John Shakespeare 07 - Holy Spy

by Rory Clements

  Shakespeare saw the jealousy in the man’s eyes. Bloodshot eyes which were as red as his hair. ‘A friend,’ Shakespeare said. ‘She saved my life.’ He looked more closely at Oswald Redd; was he her lover or one that wished it so?

  ‘Come up,’ Redd said. ‘It’s not safe down here with these windows unshuttered.’

  They climbed up a ladder through a hatchway to the first floor. Redd went first, followed by Shakespeare, then Tort. The floor was divided into two rooms. One was a bedchamber with a narrow bed, brightened by a harvest-yellow coverlet, the other a small parlour with a table and two chairs and a dark-wood coffer with candlesticks. The house had fireplaces at both ends. It was obviously quite recently built; part of the burgeoning construction in the villages surrounding London as increasing numbers of the dispossessed converged on the capital.

  Another ladder led up to a second storey. Redd called up quietly through this hatch. ‘Katherine. It is safe.’

  Even before he saw her, Shakespeare felt a stab to his heart. He wanted to turn away and take horse back to Seething Lane.

  But it was not possible; his feet were fixed to the floor as surely as nails driven into oak.

  He heard footfalls on the boards above, then the softer sound of her steps descending the ladder. He saw her small, unshod feet and then her skirts of plainly styled fine linen. Finally she reached the bottom and turned to face him. She was smiling nervously.

  ‘Kat, I thought I would never see you again.’

  ‘Had you forgotten me, John?’

  ‘Are you insane? No one has ever forgotten you.’ He tried to match her smile. ‘This is a strange and difficult reason to meet.’

  Kat turned to Tort and Oswald Redd. ‘I would speak with John alone. Perhaps you would take Mr Tort to the alehouse, Oswald.’

  Redd seemed reluctant to leave, but Tort took his arm. ‘Come, sir, I will stand you a cup of ale.’

  After their footfalls had receded and the front door had banged shut, Kat moved forward into Shakespeare’s arms. It was a tentative move, but once there, she did not draw back from him. He smelt her hair, that fresh scent he knew so well. At last, with a long sigh, she pulled away. Her eyes were uncertain, as though she had lost the confidence that once so marked her. ‘You are wet through, Mr Shakespeare.’

  ‘Aye, and sweltering. The rain might fall, but the air still has its summer heat.’

  ‘Let me remove your coat.’

  Shakespeare slid out of his dripping topcoat and watched as she hung it on a hook behind a door. ‘That feels a great deal easier,’ he said.

  ‘What have you heard about me?’

  ‘Nothing save this hideous news of murder. I have been in France and elsewhere in recent months. I did not even know you were wed.’

  ‘Come, take a seat with me in the parlour. I will tell you everything.’

  Sitting at the dark-stained table, he could not take his eyes from her. Each time she spoke, he saw the beguiling gap in her front teeth. Little about her had changed except her weight. She had put on half a stone, so that her face had filled out and her breasts were heavier. She still frowned when listening or concentrating and her hair was still long and untidy, as though it had been blown in the wind. She still enchanted him. And yet there was a fear in her blue eyes he had never expected to see.

  Shakespeare spoke first. ‘You married Nicholas Giltspur. And now he is dead, murdered by one Will Cane, who is himself now dead. I saw him die.’

  ‘Hanged already?’ She seemed shocked.

  ‘His dying words were that you had offered him a hundred pounds to kill your husband. That is compelling evidence for any jury or judge. I am sure you will not be surprised to hear that the crowd did not appear to wish you well.’

  ‘You do not need to tell me that. Do you think I sleep at night, knowing what is said of me? I believe myself as reviled as a Salome or Jezebel.’

  ‘Then what do you say to me, Kat? Did Will Cane speak true?’

  ‘Do you need to ask me that, John?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, the man did not speak true. Nor do I know why he should lie. I have never met him. I loved my husband and never wished him harm. You know you can believe me.’

  Shakespeare shook his head. ‘No, Kat, I know nothing of the sort. I know that you are posssessed by great ambition, which is like the devil’s talons to the human soul. I know that Nicholas Giltspur was among the wealthiest of men and that his death must have left you heiress to a fortune beyond most men’s dreams. So what I want from you now – with nothing held back – is your story, from the moment you walked out on me until this day. If you dissemble or omit detail, I will know and I will walk away without a backward glance.’

  Kat leant forward and put her hands to her head. He spotted the small mole on the underside of her wrist. Another of her perfect imperfections. He had kissed it often enough. He believed he knew every inch of her body: her breasts like exotic fruit, her welcoming thighs of smoothest, softest silk, her lips . . . he had kissed all these portions and more. Many times.

  ‘Kat?’

  ‘I will tell you everything. I left you because . . . John, surely you know why I left you. My letter explained it. Surely we need not go over this again. It is long gone.’

  ‘If it is so long gone, why did you think to call on me?’

  Shakespeare had never truly understood why she left him, but the truth was he did not really want to hear it. ‘Just tell me what happened next. Where did you go? How did it lead to the marriage bed of Nicholas Giltspur?’

  Kat clasped his hands. ‘You are a good man, John – I am certain there is none better in this world – but your goodness was not enough. I should never have lived with you. Those nights in Stratford and on the road north, we should have left it at that. Somewhere in your mind there was always a future marriage, but it could never have been me. I could not fit your plan, never be the goodwife to give you children and keep your house.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ His voice was a little sharp. ‘Now tell your story.’

  She paused, weighing up her words. Her eyes did not stray from his. ‘The truth, then. There was another man.’

  ‘Oswald Redd?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’ Her voice was quiet but clear. ‘I met him one day when I came with you to the Curtain. I cannot recall the play, but there was a time while we were waiting when you went to find some ale. I think you met someone. Oswald saw his chance and approached me. He had already caught my eye. There was some spark and it grew from there . . . I am sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. I did not come here for that.’ Shakespeare did not believe she was sorry, or that she had regrets. He knew that she felt no shame; but nor would she have wanted to hurt him.

  He looked around the room. It was pleasant enough, but plain, with no sign of the affluence of which she had always dreamt. ‘Did you live here with him?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Like man and wife, as we had lived?’

  ‘John . . .’

  ‘No, I should not have said that. I never had any right to expect anything of you.’ He took a deep breath and forced a smile. ‘And then you left him for Nicholas Giltspur.’

  She nodded again.

  ‘It seems it is becoming a custom with you.’ He did not wait for her to protest, but pressed on. ‘How did you meet Mr Giltspur?’

  ‘I will come to that.’

  ‘No. Tell me now. Go straight to the heart of the matter.’

  ‘Very well. I met my husband through Henry Lanman, the chief sharer of the Curtain. Nicholas was entertaining a great party of merchants from France and the Low Countries and he brought them to see a play. I was at the playhouse helping Oswald with the wardrobe.

  ‘After the play, when the audience had mostly departed, the whole company of players joined Nicholas and his party in drinking and feasting on the stage. Lanman introduced me to him. Much wine and spirit was taken. Men will call me what they will, but I confess I left Oswald that nig
ht and went to Nick’s city house in Aldermanbury. I was in love.’

  He snorted with derision. ‘The Curtain has much to answer for. Perhaps the playhouses are indeed the sinks of iniquity that the city fathers and the Puritans would have us believe.’ He immediately regretted his words, spoken only to torment her. He was glad when she ignored him and continued her tale.

  ‘Within six weeks, we were wed. And though you will scoff, it is true that I loved him.’

  ‘Not his money.’

  She managed a small laugh. ‘Your suspicions are correct: I would not have married him had he been poor and lame.’

  ‘You have always been honest in that.’ Her avarice had been a source of amusement to him; she had spoken with innocent candour of her desire to be the wealthiest woman in the land, richer even than the Countess of Shrewsbury and the Queen of England.

  ‘He attired me in fine dresses with pearls and emeralds. Our house had thirty servants and I had my own lady’s maid. Nicholas was besotted with me and I believe I did well by him in return, treating him with a wife’s tender caresses and holding court for him when he so wished. I would have remained his loving and faithful wife. But . . .’

  ‘But he was murdered.’

  ‘Six days ago, his steward Sorbus came home, stricken with horror, and said that his master had been struck down in the street, stabbed in an unprovoked attack. He told me the killer had been apprehended.’

  ‘Did you then hasten to the scene of the crime?’

  She shook her head. ‘I had fears . . .’

  ‘Any wife would have rushed to her husband’s side. Surely this is so?’

  ‘Mr Sorbus told me that the killer was implicating me. He told me Justice Young was at the scene of the murder and would be along presently with guards to take me into custody. I told Mr Sorbus that I had best dress suitably and went to my chamber. My mind was in a whirl of sorrow, horror and bewilderment. I could not understand what had been said or why, but I have an instinct for survival as strong as any animal’s, and so I slipped from the back of the house.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I took horse and came here to Shoreditch directly and have not moved from the care of Oswald since. Without him I fear I would now be dead. They are searching high and low for me. The justice, Richard Young, is leading the chase and I am told he will not relent until I am hanged.’

  Yes, Shakespeare knew Richard Young. He was a hard man, a defender of the new Church and the rule of law.

  ‘You surely knew that in fleeing you immediately made yourself appear guilty.’

  ‘I had no choice. The rabble would have torn me apart. Even if I had got to court, the testimony of Mr Cane would have hanged me.’

  Shakespeare listened to her voice. The soft northern burr had an edge to it that he had never noted before. She was clearly under strain, but that did not mean anything. She could be lying; she could be telling the truth. There was no way of knowing.

  ‘And now Mr Redd is helping you to stay hidden, putting his own life in peril for the harbouring of a fugitive. And you wish me to work for you, too.’ He snorted with laughter. ‘You could forgive a man for thinking he is but one of a collection, kept concealed in a closet until his services are required by Kat Whetstone.’

  ‘I did not know who else to turn to. Without Oswald’s help I would be dead.’

  ‘Why do you not go home to Sheffield? Your father would keep you safe.’

  For the first time, tears filled her eyes. ‘My father died last year. The inn has been sold. Anyway, I could not go to Sheffield. I am sure that word has already been sent there. And so, it is true, I do need Oswald – and I need you, too. Who else but you could inquire into this matter?’

  ‘What of Severin Tort? Is he also part of your collection?’

  ‘He was attorney to my husband in his commercial dealings. That is how I met him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And that is all. Severin is a good man, a widower. God knows he has problems enough with an ungrateful son who causes him endless misery. He needs no entanglement with me. John, I know I do not deserve the help of any of you, but what am I to do? I have no one else to turn to.’

  Shakespeare stood up and paced over to the window. Outside in the rain-swept street horsemen and carters passed by, huddled against the weather. A pair of women hastened along westward. Were they wives or whores? What did such judgements matter? Kat was a creation of God as much as any saint. If He had made her thus, then it ill behoved mortal man to disparage her. It was only the one matter that should concern him; the question of murder. Did she or did she not pay for the death of Nicholas Giltspur?

  ‘Tell me what you know of the killler, Will Cane.’ As he spoke, he kept his gaze fixed on the street below.

  ‘I never even heard his name until I learnt from Mr Sorbus that he had been arrested for Nicholas’s murder and was claiming he had been hired by me.’

  ‘What have you heard of him since?’

  ‘No more than Oswald has heard from tittle-tattle in the playhouses. That and the broadsheet he brought me.’

  He felt her arms snake about his waist, but still he did not turn away from the window. She nestled her head into his shoulder. Lightning flashed and lit the distinctive roundel of the Curtain playhouse. Shakespeare shivered.

  ‘Do you recall the night we huddled together against the storm in your bed at Seething Lane?’ she whispered.

  How could he forget such a night? He said nothing. For a few moments he imbibed her warmth and scent, but then the thunder rumbled and he turned and moved away from her.

  ‘John?’ Her eyes showed hurt.

  ‘You do not need to do this. You have my attention. Do you have the broadsheet still? I would like to see it.’

  ‘I will fetch it for you.’ She disappeared.

  What in God’s name was he doing here? He had a vital role in the biggest and most important enterprise that Walsingham’s intelligence service had ever undertaken and here he was expending energy on behalf of a former lover who should have been long forgotten. Not only that, but he was involved with two other men in actively concealing a murder suspect’s whereabouts from the sheriff and justice of the peace. They were all accomplices after the fact of murder: Shakespeare, Tort and Redd. They would all hang if their crime became known. He began walking towards the door just as she reappeared.

  ‘Kat, I must go. I cannot help you. I should never have come.’

  She held out a single sheet of paper. ‘This is what is said about me.’

  He took the broadsheet. It was a scrap, badly printed on poor quality paper, the sort of rough publication that was sold in the streets around St Paul’s whenever there was a big trial or execution or news of foreign battles. He read it quickly, guessing the words where a letter hadn’t been inked properly or was too worn to print.

  Lamentable tragedy of Mr Nicholas Giltspur, Esquire, most wickedly murdered by his disloyal and wanton wife.

  With the malice, deceit and unnatural lewdness of a hag, Katherine Giltspur, newly married to the most honourable and Christian gentleman Mr Giltspur, stands accused of bribing the known felon Wm. Cane to murder her husband most foully and cruelly, to satisfy her filthy avarice for gold and to leave her free to indulge her unbridled desire for carnal pleasures with other men.

  The Recorder of London Mr William Fleetwood has sentenced the abhorrent Cane to be hanged by the neck until dead at Smithfield. A hue and cry for his accomplice continues, though it is feared she has travelled north to Yorkshire, whence she came. It is as though she has vanished into the air like a sprite. Any man or woman with knowledge of her whereabouts must reveal it or be themselves damned as accomplices to murder.

  He put the paper aside. ‘Kat. You have no idea what manner of undertaking I am now involved in – a work that will involve me night and day for as long as I can plan. Give me one good reason to think I should divert myself, even for an hour, from my own endeavours.’

  She tried to smile
, but it didn’t work. She shook her head instead. ‘I can’t, John,’ she said. ‘I can’t give you any reason why you should believe me or help me.’

  Chapter 7

  Shakespeare rode back to London with Severin Tort. The storm had passed, leaving a bright, breezy afternoon with white clouds and a new freshness in the air. The two men talked of Oswald Redd.

  ‘He seems to me a man capable of anything,’ Shakespeare said. ‘He is at the edge of some precipice, unsure whether to cling on or plummet. Could Redd have been involved in the killing?’

  ‘I could imagine him wishing Giltspur dead and even compassing the act in a jealous rage, but what could he have had to gain from the blame being laid at Kat’s door? All his actions prove that he is desperate to keep her safe, yet now she faces arrest and execution.’

  The two men fell silent. At Bishopsgate, Tort spoke again.

  ‘Can you do nothing for her?’

  ‘I wish I could, Mr Tort. I would dearly love to believe that she was innocent.’

  ‘I believe her, Mr Shakespeare. For what it’s worth.’

  ‘Yes, I know you do.’ She could make any man want to believe her. He knew her too well to doubt that, and yet not well enough to be sure of her guilt or innocence.

  As Tort disappeared into the throng of tradesmen and carters, Shakespeare pulled on his reins and headed up between the fine houses of Foster Lane until he reached the junction with Noble Street. He brought his mount to a halt in front of a magnificent building. It was largely new-built and stood four storeys high, of brick and wood with a tiled roof topped by a dozen ornate chimney stacks.

  The Recorder of London, William Fleetwood, welcomed Shakespeare into his comfortable withdrawing room. Despite the difference in social standing and ages – Shakespeare was twenty-seven while Fleetwood was grey and well into creaking old age – they had forged a friendship based on a shared desire for justice, a disliking for flummery and a loathing of treason. More than anything, they enjoyed each other’s company.