Divided Loyalties: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Don’t be spending it all in one shop, sir.’

  It had been a busy few weeks for the man who had once called himself Owen. Acre, he decided, was more fitting – it was as close as he felt he could get away with to ‘ace’, and he was, after all, the ace in the suit of diamonds. Yet a slit throat would not do. His instructions had been to make a greater display. The deaths of the priests had not had the effect that had been hoped for, and his friends were disappointed. The whole matter had been largely hushed up – an embarrassing disgrace to the Catholics and a pair of names scored off the government’s list of covert priests to the Protestants. The death of a minister could not be so ignored. It would not be enough, of course – no single event ever was – but it was not his job to make strategy. It was his job to dispatch those who deserved it for the greater glory, and to do it with whatever spectacle might be necessary. He set to work, knowing that he would have to be gone from Gilling East before dawn broke.

  ***

  Mrs Taylor found the reverend’s front door unlocked when she called the next morning. She had served him as she had served his far more loveable predecessor, but it was not her place to like or dislike those who paid her. She stepped inside and found that the fire was still burning, fresh logs having been thrown on. It was not the good smell of woody smoke that filled her nostrils, however, but something coppery, something raw and savage. It smelled vaguely like the shambles on which she purchased fresh meat. She stepped inside.

  And screamed.

  Mrs Taylor’s screams were heard by neighbours, who found her in the garden of the house. When they ventured inside themselves, they found the Revered Henry Lansing crucified on the timber beams which criss-crossed the whitewashed plaster. On his body, which had been stripped to the waist, were carved the five wounds of Christ. His money and valuables had been untouched; in fact, the door of his cabinet stood open, gold spilling from it. More sat on a box before his chair, dried blood flaking off of it. Still more lay on some pages of paper – transcribed Bible verses – on the floor.

  On one wall was daubed, in the reverend’s blood, the words, ‘Ye North Ys Catholique’. When the local justices arrived, along with the dead man’s mystified wife, no one could testify as to having seen anyone come or go from the place. The message, though, spread like wildfire, changing according to the teller. To some, Catholic assassins charged by the Pope had done murder, intent on sinking England in blood. To others, a corrupt and tyrannical southerner had met a fitting end.

  To Mr Acre – and the name had really come to sound good in his ears – the confusion, hatred, and suspicion were like music. England would be at war with itself before long.

  Part Two: Splitting the Deck

  1

  Jack was losing track of the days. Since being stolen from The Port of Leith, he had been shifted across the country, his hands bound. Where he was he had no sure idea – the sailor, who had introduced himself as Edward Polmear, had rowed them both to what he assumed was Bridlington, and thereafter they had gone deeper into Yorkshire. He had said little, attending instead to handling the skiff and securing a horse in the village; Jack had said nothing. At first relief had flooded him. After passing through the huddle of great ships in the bay, Polmear had rowed steadily for land. It was then Jack realised that he was not going to be tossed overboard.

  After a night sailing and riding, Polmear had deposited him in an inn and released his hands. Then he had spoken. ‘Always pay bills, my young friend – a great rule of the game we play. No man of intelligence should attract the law. Observe,’ he had added, producing a purse. ‘I’ll pay your lodging this night and the next.’ He had then provided some food and locked Jack in, disappearing. The day and night passed without further word from him. It would have been an easy matter to escape – the door did not look sturdy. The problem was what Polmear had said after volunteering his words of wisdom. ‘Now you sit tight here, Cole. If you run, your wife will bear the scars of it. Our friends will have eyes on her too.’ With Amy bound for Europe amongst strangers, he could not risk causing trouble.

  He lay on his cot, chewing on a chunk of manchet. There was some cheese on the floor beside it, but he had developed a distaste for cheese in Paris. Even the smell of it turned his stomach. The Port of Leith, he thought, must be drawing close to Bruges by now. He could imagine Amy’s reaction to his disappearance. Had there been another skiff on the ship, undoubtedly she would have freed it herself to hunt him down. On the heels of the thought rose questions about Polmear. It was not hard to guess who he worked for – Elizabeth, Cecil, Walsingham: they were all the part of the same thing. He had betrayed them and would now have to pay the piper. The Tower, perhaps? If they had wanted him dead, the sea would have taken care of him; they must want to interrogate him. He did, after all, know things – about Lady Northumberland and her husband, imprisoned at Lochleven’s water-castle, about the Scotch lords; he had even heard that the earl of Westmorland, also an exile in Scotland under Catholic protection, was planning flight to Europe. How much of it should he give up? It all depended what their plans were for Amy. Or perhaps how much torture they applied to him.

  He was stirred by the click of the lock. Polmear strode in, and he was not alone. Behind him stood a stout girl, her bosom daringly exposed by a low-cut neckline. He put an arm around her. ‘Mr Cole, or Jack, may I call you?’ Jack said nothing. ‘Good lad. Clever. You have done as I said.’

  ‘Where,’ Jack asked, his voice heavy with reluctance, ‘have you been?’

  ‘On business.’ Polmear ran a finger over his bare upper lip. ‘Rule of the game, lad – alter your appearance.’ Jack relapsed into silence, crossing his arms moodily, frowning, and putting his feet on the floor. It did not take days to shave off a moustache. ‘Look here – I have a gift for you.’ He nudged the girl forward with the crook of his elbow. ‘You like her? What’s your name, love?’

  ‘Holwice, sir.’

  ‘Eurgh. So it is. You like her, Cole?’ Jack stared at the wall.

  ‘Still not a talker, eh? Don’t need to talk though, does he, Hol?’ The girl giggled. ‘You cut along, now. I’m afraid the lad is not for sporting.’ She gave a little bow and left.

  ‘Not very gallant of you. She’s the finest whore I could find. They’re cleaner here than in the cities. Fewer sailors to pox them. And I do love the yellow-hairs.’ Polmear closed the door and bounded forward, swinging an arm up and over a low roof beam. Jack started at the sudden burst of frenetic energy. ‘But I daresay you get sport aplenty with that wife of yours.’ This got a reaction, as Jack sprung up himself. ‘I had a good peep at her on that ship. Spirit in her, eh? I would lay money that she is fire itself between the sheets. What does she like, being bent over a barrel?’

  Jack’s hand flew out and hit Polmear in the gut. He made to hit him again, but the taller man grabbed his wrist. Rather than hitting him back, he threw his head back as laughter rang out. ‘So you have a little of her spirit yourself, eh? Calm yourself, boy.’ His voice hardened. ‘I mean it. Sit.’ He forced Jack back towards the bed. ‘I jest with you. I am a great lover of women. Less guile in them than most men. I like that.’

  ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘Why?’ echoed Polmear, bounding across the room. The man seemed unable to keep still. ‘Because you’ve been a naughty boy. Ah, I can see from your face that you know it. Rule of the game – never let your face betray you. Now, if you are not to take sport before we go, we had best just be off. A shame – I always think a journey is more pleasant with a good memory to push it on.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘Ugh, is our entire journey to be thus? Questions and questions? If we are to travel together, I would that we were friends, Jack.’ He sat down on the bed beside him. Jack edged away. The man’s display of friendliness did not fool him. If anything, he had grown to distrust shows of it. There was little worse than being stabbed in the back by someone who feigned friendship.

  ‘Travelling whe
re?’

  ‘South. A long road, but you’ll know that already, eh? I have a task ahead of me. It is to make you my fast friend before we reach … oh, let us say Norwich. After that, it might not matter.’ The levity decreased again. ‘You’re going to need friends, Jack Cole. Where you’re going you will. If you play your part well, I might even be tempted to speak up for you. Say as you were a good little boy who did as he was told.’

  ‘The Tower?’ It came out in a whisper. Again, Polmear barked laughter.

  ‘Hark at it – the Tower! Who do you think you are, son – Sir Jack Cole of Fancy-thorpe? The Tower. The Tower’s for people the world cares for. You’d no more be at home with the ghost of the queen’s mother than I would be dining at table in Windsor Castle. The Tower. You’re precious.’

  Jack’s cheeks turned scarlet and he half turned away, working the rough blanket with one hand. As foolish at it was, he was still capable of embarrassment, even sitting next to a man who was holding him prisoner and very likely leading him to torture. ‘Where then?’ he mumbled.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘London. A great man wishes to see you there.’

  ‘Cecil?’ It came out in a whisper. He had met the chief secretary, wispy-bearded and serious, only once. It had been enough. The old man had been quiet, courteous, and somehow the more threatening for it. He had had the air of a schoolmaster and the eyes of a tiger.

  ‘Hell’s teeth, you do think high of yourself, don’t you? No. Not him.’ Polmear bounced up. ‘Not touched your cheese? I’ll give that a fair home.’ He scooped it up and began shovelling it in. Through mouthfuls, he said, ‘you had best sleep. We leave on the morrow, early. I’ve sent word of your coming ahead. He’ll be ready for you. No more questions, Sir Questioner. I’ll even let you have the bed. Don’t fancy sharing with a girl-faced boy when you’ve left a real lass begging. What a name, eh? Holwice. Fine pair of ducks, though.’ He burped, letting cheese crumbs fly, and left. At the door, he paused, and said, ‘friends yet?’ Jack turned away and lay back on the bed as the door closed. The lock snapped.

  Polmear seemed an unlikely sort to be working for one of Cecil’s minions. But then, he was an unlikely sort to be in the pay of the English government himself. And the name, Polmear – from the west of the country, perhaps?

  Animal-like grunting sounded from a room somewhere else in the little building, followed by exaggerated squeals. Holwice had apparently offered her services. Jack pulled the blankets up over his head and thought of Amy. What, he wondered, would she make of his captor? He’d receive the rough edge of her tongue rather than stony silence – that much he knew. He would find his way back to her somehow, if he had to lie, kill, or betray to do it. It was what she would do for him.

  When Polmear came for him the next morning, he was already up and booted. ‘Good night? Not so fine as mine, I imagine. You missed yourself with that young bawd. Country girls, eh? They know country tricks. Well, come on then, Sir Silent. As a mark of true trust, I’ve your very own horse for you this time.’ He led Jack unprotestingly out of the room and down the flight of wooden steps. They left the inn for the courtyard in front of it, where two horses were tethered. ‘These will take us part of the way. Though God knows I’ve ridden enough this past night.’ Jack moved over to one of the pair, an old grey mare, and put his hand out. ‘Nothing?’ asked Polmear. ‘Not even a smile? You’re a hard man, Jack Cole. See, this is why I prefer the company of jades. For a penny they’ll laugh at a poor jest, and at least will pretend to be your friend.’

  The ostler came out to help them mount and they set off, Jack maintaining what he had come to think of as a dignified silence and Polmear offering a repertoire of tired and increasingly bawdy jokes. It would be a long journey.

  ***

  ‘Well, there she is. A fine old bitch, London. Started up by the Trojans – did you know that?’

  Jack reined in. Over the course of the journey he had begun to talk, careful to reveal nothing. It was easy enough. It was difficult not to occasionally laugh at some of the things his strange captor said, and the fellow had been right in saying that journeys seemed to go more quickly if you had someone to talk to. Thankfully, Polmear did not ask questions either, about Jack’s activities or his personal life. The closest he got was asking how he had come to marry Amy. It had almost been possible to forget why the journey was necessary. That was, at least, until the smoke smudging the horizon announced London’s brash presence.

  Jack had never thought to see London again. As always, the place refused to be ignored. They were entering by Aldersgate, passing the old Charterhouse that had been the duke of Norfolk’s London home and, only a couple of years before, Jack and Amy’s. The sight of the building’s walls sent a chill through him. Despite all that had happened, it was possible to imagine just wandering in and heading to the stables, as though such a strange act could turn back time; the duke of Norfolk would be at court, Amy in the laundry, and he with nothing on his mind but obeying old Tom the horse master’s orders. Instead it would put him in the Bedlam. Or worse.

  Polmear led him through the Aldersgate and onto Newgate Street, turning left onto Cheapside. Here, merchants called out their wares and a stomach-churning combination of odours attacked the nostrils. Horse dung gave a sharp edge to fish, meat, and spices. The wealthier shoppers – the merchants’ wives and gentlemen – held pomanders against their faces as they browsed, and cast dark looks up at the riders as their horses kicked up filth. When they passed the Mercers’ Hall and came to the junction of Three Needle, Cornhill, and Lombard, they were forced to pull in to the side of the road. A small parade was coming their way.

  Two city constables were dragging a younger man, who came reluctantly, kicking, screaming, and skidding through the muck. Behind the trio followed a mob of about ten, hurling handfuls of mud and straw. ‘Thief!’ went the chant. ‘Thief! Thief!’

  ‘He’ll not have a good end to his day, poor bastard,’ said Polmear. ‘Hope it’s his first time caught.’

  As they passed, something of the mob’s anger rippled up and through Jack. ‘Thief!’ he cried, raising a fist in the air.

  ‘No sympathy for the condemned?’

  ‘Not for thieves.’ He twisted in the saddle, spitting after the mob. The gob sent ripples through his own image reflected in a puddle. Once, living in Norfolk’s household, someone had stolen a ring from under his mattress. It had been the only thing he had ever owned that had belonged to the mother he had never known – even his father did not know he had it; it had come from another servant who remembered her fondly when he was a little boy. One day it had simply been gone, taken from his room. He could raise no fuss – his father was still alive at the time and would not take well to his hated son making any kind of tumult. Since then, though, he had harboured a severe antipathy towards thieves of any stripe. They should all, as far as he was concerned, be hanged – and preferably quartered too. As it was, the chap being dragged off to his doom would likely get away with a whipping. He looked reasonably well-groomed enough to have come from a good family.

  Polmear shrugged and, in the wake of the mob heading for Newgate, led them up Thread Needle Street and along the Bishopsgate, turning them right. Away from the markets, the air freshened, but not by much. Here were finer homes. Not far from Camomile Street, Polmear reined in.

  ‘Here we are – Aldgate parish. The Papey. You know it? Home to Mr Francis Walsingham and family.’

  Jack’s mouth ran dry.

  The house in Aldgate was fronted by a small, ornate garden. It was a modest brick building – well-kept and tidy, but not the kind of place he imagined Francis Walsingham to inhabit. They skirted it and entered through a small archway that led to an inner quadrangle, leaving behind the heavy, choking city air. The courtyard was cooler, fresher, smelling only of horses and the delicate perfume of ornamental shrubs. After they had dismounted, Polmear went into a small covered walkway running parallel to one sid
e of the yard and lowered his head in conversation with a cluster of men in black. Jack looked up and around the building bearing down on him from all sides. It was quiet, the windows shuttered against the late summer heat. No servants bustled about the courtyard; the whole place had the sad, waiting atmosphere of desertion. When Polmear returned from conversing with the small murder of crows, his face was like thunder. For all his bonhomie, Jack recalled that the man had threated to cut him to ribbons.

  ‘You, my young lord of Silent-tongue, have just won a great prize.’

  Jack gave him a sour look, intending to say nothing. ‘Freedom from your company?’ he offered instead.

  ‘Ha! You’ll be missing my company in a few weeks, I reckon. No, a far greater prize. A reprieve. A stay of execution, you might say.’ Jack’s eyebrows lifted. ‘My master is still from home. And so you are to wait. Make yourself useful. I understand you are a fine fellow with horses – old Norfolk’s stable-lad, were you not?’ Looking at the horses in confusion, Jack’s mind whirled.

  ‘Execution?’

  ‘I jest,’ Polmear said mildly. ‘Yet without the master, nor any instructions from him direct, you must attend upon his return.’

  ‘Walsingham,’ he whispered.

  ‘Mr Walsingham, indeed.’ Polmear waved a hand around. Jack shrugged. ‘Mr Walsingham, secretary to the queen and friend to Sir William Cecil, chief of the secretaries. An up and coming man, highly spoken of at court, I hear. Will be across the world, some day. There’s been your mistake – being tied to sinking ships, not fresh-launched ones. Always remember: your fate and your master’s are bound. You sink or swim together. Until you have a new master, of course.’

  Jack paled. Walsingham was Cecil’s creature. He was one of the men who had held him prisoner the previous year, drawing his story out, demanding his loyalty and sending him out of the country. ‘Where is he?’