Holy Spy

Chapter 26

Shakespeare bade Jane goodnight and retired to his solar to read and think. After an hour, his eyes heavy, he put down the book and knelt on the floor. He closed his eyes and said a prayer for the lives of both Kat and Boltfoot. Then he picked up the candle and went to his chamber.

As he entered the room he caught his step, and his heart began pounding. A man was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, tousled fair hair tied back. He breathed out. It was Kat Whetstone in the dirty jerkin, shirt and hose of a labouring man.

Catching his breath, he held up the candle so that its glow fell across her. ‘Kat?’

Slowly, she removed her fingers from her face and met his eyes. ‘John.’

‘How . . .’

She smiled. ‘I lived here once, if you recall. It was simple to get in. You should bolt your front door.’

‘I have nothing worth stealing, no treasure.’

‘But you have enemies. How can you not have enemies when you work for Walsingham?’

He closed the chamber door. He did not want Jane to be implicated in the harbouring of a wanted felon.

‘Thank God you are safe, Kat.’ His prayer had been half answered. ‘I have been in a frenzy of worry.’

‘Do not be concerned on my behalf. When have I not been able to look after myself ?’

Never. But this was different. He could see the strain and fear in her eyes.

‘John, have you made any progress in your inquiries?’

‘I have found out that Will Cane was dying anyway. Joshua Peace discovered that he was riddled with cankers.’

Her face brightened. ‘Surely that must help.’

‘It gives him a possible motive for lying about you. But it does not clear your name.’

Shakespeare sat down on the edge of the bed at her side. She looked worn and haggard. How was it, then, that she still managed to look so beautiful, even in Osric Redd’s old jerkin? Just sitting next to her like this, the old stirrings returned. Absently, he began to brush one of the stray locks from her face, tucking it behind her ear, but then stopped. ‘Forgive me . . .’

‘You have nothing to forgive.’

‘Where are you hiding? Be straight with me.’

‘I cannot say. No, I will not say.’

‘Why did you leave Oswald Redd?’

‘I had to. He was seizing upon my misfortune to lock me away.’

‘What of his brother?’

‘Osric? What has he to do with this?’

‘When Redd told me you had disappeared without trace from the farm, I confess I looked at his brother with suspicion.’

‘Osric is harmless. I made his meals and we passed no more than two words a day. He talks to his sheep more than ever he would talk with me. Had I stayed, that would have been my life, for ever. Oswald had plans to make a farm wife of me.’

It was a familiar story. ‘Just as I had plans to make an intelligencer’s wife of you,’ said Shakespeare ruefully.

She had her hands to her head again. For a moment, he thought she was sobbing. Kat Whetstone weep? Was such a thing possible?

‘Kat,’ Shakespeare spoke gently. ‘Can you tell me who would benefit from the death of Nicholas Giltspur? Tell me everything you know about his family and associates. I have been to Giltspur House and I cannot but wonder whether the secret we are seeking abides there.’

She raised her tear-stained face. ‘What do you wish to know?’

‘Tell me about Arthur and his grandmother. And the steward, Sorbus. What about your maidservant, Abigail? And perhaps you need to tell me more about your late husband. You told me you loved him. But you also said that you would not have married him had he been poor.’

‘That is true. I would not have married him, but I would have loved him and shared his bed.’

‘What of Severin Tort? You placed a great deal of trust in him.’ A sudden thought struck him. ‘It is Mr Tort who is now hiding you, is it not?’

She shook her head, refusing to acknowledge the question. ‘Nick was a hard-working, God-fearing man,’ she continued. ‘An honest man, too, and I can think of no one who would have wished him harm – least of all me. But in the days before his death something was worrying him. When I asked him what was amiss, he just smiled and said that all would be well. Once he said he was worried because a ship was overdue, another time he said he had a difficult transaction to negotiate. I did not believe either explanation, but what could I say? All I knew was that he wasn’t sleeping.’

‘And his nephew, Arthur? He seems a charming fellow. That is all I discovered – that and his fondness for tennis.’

‘He is a privileged young man who enjoys his wealth. And when he is not at court playing sets with the nobility, you will see him at the gaming houses. He attracts women like jam attracts wasps.’

Another thought struck Shakespeare. ‘Did he ever display affection for you? You are more his age than your husband’s.’

She leant back across the bed and sighed with exhaustion. ‘You know, John, I am not sure. I usually know when I catch a man’s eye. There were times when I thought . . . but if so, he never made a move. He was a perfect gentleman. I think he sated his appetites elsewhere.’

‘Did you ever have cause to believe that he might resent your husband – either because of you, or for any other reason?’

‘I cannot imagine why he would have resented Nick.’

‘Then if neither you nor Arthur commissioned his murder, who did? What of Sorbus? Did he bear a grievance against his master? Did he begrudge you your place in the household? He does not seem like a man who would welcome change.’

Kat raised her hands as if in supplication. ‘Sorbus can seem severe, I grant you, but no, I am certain he would have done no harm to Nick. He was always loyal.’

‘Then what of the Giltspur grandmother? She has always been the power of the house, I believe. Is she ruthless enough to kill her own kin if crossed?’

‘Grandame? Nick was the joy of her life. I have not seen her since Nick’s death, but I am certain she would have been broken by the murder.’

‘She is surviving on spirit of opium.’

‘That is nothing new. Nick used to warn her it would kill her, to which she always replied that she had lived quite long enough and desired to die without pain.’

This was going nowhere. Shakespeare pushed on. ‘There are many servants. Perhaps one of them bore a grudge. Tell me about your lady’s maid, Abigail.’

‘She has no money. How could a woman without money offer a hundred pounds to commission a murder?’

‘She is fair enough, if a little plump. Beauty can bring rewards.’

‘Abigail could have had no cause. If you must know, I did not like her much but she was already part of the household. In truth, I rather think she had got herself with child, for I noted that her breasts were swelling. I would have had to broach the subject eventually.’

Abigail with child. That might change things. ‘Who was the father?’ Shakespeare rested back on his elbow and looked at Kat, lying on his bed. Her eyes were still closed.

She shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

Another thought was taking form. What if Nick Giltspur was the father-to-be?

‘You have gone silent, John.’

‘I am thinking.’

‘Keep thinking. Think me a way to avoid the scaffold.’

She pushed herself up, then stood.

He watched her as she undressed. He had always loved the slow way she undid her stays and slipped from her clothes, but this was different, for she was removing man’s clothing. Her skin was burnished gold in the flickering candlelight. She stood before him, naked. Never had she been ashamed of her body. He recalled the first time he saw her unclothed, in the waters of the Avon, before ever they were lovers. Her shoulders were straight, her breasts firm and unbowed by age or child-bearing. He gazed at her with longing. If only she had never left him, how different would both their lives be now.

Without a word, she pulled back the blankets and slid between the cool linen sheets.

He hesitated. He should not be doing this. She was a widow, her husband barely cold in his grave.

Her slender arm snaked out from beneath the sheets. Her eyes were steady and sure. ‘Come, John. This one night, no more. I am so afraid. Alone in bed I feel the rope about my neck and cannot breathe. I need you.’

This one night. The affirmation of life to scorn death. She had been his long before Nicholas Giltspur ever saw her. Their union might not have been blessed in the eyes of God, but he had never felt any guilt for enjoying her body and her love, nor would he now.

He undressed and joined her in the coolness of the bed. Her skin was as warm as summer sunshine. Her fingers on his body drew a long moan from his throat. ‘Kat . . .’

‘I will go before dawn, John.’

‘No, stay here. You will be safe. I will send Jane away for a few days. It will be better for her not to know. She should have no part in this.’

‘That will never work. Anyway, your house is watched. You notice things when you are a fugitive. I see watchers in shadows. I can pick danger in a doorway or among a crowd.’

He could not help laughing. ‘You should become an intelligencer. Sir Francis Walsingham would love you.’

‘I had thought he rather liked me anyway.’

‘Yes, indeed he did. And he knows I am trying to find the truth about your husband’s murder. He has afforded me some leeway, but he can do nothing to prevent the law taking its course.’

‘And so you cannot afford to have me here. Fear not, I will slip past Justice Young’s man unseen. But you, too, should be careful, John.’

‘How did you get in here unseen?’

She kissed his cheek. ‘Men have needs, John. Drinking or pissing. He went for a pint of ale at the Blue Boy. How could

he know that he was watched by me?’

‘Perhaps there were two of them.’

‘No there was only one. Trust me. Anyway, they would have battered down your door by now if they had seen me.’

‘They wouldn’t have needed to.’ He returned the kiss. ‘As you pointed out, my love, it is unbolted . . .’