A Dangerous Trade: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Where?’ she asked. ‘I have things to do.’

  ‘It shan’t take long. I …’ He paused, thinking. ‘Let’s take a walk. I’ll take your horse away. Wait here.’ He led the beast to the stables and returned to a tutting Amy stamping the dust free from her boots. ‘Whilst folk are still all at sixes and sevens finding their lodgings. Come on, let’s walk in the park. It’s so hot today.’ This seemed to draw a look of alarm. He bit on the inside of his cheek. ‘Or the garden.’ He gestured beyond the courtyard. ‘Come on, do you want to speak or not?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said in a mild voice. ‘I think we should.’

  The gardens at Wingfield were emerald in the summer heat. They had been only indifferently kept up, but the countess had set the gardener to begin something that Queen Mary could take pleasure in. Jack knew that he and Amy had no business being there but hoped that no one would care with the earl apparently sick and the household busy reclaiming the building.

  After they had walked a while in silence, the bulk of the house bathing them in pleasant shadow, Jack blurted, ‘I’m Catholic.’ Immediately after, his nervous smile twisted his face. It was not how he had wanted to announce his conversion, but he had never seen anyone make such an announcement. He had no reference point, no model to follow.

  ‘I know,’ said Amy. It was her turn to cross her arms. ‘I suppose you’re telling me that I’m Catholic too?’

  ‘No, not if you don’t want to be. I mean, I’d like you to be, but…’

  ‘And we have your Mr Heydon to thank for this, do we? He’s the man who’s pricked your conscience? I must say I wonder if you’d be so hot on that old faith if the Scotch queen was ninety-five with crooked teeth and one eye.’

  ‘Mr Heydon is …’

  ‘He’s a priest,’ she snapped. ‘I’m no idiot, Jack. I’ve been watching what’s been going on.’

  Fear coursed through him. If Amy had seen through him, who else might? ‘But … I …’

  ‘And why are you telling me this now, husband?’

  ‘I thought it your right to know.’

  ‘Just now? Not weeks ago – not before you risked your life on the road?’ They had passed out of the shadow, further away from the house. Without realising it, they had begun going in a big circle, all the way around the house. Amy paused mid-step, drawing a finger to the bridge of her nose. Sweat stood in tiny pearls on her forehead. ‘Are you in love with him?’

  ‘What?’ spluttered Jack. ‘What the hell, Amy?’

  ‘It’s a fair question. This man – this priest – appears and all of a sudden you are dancing to his tune. You’re speaking like him – you’re even making yourself look like him. It’s a fair question.’ Challenge rose in her voice as she repeated her question.

  ‘It’s a damned stupid question from a foolish woman,’ he snapped. ‘I see how it is. You don’t like me having friends. Because then you can’t see everything. That’s exactly what you’ve always been like, Amy Wylmott. In love with your own opinions. The sound of your own voice.’

  ‘Go to the devil, Jack,’ she said, her voice rising. ‘Do you know, I don’t even know who you are. Do you?’

  ‘I’m a gentleman’s man,’ said Jack, tossing his head.

  ‘Pfft, a gent – you’re a nobody, Jack Cole. You’re nobody, just like me. Nothing.’

  Anger rose in him, flaring up his throat and into his cheeks. He fought the urge to shout, to strike out at her. He clenched his jaw, letting it pass, and instead he said, ‘I don’t think that’s a good thing to say. I …’ he raised his finger and pointed at the Shrewsbury badge sewn onto his livery. ‘This, this says that I’m somebody. The passport Heydon got – it said that I was somebody. I don’t think that’s a good thing to say at all.’

  ‘Oh, quit trying to be so damn chivalrous. Be angry, if you’re angry. Be something, Jack. That’s it with you, isn’t it? You’re never anything unless someone tells you to be. Weak. A man who stands for nothing – he falls for anything. And you have, haven’t you? You’ve been ripe to be plucked by that poxy priest!’

  ‘Shut up,’ he snapped. ‘You shut up. You’re my wife, not some shrew.’

  ‘Wife? Pah! You’ve become wife to the Catholics. Wife to Heydon. I suppose you know your new friend is leading you straight to the gallows.’

  ‘What do you know? I’m going to be a hero, Amy, and then you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘No, Jack. It’s you who’ll be sorry. You think you’re the only one who has made new friends? No, sirrah. I have a friend myself and he’s no Catholic! You’ve been watched right from the beginning – so has he. We all have! So you’re not so damned clever as you think.’

  ‘He? What do you mean? What have you been doing?’

  Amy tilted her chin to him and smiled. ‘You would like to know that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to know so you can run to your little priest and tell him. Well it’s none of your business. But you have a care, Jack. Believe whatever you want in your heart. The likes of him aren’t as safe as they think, whether they hide under the skirts of that Scotch strumpet or not.’

  With that, she turned on her heel and strode away, wiping her brow with an already-stained sleeve. Jack remained in the garden. His heart was racing with the fury of an unexpected confrontation. She had been up to something. He looked beyond the gardens, to the fringe of trees that marked the park boundary. Why had she been so reluctant to talk there? And what did she mean ‘right from the beginning’? He cast his mind back, galloping past all that had happened since he left for Scotland. When they had first joined the earl’s household, when they had arrived at Chatsworth – that was the beginning. Then, she had made some comments about a man watching them. A man in a brown suit with silvery hair.

  He shrugged it off. His heart had begun to slow. She would just bear watching, that was all. In the meantime, he would have to behave as normally as possible. The duke of Norfolk would be sending letters, and now he would be here to read and pass them on. Tedious work, but it would take his mind off what Heydon had in store for him later in the year, when the baking days of summer passed into autumn and winter.

  5

  Amy regretted fighting with Jack almost instantly, but pride rose up in her, refusing to admit it. She took herself to the servants’ dormitory and tore off her sleeves, casting them to the ground. Then she sat, her head in her hands and her knees bunched up. What had he said? Something about being a ‘hero’. That was bad. It might mean anything. She had to calm down, to think rationally. It would have to be passed on to Brown, but not until she had decided what it might mean. A rush of angry love welled up, unbidden. Never before had she wanted to hug her husband to her and rip the hair from his scalp more strongly. He had even denied her that possibility.

  She began to sort through what she knew and what she could safely reveal. Heydon had spirited her husband north. He had converted him to Catholicism, presumably after noting what an easy target he was. And he had promised him something – that he would be a hero. What made the Catholics heroes? Working for the pope, certainly. Doing things – things against the English faith. Burning down churches? Leading armies?

  Killing Elizabeth?

  Her mind shied away from that possibility. Yet it was the one that Brown had warned her about. The queen’s death was the one thing every man in Elizabeth’s government feared, for it was the one thing that would make an end of their faith and probably their lives. But would her husband really be seduced into an act so wild? She bit her lip, knowing the answer. And how much should she tell Brown? It was his job to ferret things out, and she didn’t trust herself enough to reveal only enough to serve as a warning. Angry as she might be at Jack, she did not want to get him into real trouble. The trick would be getting Heydon and Mary Stuart cast away. Perhaps she could cut some deal – arrange for Jack to be left alone in exchange for information. Yes, that was fair enough. Hitherto she had given up information freely, hoping to protect him. She had even agreed in principle to rid the world
of Queen Mary if the unthinkable did happen. The least Brown could do would be to have her husband’s life spared in the event of some plot coming to light.

  That was, of course, if the English government gave a damn about honouring deals with laundresses.

  There was another possibility, and she grasped for it like a blind woman. She could confront Philip Heydon. She had to know if she was in the right and Jack in the wrong, or if somehow it was the other way around. But how? If she went in with her tongue unsheathed, she might spur him into ever greater secrecy. No, she would have to play the aggrieved wife and hope that she could warn him away from whatever he was planning for Jack by more subtle means.

  She drew herself up. There were other servants in the dormitory, but they had been absorbed in making up their own beds, and were now covertly bent over, hiding their few personal possessions amid the folds. She passed them, nodding greetings without interest. Sunlight slanted in on her, a woman with a mission she neither understood nor felt ready to undertake.

  She asked after Heydon, finding him unpacking books in a small chamber underneath the earl’s rooms. ‘Mrs Cole,’ he said, smiling. Then he looked down at the coffer before him. ‘Every time this household moves, I reckon that fewer books survive.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Such an icy stare from those emerald eyes,’ he said, putting one down. ‘A fair thing on such a hot day.’

  ‘Forgive me for not getting down on bended knee, Mr Heydon. My back’s a little sore today.’ No, she thought. She could not afford to let her tongue run on. She lowered her eyes. ‘I understand that you’ve made certain promises to my husband.’ Pretending to know more than she did might be worth trying.

  ‘Promises?’

  ‘You know what I mean, I think.’

  ‘You intrigue me, mistress, and that’s the truth. I understand he’s told you of his faith?’

  ‘That he is now a Catholic? Oh yes, I know that.’

  ‘As well you should, being his wife. It is your duty to support him. You can’t do any less now, can you?’

  ‘I … I respect my husband’s conscience.’ Heydon smiled indulgently. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. ‘Yet I would not have him in any trouble.’

  ‘What trouble are you talking about?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I do. Your husband doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to do. If you’ll forgive me, I think it’s no place for a wife to grow jealous. To try and control her man’s actions.’

  ‘Ohhh,’ said Amy, her temper flaring. ‘And what would you know about that, father? You fellows aren’t allowed wives, are you? That’s why you steal women’s husbands to your band.’ Already she felt control of the situation fleeing her, the cool attitude she had wanted to convey melting.

  Heydon held up his palms. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I hope you’re not planning to make trouble, Mrs Cole. Jack and I are friends. We sink or swim together, as true brothers of the faith.’

  ‘I …’ Brown sneaked into her mind, as stealthily as he sneaked into the parklands. She could see him, jaw clenched, warning her against what she was about to say. ‘You’re being watched, sir. By great men. Have a care how you proceed.’ She gave a sarcastic bow and turned.

  ‘What?’ he called after her. She paused in the doorway and half-turned back.

  ‘I can say no more. Only that your actions are not as privy as you might think. You’d be a fool to try anything – to make Jack try anything – because … because you will be stopped.’

  A nasty snarl twisted Heydon’s features. ‘Then,’ he said, ‘we’ll just have to make sure that those who try and stop us are carried out of this world, shan’t we?’

  Amy left the chamber, slamming the door and hurriedly moving away from it. His meaning was not hard to discern. She might well have just put Brown’s life in danger. And her own.

  ***

  She walked down to the village, not even bothering to make some show of household business. If anyone tried to stop her, they’d get the rough edge of her tongue. The sentries seemed to sense this and averted their eyes when she passed out of the grounds of Wingfield Manor and marched, her fists balled, downhill. She was almost disappointed. A tongue lashing would have been welcome. One she could dole out and then walk away from, with no consequences. Not like the fight she had had with Jack. That would always be there now.

  She was breaking the rules, she knew. Brown had told her that she must never seek him out. It would be too great a risk. If they were seen together, it might compromise him. After her discussion with Heydon, she had taken herself off to the privy and sat, simply as an excuse to be alone, to formulate a plan. It was there that she had decided to find Mr Brown. A veiled threat on both their lives surely warranted it.

  She had no idea if he would be in the village, but she knew he took lodgings nearest wherever Mary Stuart was being kept. She had not seen him during the brief week at Chatsworth, but that had not bothered her. Nothing of importance had come up during the queen’s sickness anyway. Plus, she surmised, it would make sense for him to make sure of a chamber in the village inn ahead of the plague of Mary’s extended household.

  The village of South Wingfield wasn’t far, but the heat-hazed path to it felt longer. On a horse, one didn’t notice, but walking it was tortuous. When she reached the place that wags in the household were calling Petty Scotland after the influx of Mary’s people, she looked around for an inn. Eventually she gave up, asking an old woman.

  She strode into the sprawling wooden building and made for the bar, elbowing her way through a gaggle of French-speaking men and women in rich clothing. The innkeeper was arguing with a woman who seemed to be speaking rapidly in French.

  ‘No. More. Rooms. No. More.’

  ‘Vous avez dit que vous nous réserveriez une chamber!’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Amy. Then, louder, ‘excuse me.’

  ‘An English girl? What can I do for you, girl?’

  ‘Nous étions ici les premiers,’ cut in the Frenchwoman. Amy and the innkeeper ignored her.

  ‘I’m looking for a Mr Brown.’

  ‘Brown? He’s upstairs.’ The man gestured towards a steep flight of steps. ‘Last room on the right. But he’s with a guest at the moment. Won’t want disturbed.’

  ‘A guest?’ said Amy, frowning. She had to shout it over the mounting protests of the courtly lady.

  ‘Yep,’ said the innkeeper, also raising his voice. Then he gave her an amused look. ‘He’s right well loved by folk from the big house, is Mr Brown. You can wait down here if those pretty ears of yours can stand a bit o’ noise.’ He turned his attention back to the lady, raising placatory hands.

  Amy looked around the room and then over to the staircase. It was absurd, but a little stab of disappointment prodded at her heart. Brown had other informers in the household. That was probably to be expected. After all, he only saw her once a week, if that. But these other folks were invited to his private lodging. They must be more trusted than she, or privy to better information. It made her feel somehow less special. Just one voice amid a chorus. She made up her mind and made for the stairs.

  She found the last room on the right and put her ear to the thick wooden door. Murmuring came from within, but it was too indistinct to make anything out. All that marked it as conversation was the cadence of speech. Suddenly it ceased. Footsteps. Something bumped at the door, making the handle on her side beat a brief tattoo.

  Panic rose in her breast and she wheeled, almost tumbling over her skirts as she made for the first door across the way. She grasped at the iron ring and threw herself in, slamming it behind her and putting her back to it. Why she did it she wasn’t sure, but she knew that Brown would be furious if she made trouble with his little network of informers.

  ‘Whit’s aw this?’ screeched a man. ‘Christine, get yersel’ cover’t up. There’s some lassie stolen in oan us.’

  ‘I’m sorry,�
�� said Amy. ‘I’m sorry. I … the wrong room.’

  Before her a man and woman were in a state of undress, the woman in her shift and the man in breeches, his bare chest soapy. She raised a hand over her eyes and then, unable to contain herself, began to laugh. ‘Whit are ye, a maidservant or the like?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Amy again, bending double. ‘I’m gathering the bedsheets. I … the wrong room.’

  ‘Ye should be chappin’ afore ye intrude oan good honest wights,’ said the man, wagging a finger. But her fit of giggles seemed to have burst his shock and stalled any anger.

  ‘Go out now, would ye?’ said the woman.

  ‘Yes, yes. Sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  Amy drew herself up, shaking her head to chase away the laughter. She took as much time as she dared making her way out of the room and closing the door on a waft of olive oil scent. The passage was empty, the rise and fall of arguments floating up from downstairs the only sound. She crept along to Brown’s door and listened. Silence.

  She knocked once. Twice.

  ‘Who is there? What have you forgotten?’

  ‘It’s me, sir,’ she cried into the wood, as loudly as she dared. ‘Amy. I must speak with you.’

  Brown opened the door, his face a mask of shock, fury, and, she thought, worry.

  6

  ‘What the devil do you mean by coming here, you stupid girl?’ he hissed, grabbing her by shoulder and yanking her into the room. ‘When did you get here?’

  ‘I just did,’ she protested. ‘I … I went into the wrong room.’

  Brown’s eyes roved over her, his face like thunder. ‘You saw nothing?’

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘The man downstairs, he said you were with someone. But I didn’t see who.’