A Dangerous Trade: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller

by Steven Veerapen

‘Temper.’ Heydon wagged a finger. ‘Has that knock to the pate shaken your humours? I’m not your father, Cole. You won’t snuff the life out of me.’

  ‘Quit playing with the whelp,’ growled Heydon. ‘Set him to work.’

  ‘Yes. Cole, you will write for us a letter. To your wife. Ordering her to meet you outside the castle. Better yet, tell her to shift her narrow arse to this place. You can say goodbye, sirrah, before she goes back to the scene of her crime.’

  ‘No, I won’t. You won’t touch her.’

  ‘You’ll do it, you little shit. Or I’ll cut your fingers off.’

  Heydon barked a shrill, high laugh that Jack had never heard before. He clapped Brown on the shoulder, but then backed away a step, as though scared. ‘Now, what good would that do us? He could not write, and then when they find his corpse, they might wonder why the murderer of Elizabeth took the time to chop his own fingers off before he blasted her out of the water.’ Brown made a little disappointed noise. Heydon got on his haunches and leant close to Jack. ‘He has a strange love of cutting off fingers, does my friend here. I understand he did so to Cecil’s man – the one sent to scout old Shrewsbury’s houses.’

  Heydon drew himself back up and fetched a theatrical sigh. ‘I shall write the letter. I doubt his wife shall know his scrawl beyond a few words. When would that strumpet ever have cause to see it?’

  Brown reached into a satchel that was lying on the floor next to the bread and ale and drew out some paper and an inkpot. Heydon set to work. When he had finished, he shook the paper carefully. Then something caught his eye and he reached into the satchel. ‘Oh, Cole – you will like this, I think. Soon everyone will like of it. Copies will be thrown into the streets of London. The printers will take them up.’ He withdrew another paper, cleared his throat, and read.

  This day, in the year of our Lord 1569, Jack Cole, a common traitor, has slain the English queen, having gotten some weapon from friends in the low circles of his ilk. Behind him were his master Norfolk and sundry rebellious earls. His wife has slain the Scottish queen, jealous of the ecstasy of love her husband felt for that Jezebel. The damned pair have so broken all of God’s laws and sought the overthrow of this kingdom that they have themselves been carried off, the fellow by his own hand and the wife struck down as she tried to escape the honest men who took her. Such was never seen in any Christian Kingdom. We cry for God’s mercy to come down upon us, that we might better know his infinite love, commending ourselves unto his grace and crying for mercy. God save King James and bring us out of error and into the light of God’s love.

  Heydon finished with a flourish, returned the paper, then frowned. ‘Of course, we shall have to change that, about your wife being struck down. As she has been so mischievous as to be here and proven herself most unwilling as an assassin. We cannot count on Huntingdon’s men to hang her for a murderess. But, trifles.’

  ‘You’re mad, both of you,’ said Jack. Suddenly he felt tired. His words, though, had an effect on Brown.

  ‘What did you say, you little shit? What did you call me? I’ll slit your throat myself.’

  ‘Go easy,’ said Heydon, sounding a little uneasy. ‘We need him alive for a while yet. Corpses cannot pull triggers. You heard me, Cole? I said that you would become a hero in this world. Perhaps you will be, one day. When the chroniclers look back on the end of popery and the English queen who halted reform and gave succour to all. You and your wife – lowly nothings who did all England a great service and rid it of two wicked and foolish women.’ He turned his attention back to Brown. ‘Get you gone, now – pass the letter to the wife to some slave up at yonder place.’

  Brown gave Jack a hard, menacing look, before taking the letter and leaving the boathouse, the door banging behind him. When he had gone, Heydon let out a low whistle. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is a strange fellow. Tenant of my father’s. Killed his wife, you know, in Newcastle. Put his hands about her neck. I had a devil of a time getting him out of that. If only he weren’t so damned full of this new faith, this hard reform. All rather boring. Ah, the things we must do to buy a man’s loyalty. And a gentleman must have his own hunting hounds.’

  ‘What? But aren’t you –’

  ‘Shut your mouth.’ Heydon bent over and grasped him under one armpit. ‘Get moving.’ He pushed Jack towards the door; he hit the wall beside it and slid down, his head spinning. Heydon fished inside his old coat and produced a key. ‘I almost forgot to ask him for this,’ he said, shaking his head in amusement. When he had opened the door, he pushed Jack inside.

  The second room of the boat house was as dank as the first, though much of it was lost in shadow. Pegs were nailed into the walls – for oars, Jack guessed, and a small wooden staircase led up to a landing by a large, wooden-shuttered window, presumably for watching for the boats coming in. The floor opened out where the building jutted over the water, and the smell of damp was throat-catching. As Jack looked up and around, pain stabbed at his kidneys. Heydon had punched him in the back, knocking him to his knees.

  He lay awhile, winded. Whistling, Heydon went back into the first room and almost immediately reappeared, the large box under one arm and a rope laced over the other. He set down the box and worked his hands over one end of the rope, before swinging it up and over a roof beam. Jack watched, almost mesmerised, whilst he finished fashioning the noose.

  ***

  Amy woke on the floor of the countess’s bedchamber. At first, she didn’t understand why – until a low, insistent rapping came to her. She thought it had been part of some dream, until sense descended. Someone was knocking on Bess’s door. What time was it? There were curtains over the windows; she couldn’t tell. Her only thought was to answer before Bess was wakened. Without even pulling a robe over her nightdress, she opened it.

  ‘What is it?’ She kept her voice low. ‘For the love of God, why do you wake us? The countess –’

  ‘Message come from one of the castle’s folk.’ It was one of Bess’s gentleman. Amy narrowed her eyes as she sensed him looking up and down her body. She folded her arms over the white woollen nightdress.

  ‘For the countess?’

  ‘No, Mrs Cole. It’s for you. From your husband.’

  ‘What? Jack? Jack’s here? Did you see him?’

  ‘No, calm yourself, woman. It was one of the lads delivered it.’ He held it out. Amy snatched it, turning back to the bedchamber. Too dark to read it in there. She stepped into the larger room, where the half-light measured early morning’s progress.

  There were only a few words. ‘Amy, please come. Old boathouse by Windsor town. Mr Heydon at work here. Need your aid. Bring no one or I be in trouble. My love, Jack.’ Ha! She thought. So finally he had come round to her way of thinking. Finally, he had seen through the appalling Heydon. But what kind of work was he engaged in, and how might it lead to trouble? She realised she was still standing in full view of the countess’s male staff. ‘Oh, get you all to buggery,’ she hissed, turning on her heel and going back to the bedchamber.

  She dressed as quickly and silently as she could. Her old dress was off somewhere being laundered by the castle’s servants, so she put on her new russet gown. A good thing, too; she wanted Jack to see her looking fair and pretty.

  She left the countess’s rooms and wandered the castle a while, looking for a way out. Unfortunately, she came across the page boy she had stolen from, and he made a point of ignoring her. Feeling chastened, and now in a more buoyant mood, she went off and wandered further. The sun was well up by the time she had left the main buildings, the gardens and woods, and found her way on the path to the town. From there, she let the sight and smell of the river lead her to its edge where, in the distance, she spotted a tumbledown wooden shack on the same bank. Birds were singing in the trees, some skimming over the water, as she approached it and knocked on the door. It fell open and she walked straight in, his name already forming on her lips.

  ‘Mrs Cole,’ said a familiar voice. She jumped at the
sight of Brown.

  ‘You!’

  ‘I told you to stay at Tutbury and cease this watching business.’

  ‘You! You’re a damned coney-catcher! I know all about you!’

  ‘Stop your prattle, you stupid little strumpet.’

  ‘Where’s my husband? He’s not here, is he? You sent that – he’s not here.’ Disappointment and anger flooded her, and she made ready to fly at Brown. His next words stopped her.

  ‘He’s in the next room. And if you want him to breathe longer, you’ll do exactly as you’re told from this moment onwards.’

  ‘Let me see him. Let me see him this minute, you goddamned liar. You cheat!’

  Brown took a step towards her, his face a mask of hatred. That is the real you, she thought. A monster. She shrank back. He saw her and seemed to get himself back under control. He closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. ‘The sound of you disturbs me,’ he said. ‘Your filthy tongue. Wait here. I will see if your man is fit to receive you. If you run, if you cry out, he dies. It will not be a good death, I promise you.’

  Brown turned and went to a door, slipping inside.

  Amy brought her hands up to her mouth, resisting the urge to bite her nails – something she had not done since childhood, since her mother had put a mixture of ashes and vinegar on them. Desperately, she looked around the room for a weapon. She could tear up a floorboard, or prise a nail out of a wall, go for his eyes.

  But what if Jack really was in there? She strained to hear voices. Yes! She was sure the low, muffled sound was him. If she attacked Brown, if she demanded answers as to what was going on here, she might get him killed. She tilted her head back and thought. Whatever was happening, whoever Brown did or did not work for, she was getting her husband out of there. If they had to run away together, from Brown and Heydon, from Cecil and Walsingham’s whole army of men, from Mary Queen of Scots and the Shrewsburys, so be it. She would kill anyone who tried to stop her.

  9

  Jack had lain on the dirt floor overnight. The dampness seeped up into it from the river. He had fidgeted at his bindings now and again, even bending and unlocking his wrists and knuckles hoping that it would loosen them. It availed him nothing. His creator, he had dared hope, had given him such a freakish skill for no reason: a cruel joke.

  Heydon had unpacked and assembled the contents of his gun: a matchlock caliver. Jack had heard of them, but never seen one. Was this the thing he had been expected to fire? Looking at it, at its long, thin barrel, he knew he could never have done it. Or had he never really been expected to do it – had he just been used by the false priest? The thing stood up on the viewing platform by the window, the barrel resting on a frail-looking tripod. Heydon caught him looking. ‘A fine piece, is it not? Cost enough, too. Don’t worry, Cole – you will be known as a man with fine taste in weaponry. I spread your name and called myself by it in every low place in the city until I found it.’

  Jack said nothing, still dazed. His thoughts were now entirely upon Amy, and whether or not the letter would draw her. He no longer cared what happened to him. The noose would be welcome, as long as she could get away. He clung to the knowledge that they wanted her alive, at least until they got to Tutbury and killed Queen Mary. Surely she would find some means of escaping before then? In fact, he hoped that he would die soon, and she would know about it. Then they could not pretend that she must do as they say to save him.

  He let the images of his father and of the man in the barrel shuffle into his mind, their rotting arms upraised, crying out for justice. He deserved to die, that much he knew. He had killed men, broken God’s laws, and this was his punishment. It would be a blessing, really, to be quit of the world. He had never been much in it anyway.

  The door opened, and he craned his neck. It was Brown. He slumped back. ‘The wife is next door.’

  ‘Good man.’ Heydon kept his voice low.

  ‘She wants to see him.’

  ‘Of course she does. And so she must. I am not a man to keep two pretty turtledoves apart, now, am I?’ He smiled at Jack, maliciousness glinting in his eyes. Then he looked up and around the room. ‘But not here. If she knows what we mean to do, she will not go quietly with you.’

  ‘That wench will not go quietly anywhere. But worry not – I have had some thoughts on that matter.’

  ‘Have you indeed? Good. But do not hurt her. Not until she is near enough to the Scotch witch to have the blame of her death.’

  ‘I shan’t touch one hair on her head.’

  ‘And you, Cole. You say nothing to her. If you do, I promise you that my friend here shall make her death a very unpleasant one. She can join you in the next world as gently as a feather is plucked from a goose, or she can go screaming. I assure you he can make it last for hours if it pleases him. You understand me?’

  Jack said nothing.

  ‘Do you understand me?’ Heydon moved towards him and ground his boot down on his hand. Jack nodded, gritting his teeth. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. There, you have found your voice. None of that tiresome whispering you used to use. Help me get him up.’

  With an arm under each armpit, Brown and Heydon hoisted him to his feet. Brown nudged open the door, just enough to let them slip out sideways. Jack had a sudden remembrance of the man he and Heydon had killed – how they had hoisted him out through a tavern’s bar. Justice indeed.

  ‘Jack!’ Amy leapt towards him. How pretty she looked. He wondered if the dead missed the living in the way the living missed the dead. Maybe that was why ghosts happened. Catholics believed in purgatory. Would he go there? Was he even truly a Catholic, if a false priest had converted him? He wanted to. He wanted her to maybe have real priests say masses for his soul. ‘Let him go. You, Heydon – you’re with this liar?’

  ‘Welcome, Mrs Cole.’

  ‘Shut your mouth. Let my husband go. I don’t care two merry brown shits what your business here is. I’ll say nothing. Jack will say nothing either. Just let us go away from this place.’

  ‘Ah, if only it were so simple, my dear woman. But I do not trust you. As you never trusted me. Well, you shall have to now. Mr … Brown here would like to take you back to Tutbury. You have left matters unattended there. I shall keep Jack here until all is done.’

  ‘No! No, I won’t. I …’ she trailed off, seemingly letting his words register. ‘You mean, you mean to kill Queen Mary?’ Heydon gave an imperceptible nod, smiling strangely. ‘So you’re … you’re not a Catholic priest? You are working with the government?’

  ‘Actually, I was ordained a priest,’ he said, laughing harshly. ‘In secret, you understand, on the continent. But merely so I could gather knowledge. And no, I am not working with the government. You need know no more, woman. If you want your husband to live, go quietly with Mr Brown here. If I hear you have escaped him or worse, Jack here will die in a most painful way.’

  ‘Jack?’ Amy had come close. She put a hand up to his face and he smiled at her, trying to impress love onto her with his eyes. ‘Get off him,’ she hissed. ‘Let me say farewell to my husband, you … you great apes.’ Heydon pushed Jack at her and he fell into her arms.

  ‘I have to go Jack. Or he’ll kill you.’

  ‘I’m … dead already.’ He felt his voice rattling painfully in his throat. ‘But you live, please. For both of us. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Amy, for everything. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better husband.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Brown mimicked, his voice high. He strode across the room in disgust and took a swig of ale. ‘Begging forgiveness from a fucking woman. Disgusting.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Heydon, wagging a finger in mock recrimination. ‘Let the lovers say their goodbyes. It shall be awhile ere they meet again.’

  ‘But we will meet again,’ said Amy. It seemed to Jack to be half-question, half-statement.

  ‘You have my word. As a gentleman.’

  ‘I’m going to go now, Jack. R
emember that I love you. Always. I’m sorry too. These creatures have … they’ve made us fight. Not speak, as we should.’

  ‘And how easy it was! Tell anyone what they wish to hear of themselves and they’re yours!’ laughed Heydon. Amy ignored him. She wrapped her arms around Jack’s neck, kissing his lips, his cheeks, his ears. She lingered on the last, whispering her farewell. His eyes widened.

  ‘Well?’ she said, letting him go. ‘Let’s go, then. Do your worst with me. I’m not afraid of either of you. If you hurt my husband, though, I swear before God that I’ll see you dead and dance a galliard on your grave.’

  ‘I’ll stop that mouth,’ said Brown, steeping forward.

  ‘I said do not hurt her,’ snapped Heydon.

  ‘And I said I shan’t!’

  Using strips of cloth produced from his pack, Brown bound Amy’s hands behind her back. He tied the last around her head, gagging her. Heydon seemed to find it hilarious, and he put down his drink and came around behind Jack, driving his knuckles into his back as he laughed. ‘How do you expect to get her back up the road looking like that?’

  ‘I shall worry about that,’ said Brown. A ghost of a smile flickered on his lips.

  Jack watched as Amy was bundled out, their eyes locking one last time. He felt at peace, as though sacrificing himself might somehow buy her life. He chose to think so, anyway. ‘Right, Cole,’ said Heydon. ‘Back we must go. We may be here some days. Until our good sovereign lady finally decides to escape the close airs of her great castle and seek pleasure frolicking with the Naiades.’

  ***

  Brown led a gagged Amy down into the town, giving her a rough shove every few steps. She had decided at first on stony silence, given it up in favour of mouthing every swear word she knew through her gag, and retreated to silence when her cheeks began to ache. He left her standing in the street near the guildhall, where some children found and began taunting her. She had to make do with kicking stones at them, smiling like a Fury under her gag as one hit a boy on the forehead.