Holy Spy

Chapter 47

The dark, brooding face of Sir Francis Walsingham peered closely into Shakespeare’s eyes. ‘Are you well again, John?’ ‘Well enough, Sir Francis.’

‘Your wounds are healed?’

‘I fear it will be some little time before my ribs are fully knitted together. Three of them were broken, as was my collarbone. I keep my chest braced with tight bandages, like a child in swaddling bands.’

‘And your head?’

‘The fall rendered me unconscious for a minute or two, but there seems to be no further complication, God be thanked.’ The physician had said he was fortunate to be alive, that the skull had broken behind the temple when he bounced off the sharp edge of the scaffold onto the hard ground. The blow would have killed many another man. But that was not to be dwelt on; not here, not now. He had already spent too many days and nights recuperating.

‘Good.’ Walsingham limped away from the object of his concerned inquiries and sat in a straight-backed chair at the end of the table. ‘And it is most gracious of you to make the journey here, for I am ailed by another damnable furuncle, and the gout never leaves me. Which is why I cannot travel to London.’

‘The trip upriver was a pleasant change from my own sickbed.’ Shakespeare smiled at the Principal Secretary, not believing for a moment that he was prevented from travelling to London by a common boil and his new-discovered gout; this was a political absence. He did not wish to be anywhere near the courts of law lest his own part in the Babington affair be suspected.

‘You will doubtless have heard of the arrest of Babington and others,’ the Principal Secretary continued, as though reading his intelligencer’s mind.

He nodded. Yes, he had heard the story of Babington’s arrest from Mills who called on him as soon the news came. ‘It was my man Shoe as found them,’ Mills had said with an unpleasant laugh, his pride all too evident. ‘A poacher of men, my Mr Shoe. They had walnut juice on their faces to look like ploughmen!’

Shakespeare had heard, too, of the arrest of the Queen of Scots, though no one seemed clear what would become of her.

And then came the trials of the Pope’s White Sons. The verdicts were a foregone conclusion and their executions were imminent. The streets were once again filled with Londoners rejoicing, lighting their bonfires, burning their effigies, drinking themselves insensible.

He put the thought aside. The prospect of all the blood and pain that had already been suffered in the torture chamber and the yet more gruesome spectacle to come seemed mercifully distant in the quiet of Walsingham’s dim office at Barn Elms. It had been good to leave London; the celebrations in the streets were hard to endure. The river journey had been a pleasant contrast, reclining in the back of a tilt-boat enjoying the late summer sun and the warm breeze.

A serving man entered and placed a tray with two silver goblets and a flask of French brandy at his master’s side, then bowed quickly and departed.

‘The events at Thames Street are a great sadness,’ Walsingham said, his sincerity evident. ‘It is tragical that they could not both be saved.’

Shakespeare said nothing. He did not know what to say. The word tragical hardly did justice to the terrible outcome of that grim morning when Kat and Sorbus swung from the gibbet.

‘I do believe the angels weep each time an innocent dies, especially in such circumstances,’ Walsingham continued.

‘Perhaps the punishment is at fault,’ Shakespeare said. ‘If a penalty cannot be undone when a verdict is reversed . . .’

Walsingham shook his head slowly. ‘I hear you well, John, but I cannot agree with you. What is the alternative to hanging? A sentence of life imprisonment? I do believe God would rage at such cruel treatment. Would you wish to sit in a cage for years without end? I would not treat a mad dog so. Death is quick. And if an error has been made, we can at least comfort ourselves with the certainty that the soul will fly straight to God’s bosom.’

Shakespeare wished he were convinced, but there was no more to say on the subject. What was done was done and the penalty for murder would never change. For the present, he was more concerned about the fate of Huckerbee and Abigail, and mentioned their names to Walsingham. ‘My man Boltfoot Cooper tells me they have both been freed. How can this be so?’

‘Ah, yes, Sir Robert Huckerbee. A corrupt and rotten man. He has been relieved of all his duties in the office of my lord Burghley and will retire to his country estate. He will also pay the crown ten thousand pounds in gold, in lieu of sums which he is believed to have embezzled.’

‘And no punishment other than that? He may lay the blame for Nick Giltspur’s death at the door of his confederate Arthur Giltspur, but I am not convinced. I believe they plotted the murder together, and Abigail found a killer for them. Cane was besotted by her and she made him believe the child was his . . .’

‘Perhaps it is, John.’

‘Yes, perhaps. I am told she still won’t say. Maybe she doesn’t know.’

‘Anyway, there is no proof of murder against them. The black books reveal a crime – but not who committed it. For all we can tell, poor Nick Giltspur embezzled the money and adjusted the entries himself. We have nothing that would satisfy a jury.’

‘But there is proof that Huckerbee stole from the monies he was supposed to convey to the Treasury. His own written confession. A repayment of ten thousand pounds? He may have taken twice that sum, or more.’

Walsingham handed Shakespeare his goblet of brandy. ‘John, drink. Your soul is sore troubled by these events.’

‘Brandy will not ease it!’

‘Nor will it harm you. I beg you, try to understand. If I have chosen you right, then one day you will wield power in this land – and there will be times when you will have to put a peg to your nose and sup with the devil. The arrangement between Lord Burghley and Nick Giltspur could never be admitted openly. If Huckerbee was arraigned, he would reveal everything to judge, jury and the wider world. And then what? Imagine the reaction in the guilds; if the merchants discovered that Burghley had dealings with a man such as Ball and was levying such a tax on them, there would be uproar. I dread to think of the consequences.’

‘And so you buy his silence. He walks free while others die.’

Sudden anger flashed across Walsingham’s brow but then, instead of the expected storm breaking, he controlled his rage. ‘Yes, he walks free. It is as galling for me as it is for you. But I would just say this on his behalf. The whole scheme with Giltspur and Ball was always Huckerbee’s idea and was administered by him. Her Majesty keeps me woefully short of monies. Without the funds channelled to me, I would have been unable to do the secret work I do. I would never have been able to bring Mary Stuart to justice.’

So it was mere political expediency. Shakespeare laughed; Walsingham and Burghley proving yet again that they had learnt their statecraft at the knee of Niccolò Machiavelli. Morality had no part to play in such considerations. Whatever means were needed to defend England would be employed: deceit, torture, theft, supping with devils like Cutting Ball. Anything. And perhaps they were right. The alternative – Spain’s heel of iron, sword of steel and Inquisition of fire – had to be fought with any means at England’s disposal, however dirty.

‘What is to happen to the woman, Abigail Colton?’

‘Would you see a mother-to-be hanged?’

‘No. Let her stew with Huckerbee. I pity the child, whoever its father may be.’

‘And before you inquire, I can tell you that there is no sign of Arthur Giltspur. It seems likely that he has fled abroad. Nor is he the only one gone to foreign parts. I have had word from Henbird in Paris that Gilbert Gifford has turned up.’

‘Ah, the little pink pigling has made good his escape. I thought it would be so.’

‘Little pink pigling?’

‘It is a private jest, Mr Secretary.’

‘It is apt. But what made you think he would go to France?

Does he not know that Her Majesty values him highly? Why, she means to grant him a pension of one hundred pounds for his services.’

‘I saw his eyes when he spotted Mr Phelippes’s gallows drawn on the letter out of Chartley.’

Walsingham threw Shakespeare an apologetic smile. ‘Tom should not have done that. But there were few mistakes. Even the exposure of Harry Slide did not break us. You know he is back in London, demanding money? He claims for every inn between here and Edinburgh.’

‘He did dangerous work. As did Robin Poley. I truly believe Babington fell in love with him.’

Shakespeare finished his brandy. Anthony Babington. A vain fool who had brought fourteen young men to their doom. Shakespeare could no longer shut out the knowledge of what would happen on the morrow. He wanted to get away from this room for he could not share in Walsingham’s rejoicing. He felt sick; he could smell the blood in nostrils. In the morning, the first seven men would die in the most horrible way imaginable. And the day after that, seven more. A hard price to pay for snaring the Queen of Scots.

He rose from the chair. ‘Sir Francis, I fear I am not yet well. If it please you, I will return to London.’

‘As you will, John. I shall have my best rowers take you.’

Shakespeare bowed to his master.

‘And John, thank you.’

Shakespeare could not suppress a shudder as he stepped through the gate into the Tower. This time he was a free man, but he knew that his mind would never free itself of the dark and fiery vault beneath the White Tower where the living body of Father Ballard, a man of flesh and blood, had been fixed in iron, crouched in agony, enclosed in the Scavenger’s Daughter.

A man in a machine made with no purpose other than pain. Such black dreams did not disappear with the dawning day.

John Savage was praying in his cell. He had a makeshift cross clasped in his hands and was muttering, In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum. Commending his spirit to God, his last hope of salvation.

Shakespeare stood in the doorway and allowed him to complete his supplications. Finally Savage said Amen, crossed himself and turned towards Shakespeare. He peered closely as though struggling to see who his visitor might be.

‘Forgive me, Goodfellow, I intrude.’

‘Ah, John Shakespeare. You are more welcome than any man. We are friends, are we not? I will die your friend.’

‘You honour me, Goodfellow.’

‘And you have my horse, I trust?’

‘I have indeed retrieved it. I thank you for it. A good beast.’

‘Take it in repayment of the two pounds and an angel you gave me.’

‘I told you, that was a gift.’

‘Then so is the horse.’

‘But the horse is not why I am here. I came because I had to say farewell, though you would be within your rights to club me to the ground.’

‘You are a fine man, though wrong-headed.’

‘I did what I had to do, Goodfellow.’

Savage climbed to his feet. He still looked more the soldier than the scholar. ‘And I would have done the same to you, so I cannot hold your actions against you. We were two soldiers on opposing sides of the field. Kill or be killed. In all my life I never expected quarter nor gave it.’

Shakespeare’s injuries had, at least, given him an excuse not to appear in court and testify against Savage; not that his testimony was needed, for Savage had confessed all, as had the other conspirators. ‘I take no pleasure in winning this battle.’

Savage smiled. ‘My death is nothing. In truth I welcome it, for my eyesight fails me by the day. I pray that God will restore my vision so that I might see the Lamb in all His glory.’

A pair of spectacles would have done that, thought Shakespeare, but he did not say it. ‘Be honest with me, Goodfellow. With your eyesight, you would never have spotted the Queen, let alone have had the aim to shoot her.’

‘God would have guided me, had He wanted it. It seems He did not . . .’

‘You still have a few hours. Can I have anything brought to you?’ He held up a small flagon. ‘Perhaps some aqua vitae.’

‘I crave no food but I will drink with you. It may ease my passing. Will you be at St Giles Fields in the morning?’

‘Do you want me there?’

‘No.’ He shook his head firmly. ‘Remember me as a man, not meat. And grant me one boon if it is in your power: do not allow any of your pseudo-ministers near me – either here or at the scaffold. Their babbling offends me more than the rack or butcher’s knife.’

‘I will do what I can.’

‘And now, the aqua vitae, if you will . . . let us see if we can get roaring drunk together one last time.’