A Dangerous Trade: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller

by Steven Veerapen

  The light disappeared, followed by the soft click of a door. Still, Jack and Heydon waited, as though not wanting to tempt fate. Eventually Heydon whispered, ‘get moving’. Jack did.

  The lane did not last long, the muddy track giving way to patches of grass. Heydon veered them to the left, but before long Jack needed no guidance. The soft burble of the river announced its presence, and the vegetation underfoot grew thicker and reedier. It was interspersed by flat stones.

  The river itself was a thick black viper cutting through the darkness of the night. They stopped alongside it. ‘Watch yourself, mate,’ said Heydon. Jack moved away from the barrel. Pulling open the lid, Heydon threw in a couple of large stones he pried out of the wet ground. Then he worked loose the barrel’s bunghole before replacing the lid. ‘Right, help me give it a heave.’

  The barrel rolled down the slight incline towards the river. It slowed near the bottom and for a moment Jack suspected it would stop there, become stuck, a mute witness to their crime. But Heydon skipped through the reeds, his arms out for balance, and gave it a kick. It landed in the water with a soft splash and bobbed there, moonlight glinting on the metal bands that circled it. Then it spun on the spot. Water must have found the bunghole, and it submerged without a sound, before bobbing again just a little, further along. Heydon reached into his shirt and pulled out the man’s papers, tearing them up and throwing them into the water too. They flashed grey in the moonlight before the water claimed them.

  Jack thought of the man he had stabbed. He imagined him coming to at that second, trapped in a rapidly filling black chamber, throwing his hands out and looking for escape as his world was cut off. Heydon interrupted him. ‘He’s gone. We have to get back.’

  They walked back to the tavern. Before opening the door, Heydon clapped his arm. ‘You well, mate?’ Jack said nothing but attempted a nod. ‘Good man. You have to be. We’ll talk upstairs.’

  They re-entered the merrymaking chaos and made their way back through the crowd, heads bowed. Before they could reach the stairs, a man stepped into their path. ‘Good evening to you, lads,’ said the stout thirty-something.

  ‘Mr Wytham,’ said Heydon. ‘Jack, this is my good friend Mr Wytham.’ Then, with meaning, ‘one of this good town’s constables.’ Jack looked the man in the eyes briefly, before returning his glance to the floor. The constable looked harmless enough, sheep-faced but sharp-eyed.

  ‘Did your friend get to his lodging?’ asked Wytham, hooking his thumbs into his belt and letting his stomach protrude.

  ‘He did that, sir,’ said Heydon. ‘Although he spoke of riding for the south with speed.’

  ‘In that state? He’ll not be fit for a ride in the morning.’

  Heydon shrugged in response. Then he said, ‘this is my man, Jack Cole.’ He dropped his voice. ‘He’s the faithfullest and more fire-filled man of the faith.’ Jack’s heart leapt. But Wytham only gave him a hard look, followed by a smile, his eyes moistening.

  ‘Good man, Jack,’ he said. ‘Pray God you can prove that before long.’

  They exchanged little half-bows all round and Jack and Heydon went upstairs, closing the door of their room. Heydon flopped down on the bed, lying right back and gazing at the ceiling. ‘Done,’ he said.

  ‘But what have I done?’ asked Jack. He remained by the door. Now his legs seemed to wobble, and he slid down, letting them splay out in front of him. His head fell into his hands.

  ‘What needed doing.’

  ‘They’ll be after us now though, won’t they? Cecil’s men? Cecil himself? I mean, I’ve killed one his men. He’ll want – what do you call it? Retribution! He sees everything. He’ll send people.’

  ‘Calm yourself, mate.’ Heydon’s tone was business-like. ‘There’s no one going to come. Not for him.’

  ‘How not? Won’t –’

  ‘Hush. Do you think that Cecil or his queen give a merry fuck about the men they employ?’ His brow darkened – in anger, it seemed to Jack. ‘They hate them. They hate their informers. Think they’re dirty and shameful. Men like Cecil – his mistress too – they are ashamed that they must trade in secrets with grubby little men like that. They would deny them in an instant. If any are killed or disappear, they will shrug. “One less grasping urchin – let us find a cheaper one,” they’ll say.’ He mimicked a high-born London accent. ‘No, old England’s rulers have no loyalty, no more than creatures like yonder drowned fellow have loyalty to them. They are just useful cutpurses, to be used and then discarded. No one will come. Even if his body washed up on the shore at Cecil’s house, he would betray no knowledge of the man and have his corpse cast into a midden. His death will mean nothing, not even a trail of papers. He is trash.’

  ‘But it was wicked, wasn’t it? I killed a man.’

  Heydon sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. ‘It’s a war, Jack. We’re at war. They understand this up here. Men die in war. Woman too. Especially if they’re their generals.’ At the word ‘women’, Jack spluttered.

  ‘What will Amy say? What will she think of me?’

  ‘She won’t know. A soldier doesn’t trouble his wife with tales of his doings. I wasn’t speaking of your goodwife, mate.’

  Jack looked up. ‘You said that a man might be forgiven his sins in the faith, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did. Provided he confesses them fully to a priest, in the expectance of God’s mercy. And provided he does his penance.’

  ‘Then … I suppose … then I could confess to you, Philip? As a priest? And I could be forgiven for all that I’ve done, couldn’t I?’

  ‘Of course, my son. Would you like to make your confession now, in God’s presence?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, if I could?’

  ***

  Amy dreamed that she had poisoned Queen Mary. She had dropped the vial of poison into the broth that was nightly carried from the kitchen for the woman’s supper, and throughout the night Wingfield Manor had rocked with cries and shouts of horror and relief and fear. And then, in the dream, she had turned into a bird and flown out one of the windows. She had found Heydon and pecked him to death too, and then she had landed next to Jack and transformed back into herself. Then they had been old people together, working away in a little timber-framed shop, and people had come by so that he could smile his old crazy smile at them and she could be safe in the back, plying her needle. And no one would ever know that she had killed an anointed queen.

  What had woken her? The other female servants snored and rolled in their sleep. Lights still burned all around the dormitory and she could hear voices drifting in from outside. They were too low and indistinct to make out what was being said. She rolled onto her side, the blankets tangling between her legs. Next to her bed – not that it was really a bed, with neither mattress nor pillows – was a little book. Taking the countess’s advice, she had decided to try and mend fences with the other servants. Amongst the crates and carts full of stuff still being trundled from Tutbury she had found it, lying dejected in the courtyard. Its cover was mud-splattered, but the thing was still quite readable, though she knew that she could never hope to understand many of the words inside. Its title page proclaimed it as The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet, by a man called Arthur Brooke. Few of her peers could read at all, but all of them liked being read to, and so she had offered to read the book to them during their evenings. At first, they had rolled their eyes, but when she had begun to read it, they fell under the spell. Finally, she had thought, her busy tongue might work in her favour. She could do as her mother used to do – read and tell stories and make people smile. Her mother had not had the luxury of a book, though, reciting her rhymes and tales from memory. So, Amy thought, she was in an even luckier position. It would be a crime not to use your gifts to make the world more liveable, anyway.

  How they had giggled when she had warned them, using a deep, manly voice, to avoid the fate of a couple of unfortunate lovers, giving in to dishonest desire; neglecting authority and advice; listening to dr
unken gossips and superstitious friars, attempting all adventures of peril to meet their lusts; using confession to further their wicked designs. The girls’ giggles had given way to something like serious contemplation when she had warned them of dishonest living hastening unhappy death, just as it did for Romeus and Juliet. She had felt her own throat prickle with fear when she had recited lines which read:

  What if with friendly speech the traitor lie in wait,

  As oft the poisoned hook is hid, wrapt in the pleasant bait?

  Oft under cloak of truth hath Falsehood served her lust;

  And turned their honour into shame, that did so slightly trust.

  What, was not Dido so, a crowned queen, defamed?

  Then she had affected a yawn and insisted that she would finish the story on another night. But the words haunted her, though she had no idea who Dido was. It was the word ‘poison’, she guessed, which had spurred on her nightmares.

  If it came to it, could she kill Queen Mary? And what would happen to her if she did? Surely there would be someone to taste her food – to prevent it from happening? Or perhaps, as Brown had said, the poison was too slow for a taster to be of any use. Then she’d kill two people, unless she found some subtle means of getting into only Mary’s mouth. Could she? She wasn’t worried for her soul. She believed in God, but beyond that she had never cared for forms of worship. Church was somewhere you went to gossip, to hear about what was happening and to speak to people you never otherwise had a chance to. It was only the old and the eccentric who took it seriously. Faith, though – that was different. That was what you were when you were alone. It was your beliefs. It was what helped you when you were facing death or loss or cruelty. It was not what you performed on the stage of the world, and it was not what the men and women of politics burned and maimed and killed for.

  And Jack. She thought she knew why he would care about worship and forgiveness and could see how easy it would be for a man like Philip Heydon to spot that and recruit him.

  Yes, although he did not know it, she had worked hard in uncovering Jack Cole’s secrets before she had agreed to be his wife. Some of what she heard was rumour, no doubt embroidered, but she felt she had sifted enough wheat from chaff to understand a good deal about him. And what she had learnt did not disgust her or even frighten her. It had moved her to pity.

  She rolled over again, so that she faced away from the book. But still the image of dead lovers, doomed before the story had even unfolded, lodged in her mind.

  7

  ‘My mother died when I was born. I mean, that’s usual, isn’t it? For mothers to die abed in childbirth.’ Heydon nodded encouragement. Still he sat on the bed; still Jack sat on the floor. ‘I came out wrong, he said. My father.’ He held up his hand and twisted his knuckles, the joints shifting and bending even at the wrist. ‘Said it was a mark of the devil, that I was ill-formed and wicked. Said that I’d killed my mother coming out like that.

  ‘Then since I could remember he would beat me. Beat the devil out of me, he always said. It got worse when he drank. Then he would whip the devil out, all over my back. The marks are still there. I can feel them when I reach round. When I was old enough to walk and talk, that’s when I learnt to be silent. I tried to please him, to show him I wasn’t touched by the devil. But he didn’t want me speaking.’ Jack shrugged, his eyes on the floor. He thought he could still see the blood stains. ‘I suppose he thought if I was talking, then I could complain of him. And he was an important man. Always seemed so anyway. He was in the duke’s household. He preached reform – not as a minister or anything, but to the other servants. He got a name for it, Henry Cole. The Godly man. I suppose I reminded him of ungodliness. His own ungodliness. So I learnt to keep quiet, not to speak loudly.

  ‘I think I tried to be good. I tried to make him stop. But as I got bigger, he got worse. His drinking got worse, though he still was able to see to his work, I suppose, or we’d have been thrown into the gutter. But then he looked at me differently. I think I must have been about six or seven. He had never taken a new wife. I heard him speak about it often enough. To the other servants, to his friends who came to listen to thoughts on reform and religion.

  ‘He beat me more and more, for shame, I think. He … I can’t right remember all that happened. I suppose I went quiet. Quieter than ever. And I just let him. I just let him hold me down and hurt me, whipping, beating. It was for discipline, he said. A good father disciplined his son, even if it was really a devil’s son. Nobody said nothing. Nobody would see anything wrong in a Godly man giving his son right good discipline. But I decided I would make it stop. I tried once asking one of the women servants for help. She could see there was something wrong. Said I was too quiet for a little lad. I showed her the marks on my legs. Most folk never saw anything. He never beat me anywhere you could see unless I was unclothed.

  ‘She was a good woman. Older – a mistress of the old duchess’s wardrobe. Kind too. Told me stories of chivalry and knights and escapes and all of that stuff. She said she would help me get away – maybe get to sea and start a new life there. I don’t know what happened, really. I was supposed to meet her one night outside the house and she said she would have a friend ready to take me away. I went.’ Jack gave a humourless smile. ‘But no one came. I never saw the woman again. I heard she had been sent away for stealing. My dad told me that. He was smiling when he told me. He said, “I know all that passes in my house.” He didn’t hurt me that night, I don’t think. I suppose killing my escape was hurting enough. I never tried again. I didn’t want to hope. I didn’t want to get anyone else into trouble.

  ‘His drinking got worse though. They say that about men who drink. They can start by hiding it, but one day they can’t anymore. One day it masters them, and then their work starts to fall off. His friends stopped coming by our chambers. He ranted about God forsaking him. That was my fault, I suppose. He didn’t say that, though. He just laid into me. But I was getting bigger by then. I must have been … I don’t know – I think about thirteen maybe. By then I’d taken to keeping away. I didn’t try and be good for him anymore. Knew it didn’t work. So I would go and try and make myself useful to other people. Helping move hay for the horses. Listening to what other people said. Trying to show them all that I wasn’t a devil, that I didn’t need disciplined because I was a good boy.

  ‘I found him at the foot of the stairs by our chamber. It was summer, I remember, because I could hear birds singing early in the morning. He had been drinking all night, I thought. He must have fallen on the stairs. He was getting pretty bad by then at hiding it – did I say that? There was some blood coming from his head. But he wasn’t dead. I went down and checked. I could hear him breathing. It was a strange sort of breathing. As though every breath was like a little thunder. Rattling like that, rumbling. His eyes were open but not all the way. He saw me. I could see that he saw me. And he mumbled something. I don’t know what. I knew that I should fetch someone, get his head all tied up to stop the blood. But I didn’t. I just stood and watched him a while. And then…’ Jack swallowed. ‘And then I leant down and pinched his nose tight. I put my other hand over his mouth. And I waited. Just waited. I don’t know how long. Too long; I remember that my legs started to hurt. When I let go his eyes were still open, but he didn’t make that sound anymore. He didn’t breathe. And then I ran away to fetch help.

  ‘I pretended to cry. Maybe I did cry a little. It didn’t seem like I’d done anything right away, you know? It seemed just a small thing, like a dream. And then after that I went quiet for a long time. I tried not to think about anything. I know that people came and went, wondering what to do about me. Maybe some of them thought it was odd, what had happened. I think they did. I mean, he must have been looked at by someone, a physician or someone, mustn’t he?

  ‘But no one ever said anything about me. I wasn’t sent away, as I’d hoped. I just stayed on, in the same rooms. I was put to work in the stables. Because my father had been a
loyal man, they all said. And that was all good. But … Philip, I never felt a great guilt. You know if you’ve done something wicked – something you know is wicked – they say you feel it in your soul? I didn’t. Never. I was just scared that one day I might say something. Or that maybe I was mad, a broken person. That people would find out what I did and then the whole world would cry devil at me. So I tried to be good. I tried to be just as good as I could be. I smiled upon everyone. I tried to be friends with everyone. But that only made them distrust me. Call me names. So I just hoped to be ignored. Maybe one day to get a wife and make a new start somewhere. I feared it – do you know that? I feared leaving the duke, even though that’s what I wanted more than anything, to go out into the world. I don’t know why. I think – I reckon like I’ve been cursed. Like everything will turn out bad that I do. I have such a mad temper sometimes, I do foolish things in a trice, in heat, and think I might be tainted. In the blood. So I was afraid.

  ‘And that’s it. That’s what I did. I … If I could be forgiven, if I could get God’s mercy … is that something you can even get after you’ve … done something like that?’

  ‘Jack …’ said Heydon. He was staring at him intently, with soft brown eyes similar to Jack’s own. He made the sign of the cross, and then chanted, ‘indulgentiam, absolutionem, et remissionem peccatorum tuorum tribuat tibi omnipotens, et misericors Dominus. Amen.’

  Jack gave a solemn nod at the words. They were beautiful, ancient, mysterious sounding. As though just saying and hearing them made some change in the world: in him. ‘Thank you,’ he said, not knowing if that was appropriate.

  ‘I can grant you forgiveness. I can offer you the chance for penance. But this is a great crime. Though God knows you had faced a brutish man. If you had had the strength to speak against him. If that … But yes, I think God in his mercy can receive you. Even after such a sin. If you truly repent. Do you?’