by Ann Swinfen
I knew in my heart where this was going. ‘What happened when you reached home?’ I asked gently.
He passed his hand over his face and gave a great sigh.
‘My father, my wife, the two little ones, turned out for unpaid debts. They found shelter in a ruined barn, but first the youngest took a fever, then the rest of them. All dead by the time I reached home, except my father, and he was dying. He told me what had happened. I stayed only long enough to bury him, then I went back to Plymouth. That was where I fell in with the lads who was coming together and planning the march on London.’
We were both silent for a long time. Then I said, ‘I too found my father dead when I returned.’ We looked at each other bleakly.
I shook my head and drank the last of my ale.
‘Adam, I do not know whether this plan you and your fellows have made will succeed. There was certainly some treasure taken by Drake, both at Coruña and later, when he captured that ship from the New World off Cascais.’
‘When he should have sailed up river to Lisbon, to assist us,’ he said.
‘Aye. The problem is, Drake always maintains that he is under licence directly from the Queen. Any treasure he takes belongs of right to her. He is then rewarded with a small portion.’
‘Small?’
‘That is what he says. We might not think it so small. I heard all this from Dr Nuñez, who had it from Sir John Norreys, who has often had to deal with Drake.’
‘But,’ he objected, ‘this licence from the Queen – surely this is when Drake makes one of his raiding expeditions against the Spanish. The Portuguese expedition was quite other, an attempt to restore Dom Antonio to the throne.’
‘One of the official tasks of the expedition was also to destroy Spanish ships and seize their treasure.’
‘So Drake will claim it was just another of his freebooting enterprises?’
‘I fear so.’
‘In which case, our chances are slim.’
‘That, also, I fear.’
He gave me a look of such utter despair that I nearly reached out and took his hand, but I forbore.
‘Listen to me, Adam. We neither of us know how all of this will turn out. It may be that the Lord Mayor will have sympathy with your case and take it to the Privy Council, or to Drake himself. It may be that Drake will be shamed into giving up some of the booty. Or it maybe that the Privy Council will oblige him to do so. But there are many imponderables here.’
He had slumped down, rested his head on his hands, bowed over the remains of his meat, which was beginning to congeal in a puddle of fat.
‘If nothing good comes of this and you find yourself turned away,’ I said, ‘will you come to me? It may be that I can find work for you.’
I was speaking with unwonted optimism out of pity for the man, I who had only my small amount of work at Seething Lane and no hospital appointment any longer.
‘Thank you,’ he said quietly, raising his head and looking at me. ‘If things turn bad, I will do so. Where can I find you? At St Bartholomew’s?’
I shook my head. ‘I no longer work there. With my father’s death I too lost my home, but friends have taken me in. Ask for Mistress Sara Lopez in Wood Street.’
‘Lopez? Is that –’
‘Aye. She is the wife of Ruy Lopez, but she is a good woman and a good friend. You will come to me?’
‘I will come.’ He reached across the table and shook my hand.
Chapter Nine
The following morning I was up and dressed early, and on my way to Seething Lane. Thomas Phelippes was surprised to see me, for I was not due to work that day. He was examining a new seal Arthur Gregory had just completed and they both looked up as I entered the office.
‘Why are you here, Kit?’ Phelippes said. ‘I thought you were visiting the Fair this week.’
‘I have been twice,’ I said, ‘first to watch the set up, then yesterday to the Fair itself.’
I set my satchel carefully on my table and drew out two packages wrapped in brown paper. They were large, about a foot across, and I was afraid they might be broken, but they seemed to be intact.
‘I did not forget my friends.’
Arthur’s mouth fell open as he unwrapped the gilded dragon and he flushed with pleasure.
‘That is a kind thought, Kit,’ he said. ‘I shall take it home to share with my wife. She is expecting our first child, and she has been craving gingerbread, above all things!’
Phelippes had taken off his spectacles and was pinching the bridge of his nose.
‘Indeed, it was kindly done, Kit,’ he said, turning the castle so that it glinted in the light from the window behind him.
To my astonishment, and some discomfort, I saw that his eyes looked moist. None of us knew whether Thomas Phelippes had any family. He never spoke of any, and none of us would have asked. His mention of his sister who had died young was the most personal thing I had ever heard him say. It came as a shock to me that perhaps no one had ever given him such a gift as this since he had come to manhood.
‘There was a fine gingerbread stall at the Fair,’ I said gruffly. ‘And I thought of my friends.’
I realised I was repeating myself, and felt my colour rising. Here at Seething Lane we worked at our intelligencing for Sir Francis, and I do not think any of us had ever spoken of friendship before, yet I was aware for the first time that over the years these two men had truly become friends. Arthur was shy, but generous and warm-hearted. Phelippes was a much more difficult man – reserved, often suspicious, never one to show his feelings. In spite of that and our strict habit of work, I believed he liked me, even perhaps trusted me in a way he did not trust many of the agents.
Phelippes laid the gingerbread castle down on his desk, but I noticed it was placed carefully where he could look at it while he worked.
‘Did you come all across London just to bring us these?’ he asked, putting on his spectacles again, so he could see me better.
‘Not only to bring these.’
I swung my chair out from behind my table and sat astride it, resting my arms on the back and my chin on my arms.
‘A number of things happened at the Fair which I thought I should report.’
‘If you mean the armed soldiers from the Portuguese expedition,’ Phelippes said, ‘then we know of that. It is in hand.’
I wondered briefly what ‘in hand’ might mean. I did not quite like the sound of it.
‘I was sure you would have heard of that,’ I said. ‘No doubt all London knows by now. They have a genuine case of grievance, as I well understand. The best thing to do, for both peace and justice, would be to give them a fair share of the booty, and provide compensation for those who are still sick and wounded, and for the families of those who did not come home.’
Phelippes gave a grunt, which conveyed nothing.
‘Nay, it was something else which disturbed me.’ I drew breath, wondering how best to convey the sinister atmosphere at the puppet show.
‘You recall that we were worried that the Fair might be used to smuggle in Catholic sympathisers and troublemakers under cover of the festivities? Well, there is a party of Italian puppeteers who may be what you were looking for.’
‘Puppeteers?’ Phelippes opened his eyes wide and smiled incredulously. ‘I do not think puppets will be saying Mass or leading an attack on Her Majesty.’
Recalling those near life-size puppets, I could well imagine one of them saying Mass, but I shook my head.
‘They are performing a version of the Commedia dell’Arte,’ I went on patiently. ‘The puppets are remarkable. This big.’ I indicated with my hand the height of the puppets off the floor. ‘So that when they speak, they do not seem like manikins, more like real people. The clothes are magnificent, indicating their rank and profession. The carved faces are so lifelike, there is no mistaking who they are meant to be.’
I saw that I had now caught his interest.
‘Are you familiar with the Co
mmedia?’ I asked.
He nodded.
‘So you will know the character type of each of the players – or in this case, puppets. The miser Il Pantalone is made to represent Lord Burghley, shown as a foolish old man.’
Phelippes raised his eyebrows and Gregory looked uncomfortable, but neither said anything.
‘Pulcinella and Il Dottore are Dom Antonio and Ruy Lopez,’ I went on in a level voice. ‘Il Capitano is Sir John Norreys, while Scarramuccia plays the part of Drake, not as a hero but as a schemer.’
Phelippes and Gregory were both looking more and more puzzled at this. I drew a deep breath, and chose my words carefully.
‘Arlecchino, the knavish fool with his slap-sticks, is the Earl of Essex, capering about, a blustering idiot. As you will understand, the whole play is a burlesque of the Portuguese expedition.’
‘Defamatory,’ Phelippes said slowly, ‘but not necessarily dangerous, Kit.’
‘I have not finished. There is a subplot of two lovers, Papio and Anglia.’
This time, he caught the reference at once, and began to twist a quill in his hand until he broke it.
‘The lovers are shown as being united at the end,’ I said. ‘England and Popery.’
He opened his mouth to interrupt, but I held up my hand.
‘There is one more puppet. La Ruffiana, the scurrilous old woman, who tries to thwart the lovers in the usual performance? You remember her? Here, she wears a red wig and her face–’ I paused, nervous at what I must say next. ‘Her face is that of the Queen.’
Both men drew in a sharp breath at this revelation.
‘As well as the assertion that England is in love with the Pope, the piece ended with Scarramuccia and La Ruffiana – figuring Drake and Her Majesty – plotting to share the spoils of the expedition and cheat the common soldiers and sailors. I think the puppet show, as well as encouraging treason and popery, was linked with the soldiers’ demands in the morning. Now, I believe many of the soldiers are simple men, making a rightful demand for compensation, but I also suspect that they are being used by others who have something else in mind, which might mean danger to Her Majesty.’
I had nearly finished, but I added, ‘After the performance was ended, I saw that people had gathered in the puppeteers’ tent, but it was tightly closed, so I could not see who they were, though I believe some had attended the performance.’
I lifted my chin from my arms and looked steadily at Phelippes.
‘That is why I have come and why I think I should see Sir Francis at once.’
Phelippes sat back in his chair. He took off his spectacles and began to chew the piece which hooked over his ear. I had seen him do this before when he was seriously worried.
‘Sir Francis is very ill, Kit. Worse than usual. He is confined to bed at his house in Barn Elms. His physician, Dr Nuñez, has forbidden him even to work in bed, though we all know that Sir Francis does not always obey his doctors. This time, however, I understand he is in great pain.’
There was silence between us, and I was sure we were all thinking the same thing. These bouts of ill health were becoming more frequent. By the sheer strength of his iron will, Sir Francis worked through illness and pain that would have felled a lesser man, but how much longer could he survive? He demanded too much of his failing body. And what would become of all of us, of his carefully constructed intelligence service, and of England’s safety, if this great man were to die?
‘I am truly sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘Dr Nuñez knows his physic and he knows Sir Francis. If Dr Nuñez says he must rest, then he must rest. He asks too much of himself.’
Phelippes nodded. ‘And I was to tell you – he sent word in the note about his illness – that he has written to the governors of St Thomas’s about a position for you, but he has not yet had a reply.’
I felt my eyes pricking. This was characteristic of the man, who could juggle so many claims on his time and attention, that he should remember my own need for a position, when he was suffering so much.
‘There is something else,’ I said. ‘Where is Robert Poley at the moment?’
‘Poley?’ Phelippes looked surprised at what seemed to be a sudden change of subject. ‘Poley is working on the Continent, probably in the Low Countries by now, or else France. He has a mission to contact Gifford in Paris, then either together or separately they are to go to Rheims and gather the latest intelligence on the activities of the seminary for English priests there. We have not had information from Rheims for some time. Both of them are well able to pass for Catholic sympathisers. They should be able to secure good intelligence.’
Well able indeed, I thought, remembering Poley’s involvement with the Babington plotters and the time I had discovered him arriving with a priest at the Catholic Fitzgerald house.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I must tell you that Robert Poley is not in the Low Countries. Nor is he in Paris or Rheims. A few days ago I thought I saw him here in the streets of London, but he was some distance away and I could not be sure. However, yesterday I was as close to him as I am to that window.’ I waved my arm. ‘There could be no mistake. He was behaving furtively, sneaking round to the back of the tent of those same puppeteers, in company with a fairground toy man, one Nicholas Borecroft, who seems a little too disingenuous to be true.’
‘Poley here in London?’ Phelippes had gone red and then white.
‘Aye. In Smithfield.’
‘I have never trusted the man,’ Arthur Gregory ventured cautiously. ‘Is he loyal, or does he work for England’s enemies?’
‘Hmm,’ said Phelippes, ‘I too mistrust him. But he has done good work for us in the past. Catching the traitors in ’86 was made all the more effective thanks to his efforts. And he has been able to divert to us letters addressed to the French embassy.’
‘But,’ I said, ‘did he not try to negotiate with Sir Francis on behalf of the conspirators, saying that they – or at least Sir Anthony Babington himself – would turn their coats?’
‘Aye. Though what the truth of it was, we’ll never know.’
‘Nay,’ I said grimly, ‘the truth of it went to the grave with Babington. For myself, I believe Robert Poley serves no master but his own interests. Pay him well enough and he will swear or do whatever any man of position asks him to do.’
‘Perhaps. You may be right. But – Poley here in London? He has not reported here, nor brought any word of his missions abroad.’
‘From the way he slipped away through the crowd,’ I said, ‘I suspect he did not wish to draw attention to himself.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘Nay. Fortunately he did not look in my direction.’
Phelippes ran his hand up the back of his head and through his hair, in that characteristic gesture of his.
‘It seems to me–’ Gregory said hesitantly.
‘Aye, Arthur?’ Phelippes put his spectacles back on and turned his gaze from me to the seal carver. ‘Spit it out.’
‘From what Kit says, these puppeteers are up to no good. Such a performance, why . . . it must have taken a great deal of work and expense to prepare it. Would they do such a thing for a few performances at the Fair?’
‘That is what I thought,’ I said.
‘It seems to have been carefully planned,’ Gregory went on, with greater certainty now, ‘to incite both those with popish sympathies and the more troublesome of the armed soldiers. Should the two factions join forces, surely it could be dangerous? Now, it might be that Robert Poley has become friendly with them in order to find out their intentions and report back to you . . .’
‘But in that case,’ Phelippes finished for him, ‘why did he not come to me first? Nay, I agree with you both. It has the smell of rotten fish about it.’
We chased the subject round and about for some time, but it did not become any clearer. At last Phelippes sighed and leaned back in his chair.
‘We cannot trouble Sir Francis with this, in his present state of health. It may
mean nothing. The Italians may intend no more than a little malicious mischief. Poley may simply be ferreting out some information he intends to sell to me. He has gone his own way before and sometimes it has been to our profit.’
‘And the soldiers?’ Gregory said.
‘That is not our affair. The Lord Mayor and Common Council have it in hand. They will not want to make any promises on their own account. They will take it to the Privy Council. It could be decided swiftly, or it might drag on for months.’
‘The soldiers will not like that,’ I said.
Phelippes shrugged. ‘Whatever way it goes, it is not our affair. This other matter may be, but we need to know more. In Sir Francis’s absence, Kit, I am going to authorise you to find out whatever else you can. Go back to the Fair this afternoon. Do you think the puppeteers will give another performance today?’
‘I would expect so. After so much expense, they will want to earn as much coin as they can from their audiences, whether or not they have another purpose in being here.’
‘Good. See that you attend again, and keep your eyes open. Take notice of who stays behind. Watch out for Poley. And this toy man, what did you say his name was?’
‘Nicholas Borecroft.’
Phelippes shook his head. ‘I do not think we have heard of him before. Do you think he is one of these covert priests?’
‘Nay.’ I shook my head. ‘I think he may be many things, but a priest? Nay, I do not think so. I cannot make him out.’
‘Well, do your best to make him out,’ Phelippes said somewhat sharply.
I could see that having this problem crop up while Sir Francis was ill had made him edgy.
‘I wonder whether you should go alone.’ Phelippes had picked up another quill and was tapping his teeth with the feather end of it. ‘You would be less conspicuous if you went with a maid on your arm. Who did you say accompanied you yesterday?’
