Divided Loyalties: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller

by Steven Veerapen

  The countess sighed. ‘And so true faith has led you to deliver me from Scotland. I imagine you expect me to thank you.’

  ‘No, my lady. My husband does what he thinks is right. In his heart. I do as he does.’ She felt him beam at her, and then felt a little stab of resistance rise. ‘I will protect him. Always.’

  ‘As a wife should,’ said Seton. He did not smile, but Amy felt she had won a minor victory.

  ‘And I suppose you are none of the diamond league? Either of you?’ This time her words came out like a torrent of hailstones. Amy looked at her blankly and, turning, saw the same confusion written on Jack’s face.

  ‘What’s the diamond league?’ he asked.

  Again, the countess sighed. ‘From what I understand, a group of hot Protestants. Lord Seton?’

  ‘My eyes in Scotland,’ the older man began, ‘tell me that folk calling themselves the house of diamonds made entreaties to the rebels. Morton’s rebels and the false regent Lennox’s. If your tale stands true, you have had dealings with the hard sort of heretics.’

  ‘Those men never mentioned diamonds,’ said Jack. Amy noticed his face had paled at the mention of the men who had tried to kill them the previous year. His voice had lowered too. ‘No. Never said anything about diamonds. Who are they?’

  ‘In truth, we do not know. Perhaps no one of any importance. It is only that we heard that they offered themselves to the Scotch heretics. Offered to help do harm to the true faith. If the Scots would give assurance – or money – to their league and help spread their great hatred.’

  ‘Claimed to be working against the Roman church across Europe,’ put in Seton. ‘My ears in the rebel camps heard whispers that there were diamond agents infecting the continent. One headed for the true faithful in the north of England, one somewhere about the French queen, and others reaching across the seas.’

  ‘And then you two appear. From England, sailing to the Low Countries, and bragging of living in France this past several months.’

  ‘We know no diamonds,’ said Jack, firmly. Amy shook her head in support.

  ‘Very well,’ said the countess. ‘As I say, it is perhaps nothing. Another crop of heretics. Pray leave us, both of you. You might do me service by finding Kat and my daughter and sending them back here. Lord Seton and I shall discuss whether or not to repose trust in you. Whether your tale is true or not, I cannot help but think you bring trouble on all our heads.’ Jack and Amy bowed, and turned to leave. ‘Wait,’ she added. ‘I am curious. If you have betrayed your masters, how do you expect to live? I cannot imagine that demon Burghley will allow Norris to let you do so for long.’

  ‘My lady, we … we will find a way,’ said Jack.

  ‘Together,’ added Amy.

  They stepped out onto the deck. The sun had disappeared behind a blanket of clouds. Cottam had apparently given up listening at the door. Jack took her hand. ‘Did you think about it?’ he asked.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About what next. For us.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘You don’t care where we fetch up?’

  ‘No.’ Her lip twitched. A desire to be light came over her, and to share that lightness with him. ‘Do you know, with each day that passes, I reckon I hate everyone just the same, no matter where they are or where they come from.’ Jack laughed. ‘To the devil with it,’ she said. ‘A new life in the Low Countries. We’ll find work somewhere. Work our way up. If the countess won’t have us, I mean.’

  ‘I really love you, Amy Cole.’

  ‘Well, that’s why I stick with you, isn’t it?’ She smiled and let his arms enfold her, and for a moment they were the innocents they had once been, embracing in their own tiny chamber in the duke of Norfolk’s house.

  ‘Your hands are cold,’ he said, letting go of her, and drawing them up to his lips. He kissed warmth into them. She felt her stomach twist.

  A crack of thunder rent the sky, and the ship began to roll on an enormous swell. The pair stumbled towards a rope-railing and gripped it. Amy cried out as the water rushed up to meet them in a spray of salt mist. They hung there, at a sharp angle between sea and sky, for what seemed like an eternity. Then slowly, interminably, the deck beneath them began to right itself and the sea to retreat. All around them, sailors’ shouts began to fill the air.

  ‘I thought we’d had it there,’ said Jack. Astonishingly, he was grinning again. ‘I thought we were gone in the sea for sure.’

  ‘Jesus, Jack.’ She turned her face skywards. Rain had begun to fall, and she blinked it away. In every direction the horizon blurred into slate.

  ‘The next yin’ll be worse,’ said a sailor, pushing by them. ‘Better get oot o’ it if you dinnae want tae be washed oot tae sea. Storm’s comin’. Bad yin. Next yin’ll be worse.’

  3

  ‘Why have we stopped? Where are we? I mean, we have stopped, haven’t we?’ asked Jack.

  ‘You should know these waters as well as anyone,’ said Cottam.

  They were closed in the room that was serving as the countess’ male servants’ quarters, a room in which the windows did not close properly, and misty air hissed in in clouds. Jack judged it had been ten minutes since the ship had stopped its plunging progress. Instead it had settled to a surprisingly gentle bob. It was their second day at sea.

  ‘I know that we’re passing England,’ he said.

  ‘Then perchance you have some scheme afoot,’ snapped Cottam, throwing off the blanket that lay over him and getting to his feet. ‘I shall warn her ladyship of it, mark you.’ Before Jack could respond, the surly clerk had tilted his chin and crossed towards the door. It flew open at his touch and he was gone.

  Jack sighed and lay on his back, rocking with the gentler movement of the ship at rest. Every so often another jet of water spurted in and sank into the stained floorboards. It had crept into his own blanket. It was no good, sitting around. He was beginning to think about the man in black in Old Aberdeen – the one who had tried to stop their horse. Very probably he was dead – or worse, his mind might be whilst his body lived. Neither possibility was attractive, and both threatened to paint pictures in his dreams.

  The problem was that he had nothing to do, and that was always apt to set his teeth on edge. Even during their exile in Paris he had managed to keep himself occupied, acting as an ostler at an inn in the Quartier Latin whilst Amy mended clothes. That had been their front at least, as secretly he had passed on to Sir Henry Norris the comings and goings of English Catholics. Only, though, when he judged those Catholic men to be conspicuous enough that it would look odd to his master if he did not reveal their presence. And never, never, did he reveal exactly where they had come from or where they were going, even when he knew.

  It was an odd sort of compromise – an intelligencer who sympathised with the enemy. Each day he expected that one of Norris’ men would clap him in irons, or that he might even take a knife in the gut from a Catholic who knew only that once a month he visited the Faubourg Saint-Germain, a cap pulled low over his head, and slipped into the stables to pass over a list of names. If his conscience ever ached, the knowledge that the names on the list were of men who had a head start of days eased it. If he worried about betraying his master, the pompous Sir Henry Norris, who never deigned to meet him personally, he told himself that at least he did not share with the Catholics any of the names he heard whispered amongst the staff of the big house – ‘Captain Sassetti’, or ‘Captain Franchiotto’. He was an invisible spy to both sides, blending in, not important enough to be noticed. Even the language had come to him easily; he was not word-perfect, but having to speak it every day, month after month, had provided the basics, and the accent was enjoyable mimicry.

  The game was up now, though. It had been since the day that one of Norris’ servants had arrived at the inn with written instructions. He could still recall the sudden beat of his heart at the sight of the man – who never came to the inn – with the paper i
n his gloved hand. An arrest warrant, he had thought, not even sure that ambassadors in foreign countries could issue such things. Instead, it had been a letter from Norris himself, commanding that he and his wife should leave the city and take ship for Scotland, there to insert themselves into the service of Queen Elizabeth’s friends, and the treacherous countess of Northumberland’s household. On no account was the traitor to be allowed to find succour with papists abroad, and if the Scotch lords needed aid in detecting her and handing her over to England, every courtesy was to be extended to them. Jack knew as soon as he had read it that he could not put the woman, wherever she was hiding in Scotland, in the hands of her enemies, English or Scottish. Yet one did not refuse instructions signed by the master. Instead, he decided to enjoy the sight of a new country and let God guide his actions.

  Amy, he knew, would not be content to let God do anything without giving Him fifty answers back. Still, she was loyal. He smiled at the thought of her, shuttered somewhere beneath him in the creaking ship. There was that word again. It was something Amy had never struggled with. If he had learnt one thing about her, it was that she was loyal to a fault. Those she loved – and she really only had him – she would kill for, as she had proven. Everyone else could go to the devil. If he had learnt something else, it was that she spoke French like an English mastiff with a mouthful of marbles. He smiled to himself. A sudden urge to see her washed over him, to rest his head in her lap and lie together as man and wife. The least he could do was see if the malady that affected her on the sea had passed with the stopping of the ship. He sprang to his feet and moved towards the door. Cracking it open, he saw that the sky had darkened. It must be late, or the days were getting shorter already. A figure loomed out of the darkness and he squinted to see if it was Cottam.

  ‘Cole,’ snapped Lord Seton. Jack stepped back, bowing his head but keeping the door open. Seton did not step inside. ‘Do you ken Briddleston?’

  ‘I dinnae ken it, my lord.’ Seton gave a half-smirk at the Scots Jack had picked up during his weeks posing as an English messenger amongst the Protestants there.

  ‘Somewhere a ways from York.’

  ‘We’re not stopping?’ Fear briefly clutched at Jack’s heart. Yet Seton did not have the air of a panicked man.

  ‘No, no, no. Dinnae fash yourself, lad. It is this storm, the captain says. A north-eastern wind attacks us. The countess shall be feart. We have had to take shelter in a bay in Briddleton, or Briddleston.’

  ‘Bridlington?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, an eyebrow raised. ‘Possibly that. You do ken it?’

  ‘It’s in the north,’ offered Jack. ‘I know that. The north would be safe awhile for the countess. Do we have to go ashore?’ His forehead wrinkled. She would not be safe for long, not anywhere in England.

  ‘No, no, no,’ Seton said, wiping rain from his brow. ‘We drop anchor here until God grants us safe passage. Already it is blowing itself out, the captain says. We are not alone. Other boats have hailed us.’

  ‘Others? Do they know who we carry?’

  ‘They do not. They cannot. We are a merchant vessel out of Scotland is all they know.’

  Jack exhaled relief and smiled broadly. It was not the old smile he used to use, the one that sometimes unsettled people, but one of genuine joy. ‘Then we’re safe.’

  ‘Aye, we are that. A fine vessel this. Yet I shall speak to the countess just the same. It might be she is worried at this sudden delay. So close to England.’ He turned his head back to the misty rain before returning his gaze to Jack. ‘I did not like to yap in front of the lady,’ he said, moving into the doorway. ‘But when she called me yesterday to hear your spiel, you said that you were in the household of my queen. I feared you might still your tongue for fear of drawing her tears. A good, soft-hearted lady is the countess.’ Jack noticed that he stared off towards his cot as he said it. ‘Tell me, laddie, is Queen Mary in chains? Is she held fast by that damned bastard-queen and her imps?’

  ‘Her Majesty … her Majesty is full of spirit, I think,’ said Jack. The image of Mary of Scotland came into his mind, tall and smiling, touching his hand as she climbed down from her horse, her breath hot in his ear.

  ‘A lass of spirit, aye, she is that,’ smiled Seton.

  ‘And not liking to be caged.’

  ‘She was never one to be confined for long. And she won’t be, not as long as her friends have breath in our bodies. You are for my queen, over the pretender?’

  Jack looked directly at Seton and nodded. ‘If I can be. In my conscience.’

  ‘Hmm. Cannae see into a man’s conscience, more’s the pity.’ Neither spoke for a moment, letting the sound of water, from above and below, splash and patter. Seton shook his head, as though clearing cobwebs. ‘God’s foot, but it is damp in here, boy. Can you not shut those windows?’ Jack glanced behind him. Seton shared the room at night, albeit he had a bunk fastened to a corner rather than a pile of raggedy blankets on the floor. ‘See to it. I’m not minding hard living on this voyage. I am minded not to be drowned in my own bed without her even going down.’

  Jack nodded his head again and, once Seton had gone, went over to the window which hung loosely on its frame. Window, he thought, was the wrong word on two levels. Portholes, they were called at sea. And, given that it was a jagged wooden shutter on a rusted hinge, even that seemed extravagant. He pulled his sleeve down over his hand, wary of splinters, and pushed it shut, as he had done dozens of times. It fell back inwards. With another hand he jiggled the hinge and then closed it again. When that didn’t work, he tried both at the same time, holding it shut awhile. As soon as his hands left it, it flew open. ‘Fucking stupid piece of shit!’ he shouted, ripping the whole thing, hinge and all, from the bulwark. He threw it to the floor where it lay dejected. His face crimsoned. Now you’ve done it, he thought. Hardly worth the satisfaction of a moment of temper. He could not even blame anyone else – Seton had put him to the task directly, and there were no children aboard capable of such damage. He picked up the pieces and tried to slot them back in. The wind, maybe, could have done it.

  ‘Tssk,’ said a cool voice behind him. He spun around, his mouth already forming an apology. A gloved hand clamped over it. ‘You are a troubled lad.’ He was staring into the eyes of a moustachioed sailor he had spotted about the ship, and he tried to mumble inarticulate swear words. He stopped when he saw the glint of metal in the fellow’s other hand. ‘You and I are to take a trip, Mr Cole. Not a long one. I don’t want to have to cut you first, but I will deliver you to old Neptune in ribbons if you cry out.’ From the hard look he was given, Jack could tell that he meant it.

  ***

  Movement stirred Amy from her dreams. For a few moments she was tucked up in her cot over the stables of the inn on the Place de la Contrescarpe where Jack looked after horses. Dimly, she wondered why the cot was rocking, and even in the blackness the bitter sting of salt, sweat, and musky wood filled her nostrils and reminded her where she was. Her stomach instinctively sought to cartwheel, and she lay still, willing it to pass, as it had the evening before when they had stopped. She had considered going up and seeking out Jack then, but had instead found herself sharing stories in the dark with her neighbours, the washerwomen who thought her quite exotic for having been resident in Paris. As unpleasant as the coffin-like, slimy chamber was, being cut off from the sight of the waves and avoiding using your legs seemed to stave off the butterflies. Somewhat, anyway.

  Her companions were still asleep, and she clambered to her feet, planting them far apart and walking crab-like to where her hands told her the rope-ladder was. She climbed it and emerged into dazzling sunlight. She tiptoed along a corridor, up a tiny flight of wooden stairs, and then another, until she reached the upper deck. In the wash of the ship she could see dozens of others, of all sizes, and realised that they must have spent the night cheek by jowl in a company of boats sheltering from the squall. A good thing, she thought, that she had stayed inside. Women wander
ing about the deck might have attracted attention from the lusty sailors within spitting distance of the ship. Looking up at the clouds, she put her fists to the small of her back and arched it until it cracked, wondering what time it was. She had not learnt to read the sun and missed the regular chiming of church bells. Late enough for breakfast, anyway. Stale bread, she thought, and warm, watered-down ale with unidentifiable flecks of God-only-knew-what floating in it. Hurrah. She would be as thin as a ghost by the time they made land. Well, it was only for a few days, and she would have to see if Jack wanted anything, or any of the other menfolk.

  Maintaining her unsteady gait, she made towards the men’s quarters. When she reached them, she stood hesitantly, and then shivered it away and knocked. The door opened and Cottam’s gaunt face stared out. ‘You,’ he said, leering. ‘Returning your husband after a night spent in lust? Do not think I shan’t tell Lady Northumberland that you spent your time in pleasure, both of you.’

  Amy gaped stupidly, and then anger rose. ‘Go to the devil,’ she said. His eyes flared.

  ‘You common-tongued whelp, how dare you!’ Amy recovered her wit, stifling the urge to claw at him.

  ‘Wait! What do you say, Jack’s not here? Where is he?’

  ‘As if you do not know, after he–’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon.’ Panic bubbled. ‘I haven’t seen him,’ she repeated. Cottam sneered and made to shut the door. ‘Please!’ She stuck her foot in. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her teeth clenched. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Cottam, for speaking so. I swear before God I haven’t seen my husband since yesterday.’ Cottam’s eyes narrowed as he read her face. ‘He didn’t sleep with you last night?’