Divided Loyalties: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘I don’t know what these are,’ said Kat in her broken French, holding up a bottle and looking at it as though it were a strange little glass creature.

  ‘Me neither,’ Amy said out the side of her mouth. ‘Just do what the other girl did. Rub it all on.’

  The first thing opened was a circular jar full of what appeared to be red jelly. She recoiled from the smell, bitter as almonds, which leeched out into the room. ‘Your lips, madam?’ Amy shrugged.

  ‘Do it.’ She tilted back her head and pouted. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Brieux watching her, giggles fighting their way out of her unmoving face as her girl brushed down the front of her dress. Bitch, Amy thought. Kat stuck her fingers into the red stuff and began smearing it. Amy held up the mirror, watching her lips redden. It looked rather good, actually – like life was being brought into a dead and colourless face. When it began to feel heavy, she mumbled, ‘that’ll do,’ trying to not to part her lips too much. ‘It’s heavy. It’s …. Kat, stop!’ Her mouth fell open. The paste, which had felt cool at first, had started tingling. The tingling had begun to burn. Invisible needles were stabbing at her. The mirror fell from her hand, landing on the rug with a dull thud. Kat did nothing, and Amy turned to her.

  ‘My fingers,’ the girl screamed, not bothering with French. ‘Mistress – my lady – it burns!’ Sure enough, Kat was staring down at an index and middle finger which were turning livid. Amy reached for a cloth on the table, still dirty from Brieux’s toilette, and put it to her lips. As soon as it touched them, the burning intensified. She screamed, leaping from the stool and letting it fall. Brieux and her maid had ceased what they were doing, the former holding a hand over her face, her mouth a silent scream. ‘Poison,’ screeched Gondi, her beads falling to the floor. She crossed herself, and began chanting, over and over, ‘guards! Poison! Guards! Poison!’

  Amy fell to the ground, tangling herself in her gown, in blankets, coiling and uncoiling her body in an effort to get the sudden, searing pain out of lips which had turned to fire.

  ***

  Amy woke in a small closet room, whence she had been carried immediately the poison was discovered. Physicians had been sent for, and had smeared her face with oil, milk, garlic, and honey – an admixture they called theriac. They had had her kiss healing rings. Nothing lessened the burning, and her gratitude at being helped had swiftly soured into anger as the two men began arguing over her about the merits and demerits of fetching the unicorn horn. At this, her pathetic pleas for help had lessened. Instead, she realised two things: that the physicians thought her much more important than she really was, and that they would prove useless. The important thing was that she had not died and had in fact managed to rub off most of the foul red jelly without it getting into her mouth. On realising this, she had felt safe to vent her frustration at the men, telling them to leave her alone, to go and gaze at piss, for that was all they were good for. Abashed, they had left her to rest in the tiny, dark, airless cubby.

  On waking, she put a hand to her lips and pulled it away. The skin was raised and tender, swollen but not yet scabbed or flaking – and thankfully they were only sore when she touched them. She cried out for water and, receiving no answer, felt around the floor next to her. Sure enough, there was a tray with a jug and some bread on it. She jerked away from it, suddenly afraid. Someone had poisoned her. They might do so again. Her stomach growled in sullen resignation.

  She had no idea how long she had been lying in her new bedchamber – surely it had been a day and a night. As she swung her legs over the low cot, intent on finding out where she was, the door opened and light framed a solid figure in the doorway. Amy hopped down and fell to her knees. It was Queen Catherine, the two physicians at her back. The old woman said nothing, but stared down at her, a pomander held up to her face. ‘Your Majesty, please. I am hungry … afraid to eat … I …’

  ‘Becalm yourself,’ hissed the queen-mother. ‘You have cheated death.’

  ‘But .. I …’

  ‘The water is honeyed. The bread good. I had it prepared myself. Tested with most care. These gentlemen have eaten of it. Your room guarded since it was brought.’ Her voice carried no sympathy.

  ‘Someone tried to kill me.’

  Silence greeted this. Amy had noticed that the queen-mother had a curious habit of pausing before responding, so that one could never tell if she were slightly hard of hearing or just measuring her words. ‘Yes,’ breathed Catherine eventually. ‘A foul act. But rather here than where my son and daughter are.’ Amy said nothing but looked up at the face shrouded in shadow. ‘This potion – could it not have come from your countess already with some taint to it? You said there was an attempt on your mistress’s life in Bruges.’

  ‘No, your Majesty. I saw that coffer given to the countess. It was locked tight. She only opened it to look before she gave it to me. To take with me.’ She could remember the countess unsealing and looking through the contents, offence growing at the audacity of one of her European friends to suggest that she needed artificial beauty aids.

  Catherine sighed. ‘You told me there was a plotter in my household. I did not believe you. For that … I am sorry.’ The apology seemed to come with difficulty. ‘Yet you have done good work. You have had this creature reveal its presence. Tell me, who might have touched your coffer?’ Amy thought, lifting a hand to her throat. The glands felt swollen and tender.

  ‘Anyone. It was in the bedchamber. Anyone.’ A thought occurred. ‘Has your Majesty found anyone come newly to your household? In the last …’ she counted, ‘six months or a year?’

  ‘We have indeed made searches. You, girl, are the only one who has come into my household in that time. And Madame Gondi. But she is of an old Italian family. Cousin to my dearest friend, Marie-Catherine.’ Something like emotion twinkled. Briefly. ‘Even the servants of my ladies are of long standing.’

  ‘But the Italians are –’ began Amy, before biting down hard. She had almost said that Italians were notorious poisoners. ‘But the diamond plotters – the countess said they had a woman about the French queen in August last,’ she said instead.

  ‘Ah yes, the diamond plot. From your countess’s lips. And again I remind you that you said there was an attempt to poison the lady in Bruges.’ Amy nodded once, hard. ‘And so there is poison there, and now there is poison here. It seems to me that this plot was begun with your countess and continues with her woman.’ Amy hung her head, unsure what to say. ‘It seems to me that this entire plot might have been invented by your mistress. To win the love of the great people of Europe she might invent and then save us from a plot of her own imagining.’

  ‘It’s not true,’ said Amy, looking directly to where she knew Catherine’s eyes were. ‘I tell you, your Majesty, there is something evil here. Here, and in Bruges, and in England, too.’

  ‘In England? Then I shall speak with our new ambassador from that realm. Mr Walsingham.’ Amy’s mouth flopped open and her hand flew to it.

  ‘Sore,’ she offered lamely.

  ‘It will be, for some days. The new queen is a delicate child. Neither my son’s entry into Paris nor hers can take place until she is well rested, and the best dates predicated. These gentlemen are needed at her side. As am I. You do not have long to find proof of your plot, girl. If you cannot, then our arrangement will be at an end. You will leave this place. I do not wish you near the queen, a child of your … quality.’

  ‘Wait! Uh, please, your Majesty.’

  Catherine, who had half turned away, inclined her head. ‘What?’

  ‘Before I was attacked – the night before – I found a woman of the bedchamber not in her place.’

  ‘Which woman?’

  ‘It was dark, I couldn’t see.’ Catherine tutted, making to leave again. ‘But I followed! I found that she had went to … to make love with a man.’ Again, the dowager tutted. ‘A man I knew to belong to the duke of Guise.’ At this, Catherine paused. She said something rapidly to
the two physicians, who reluctantly moved away.

  ‘You are sure of this?’

  Amy thought, but could not be sure, that there was little surprise in Catherine’s voice. If anything, perhaps there was a purr of triumph. ‘I am. The man helped me when I first came here. The duke ordered him.’

  ‘The duke … the duke is a friend to our family. This is a time of peace.’ She seemed to consider. ‘Yet he is a young man of great passions. He would have us at war again with the heretics. He would have blood on the streets of Paris if he could. That is not my way. Nor the king’s.’

  ‘But someone in your household is having traffic with him. A lady or one of her people.’

  ‘Hmph. I will discover what this is about. It is none of your concern.’

  ‘But if it is connected to this diamond league plot –’

  ‘Then you shall be absolved, girl. And so you had better recover your wits and your health and set to work. It is clear that someone wishes you not to do so – unless you were behind your own poisoning. As I said, you have only until the king and queen take up residence in this city. The royal entries are arranged. They will take place at a date to be divined in March. I suggest that you rouse yourself. Go to, girl. And do not wear these cosmetics. They thin the skin and sour the mind. Oh. Your girl, your maid. She is unhurt. She will be grateful for your concern.’

  Amy blushed. She had forgotten about Kat. She really was becoming just like them.

  Catherine stomped from the room, closing the door behind her, leaving Amy in the dark. She got up from her knees and sat down on the bed, staring into nothingness. She had no idea what to do. What she needed was an ally, and it was clear that the old queen neither liked nor trusted her, despite what had happened. If anything, the attempt on her life had only brought more distrust. Yet something the old woman had said shone with hope. The new ambassador, Mr Walsingham, was back in the city. She disliked the man intensely, but he was English, he understood plots, and he knew her. More than that, he probably knew where Jack was. It might even be that he would relieve her of all her cares, get her safely out of Paris, and let her forget all talk of diamond plots, royal entries, and exiled countesses. That was unlikely, the rational part of her mind said – he would want a great deal in return, he owed her nothing, and she and Jack were almost certainly still under a cloud. Still, the image of his serious, lined face loomed large in her mind, offering sense and order in a world of glittering, jewelled madness.

  6

  Jack allowed Robin to embrace him. The boy had tears in his eyes and his travelling cloak was tightly knotted about his shoulders. He might have been off to his first day at university. ‘Father Thomas said not to tell you where I’m going,’ he said, blinking away tears. ‘But if not for you I wouldn’t know to go there. Newcastle,’ he winked.

  ‘You’ll be safe in Newcastle. Good Catholic men there. They’ll be glad to protect you.’ Robin beamed, and then strode off in the weak, wintry sunshine. Of the three Jesuits, only Adam remained in York. Thomas had gone the previous day, refusing to say goodbye to Jack or to tell him in which county he had received assurances of protection. He preferred it that way. It meant that even if Polmear turned on him, sent him somewhere to be starved and tortured, he could not betray his conscience and reveal knowledge of where the men of his religion were going. He had not the heart to say that to Robin.

  As the red-haired priest disappeared from view, he felt a tug at his elbow. It was Adam, smiling. ‘Do you go soon too?’

  ‘Perhaps. In time. Though I will be sad to leave the true faithful in this city without comfort.’

  ‘More will come, though, won’t they?’

  ‘Oh yes, with God’s grace. No matter what becomes of us, the seminary will always have men willing to risk their lives and come here.’

  ‘What brought you to the church?’ asked Jack. He realised that he had not pried into the lives of the three Jesuits at all. Knowledge, again, was something to be avoided – but he was interested. ‘Are you from England? You sound it.’

  ‘Yes, I was raised in an English town. It’s still Catholic in its devotions.’

  ‘Most are. Outside the rich ones in the south.’ Adam nodded.

  ‘Yet even the northern ones will turn their heads against us if these … these desecrations continue. Fewer folk each day come to the Friary to hear Mass.’

  A chill ran through Jack. It was true. In the taverns and alehouses, even the men he had once heard speak openly about their hatred of southern Protestants were now decrying the savage acts of foreign Jesuits. The murder of the old woman had turned them fickle. Talk was now of rotten foreign men coming over with rotten instructions from rotten foreign masters, murdering decent English folk. The violence seemed to have sparked something in northern hearts – hatred of foreigners and their black acts was replacing hatred of southerners and their made-up religion. It reminded him of the kind of angry, hateful talk that he had heard daily in Paris. Blood for blood. A religious war to end them all. ‘Will you be coming to Mass tonight, my friend?’ asked Adam.

  ‘Tomorrow morning, if that’s good?’ Jack felt a blush creep into his cheek. Earlier, Doll had passed him a hastily scribbled note dropped by an unknown messenger indicating Polmear’s return that evening. How he would explain the departure of two of his quarry for destinations unknown he had not yet figured out.

  ‘Of course. God bless you.’ Adam stalked off, his hands clasped behind his back. Silently, Jack prayed that he would go too – find some rich benefactor who would hide him away in his household. Otherwise, there might be no choice but to deliver him to Polmear. Jack shivered again.

  Who, he thought, do you work for, Jack Cole?

  His life seemed to have taken a dark turn since he had lost Amy. It seemed to have become a confusing maze, in which different voices were calling out to him from different directions.

  He waited for a horse and its rider to pass and then crossed the street, heading in the direction of his room. The street was not crowded, but there were people enough to cause him to step around sewage, skirts, and hand carts. Few people, he noticed, were speaking with one another. Since coming into York, he had found the town suspicious, its people quiet; but it had lately fallen under an even more unpleasant cloud. People seemed not just afraid of the queen’s informers but of one another. Neighbours glared at one another sullenly. Goodwives crossed the street to avoid each other. It was like living in one of the Italian romances Amy liked to read, albeit it was scented with peat and ice rather than citrus and sun. Jack kept his head down as he walked, and it was still down when a burly man bumped his shoulder. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. The man grumbled an oath under his breath and Jack turned to give him an angry look. As he did, he caught sight of someone ducking into an alley.

  He watched for a few seconds to see if the person emerged – perhaps, he thought, it was simply someone pissing. After a few moments, he began moving again, and this time he himself slipped behind a carter’s stall. ‘Away wi’ ye,’ hissed the carter. ‘Unless yer buyin’.’ Jack shook his head and stepped out. Sure enough, the fellow in black, a cheap cap pulled low, was steadily walking towards him. Panic gripped. He looked around to see where he was. On the street near the Mercers’ Hall. If he did not want his pursuer knowing where he slept – and still slept alone – then he would have to shake him off. He began crossing back and forth across the street, hopping the sewer, each time moving a little farther in the direction of the River Ouse. The man, however, never seemed to slacken his pace or waver in his direction. With a start, Jack realised that he was not being followed. He was being herded. He turned and began jogging, towards and over the bridge. Buildings began passing in a blur as his chest tightened, strain squeezing his heart. The grey started to thin, replaced by open greenery as he hung a hard right. He knew that over the bridge and along the river there lay a ruined Dominican Friary, tangled now in woodland. Without looking back, he headed in that direction. When he reached it, he threw himself a
mongst the trees and fallen stones, only peeping his head out and over a tangle of brush to see if his pursuer was still abroad. His heart sank. The man had kept pace with him. Worse, he was coming towards him, twisting what looked like a dagger in his fist.

  Jack turned and looked deeper into the little wood. He began crawling, thankful that the ground was wet, when he heard a low, tuneless whistle.

  He froze.

  A voice growled, ‘there is nowhere for you to run, Jack Cole. You have come where I’ve bid you.’

  His head low, Jack continued to crawl, pressing himself into the spongy ground. Suddenly, it opened up before him, and the smell of wet, turned earth rose to greet him. A rectangle of ground had been dug. An open grave, freshly prepared. Abandoning silence, he sprung up and away from it as the dark figure barrelled towards him. Jack kicked backwards, catching his attacker in the forearms, which seemed to startle him. His cap flew into the air and Jack’s breath caught in his throat on seeing his face.

  But rage had overtaken fear. He wanted to punch and stab at the man who was attacking him. He fought the desire. Escape – find people, his mind cried. Escape! As the assassin launched himself to his feet, wasting time scrabbling for his cap, Jack began running, bouncing and flying over the undergrowth. He leapt over the wall which bordered the old Friary and into the half-empty street. Away from the centre of town, there were always fewer people. Crashing and cursing in the woods behind him sent him moving, back in the direction of the bridge. He did not stop to see if he was still being followed.

  Over the bridge, there were plenty more people, and Jack did stop, putting a hand against a plaster-fronted house and straining to catch his breath. He looked up.

  The man in black was moving towards him, not quite running but moving quickly enough.