Divided Loyalties: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘It’s fuckin’ Polmear,’ said the chubby man, who stopped short of the backroom. ‘Papers on ‘im fro’ t’queen’s sec’t’ry Walsingham. The one who watches –’

  ‘I know who he is,’ snapped the alderman, taking a harder grip of Jack, who could feel the man’s fingers sinking into his flesh. ‘Jesus Christ and all the Saints. Edward Polmear.’

  ‘We knew ‘e came and went. One o’ t’south’s men in t’north.’

  ‘Aye, came and went. Came and went, not came and met butchery. Christ Jesus, what do we do? We’ll have t’blame of this. It’ll be another bloody mass slaughter. Polmear, the queen’s man. Cut to ribbons.’

  Jack began to sink to his knees, and he was pulled up again. ‘Help me with this idiot,’ spat the alderman to his fellow.

  ‘What do we do with ‘im?’

  ‘Buggered if I know,’ returned the alderman. ‘Doubt even the sheriff’ll want involved with this mess. No, not even if he killed poor old Oldyham.’

  ‘E don’t look much like a killer.’

  ‘Oh aye? And what does a killer look like?’

  ‘Hard,’ said the big man. ‘Scarred. Bad.’

  ‘Met many, have you?’ A shrug was the answer. And then,

  ‘We’ll have to lock ‘im up. Question ‘im, maybe. Till we get word up from t’south.’

  ‘I know my job, lad. We’ll get him to t’castle.’ The alderman slapped at Jack’s face and he roused a little, staring into the old man’s sharp blue eyes. ‘You alive, idiot? You’re coming with us. To t’castle. You can spend the day in there, until we know t’truth o’ this.’

  ‘You think ‘e killed the old woman?’

  ‘I don’t know. Help me get him shifted.’

  Jack allowed himself to be led out by the two men, through the crowd of people. Some spittle hit him in the face, and others began hurling chunks of melting snow and dirt. The missiles kindled him. ‘Here,’ he said. Then, more loudly, ‘here! Let go of me! I haven’t killed anyone. I’m one of Mr Walsingham’s men. Francis Walsingham. Send word to him.’ His words excited the crowd still further. They stopped only when some filth accidentally hit his guards, and the two men began hurling threats of imprisonment back at them.

  ‘There’s been a mistake,’ said Jack to the younger man, hoping for an ally. ‘Is Polmear dead?’ It was the old man who answered.

  ‘Aye, lad. And bringing down the wrath of the south on all our heads.’

  ‘He … he was my friend. I lodged with him. Left him sleeping last night. We’re Mr Walsingham’s men. My name is Cole, Jack Cole. He sent me here, and Polmear, he watches over me.’ Then, lamely, ‘we’re leaving today.’

  ‘You’re goin’ nowhere, friend,’ said the younger man, hooking a thumb into his broad belt. ‘Save that way.’ He nodded along the Floss Bridge, past the Mercers’ Hall. Jack began struggling. In that direction lay the infamous Clifford’s Tower, from which the Catholic leader Robert Aske had been hanged in chains by Henry VIII, and the crumbling York Castle itself. Jack continued struggling until his captors twisted his arms behind his back and began carrying him. ‘I’m to go to Paris,’ he cried. ‘Get news to Walsingham! In Paris! You’ll all die for this!’ He gave full shout to the sudden descent of temper he usually suppressed, but to no avail.

  Within half an hour, he had become a curio. Locked in a cell in the tower, the door of which had a barred grate, he endured the taunts and questions of a number of men. Hours passed, the nature and quality of the curious shifting with each; first came the well-dressed, sneering folk, and then the poorer sort, and then only guards. At first he paced, and then he shouted insults back, and then he sat, despondent. He let the news that Polmear was dead sink in. And with that realisation came the enormity of what might happen to him if he were declared guilty. The penalty would be swift. He could only hope that the death of one of Walsingham’s known agents would stay the hands of the city officials, forcing them to send him south for investigation. But Walsingham was in Paris. That would delay matters. And all the time the remaining diamond man, Father Adam’s attack dog, as Polmear had called him, was on the loose. Had he intended to kill Polmear, or was he himself the quarry? If so, did he realise his mistake? What then?

  Jack curled in a ball on the floor. He had supposed he would be on his way to find Amy by now. That is what he should have done at the outset – he should have fled Walsingham’s house and taken the first ship he could find to the Low Countries. He might have beaten any searchers or messengers Walsingham sent to harm her. In frustration and anger, he kicked at the wall. A chunk of loose stone fell. Old place, he thought. Old place, with an old door. Hope rose.

  Gaining his feet, he crawled along the floor to the cell door and, standing, peeped out of the grate. He was, he knew, on the ground floor of the circular keep. In the great chamber outside, a thick stone pillar stood in the middle, a desk flush against it. Two men were pawing through items laid out there. Their voices boomed around the building, until they reached the high roof. ‘Don’t envy you. Might ‘ave word about that one tomorrow. Well, good e’en to you.’ One of the men left, and the other sat on a wooden chair, his back to Jack.

  It was getting late. Other prisoners had been grumbling, occasionally shouting for food or water from their own grates. He judged the passage of time by the flattening of their cries and pleas. And by the back of the night guard, who eventually slumped over his desk. Some torches stood in sconces about the central room, but they were weak, letting shadows stretch. It made sense, thought Jack, that there would be only one guard in such a place; the room would allow him to see in all directions if he chose to. What he apparently chose to do, though, was sleep; and why not? Every prisoner was locked in his cell.

  Certain that the fellow was in deep slumber, Jack tried sliding an arm between the bars of the grate. It fit easily enough. The lock, however, was set down to the right. His left hand would be useless at such an awkward angle – he had not the skill at using that one for careful work. He retracted it.

  Grateful that he had not been searched, he drew the diamond pin out of his coat and gripped it tightly between his left thumb and forefinger. Standing with this right side to the door, he slid his arm out and down. He smiled. He had always been plagued by weak and unnatural joints. It had been one of the things his father had beaten him for as a child – marks of the devil, he had always said: proof that Jack was a tainted beast who had killed his mother on entering the world. For the first time, the strange ability might prove itself useful. He let his wrist unlock and bend backwards. Still gripping the pin, terrified that sweat would release it from his grasp, he felt for the lock with his palm. He found it. And inserted the pin.

  Jack had never picked a lock before. However, he had heard his fellow servants in Norfolk’s house talking about it – about how easy it was with the right tool; about how any man might rob his master even without a key. Jack had turned away from that kind of talk, despising thievery as he did. Yet now it was useful.

  He closed his eyes, trusting that the lack of distractions would be more helpful than trying to twist around now and then to watch the guard. The pin slid into the lock and hit something. He wiggled it around until it slid in farther. He moved it up. Down. Overshot it. Slipped. He removed it entirely and took a deep breath. He tried again, with the same result. Anger and frustration threatened – a desire to snap the thing in a rage. If he gave way to one of his outbursts, he was lost.

  Sweat was beginning to burst forth on his forehead. It trickled down the small of his back. Soon it would be running over his arms and hands. In went the pin. He moved it in the other direction this time. Side to side. Again, it slipped in further. This time it seemed to strike home. He had it. He froze.

  Having the pin now acting as a key, he was terrified to move it, lest he lose what he had achieved. He stood, immobile, as the seconds ticked past. Snoring from the guard and other prisoners reverberated around the vast chamber. Gingerly, carefully, he twisted the pin betwe
en his fingers. He froze again as he heard the dull, muted snick. In the stillness of the night it ricocheted to the rafters. He withdrew the pin and pulled his arm back into the cell, pocketing the makeshift key. Then, hardly daring to believe, he massaged his painful right hand, locking it back into normality, and reached out with his left. He had to stand on tiptoes, but he could reach the circular handle. He pulled, and the door slid open easily. He rode it like a child.

  He was free.

  Crouching, almost crawling, Jack left the cell, fearful not only that the guard would wake, but that some other prisoner would call out to him. It did not happen. He supposed – he hoped – that the others would have no reason to be staring out of their grates in the middle of a cold night.

  Jack crept over to the desk where the guard was sleeping, his face down over one arm. On the desk were Polmear’s papers and purse. Sadness washed over him. He had hated Polmear at first, and lately hated that he had come to like him. The man was an enemy to his religion, but he was good company. Silently, Jack vowed that he would avenge him if he could. Then he slowly picked up the purse and gripped it tight in his hand so that the coins would not shake. Unable to bear the strain any longer, Jack skipped lightly towards the door of the keep. On a coffer next to it were the guard’s cloak and hat. He slipped into both and then opened the tower’s main door, the hat pulled down low and the collar pulled up. He did not open the door fully, but slipped out the slightest crack, scared that any swift gust of cold air would waken his sleeping gaoler.

  The tower stood on a hill, and Jack strode down the stone path, keeping his head down – just a guard carefully picking his way through the slush as he went about some urgent business. The first trial was a gatehouse, which stood at the bottom of the hill. He passed through without interruption. Thereafter lay an enormous courtyard, the centre of the ancient castle, and he looked around. Ahead, across the courtyard, was the main entrance. He did not have the nerve for it. Instead, he forced himself to walk slowly along a range of stables to his left. Horses whinnied, and he briefly considered stealing one and leaving money. He had not the nerve for that either. Instead, he went to the smaller, northwest gatehouse and passed under the stone.

  ‘Who goes there?’ called down a voice. Jack closed his eyes for a moment, his heart thundering, and peeped over his furred collar. A guard was standing on a flight of wooden steps, one hand upraised to the cold stone. He carried no torch, and Jack thanked God for the darkness.

  ‘‘eadin’ out,’ he said. ‘‘ad about enough o’ t’cold in there. Too cold for t’bloody lice on those dogs.’

  ‘Should try it up ‘ere. Colder’n a night in bed wi’ t’wife.’

  Jack chuckled. ‘Good e’en to ye, lad,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Good e’en, sir.’

  He passed through the gatehouse and began walking faster, and then faster. He began half skidding through the slush, elated. It passed. He realised what he was now: a wanted man. A criminal on the run from the law. The officers of the north would be after him. The queen’s men would be after him and might not believe what he told them.

  And then, with a start, he realised that none of those things would happen.

  Polmear was dead. That was sad, but there was something even sadder. Alive, the man had been important. Dead, he would be forgotten. When and if news reached Walsingham, he would shrug his shoulders, perhaps be irritated, and then find a new and unknown face to spy on the north. Intelligencers, he thought, were something like prostitutes. Worse, in fact. They sold their minds as well as their bodies to the state, to be used and then cast aside.

  The justices and aldermen of York would send out no search parties. They would do nothing regarding Polmear’s death until they had written instructions from either Walsingham in France or his superiors in London. They would certainly not advertise that they had lost the only man they suspected of being a murderer of a southern intelligencer. The whole network of watchers operated below the level of law and justice. Men true to English liberty would fear to tangle themselves in it.

  It might be wishful thinking – it might even be fantastical – but Jack allowed himself to believe it. He was a free man with money in his pocket. As long as he stayed away from the city of York, he would remain so. Paris could only be a few weeks away by land and sea, once he had found his way south, or east, and proven he could work his passage. He would go to Walsingham and tell the man of Polmear’s death, and he would then leave his service and find Amy. That was the safest thing to do. He would not risk London, and he would not try and get to the countess without letting the queen’s secretary know of all that had passed. For one thing, he did not relish the idea of forcing his wife into a life in the shadows and on the run. For another, he knew that the diamond league was still at large, had threatened Paris, had threatened Amy, and might yet bring about a holy war that would drown Europe in blood.

  Part Four: Following Suit

  1

  The salt wind blew over the new house, which stood over the forgotten ruins of the old. There was nothing left of the old place, no charred foundations or dead grass. Time and the unceasing industry of man had eliminated all, intent on burying the ugliness, the strangeness, the questions which no one cared to ask.

  He wondered if the small dogs and cats, some of which he had strangled and some of which he had buried alive, still lay beneath the courtyard in the back.

  Acre stood outside the house, blinking in the sunlight. It would be spring soon. The time of new life, supposedly. Already violet flowers were struggling out of the earth. The wind blew again, stronger, still cold but freshening. It was the same tempestuous one he had known in childhood. He closed his eyes fully and let the memories come.

  He was thirteen and being dragged by the Scotch woman who had called herself his mother into the hall. She hurled him to the ground as though he were a weightless sack of animal bones. ‘Unnatural bairn,’ she had cried. Her English husband, glittering in his finery, had known what to do. Without asking the nature of his latest crime, he had drawn out a riding crop, pulled down the young Acre’s breeches, and set to him with a vengeance. Still the woman screeched, cried, and sobbed. Acre had not cried – he never cried – and she called out again, ‘unnatural!’ The only fear that passed through him was that he might be locked again in the cupboard – the punishment to end all punishments – and left screaming, alone in the dark.

  ‘The child is wrong-headed,’ her husband agreed. ‘A twisted and abominable thing, to do what he does.’

  ‘It’s enough I’ve had,’ she shrieked. ‘Enough o’ these dead creatures. Enough o’ this loon.’

  ‘He is ours to care for, as God willed.’

  ‘You say God,’ she hissed, her voice low and deadly. ‘You’re meanin’ thon bastard priest. I say we go to England and be quit of him.’

  Acre’s ears had pricked. ‘Priest?’

  ‘You’re a foul changeling, boy! Left us by a priest, no creature of my body!’

  ‘Silence, Sybilla! You forget your tongue!’

  ‘Forget nothing. I’ve had enough o’ it. We’ll take the children and leave this … this wretch! We should never have stayed here – should have gone with the rest.’

  Acre had not bothered listening to the couple’s irritating chatter any further. Instead his little mind had begun turning on what they had said. A changeling, left by a priest. Not of the dreadful woman’s body. He had carried the news to his siblings, who absorbed it with interest. He told them also that they might soon be carried away by the cold and unloving people who had called themselves mother and father.

  That night, he had roused his siblings from their slumber and dragged them out of the house. In the kitchen, the fire had begun spreading from its wide grate and outwards, where it licked at thrown chairs and wooden crockery. The false parents, when the smoke rose to them, would go nowhere. He had barred their door from the outside.

  Thereafter, the children, none above sixteen, had roamed wild. Weeks pa
ssed, and the neighbours would not help them, would not let them in. The most they could hope was to scavenge the odd crust from the street, or perhaps catch and cook a stray dog. It was hard living. They would not have survived long living thus, had not their saviour come.

  Acre had always known there was something wrong about his relationship with the Scotch woman and her English man. It was not just that they were distant and cold, but that he did not look like them. He did not think like them. When they caught him killing things, they looked at him in horror, and tried to beat him out of himself – or to shut him up in the dark, where the really bad things lurked. His siblings, though, protected him when they could. There was kinship there, at least.

  And then relief had come, in the form of a shimmering angel, the like of which none of the starving, lost children had ever seen. They were embraced. They were given the entire, horrible truth about the hideous conditions of their parentage. Tears flowed, from the angel at least. And they were promised things. Above all, they were assured of revenge on the cruel people that had separated them, and everything they stood for. Within that revenge, each was promised what most their heart desired: the restitution of a true, clean faith; wealth and comfort; and, of course, the chance to kill and hurt, provided it were done in pursuit of higher goals. The avenging angel did not judge, but gifted them money and their little diamond pins and set them on their way.

  Thus, the diamond league had been born.

  Acre shook the memories away. The old house was long gone. No one would know him here. Now Adam was gone, his path to true faith still unfulfilled. He would now have to tell the angel. It could only be done in person. Then he could find out where the plot stood. As it was, he had no idea; no messages had come to him since his brother had been murdered. Without instruction he was directionless. The ace, he thought, smiling to himself, could not be played without a hand.