John Shakespeare 07 - Holy Spy

by Rory Clements

  He tried the same method at the Old Wharf and at an alehouse that had no sign but which he knew of as the Bishop’s Prick. He moved on northwards, but even after a score of taverns he had still got nowhere. Tired and despondent, he decided there was no more to be done this night and set off to traipse along the path back towards the city.

  The way was ill lit and almost deserted. Boltfoot kept his hand on the hilt of his cutlass as he walked slowly, trying to avoid potholes and piles of waste. He had not brought his caliver; a gun would not have been welcome in the drinking holes he’d been visiting.

  He planned to enter the city by way of Postern Gate, the old entrance just north of the Tower, once a great arched building and now fallen into ruin, but he was stopped by a broad-chested watchman. The man approached him from behind, swinging his lantern and pushing the shaft of his halberd aggressively into the ground in front of Boltfoot.

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Get your pole out of the way. You trying to trip me?’

  ‘I’m Potken, the watch for this ward, and I’ll put my halberd where I like. Down your gullet if I so desire. Now where you going, maggot?’

  ‘Home. Seething Lane.’

  ‘You don’t look like no denizen of Seething Lane. If you want entry to the city, come by day with the carters and wagoners.’

  ‘I’m a serving man. My master’s house is there.’

  ‘And who would your master be?’

  ‘John Shakespeare.’

  ‘Shakespeare? Never heard of him.’

  ‘He’s a Queen’s Man. Assistant secretary to Sir Francis Walsingham. Argue with him, if you will.’

  The watchman was not tall, but he puffed up his heavy chest like a cockbird and pushed out his ragged-bearded chin. ‘Is that so?’

  The tactic had no effect on Boltfoot. ‘Aye, and I’ve been on an errand for my master, which is not for your ears, nor anyone else’s. And by now he’ll be wondering where I am, so if you’ll let me pass, I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Hold fast. What’s your name?’

  ‘Cooper. Mr Cooper to you.’

  ‘Well, Mr Cooper, I don’t trust a word you say. Seething Lane, eh? That’s close enough – second on the right – so I do believe. Perhaps I should accompany you home, maybe have a word or two with your master. And if you’re lying to me, then it’ll be straight to Bridewell and the treadmill with you – and I’ll have your name down for the Friday floggings.’

  ‘A turd in your throat, watchman.’ Boltfoot limped on. He was almost at Mr Shakespeare’s house when he felt a hand clamping his shoulder and swung round, his cutlass out.

  ‘Touch me again and I’ll cut you open like a Spaniard.’

  Potken backed off. ‘Put up your strange sword, Cooper. I’ve got a message for you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Em from the Burning Prow wants to see you tomorrow. Says she’s got word for you. Come again through the Postern Gate and I’ll take you to her.’

  ‘Why didn’t she tell me this herself?’

  ‘What sort of muttonhead are you, Cooper? Do you think she’d talk with you among witnesses? Come at your leisure and she’ll make it worth your while.’ He laughed and his barrel chest heaved. ‘I’m sure of that well enough.’

  Boltfoot stared at the man, furious with himself. Now Potken knew he worked for Shakespeare – and so, as day followed night, would the woman known as Em. He cursed his loose tongue. He would have to warn Mr Shakespeare.

  The watchman turned away, his laughter ringing in the cool night air. Boltfoot rapped at the door. It was opened by Jane in nightgown and cap, bleary-eyed and ready for bed. Boltfoot nodded to her and turned back again. He had spotted a movement in the shadow of a doorway a little way down the street. The watchman was still watching.

  Shakespeare awoke on a narrow truckle bed. He opened his eyes but at first he could see nothing. He turned over on his side and groaned at the pain in his head. He could just hear low murmurings – little more than whispers – coming from the other side of the door.

  Delicately, he pulled himself up to a sitting position, took several deep breaths, and forced himself to stand. The events of the night came back bit by bit. The drinking, the attack, and then the short walk here to this modest lodging in a street behind Temple Bar where he had promptly fallen asleep. But perhaps there was still something to be gained. His head might be pounding, but the effects of the alcohol had mostly worn off. He was thinking more clearly.

  He put his ear to the door. He could hear Anthony Babington and Thomas Salisbury, but their words were muffled and indecipherable. Then they went silent. Shakespeare heard soft footfalls and quickly he pushed open the door, scratching his head groggily as he did so.

  Salisbury was standing in front of him. His strawlike hair and the knife in his hand made him look quite mad: a malign scarecrow.

  Shakespeare’s gaze dropped from Salisbury’s unsmiling face to the knife.

  ‘This?’ Salisbury said, holding up the blade. ‘I was cutting a piece of bread. We wondered whether you might be awake. Perhaps you’d like a slice, Mr Shakespeare?’

  Shakespeare yawned. ‘Bread, Mr Salisbury? Why, yes, that would suit me well. And a little milk if you have it. To settle my gut.’

  ‘Then bread and milk you shall have.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Shakespeare stepped forward into the room. It was large and light, with many books. Some of them, he noted, were stacked high and had similar covers, as though newly printed and ready for distribution. Catholic tracts from the seminaries, perhaps?

  ‘How are you feeling, Mr Shakespeare?’ Babington asked solicitously. He was stretched out on the settle, feet up and hands behind his head. ‘I must confess you look rather ragged and not a little shabby.’

  ‘I feel yet worse than I look.’

  ‘Almost as tattered as Thomas Salisbury here. You, however, will tidy yourself up and go bravely, whereas Mr Salisbury will always look like a wild man of the moors. Even Mr Mane’s ministrations can do nothing for his hair and his tailor has quite given up on him.’ Babington laughed and swung round to make space beside him. ‘Come, sit with me while Mr Salisbury fetches you sustenance.’

  Shakespeare took the offer of the seat with gratitude. Not for the first time he was struck by Babington’s easy elegance and good looks. It was not surprising that he had caught the Queen of Scots’ eye when he delivered letters to her in the years she was held in Sheffield Castle. How different might his life have been had he chosen instead to fawn over Elizabeth, for she would undoubtedly have been won over. He could have cheered her days with jests and scandalous tittle-tattle.

  ‘Where is Mr Tichbourne?’ Shakespeare asked. ‘I recall he was with you when you saved me from those young dogs.’

  ‘He has returned to his own lodgings near St Bart’s. Chidiock needs his sleep, poor wretch. He has the constitution of a young maid and we have drunk him into oblivion. Likewise you, it seems.’

  Shakespeare affected to bridle. ‘I seem to remember it was a fine, merry feast and that my cup was filled as fast as any man’s.’

  ‘I noticed that you conversed with Mr Tilney. What did you talk about?’

  Salisbury returned with a cup of milk and Shakespeare drank it down. It was rich and thick with cream, the way he liked it. He nodded his appreciation to Salisbury, handed back the cup and picked up the hunk of bread from the platter that had been placed at his side. He took a bite and chewed. The two men were waiting for him to speak, but he did not hurry in his eating. He needed to consider his response carefully. When he had swallowed the morsel and patted his mouth with his sleeve, he met his host’s eye. ‘He said I should follow you in all things, Mr Babington.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘He expressed surprise that Walsingham let me out.’

  Babington smiled. ‘That is indeed a matter of interest, and has been ever since Mr Savage introduced you to our little band of brothers.’

  ‘I have been comple
tely open with you, Mr Babington. Ask me questions and I will answer them.’

  Babington put up a palm. ‘Mr Shakespeare, I beg you, do not feel insulted. Be assured that I was most happy that you joined our cheery group of diners and drinkers, for I know you come of good Warwickshire stock, wedded to the true faith. You are familiar with the mass and you are confessed. But I must tell you that there are those among us . . .’ His gaze strayed to Salisbury, then back to Shakespeare ‘. . . who have their doubts about you. Can a man work for both Walsingham and the Pope? Some men wonder whose cause you truly serve.’

  Shakespeare frowned, then spread his hands. ‘They could ask the same question of every man at the Plough. What of Tilney or Abingdon? They are sworn guards of the Queen’s body. Who do they serve? Even Mr Salisbury here, who can say what is in his heart? Was he not brought up as ward to the demon Leicester?’

  ‘You are right, of course. We must all have faith and trust in each other, otherwise Walsingham and Burghley will have won the battle before the trumpet is even sounded. But I am obliged to mention it, for it is a matter that comes up time and again. One of our number whispered to me last night that you were known to be a deal too close to Mr Secretary and that you should be shunned.’

  Shakespeare raised both his hands. ‘Mr Babington, Mr Salisbury, if you do not trust me, then I will bid you good fortune and withdraw from your company this moment, for I can well understand your fears and I have no wish to cause you sleepless nights, let alone difficulties with your fellows.’

  ‘Can you not say anything in your defence? A single word to prove where your loyalties truly lie? For whether you are with us or against us, you must know that there is a great deal more to our band than a gathering of friends enjoying good food and speaking our minds. Any man of wit must see that.’

  Shakespeare shook his head. ‘You must take me or leave me. And I will not hold it against you if you cast me out. Now, if it please you, I must depart, for Mr Secretary will require my presence soon after dawn so that he may set me on the trail of papists and traitors . . .’

  This elicited the faintest of smiles from Babington and a scowl from Salisbury.

  ‘Forgive me. It was in poor taste.’ Shakespeare stood up, as did Babington. After the briefest of hesitations, they shook hands.

  ‘Good morrow to you, Mr Shakespeare.’

  ‘I would speak with you more when my head is clear. Perhaps I can calm your fears.’

  ‘Come to me in the early afternoon and have a trim. We will be at Mane’s of Bishopsgate. Come see how he struggles with Mr Salisbury’s thatch! And rest assured, sir, I have no desire to cast you out. I think you can be of more value on the inside of our band than ever you could be on the outside. But we must proceed cautiously.’

  ‘I understand.’ Shakespeare bowed. ‘And I thank you once again for intervening on my behalf. And you, Mr Salisbury, for the use of your bed these past hours.’ He held out his hand in farewell, but Salisbury declined to take it.

  A strange image flashed into Shakespeare’s mind: the schoolroom at the King’s New School in Stratford, where the master, Mr Hunt, was telling the boys of the lives of the Romans and of the plot against Julius Caesar. ‘Brutus was the leader of the assassins, but it was Gaius Cassius who drove him to his cruel act – and Cassius who struck the first blow.’ A picture now came to him: the face of Babington attached to Brutus’s body, and Salisbury’s atop the humourless Cassius’s.

  Chapter 10

  Walsingham gazed at Shakespeare’s bruised head and winced. ‘I think Mr Mills rather overdid it.’

  ‘Sir Francis?’ Shakespeare could not conceal his irritation. Did he detect a dark smile lurking around the corners of his master’s usually dour mouth?

  ‘Forgive me. It was my idea. I felt it would not work if I told you beforehand, but I thought it would help.’

  ‘I am still unsure—’

  ‘I asked Mr Mills to organise a mild attack on you, in the sight of your fellow diners at the Plough Inn. He found three young apprentices and gave them a shilling each for their night’s work. They were supposed to knock you to the ground, throw insults at you and threaten you with a dagger. They were not supposed to damage you, but it had to be believable.’

  ‘They could have killed me!’

  ‘No, no. If it had got out of hand, Mr Mills would have called off his hounds. He was watching and directing them from the shadows. The idea was to show the others in your band of traitors and drinkers that you were truly one of them, suffering for the cause as they do. It worked, did it not?’

  Not for the first time, Shakespeare tried to peer deep into Walsingham’s dark eyes and discern his true character, but it was a wasted effort. Perhaps his wife or children knew him well, but no one else was allowed into the secret corners of Mr Secretary’s devious soul. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It worked. A little too well. Babington had to rescue me.’

  ‘Well there you are. Safe and sound and a little closer to your prey.’

  They were in Walsingham’s austere private room at his Seething Lane mansion. Having arrived home two hours before dawn, Shakespeare had managed no more than an hour and a half of sleep. Then he washed himself thoroughly and hastily ate a breakfast of eggs and ham, prepared for him by the new housemaid, while he caught up with the news from Boltfoot about his vain quest for those who knew Will Cane. Shakespeare heard the tale with interest.

  ‘Go to the watchman. Find this woman again,’ he ordered Boltfoot. ‘She must know something. But be wary. I fear you are more likely to be robbed than assisted.’

  Boltfoot nodded. ‘I don’t think they liked me asking questions.’

  ‘Then employ subtlety, Boltfoot.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  Boltfoot grunted but Shakespeare could tell he was unhappy; perhaps he did not understand the word subtlety. Well, he didn’t have the time or inclination to explain it. He wanted answers and Boltfoot might now be well placed to find them.

  ‘And master, I must tell you that the watch and the whore now know that I work for you and where you live.’

  ‘That is of no consequence. I have nothing to hide. Keep up your good work. Someone must know the truth about Will Cane and this murder.’

  He dismissed Boltfoot, finished his eating and strode down the street to his appointed meeting with his own master. Now here he was, learning that the attack on him outside the Plough had been ordered by Sir Francis himself.

  There was a knock on the door and a messenger entered with a paper, which he placed on the table before Walsingham, then bowed and left.

  Walsingham broke the seal and began reading. ‘Was Savage there last night?’ he inquired, not looking up from his letter.

  ‘At the Plough? No. I had expected him but he did not arrive. I will seek him out later today.’

  ‘He is losing his nerve.’

  ‘Do you have some information?’

  Walsingham held up the letter. ‘Gifford said as much to Tom Phelippes. He told him that Savage is altogether too comfortable at Barnard’s Inn and makes no effort towards fulfilling his vow.’

  ‘Are Mr Phelippes and Gifford still at Chartley?’

  ‘Yes. Hopefully there will be movement there soon. But it is Savage that concerns me here and now. We cannot let him slip away. Keep his courage strong. Keep him zealous.’

  Indeed, he had had such worries about Savage himself. Why would a man about to martyr himself for his faith be so diligent in his law studies? However, he did not voice his fears. ‘He is not a man to break his vow. Babington calls him “the Instrument”. Like a cat, he watches and waits his moment.’

  Walsingham folded the paper and put it to one side. ‘The Instrument? Meaning what I imagine it to mean?’

  ‘That he is the instrument by which Her Majesty is to be assassinated. That is what one must assume, though no one has spoken openly of it, and certainly not Savage himself.’

  ‘They do not trust you well enough yet. Do you think they might turn on y
ou?’

  ‘Thomas Salisbury might. He is certainly one of those with a desperate air. He intends to see this thing through. And last night there were two newcomers – two members of the Queen’s Guard. I fear their purpose.’

  ‘Ah, Tilney and Abingdon. Fear not, they will never again get within a furlong of Her Majesty. How many are there now in these Pope’s White Sons?’

  ‘At least twenty, perhaps twice that number. They come and go. Babington tries to recruit more members and, to that end, he takes inordinate risks. He is becoming increasingly careless, hence my own acceptance. But what else can he do? All the men he wants are members of the gentry or are at court or are associated with the inns of court. Every one of them could be a spy sent to watch him, but it is a risk he is willing to take. Perhaps he is too vain and foolish to believe he could be duped. As for me, he thinks it a great coup to have someone from inside your office. I am to be their dog, barking when you get too close.’

  Walsingham said nothing for a few moments. There was utter silence in the room. He was thinking. At last he sighed. ‘There are so many strands, John. Am I overreaching? The costs rise daily. I have never seen Sir Robert Huckerbee in such a sweat as he hands me Treasury gold and silver.’

  Shakespeare knew that Walsingham did not expect a reply. Anyway, his own thoughts were elsewhere, specifically a loft room in Shoreditch.

  ‘Are you with me, John?’

  ‘Mr Secretary?’

  ‘For a moment, I rather imagined your thoughts to be drifting.’

  ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘Tell me more about Babington. He is married I believe.’

  ‘He has a wife but he has left her at the family home, Dethick Manor in Derbyshire, with their small daughter. As you know, he has spent most of the time since their marriage either in London or France, making mischief with the Scots Queen’s people. The fact of his marriage does not necessarily mean a great deal to a man such as Babington.’

  ‘And his closest friends are Tichbourne and Salisbury.’