Holy Spy

Chapter 2

London, England, 1586

Three bodies coiled and writhed on the large tester bed. They looked to Shakespeare like adders dancing in a springtime frenzy. The man was on his back, his body arching as the two slender whores, sisters, ministered to him and to each other. Shakespeare watched them through a small hole in the wall and felt ashamed. No man should observe his fellow humans in their carnal ecstasy. He pulled back from the spyhole and Thomas Phelippes immediately took his place.

‘You see,’ he said in a whisper. ‘They are remarkable fine specimens of their sex, are they not? Such sisters are surely the desire of every man’s loins.’

Yes, they were comely. Shakespeare had been stirred, but he would not admit it to the slimy Phelippes. ‘I have seen enough. Let us go.’

Phelippes grinned, his thin, pitted face more repulsive than ever. Behind his grubby spectacles, there was a challenge in his watery eyes. ‘I can arrange them for you, if you wish. No silver need change hands. Just say the word.’

‘No. Let us repair to the tavern to discuss this.’ He pulled Phelippes away by his bony shoulders.

‘Very well.’ Phelippes slid the cover across the spyhole and ran a hand through his lank yellow hair, raising his eyebrows in mockery at Shakespeare’s distaste. Treading softly, they made their way out of the Holborn house and into a taproom in the next street where they ordered pints of ale. Shakespeare drank deeply, as though the draught might cleanse him.

‘Mr Shakespeare, it was important you should view Gifford thus. I think Mr Secretary will be more than satisfied with our report.’

‘Perhaps. But it was unseemly. And I am certain very costly.’

‘I could watch the Smith sisters all day. Have you ever seen such paps and such womanly bellies?’

‘They know their trade, I grant you, but I thought you had a new bride to look to, Mr Phelippes.’ God preserve her! How could any woman bear to look on his reptilian face each morning?

‘And Gifford! He is so small and hairless, so pink-skinned! He looks as though he should still be at his mother’s teat, not a whore’s.’

‘Do not be deceived, Mr Phelippes. Gilbert Gifford is twenty-five years of age and man enough for our needs. It is the very innocence of his appearance that gains him entry into men’s trust. Often to their detriment.’

‘But do you trust him? And what of Mr Secretary; does he trust the pink thing?’

Shakespeare smiled. He knew that his master, Walsingham, trusted Gilbert Gifford as much as he trusted any man, which was not at all. Shakespeare sometimes wondered whether he himself might be spied on by others in the employment of the Principal Secretary. Well if so, then so be it; the watchers would have a dull time of it. No whores, no salacious connections.

As for Gilbert Gifford, a man who went by many names, Walsingham’s fear was that he would vanish, his work unfinished. He was like a will-o’-the-wisp, one minute here, the next gone. And that was the point of these two fair sisters of the skin. Their task, for which they were being paid very well from Mr Secretary’s purse, was so to bewitch Gifford that he would stay and do his master’s bidding. It was a plan with obvious flaws, for there were whorehouses in every city of the world. These two would have to offer something that could not be found elsewhere. So far, they seemed to be doing all that could be hoped for, and more.

‘Do they have the pox, Mr Phelippes?’

‘Ah, so you are interested?’

‘Just answer my question.’

‘No, they do not have the pox. They save themselves for the best, which is why they are so highly prized – and priced – like spice of the Indies.’

‘Good. They will only make themselves available to Gifford at our behest. I would have them retain their mystery and freshness so that he does not tire of them, for without him we have nothing.’