall, for they will never know the pure love of God.’

‘That is true enough. To see the archbishop sweating and grunting like a dog above the young woman’s naked flesh was a marvel to behold.’

‘It is what we fight against every day of our lives.’

‘I had him, Captain, a dirty dog on a leash.’

‘But you yourself were made to suffer, Mr Maude . . .’

‘I was, Captain, for I could not keep the cleric’s humiliation to myself. I wanted the world to know what he had done. An acquaintance with a wagonback press did print me a broadsheet to proclaim the news in London. That was my undoing, for it reached the ears of the archbishop’s fellow privy councillors and he realised the secret could not be kept. He confessed all to Lord Burghley. I was sentenced to a term in the Fleet and was fortunate to keep my ears. And though I served two years in my cell, I would have done twenty or more – and lost my ears – just to know that Edwin Sandys is scorned and mocked in every tavern and playhouse in York and London and, I am certain, far beyond these shores.’

‘Mr Maude, you are indeed a wonder. I do dare believe you could charm the bees from their hives and the eels from the reeds.’

He took another little bow. ‘At your service, Captain.’ And what is more, I shall charm you to the scaffold. Harry Slide drank the last of his beer. It was time for bed. The sooner they were done with this northern excursion and back in London, the better.