Holy Spy

Chapter 42

Boltfoot Cooper limped to the front door of the house in Seething Lane. It was early morning, not long after dawn, and they had just arrived in London, having walked the last leg through a series of villages along the Kent road overnight. He and Maywether had avoided the obvious route via Deptford and the south bank of the river because they both had their own reasons for wishing not to be seen by other mariners. Too many men would be willing to sell them to Cutting Ball for a few pennies.

As Boltfoot lifted the latch, he was confronted by Jane Cawston. Her eyes widened and the blood seemed to drain from her skin. Her hand went to her mouth.

‘Jane . . .’

‘Oh, Mr Cooper, sir, you are alive.’

‘Do you think so? You may change your mind when you see my blisters.’

‘We thought you were dead, sir. You are truly alive, God be blessed.’

God and a little bit of the same cunning that kept me quick when so many others were dying of hunger and disease on Drake’s great voyage. ‘Yes, God be blessed. And mistress, you will be pleased to call me Boltfoot, for I am no sir, neither to you nor any person living or dead. Now allow me in for I have a mighty hunger and a thirst to match it – and I must talk with Mr Shakespeare without delay.’

‘He is not home, sir. I have not seen him in a day and a half.’

‘Well, where is he?’

‘He went with a man called Scudamore. I believe him to be a gentleman in the employ of the Principal Secretary. They went on horseback and I think they were engaged upon important business of the state. In truth, I am sure of it, but that is all I know.’

‘And there has been no word?’

‘None. It seems much danger lurks in this household. I never knew such things in all my born days. My family home was always a place of peace and tranquillity.’

‘Even with a dozen or so sisters? I cannot believe such a house ever knew peace.’ Boltfoot tried to lighten her mood, for he could see she was sore tried. ‘And I have another matter to mention.’ He moved to one side and an equally worn and tattered man stepped forward. ‘I have brought this man with me. He is a seafarer named Mr Maywether and he is to be our guest. I would ask you to make him up the truckle bed in my chamber and find food for us both. We have both been walking all night and I owe him a great debt.’

The man grinned. ‘Aye, that he does, mistress. And he can start paying it by giving me the featherbed – while he has the truckle.’

After they had eaten a large breakfast and washed away most of the grime of the long walk, Jane came to the table with her arms outstretched. Boltfoot’s caliver and cutlass were laid across them. His tired eyes lit up. ‘Where did you find them?’

‘A young lady named Bathsheba Cane brought them. She seemed to know all about you.’

‘Aye, well, I’ll have to thank her, won’t I.’

‘Indeed, I got the sense she wouldn’t mind a visit from you when you have the time.’

Boltfoot grunted and looked away. He didn’t need no housemaid telling him what he should and shouldn’t do. Without a word, he pulled Maywether up from his chair before he fell asleep in his potage and they both trudged off towards the bedchamber. The prospect of a real mattress and a real bed could not be put off any longer.

Within ten minutes, Jane could hear them both snoring as she cleared away their platters and went about her chores, but then she heard another sound, a light rapping at the front door.

The sound worried her. What was it about this house that every knock at the door made her jump? She smoothed down her linen apron and pulled open the door. The man she knew as Mr Tort stood before her. He did not seem threatening, but he was looking about him like an alarmed rabbit which, in turn, frightened her.

‘I am afraid Mr Shakespeare is not here, sir.’

‘I know, but he has a man, does he not – a Mr Cooper. Is he here?’

‘May I ask why you want him, sir? He is presently indisposed.’

‘There is no time for questions. Lives depend on bringing Mr Cooper to me without delay. And that includes your master’s life.’

Jane did not move or say anything. She was trying to make sense of the man’s words. ‘Please, allow me in, mistress, for I fear the house may be watched.’ Jane held open the door yet wider. ‘Yes, come in, sir. Forgive me. I will fetch Mr Cooper to you straightway.’

Severin Tort was not a man of courage. He had no desire for martyrdom, merely wishing to practise his faith in private and his business as a lawyer in peace. At times recently, he had felt the noose tightening about his neck; such matters as the secrets he held for the Giltspur family, the assistance he had given to the fugitive Katherine Whetstone, could not help a man sleep well at night.

But the greatest danger of all in these days was his Catholicism and his stepson’s association with Babington and the rest. That brought them both a great deal too close to the scaffold.

This last night had been the worst. Dominic had come to him in the early evening with the dread news. Shakespeare had arrested Savage but had spared Dominic. The young man had ridden away, but some instinct had made him stop and look back; he had watched from a distance as both Savage and Shakespeare had been taken captive by a band of pursuivants and then carried away strapped across the backs of their horses. Dominic had followed them, unseen, and had watched as John Shakespeare was delivered to the Tower.

What was to be done? His first action was to send Dominic away, telling him that he must do exactly as John Shakespeare had ordered: go to his country estates and remain there a year at least. But what of Shakespeare? He, Tort, could do nothing for him without facing arrest himself. His Catholicism was too well known. It had always been winked at, but it would not remain his own affair long if he attempted to go against Justice Young or Richard Topcliffe. He could not afford to make enemies of such men if he and Dominic wished to stay alive.

Boltfoot was pulling up his hose and trying to adjust his worn and grubby shirt as he limped to the door. He looked at Tort through angry eyes. ‘What?’ he said.

‘Mr Cooper, your master is being held in the Tower. I have no way of helping him.’ He said the words blankly, hoping this simple man might understand plain English. He tried to gauge a reaction, gazing at the exhausted face of Shakespeare’s manservant without much hope. What could this poor, lame creature hope to achieve if he, one of the great lawyers of the age, could do nothing?

‘The Tower of London? Why is he there?’

‘I think he has been taken in error. Beyond that I know not and have no way of finding out without compromising myself, but we must find a way to remove him.’

‘How do you know he is there?’

‘I cannot say.’

Cooper scratched his head. He was bleary-eyed. Did he understand, Tort wondered, what was being said to him?

‘Well the only man who can get him out is Walsingham,’ Boltfoot said. ‘You should go to him. He will more likely listen to you than me, master. You are an attorney-at-law, are you not?’

Tort shook his head vigorously. ‘I would do so, but believe me I cannot. I beg you to trust me, Mr Cooper – there is no one else I can turn to.’

‘Trust you, Mr Tort? I do not know you.’

‘But you know Katherine Whetstone, I think. Did your master not tell you that I, too, am a friend of hers? It was I who sought his assistance.’

Boltfoot nodded. ‘Yes, I do know that.’

‘Then I entreat you, do not question me further – but trust me. You must find a way to have your master freed. Katherine Whetstone is now on trial for her life and by day’s end will be condemned. I can do nothing more for her. The only slender hope she has is your master.’