Holy Spy

Chapter 43

Church bells pealed out across the city. As the news spread, they would ring across villages in the shires. In the gloom of evening, Shakespeare shook hands with the chief warder of the Tower and thanked him for his hospitality.

‘I take it you know what the bells signify, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘The plot is broken.’

‘Aye, they are making arrests hour by hour. I know not how many.’

‘There will be many.’ Shakespeare gritted his teeth. There would be a great many. He wondered which of the conspirators had been taken so far. And which would escape. Topcliffe had boasted that Babington and others were in the woods north of Tyburn. Had they been captured yet? If not, they would be soon enough; their names were all known and their fates were sealed. The thought gave him no pleasure. The deaths of hapless, foolish young gentlemen should not be the cause of bell-ringing. Even the likely execution of the serpent-like Queen of Scots should not be an occasion for joy; but sadness that it had had to end this way.

Boltfoot walked the horses forward. Shakespeare nodded to him, then allowed the warder to help him into the saddle.

‘Where are they, Boltfoot?’

‘Newgate, master. Condemned to death by Judge Fleetwood. They will die at dawn.’

‘Then let us ride.’ He shook the reins and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, urging it into a canter, the bells tolling in his ears like the chimes at the gates of hell.

On every street and corner, townsfolk were gathering and bonfires were lit. The people were drinking and dancing and crying eternal life to England and Elizabeth and death to all papists, Jesuits and traitors. But especially death to the Queen of Scotland. Let demons and devils prod her obscenely with their forks for all eternity. Let her burn for ever.

Shakespeare felt a chill in the air. Summer had fled and even the bonfires could provide no warmth.

At Newgate, they had to wait ten minutes before the keeper came from his supper at the tavern. It was the moment for Shakespeare to hear the full story of what had happened to Boltfoot and how he had managed to walk to freedom from the port of Sandwich in the east of Kent. What mattered most was the vital information about the Giltspur family that Boltfoot had learnt in his conversations with Maywether. Suddenly he understood the motive behind the murder of Nicholas Giltspur.

He thanked Boltfoot. ‘We will find the money for Mr Maywether somehow. Fear not.’

‘I felt I had no choice but to agree to his terms, master.’

‘You did well. And tell me, Boltfoot, did Mr Secretary hesitate before ordering my release from the Tower?’

‘A moment or two, perhaps. No more.’

‘And did he wish me well?’

‘In truth, sir, I cannot recall. But he did tell me to demand of you what had become of Gilbert Gifford.’

Shakespeare smiled to himself. Walsingham would hesitate while he pondered the consequences before freeing his own mother from a gin trap. Well, so be it. Shakespeare would have expected it no other way. As for the pink pigling, Shakespeare had no doubts: Gifford had fled the country at the first sight of Mr Phelippes’s ill-advised drawing of a gallows on the letter out of Chartley. The intelligencer-priest, the holy spy, whose double dealing was about to do for Mary Stuart and Anthony Babington, knew all too well how innocence and guilt could become confused at the sharp end of such an endeavour. He had fled to save his skin.

The keeper appeared. As he nodded to his guests some unspecified insect fell from his knotted hair. He picked a piece of food from his beard, put it to his nose, decided against eating it and flicked it to the ground. ‘Seems you just can’t keep away, Mr Shakespeare. Perhaps you’d like a cell of your own. Take up residence here.’

‘I believe you have two prisoners awaiting death.’

‘Indeed I do, master, and you’re in time to talk to them. They have a few more hours until they are carted to Thames Street.’

‘Is that where they are to be hanged?’

‘Aye, next the clock, the scene of the crime. I am told the carpenters’ work is done. The scaffold is ready. They will die where their victim fell.’

‘Take me to them.’

‘They’re kept separate being of differing sexes. Which do you want first?’

‘The woman.’

‘Very well. Follow me.’ He put his hand up to Boltfoot. ‘The cripple stays here with his strange weapons.’

Kat was not shackled. She was in a cell alone and was sitting at a small table with a quill, ink and a blank sheet of paper. She looked up as the door opened and her eyes met Shakespeare’s.

‘So you have come to say farewell, John. I prayed you would. I have been trying to write you a letter, but no words appear.’

He smiled at her. Never had he seen her so forlorn. Her blue eyes shone in the light of a single candle but they retained little of their vitality, as though she already thought of herself as dead. ‘No. I have not come to say farewell but to try to find a way to save you.’

‘You were not at Justice Hall, for if you had been you could not possibly believe in my innocence.’

‘What happened? Why did you hand yourself in?’

‘Won’t you at least kiss me?’

He took her face in his hands. Her fair cheeks were cold to the touch. He kissed her and she buried her face in his neck. He stroked her hair.

‘Your lips,’ she murmured. ‘The touch of your tender, familiar lips. They are like life in this place of death. Did you know that I am to hang at dawn?’

‘Yes, I knew it.’ The words scarce escaped the back of his throat. The mere thought of that soft, slender neck being tightened by rough hemp was an abomination.

‘Does the whole world know it then?’

‘The streets will be thronged, I fear.’ He sighed. ‘Why, Kat, why did you come out of hiding? You could have got away. We would have found you a way to safety.’

‘I had to try to save Abraham Sorbus. He had done so much for me, keeping me safe. I had to testify on his behalf, but they would not listen.’

‘And now you are both condemned.’

‘I no longer care, not for myself leastwise. The pain will last a few minutes and then nothing.’

‘You must care. You are innocent.’

‘Am I? The people do not believe so. They are already rejoicing. The bells peal and the smell of woodsmoke fills the air. They are already dancing for joy. How they will sing and laugh when they see the unnatural hag, the demon murderess, twisting in the air.’

‘The bells and bonfires are not for you. Conspirators have been caught – traitors against the crown. That is why they drink away the night.’

She pulled away from him. ‘And yet they will throng the streets for me, too, you say. That girl . . .’

‘What happened? I have heard nothing of the court proceedings.’

‘Abigail Colton happened. Justice Young brought her forth, though I know not where he found her. He told the court she had been in hiding, fearful for her life, as if I might kill her. She testified against us with lies. She said she had caught us naked in my chamber. Me and Sorbus! No man or woman could believe such a thing of a soul like Sorbus.’

No. Indeed, they could not, thought Shakespeare.

‘She described it all in such detail. Our naked flesh, his prancing prick, our moans of pleasure and delight, our tongues and hands – and then the threats against her when we saw her. And none of it true, not a word. Then she said that she had seen me talking with Will Cane, which again was a lie. And so, with Cane’s dying confession already before the court, I had no defence.’

‘Had you been hiding with Sorbus?’

‘He has a small house in Pissing Alley. It is no more than two rooms and a back yard, but he found a way to buy it so that one day he might retire from his employment at Giltspur House. He dreamt of seeing out his days in solitude and peace. No one else knew of the house, so I was safe there. He was a friend to me, but I did for him with my mad notion of using the Si Quis door to communicate with you. It led the pursuivants to him.’

She laughed. ‘I would never have believed them possessed of such wit.’

‘How did you escape?’

‘I had gone to the market. When I returned, I saw that the house was surrounded by pursuivants, and so I walked on. Since then I have lived from day to day, squatting in tenements.’

‘Let us move on to other matters, for time is short. Tell me, Kat, what do you know of Arthur Giltspur? Was there ever anything between you?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Nothing. Never. Why do you ask this now?’

‘Because he killed your husband.’

Kat recoiled. ‘No, not Arthur. He loved Nicholas.’

‘You know that for certain, do you?’

‘Yes, I know him well. He was always pleasant of nature. He could charm the birds from the air.’

‘There is another side to him, a merciless, ruthless side.’

‘What reason could he have had for murder?’

‘Money. It is always money or love, is it not? Did you not know that he liked to gamble?’

‘As do many men.’

‘Arthur Giltspur gambled vast sums. He threw away his birthright. He was ruined.’

‘But he was so rich.’

‘He has another life – one which he kept secret from Nick and his noble friends at court. He consorts with outlaws, tricksters and whores, and stakes great quantities of gold. It slipped through his fingers like flour through a sieve.’

‘He could not have squandered it all, John.

Shakespeare smiled grimly and shook his head. ‘He is a man of immense hungers, only one of which is his love of winning at tennis. He gambles at cards and dice, anything. A man named Maywether saw him lose five thousand pounds on a single cockfight. He takes his dangerous pleasures in the dens and bawdy houses east of London, and he always loses. He loses because he does not understand, or does not care, that the games are always stacked against him. He cannot win because when the stakes are high – and they are very high when he is involved – he is always dealt a losing hand.’

‘I cannot believe it.’

‘Each man has a weakness.’ A truth he knew instinctively but one that had constantly been reinforced by Sir Francis Walsingham, the relentless spymaster. Find the weakness, John, then play it.

‘But why kill Nick?’

‘There is something else you need to know.’ He lowered his voice, certain that the keeper was listening at the door. ‘I cannot explain this to you in full, but suffice it to say that the Giltspurs have long been involved in transferring moneys to the Treasury. To cover up his losses, Arthur began skimming gold from these transfers of funds and made forged entries in the black books to conceal his deeds. I believe your husband found out – and confronted his nephew, threatening to cut off his access to the family’s riches. That was when Arthur decided to resort to murder. His plan was to silence Nick, inherit the remainder of the estate – and blame you. That is the truth about your charming and pleasant Arthur Giltspur.’

‘John, stop, I cannot bear this.’

‘But I am certain of it. All I need now is the evidence to prove it.’

‘You are torturing me.’

‘Torturing you? I would never harm you.’

‘Do you not understand? You are giving me hope when I had resigned myself to death. How now am I to get through this night? Every minute of waiting, not knowing whether you will return will be like an eternity in purgatory, not knowing whether I am to be damned or saved . . .’

Abraham Sorbus’s last night on earth was a great deal less comfortable than Kat’s. He was in Limbo, the lowest pit in Newgate where men facing death spent their final hours in airless squalor.

Shakespeare put a blackjack of ale to the prisoner’s parched lips.

Sorbus drank deeply, then gasped. ‘Thank you, sir.’

His visitor nodded, trying not to gag at the stench of ordure that assailed him in this filthy place. ‘I wish there had been some trust between us sooner, Mr Sorbus. Had you allowed me into Giltspur House when I desired I might have got to the truth long since.’

‘I did not know you then. I was trying to protect Katherine. That is why I kept you away.’

‘So it was you who helped her flee to safety in the first place?’

‘Indeed, I was with poor Mr Nicholas when he was murdered and I heard the accusation against Katherine from the lying mouth of Will Cane. I hastened home to get her away for I knew she would never have a fair trial once she had been accused like that.’

As has since been proved, thought Shakespeare. ‘What made you believe she was innocent? Did you have no doubts?’

‘I love her like a sister. We became friends the very moment that Mr Nicholas brought her home. I would say we were soulmates, though not in any physical sense. It was the best thing that had happened to Giltspur House in years. She brought life and happiness to the house – and to me. I had been with Mr Nicholas since I was a boy and never knew such contentment. The same was true for my master. I knew by instinct that she was right for him. She loved him, you know. She truly loved him.’

‘If you were her friend, as you say, why did she first go to Oswald Redd after the murder?’

‘We felt he would be safe for we knew he was still besotted by her. The danger with my poor dwelling was the possibility that someone in Giltspur House might have noted our closeness and followed me there. Eventually, of course, we made the decision that she should go there after all, for Mr Redd was becoming more captor than saviour.’

Shakespeare drew a powerful breath and proceeded to tell Sorbus all that he knew about Arthur Giltspur and the murder. The condemned man seemed neither disbelieving nor surprised. ‘I confess I have always had doubts about Mr Arthur. His sybaritic ways offended me. He was a great deal too pleased by fleshly pursuits.’

‘Expound, Mr Sorbus. But briefly.’

‘Sometimes when he went out he had a habit of dressing in working man’s attire: rough hose and hide jerkin. When I asked him about it, he merely laughed and said he liked to study the common sort at close hand. A sciencer’s project, he called it.’

‘What did you think?’

‘I thought he was going whoring among the stews of Southwark. Such practices are common among the sons of the wealthy. They swoon and kiss the hands of gentle-born maidens, then go to the whorehouses and sate their lust on the trugs. Courtly clothes merely make them a mark for cutpurses, so they affect labourers’ attire – as if that fooled anyone. Likewise gaming. Foolish young men are wont to fritter great fortunes on the turn of a card or the speed of a nag. But Mr Shakespeare, what is to be done? Are Mistress Giltspur and I truly to die in the morning?’

‘I pray not. But you must help me. I need to get into Giltspur House. I need to find the black books.’

‘That will not be easy.’

‘But possible?’

He tried to smile, although the expression seemed more like a rictus of death.

‘Well, Mr Sorbus?’

‘Yes, I believe there is a way. However I must tell you about the guards. They are not what they seem.’