Holy Spy

Chapter 24

Harry Slide had arrived a mere quarter-hour earlier. But before Shakespeare had had time to make sense of his garbled tale, he had been called to the front door by Jane. He had shuffled Harry Slide off to the solar and ordered him to remain silent while he dealt with Babington and Salisbury.

Now he wanted answers.

‘Tell me again what happened, Harry – and this time make it convincing.’

‘Might I not beg a little food and drink? My ride south has been long and hard, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘My maidservant will bring bread and ale. In the meantime, talk.’

Slide spread wide his hands. ‘I had thought we were getting on well. If anything, I was more fervent than they. The trip north was going badly for Ballard: there is no interest at all from the northern gentry. In truth, they could not wait to get him out of their houses. But I tried to keep him cheered with bawdy tales and good brandy. I had thought he was retaining his spirits well. And young Gage was always humble and obedient.’

‘Get on with it, Harry.’

‘We shared a chamber. They had the tester, I had the truckle. When I woke up, they were gone. They had not even paid their share of the reckoning, which I had to fund from my own

purse and for which I would hope for recompense.’

‘Why did they leave so suddenly?’

He shrugged. ‘I fear they suspect me, but I know not why. As far as I know, I did not say a word out of place.’

‘This is not good enough, Harry.’ Shakespeare knew his man. ‘Something must have happened.’

Slide sighed. ‘The only thing I can think of is that someone spoke against me. There was a man at the inn who seemed to watch me, but I paid him no note – perhaps I should have approached him?’ He turned beseeching eyes to Shakespeare.

Shakespeare knew Slide was concealing something. He knew, too, that it would be very hard to prise it from him. Slide might have the charm of a Ralegh, but he was twice as hard. And deadly, too.

‘Never mind that now. We must consider what this means to our mission. How much start did Ballard and Gage have on you?’

‘Two hours. Maybe three.’

‘And so they are probably in London already.’ It explained everything – Babington and Salisbury’s panic; their wish to leave England as soon as possible. ‘If Ballard believes you have betrayed them, he will immediately spread alarm among the Pope’s White Sons.’

‘Perhaps not, Mr Shakespeare. Ballard will wish to hold the line. He is not a man to fear for his own life and it is his nature to shun inconvenient truths. Yes, he will say that I am no longer to be trusted, but he will also do his utmost to lighten my importance to the cause and he will do all he can to strengthen their resolve. I know his type.’

Jane appeared at the door with ale and a plate of meats and bread. When she had placed them on the coffer, he nodded at her to leave. ‘Eat your fill, Harry. You look as though you need it.’

He could not be angry with Slide. He had placed himself in great peril travelling with Ballard and Gage and his earlier reports had done more than any to reveal the nature of the conspirators. The question was what was to be done now.

‘And you are certain that there will be no uprising in the north?’

‘I am certain. Not one man, be they the most zealous Catholic ever made, will raise himself from between the legs of his wife or mistress to assist the Pope’s White Sons. None will countenance a Spanish invasion or assassination of the Queen.’

‘Then you have done well. Your mission has been successful.’

Shakespeare fetched a sheet of paper from the far side of the room, then put it down at his desk beside the quills and ink.

‘Write a report for Mr Secretary,’ he said. ‘Then leave London tonight. All I require of you is word of where you will be and a pledge that you will not return here until this matter is concluded and I have sent for you. Simply disappear. Ballard and Babington must never see you again. Is that understood?’

Slide smiled. ‘Indeed, Mr Shakespeare. I thank you for your forbearance, as always.’

‘And Harry, I still want to know how Ballard discovered you.’

‘So do I, sir.’ Slide’s face was as open and innocent as any babe’s. ‘So do I.’

Shakespeare did not bother to reply. Harry was a liar, but he deserved to be kept safe. What of his trustworthy Boltfoot, though? And Kat, too? Where in the name of all that was holy had they got to?

Boltfoot was dragged from the pigsty, then hauled into the great tithe barn. His leg bindings were cut, but his arms remained bound.

Without a word, his captors pushed him down onto a wooden stool and waited.

‘A little ale or clean water would ease my throat,’ Boltfoot said. He would not mention it before these men, but it was the ache in his club foot that troubled him more than his thirst. He could live without drinking well enough; long days without fresh water in the Pacific Ocean had taught him how to still his thirst through force of will.

‘A knife to your jugular would ease it just as well,’ one of the men growled.

‘Even a dying dog is allowed water.’

A fist hit the side of his head and almost knocked him from the stool. ‘Just wait and keep your mouth shut.’

He did not have to wait long. Cutting Ball arrived with his sister at his side.

Ball stood in front of his captive, his bare arms protruding from his leather jerkin, muscles rippling like a prize bull. He gripped Boltfoot’s jaw in his powerful hand, and looked into his eyes from a distance of no more than six inches.

‘And so you came back . . .’

‘I am your guest, Mr Ball, and I have a mighty thirst.’

Ball nodded to one of his men. ‘Get him beer.’ He turned back to Boltfoot and shook his head like a father forced to punish a recalcitrant child. ‘You disobeyed me, Mr Cooper.’

‘You are not my master.’

‘No, indeed, that would be John Shakespeare, Walsingham’s man. Well, he’s not here to save you now, and so you must pay the price. Do you know what is to become of you?’

‘I am sure you will tell me again if I have forgot it.’

Cutting Ball snorted. ‘You do not show fear. Either you are a brave man or a foolish one.’

‘Merely resigned to my fate. You have me bound, you have your friends and you have your dagger.’

‘This?’ Ball withdrew his hand from Boltfoot’s jaw and pulled his bollock-dagger from his belt. ‘I am a very craftsman with this blade, Mr Cooper. When I play the barber-surgeon I can open up or remove any portion of a living body within half a minute.’

Boltfoot said nothing.

‘A mere thirty seconds,’ Ball continued, ‘but it will seem longer than a lifetime to you. Nothing makes a man squirm more than sharp steel applied to the bollocks.’

One of Ball’s henchmen reappeared with a cup of beer and held it to Boltfoot’s lips. He drank greedily. It was good, strong beer; if it was to be his last sup ever then let it be a long, deep draught.

‘You were a mariner, were you not? A cooper by trade.’

The cup was taken away from Boltfoot’s mouth; he had almost managed to empty it.

‘Aye. I told you as much.’

‘And so you like the sea?’

‘There was a time I liked it.’

Cutting Ball turned to his sister. ‘What say you, Em? Is this one for the fishes?’

She laughed. ‘Indeed, I think him one for the fishes, brother. A fine notion. A fine notion, indeed.’

Walsingham rubbed his hands together. A smile crept over his sombre face. ‘This is a clever scheme, John. Well done, sir. Bring Mr Babington to me here on the morrow. In the morning, about eleven o’clock, before Privy Council. I will promise him the earth and all its pleasures.’

‘And Mr Poley?’

‘I shall send for him now. He will be here, fear not.’

They were in Walsingham’s offices at Greenwich Palace. The Principal Secretary had listened intently to the report of Harry Slide’s unmasking by Ballard and the desire of Babington and Salisbury to flee the country and had understood Shakespeare’s plan immediately.

Shakespeare took a breath. Now was the time to press an advantage. ‘In the matter of Mistress Giltspur, Sir Francis . . . might I beg more time? I have not uncovered the truth and I can feel it close to me. There are matters yet to be understood.’

‘Nick Giltspur was a good man – a helpful man. He was much admired by both Her Majesty and Lord Burghley.’

‘In what way was he helpful?’

‘He was rich and powerful. He offered assistance when required.’

‘Can you tell me more?’

‘It would not be diplomatic to say more. Suffice it to say that I would be most pleased if his assassin were brought to the scaffold. And if that is his wife, then so be it. But I want to know the truth.’

‘Then I have more time?’

‘Very little. But yes, if the Babington matter goes as planned, then you have a little more time.’

Shakespeare took his leave of Walsingham and walked through the halls of Greenwich Palace down to the river moorings. He was stepping into a tilt-boat for the journey back to London when he was stopped by an out-of-breath servant.

‘Are you Mr Shakespeare, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘Forgive me, but Sir Robert Huckerbee sent me after you, for he desires the pleasure of your company. He is in his office adjoining Lord Burghley’s apartments.’

Huckerbee? Shakespeare had barely met the man and had scarce passed half a dozen words with him at the meeting with Walsingham and the other intelligencers. As he followed the servant back into the palace, Shakespeare struggled to think what Huckerbee might want that could not have been communicated to him by Walsingham. As far as he knew, Huckerbee’s only purpose in life was collecting, auditing and dispensing money on behalf of the Treasury.

The office was a world away from the austere chambers of Sir Francis Walsingham; walls hung with rich tapestries from Turkey and the eastern Indies, and cut flowers everywhere, their sweet scent cloying. Huckerbee had settles laden with cushions and a leaded window, thrown open to afford a view of the river. Was that how he had seen Shakespeare? Had he been watching for him, or had it been mere chance that he was spotted?

Huckerbee was sitting behind a large desk. He looked a great deal cooler than he had last time Shakespeare saw him, on the tennis court at Giltspur House. Not something to be mentioned, perhaps. He curled his smooth fingers to beckon Shakespeare forward into the room. Yet again, Shakespeare found himself irritated by the man’s haughty bearing. Was it his knighthood that made him assume superiority over his visitor, or something in his upbringing? To a man of modest birth, such entitlement was like a stray eyelash caught in the eye.

‘Take a seat, Mr Shakespeare. I hope you will allow me to pour you a goblet of Aquitaine brandy.’ Huckerbee reached for an ornate flagon.

‘No thank you, Sir Robert.’ Shakespeare remained standing.

Huckerbee smiled and poured himself one. ‘I won’t keep you, for I know you are a busy man, but I wished to talk with you about this.’ He put down the flagon and picked up a sheet of paper. ‘This is a bill of account from the misses Smith, known to you and employed by you as night-workers, I believe.’

‘They are whores, Sir Robert. Uncommon whores, but whores all the same.’

‘Quite, but it is not a word Her Majesty likes to be used about her palaces. I take it you have seen the invoice?’

‘I have seen no bills of account from the Smith sisters. I had believed they would be sending their reckonings directly to Mr Phelippes.’

‘No, that is not so in this case. As you know, he is back and forth between London and Chartley conjuring sense out of the Scots Queen’s ciphers. I am told that you are now the man in charge of these matters and therefore it follows that you take responsibility for authorising the payment, which I am required to counter-sign.’ He handed the paper across to Shakespeare. ‘Have I been misled, sir?’

Shakespeare took the paper. To Beth and Eliza Smith, for services rendered, twenty sovereigns, gold. As requisitioned and agreed by Mr John Shakespeare, gent. It was written in a fine sloping hand on good quality paper, dated and signed by both sisters. Twenty sovereigns was a vast amount; more than a skilled artisan could earn in two years.

‘I had no notion, Sir Robert.’ He looked up at Huckerbee and met his condescending gaze. ‘I knew they were costly, but they assured me that they always dealt with Thomas Phelippes and Mr Secretary, and that the price was always happily agreed by them.’ He placed the paper back on Huckerbee’s desk.

‘And you believed them, sir? You took the word of two notorious night-workers . . . whores? I cannot believe Mr Secretary has ever agreed such a sum. It cannot be justified.’ Huckerbee’s languorous front had been dropped.

Shakespeare stood his ground. ‘We needed their services. Mr Secretary told me to do what was necessary to keep Gilbert Gifford from taking flight. If the costs are excessive, then I shall answer to my master and if necessary I will order the sisters to re-submit their invoice. But that will be a matter for Sir Francis. Is that all? I have work to do.’ He turned to go.

‘Wait, damn you, I will not be brushed off.’

All pretence of cool urbanity was gone like a blast of wind on a still day. Shakespeare turned back. ‘Do you think to talk to me so? You are not my master.’

‘Indeed, I am your master in this, Shakespeare, for I control the purse that is paying for this ambitious scheme of the Principal Secretary. The Queen herself has me before her almost every day demanding closer control of Treasury funds – so you will hear me.’ Shakespeare said nothing, but waited. ‘Mr Shakespeare, am I not making myself clear?’ ‘If you have something to say, say it, for I have no time for such trifling matters.’

‘Trifling, you say? No time? I thought you had all the time in the world, pursuing your own interests around town, and all at the expense of the Treasury. I have heard it said, too, that you have been making use of the whores’ services yourself. Perhaps that is why their price is so outrageous. Would Mr Secretary like to hear that you are plundering Her Majesty’s coffers to pay for your peccadilloes?’

‘What exactly are you saying?’

‘You are misusing Treasury funds. There is an ugly word for it: embezzlement.’

‘That is slander, Huckerbee. You rave like a Bedlam fool.’ Shakespeare was angry now, but his ire was underlaid by anxiety. What exactly did Huckerbee think he knew – and who had been talking to him? Was the Queen herself really involved in this? He sniffed the air. Huckerbee kept his sumptuous display of roses in large urns about the room, but they could not conceal the stink of overflowing middens that was beginning to make this palace uninhabitable; the sooner the court moved on to the fresh air of Richmond, the better. But there was more than the stench of human waste in this room, there was the stink of double dealing, too.

‘I will be sending a report to Mr Secretary. You have not heard the last of this, Shakespeare.’

He should have walked out then, but he had to defend himself, even though he had nothing to hide. ‘Someone has been putting lies about. Who have you been talking to?’

‘My information is sound enough. You spend my money on your own pursuits.’

‘Your money?’

‘The money I dispense. Do not quibble with me, sir. I suggest you restrict yourself to government work or you will pay a heavy price.’

‘Mr Secretary will not be gulled by you. He knows my honesty. And if I am engaged in any other matters, he knows all about them, for I keep no secrets from him.’ Even as he spoke the words, he wished he had kept his counsel; he was defending himself like a schoolboy in front of an overbearing master. He had handed the advantage to Huckerbee.

The comptroller sat back in his chair. ‘Then all will be well for you, won’t it, Shakespeare?’ His voice had regained its composure. ‘If Mr Secretary is happy that you have been going about your own business in his time, then who am I to gainsay him? And if he is content that you use official funds for the swiving of a pair of costly whores, then so be it. But I will not be party to it.’

There was a knock at his door.

‘Come in,’ he said.

A bluecoat entered and bowed low. ‘My lord Burghley requests your presence, Sir Robert.’

‘Tell him I will be with him presently. A minute, no more.’ He waved an elegant hand at Shakespeare. ‘Go, sir. Take your boat.’ He screwed up the Smith sisters’ invoice and flung it at Shakespeare. ‘And take that with you, for I will not sign it off.’