John Shakespeare 07 - Holy Spy

by Rory Clements

  Shakespeare wondered for a few moments whether to sack Boltfoot. At the very least he had to be severely rebuked. ‘You have done this deliberately, flouting my authority. You knew very well I wanted the older one. She would know what was required of her and would need no instruction in organising this household.’

  ‘You are right, master. And yet it did seem to me Miss Cawston had great merits too.’

  ‘Merits? You mean she was prettier and younger.’

  ‘But, master, whereas the older one would do things her way, I believe that Miss Cawston will learn to do things our way. Forgive me if I have erred, sir.’

  ‘You have indeed erred! This is flagrant disobedience. My order was clear . . .’

  ‘Then I offer my heartfelt apologies, master. But I would say that Miss Cawston will work until Lady’s Day for two pounds all found, whereas Annis Rymple had hopes of five pounds.’

  Other men would take a birch rod to a servant who displayed such insubordination, and yet Shakespeare found himself scarcely able to stifle a laugh. He dared not let Boltfoot see the smile playing treacherously around his lips, so he turned his back. ‘Send Miss Cawston to me,’ he ordered. ‘I suppose I had better welcome her to our household.’

  Jane Cawston stood before him nervously clutching the handle

  of her broom.

  ‘Tell me once more about yourself, Miss Cawston.’

  ‘As I said yesterday, sir, I am the eldest of twelve girls. My family lives in the north of Essex near the town of Sudbury. My father is in service to a yeoman farmer.’

  ‘And what has made you seek work in London?’

  ‘My sisters are all growing. They need the space – and one less mouth to feed. Nor is it easy for my father without any sons. My wages will help, too, master.’

  He guessed her age at about eighteen or nineteen. Her face was round and pretty, framed by soft auburn hair. She was strong enough and healthy and had a warmth and serenity that would add cheer to this house. Boltfoot had probably been right in his choice. She would learn quickly enough.

  ‘And you believe you can organise this household in the way we require? Floors cleaned, mattresses turned, food on the table, ale brewed, livestock in the yard, our clothes laundered by and by, the front step swept, lanterns lit at dusk, management of the housekeeping allowance?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘And you will be expected to take messages if Mr Cooper and I are not here.’

  She nodded hurriedly, like a hen pecking.

  He thought she seemed a little uncertain. ‘Miss Cawston? If you are going to live here with two men, you must be able to do these things. And if you have troubles, you must bring your concerns to us.’

  ‘That is it, sir. Two men. I had expected to find a family with women and girls. I am not used to the ways of menfolk. I have heard stories—’

  Shakespeare smiled at her. ‘You have nothing to fear, I promise you. There will not be any beatings in this house, or any other unchristian behaviour. That is my word. Now, what are we to call you?’

  ‘Jane, if it please you, master. I like to be called plain Jane.’

  ‘Well, Jane. Perhaps you would make me eggs – two eggs – boiled until hard, with some manchet bread and butter. And some milk, if we have any. I have an important day ahead of me.’

  Chapter 5

  In all the eight years that Shakespeare had worked for Sir Francis Walsingham, he had never experienced a meeting such as this. Usually, the Principal Secretary kept his briefings small and intimate with no more than two or three present across a table: the fewer privy to a secret, the less the seepage. But today five men were here in this airless little room at the rear of Walsingham’s Seething Lane mansion.

  Outside the window, the clouds were as dark as gunpowder. Inside, the atmosphere was brittle. They talked in snatches, watching each other furtively, restive and suspicious.

  At last the door opened. Walsingham entered. At his side was a tall man whom Shakespeare recognised as Sir Robert Huckerbee from the Lord Treasurer’s office. The room fell silent. The Principal Secretary’s face was sombre and gaunt, as always, but his dark eyes were alert, skipping from John Scudamore to Arthur Gregory and Frank Mills, then to Nicholas Henbird. Finally they came to rest on John Shakespeare, and lingered.

  Each of these men had his own role in Walsingham’s extensive spy network. Each had his own special skill. Each was trusted as much as he trusted any man.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Walsingham said in his grave, insistent voice. ‘Be seated.’

  There was a scraping of wood on stone. The noise jarred. When all was quiet again Walsingham tapped the table with the hilt of his quill-knife.

  ‘I think you all know Sir Robert Huckerbee. He is here to ensure financial rigour and to report directly on our operations to Lord Burghley. Without his purse, none of what we do would be possible.’

  Huckerbee bowed in acknowledgement. Whereas Mr Secretary was dark-browed and zealous, Huckerbee had the light patrician air of one born to a life of public service with great rewards expected in return. He had served Lord Treasurer Burghley as comptroller for many years and was renowned for his loyalty and diligence.

  ‘Now,’ Walsingham continued. ‘I have called this rare meeting because the time has come. Listen with care, for if you do not know the whole truth, you will trip over each other. If we do not work as one, then our efforts are doomed to failure.’

  He paused. The room was silent.

  ‘We have one aim: to save this realm and our beloved sovereign from forces that would destroy us. To do that, we must have the head of the Queen of Scots. She has plotted against us too long.’

  He had spoken the thing that all men knew but refrained from saying. This was Walsingham’s ambition: the death of Mary Stuart.

  The Principal Secretary paused to allow the enormity of the mission to sink in, then resumed his address. ‘Every man here must know that the Scots devil has conspired ceaselessly to snatch the throne of England. She would murder our Queen – her own cousin – to achieve her aim. This is fact; there can be no argument.’

  Shakespeare felt Walsingham’s eyes alighting on him once more.

  ‘John, do you believe this?’

  The sweat dripped at Shakespeare’s neck. Yes, he knew it well enough. Mary’s conspiracies had plagued the country these past decades. Any one of these plots could have cost the Scots Queen her head, deservedly. She had tried to murder Elizabeth Tudor and would do so again given the chance.

  And so he nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Secretary, I believe this to be true.’

  ‘Then we may proceed. For over a year now, I have been striving to gather the proof that will do for this Scots devil once and for all. Unlike other countries, unlike this Queen of Scots herself, we do not murder our enemies in their beds or in dark alleys, but bring them to trial and punish them when their guilt is proven. And so it will be with her.

  ‘We must do this because only her death will end her plotting. Only her death will protect us. Were she monarch, she would have every man in this room hanged, and she would bring back the Inquisition first introduced here by that other Mary – Mary Tudor – with its burnings and horror. So we must find evidence strong enough to bring the Queen of Scots to justice – evidence that will convince Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth of her cousin’s guilt. Evidence that will satisfy every royal court in the known world.’

  Four men murmured their assent. Only Shakespeare was silent. Yes, he believed the Scots Queen guilty. And yet . . . and yet he wavered. There was a difference between catching a felon after a crime has been committed and using artifice to provoke a man or woman to commit such a felony. The word was entrapment. Could it ever be justified?

  Walsingham continued. ‘Everything we do in the coming days has but one objective: to bring down Mary Stuart. All other matters are to be subsumed to this one end: the Scots devil’s head on the block. Nothing less. There are other guilty players who will also lose their heads, but none of them
must take precedence over her.’

  Again, the murmuring. The assent.

  ‘Good. Then all is understood. And so, gentlemen, I can now reveal to you that we have a way to secure the proof we need. Mr Thomas Phelippes is this very day at Chartley, organising what may soon lead to the final act of this tragical tale.’

  Every man in the room was aware that Mary Stuart had been moved to a new place of confinement, the moated manor house of Chartley in Staffordshire. She had been conveyed there from Tutbury on Christmas Eve and was now utterly cut off from all but her immediate courtiers and secretaries. The days of open correspondence with her supporters in England and abroad were gone. Now not a letter was allowed in or out.

  Her keeper, Amyas Paulet, was a Puritan who would not be moved by pleading or tears. When she complained to him, he turned his shoulder and walked away. She, in her turn, was said to be more defiant than ever, openly insisting that she would have back the crown of Scotland and would inherit the throne of England. But such words were a long way from implicating her in conspiracy. How could she conspire when she was held in such isolation?

  Walsingham explained. ‘Tom Phelippes has devised a secret method of delivering letters to Chartley – yet the Scots Queen has been led to believe it was devised by her friends at the French embassy and among the English exiles in Paris. At the heart of it is Gilbert Gifford, a man believed by Mary to be trustworthy. And so she has confidence in the method, as do her courtiers. She can now receive and send letters certain that they are not read by Mr Paulet or Tom Phelippes.’ He laughed, a hissing sound through the teeth.

  ‘This means,’ Walsingham added, ‘that she now has the means to incriminate herself. All she needs is to find a conspiracy and she will assuredly fix herself to it. This is her nature. And it is our good fortune to have discovered a band of conspirators for her; a group of young men who plan to instigate an invasion, an uprising and an assassination. With a little nudge, she will reveal her heart to them. She will condemn herself by her own hand.

  ‘So who are these conspirators? Some of the names will be familiar. They cluster around Anthony Babington in the taverns and inns of Fleet Street, Temple Bar and Holborn. They are known as the Pope’s White Sons, such is their devotion to papism. They spend their nights talking treachery. Some might think them a brainless, worthless bunch of sluggards with no hope of ever doing harm, but they would be wrong, for they have made a covenant of treachery and death. For all their gentle birth, they deserve no pity, no mercy. Do not forget this.

  ‘Their numbers are swelled by two men whose intent is yet more significant. Their names are John Ballard, a priest who goes by the alias of Captain Fortescue, and John Savage, known as Goodfellow, a soldier turned lawyer who has sworn before the cross to assassinate the Queen. The plot now has purpose and becomes plausible. Ballard is presently in the north, seeking assurances among the Catholic gentry that they will rise up against us. He is under the control of my man Harry Slide. Savage, meanwhile, is at Barnard’s Inn, and is controlled by Mr Shakespeare, who has befriended him. As they gather momentum Babington will put their foul plan to the Scots devil and beg her assent. She will then hazard her hand in writing – and we will have her.’

  He scanned the room. ‘It is your task, gentlemen, to keep control of this conspiracy. Discover men’s weaknesses and use them. Make them play their part.’ His eyes met Shakespeare’s again. ‘You, John, have one of the most difficult missions of all

  – to so infiltrate the Pope’s White Sons that they believe you

  are one of their number. Can you make them trust you?’

  ‘I hear mass with them. They believe me to be a papist.’

  ‘But they know you work for me.’

  ‘They think me a big catch. They hope to use me to discover your secrets.’

  ‘But I ask again – do they trust you?’

  ‘I think Babington does. Why would he not? All his fellows are well-born gentlemen, all connected to the court and the Queen’s Councillors. There is no reason that my link to your office should alarm them. I would say I fit in well. But do they all trust me? I think not. They never discuss their conspiracies openly.’ He paused. ‘And yet I see and hear enough.’

  ‘Well, play it their way. Keep close to Goodfellow Savage. If at any time you fear he has actually devised a method to kill Her Majesty, do not act with undue haste. Consult me before interceding. Give him rope. Soothe his fears. Nothing must be allowed to divert the plotters from their course. They will be allowed to remain at liberty until Mary Stuart’s death warrant is certain. We may never have another chance.

  ‘This means you must keep these people happy. Supply them with wine, weapons and women to suit their weaknesses. You all have your several roles, gentlemen, and money will be no object. Sir Robert Huckerbee here will ensure that whatever funds are necessary will be available from the Treasury coffers.’

  Huckerbee stiffened, as though the prospect of laying Burghley’s purse wide open were a personal affront. ‘All out-goings will be accounted for,’ he said. ‘Waste and extravagance will not be tolerated.’

  Walsingham smiled at his companion. ‘Indeed, Sir Robert. Which brings us to the question of Gilbert Gifford. In many ways, he is the one that worries me most. He is the man who brought us word of Savage and he is the man so trusted by the exiles in Paris and by the French embassy in London that they hand Mary’s letters to him. Gilbert Gifford is at the core of all our plans and yet I feel that none of us truly knows his heart. And so we must keep him content – whatever the cost.’

  Shakespeare nodded. He wondered how content the austere Walsingham would be if he knew that Treasury gold was going to pay the extortionate fees of a pair of whores. As the Smith sisters’ soft, unblemished bodies amid the tangle of white linen sheets came to mind, they dissolved into another bedroom, long ago. He saw before him a candlelit chamber and the soft curves of Kat Whetstone. Would he really meet her again this day? The prospect was at once intoxicating and too painful to bear.

  From somewhere in the distance, outside this small, stuffy room, he heard the rumble of thunder.

  Chapter 6

  Severin Tort arrived with the tolling of the noonday bells. The sky was dark and the rain was starting. As Shakespeare pulled open the solid oak door lightning dispersed the gloom, followed almost immediately by a rolling cannon-roar of thunder.

  ‘Good day, Mr Tort. I would invite you in to wait out the storm, but I fear I do not have time for such a delay. How far is our journey?’

  ‘Shoreditch, close to the Curtain playhouse. No more than two miles from here.’

  ‘Then let us ride and pray the lightning strikes elsewhere. Follow me to the stables.’

  Both men were dressed for the impending downpour: heavy topcoats – too warm for the sultry weather – wide-brimmed hats and riding boots. They rode without talking through the grimy streets northwards to Aldgate, then west along Houndsditch on the outer side of the city wall. At Bishopsgate they turned right, past Bethlehem Hospital along the busy, well-worn street to Shoreditch. The rain was coming hard now and they kicked their horses into a canter, weaving in and out of the wagons and carts that crowded the mud-churned highway in both directions.

  Shoreditch, just a mile from London, was very different from its greater neighbour. This, as the austere city aldermen saw it, was a place of sin and debauchery, of drunken vagrants, bare-breasted whores in the street, of filth and bowling alleys and criminals. Worst of all, it housed the twin Gomorrahs of England – the playhouses known as the Theatre and the Curtain. Had it been within their power, the aldermen would have closed them down as dens of iniquity, lairs of drinking and whoredom and every other vice, but the playhouses were outside the city walls and beyond their jurisdiction.

  Severin Tort reined in outside a surprisingly fine building in a street of alehouses and tenements near Curtain Close. After the two men had dismounted and tethered their horses, Tort hammered at the door of the main house; two k
nocks, a pause, then three knocks.

  The door opened slowly and a man in a leather jerkin stood before them, a pair of iron scissors in his hand. He looked at the drenched figure of Severin Tort and seemed to recognise him, then studied Shakespeare. He said nothing but took a step to one side to let them in.

  Shaking the rain from his hat, Shakespeare entered a workroom. It reminded him of his father’s glovemaking and whittawing shop. The walls were limewashed and there were windows at two sides for light. A table was adorned with the tools of the seamster’s trade: needles, more scissors, threads, candles to work by. In front of it stood a high three-legged stool. Two dresses hung against a wall.

  ‘Oswald Redd here is a sharer at the Curtain. He has charge of the costumes. Mr Redd, this is John Shakespeare.’

  The two men shook hands with a perfunctory nod of the head. Redd was a good-looking man of a similar age to Shakespeare, mid to late twenties, but four or five inches shorter than Shakespeare’s six foot. He was well named, for his hair was copper-coloured, and his skin was tinted by freckles that seemed more joined up than separate. He was clearly anxious.

  ‘Mr Redd works with Mr Lanman of the Curtain. He is seamster, writer, player and carpenter.’

  ‘Does he know—’

  ‘Yes. He is giving her refuge.’ Tort turned to Redd. ‘You have my word, we can trust Mr Shakespeare.’

  Redd held up his scissors with the blades parted. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘because I’ll spill his blood with these if he does anything to harm her.’ He turned to Shakespeare. ‘She has told me of you.’

  ‘I know her of old. Four years ago I met her in Sheffield where her father had the Cutler’s Rest inn.’

  ‘What was she to you?’