‘I tell you this, he’ll do for you.’
‘Who? Young?’
The man said no more, merely grunted with pain as Shakespeare wrenched the knots tighter. There was no time for interrogation; he had to get away after Oswald Redd. He rose to his feet.
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said.
An old man opened his front door and looked on the scene. ‘What’s this?’ he said, pushing out his chest as though remembering bouts from his youth.
‘Cutpurse,’ Shakespeare said. He picked up the bound man’s knife and short-sword and handed them to the householder. ‘Keep him at your mercy with those while I seek the constable. Do not listen to his stories for I know this felon to be a liar.’ He then nodded to the bewildered old man and began to run, trying to follow the route that he believed Redd must have taken.
Reaching the Theatre, the second of Shoreditch’s two great playhouses, he stopped and looked along the street. Panting heavily, he emitted a curse. Too late; he had lost his quarry.
But then he saw him, his progress seemingly held up by a stream of playgoers leaving the Theatre. Shakespeare stepped onward at a fast walk. In a few moments he had caught Redd, gripping him by the arm. Everything had changed; he could no longer simply follow him unseen.
‘Come with me.’
Redd recoiled, but Shakespeare held his grip.
‘Trust me. We must move away from here with great haste.’ Glancing around, he saw an alehouse into which many of the playgoers were pouring themselves. ‘Over there. I’ll buy you a cup of ale.’
‘What is this, Shakespeare?’
‘Come, sir. Come.’ His voice more urgent now, he was dragging Redd across the dusty street.
All the booths, benches and stools were taken, so Shakespeare pushed Redd through the throng and found a space to stand beside a couple of casks. The taproom was dark and rich with the scent of ale and tobacco smoke, a thing that never failed to surprise Shakespeare, even when his man Boltfoot sat with his pipe of an evening. He released his grip on his captive’s arm.
Redd rubbed his arm, wincing at the pain. ‘Pig’s arses, Shakespeare. Was that necessary?’
‘It was nothing compared to what you face if you do not listen to me and heed my advice. You are in grave danger of having your neck stretched. You were being followed, Mr Redd.’
‘Yes, by you.’
‘By me and by another man. Fortunately for both of us, I spotted him before he saw me. In all likelihood he was one of Justice Young’s men. It must be obvious, even to the most feeble-witted, that he has been keeping watch, waiting for you to lead him to Kat.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘I left him trussed up in an alley. I had no choice, but he will be freed soon enough and then he will look about to find us.’
‘And why, God damn you, Shakespeare, were you watching me?’
‘Because I too wanted to find Kat. But for very different reasons. You are an innocent in the ways of men, Mr Redd. All the wickedness you see is but the playwright’s imagination. This is real – and you have no notion of the danger she is in. Nor yet the danger to your own life, for you will be hanged for harbouring a criminal.’
‘Is that so?’ Redd’s voice was thick with doubt. He shook his head in disbelief. ‘And so once you had attacked this other man, why did you not continue to follow me instead of dragging me in here? I might well have led you to her, might I not?’
Shakespeare sighed, exasperated by the naivety of this love-smitten fool. ‘Because, Mr Redd, I could not be sure that the man I attacked was alone. There might, even now, be another pursuer on your tail, here in this taproom. If I had allowed you to continue along your merry way, we might both now be arraigned as accessories after the fact. Now tell me, quietly, where she is . . .’
Redd turned his head away. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I will not.’
At a wayside inn on the northern highway, just south of the Yorkshire town of Doncaster, Harry Slide was trying to lift the spirits of his two travelling companions. ‘Captain, have you heard of the time I did expose the Archbishop of York for the lewd vermin that he is?’
‘More times than I care to remember, Mr Maude. But tell it again if you must.’
‘No, no, I will not weary you.’
Father Ballard and young Robert Gage looked at each other with knowing smiles. It was, indeed, a story that they had heard before during their travels together through France and England. Bernard Maude was renowned for having extorted a great deal of money from Archbishop Edwin Sandys, having contrived to ‘discover’ him in bed with an innkeeper’s wife. But the crime had rebounded on Mr Maude, costing him a three-year gaol term for demanding money with menaces.
‘It does not weary us, Mr Maude for you brought low a great persecutor of the Catholic religion. But we have heard the story at least a half-dozen times.’
Harry Slide feigned hurt feelings. He would always be Bernard Maude to these men. Perhaps it was the fact that both Ballard and Gage – Captain Fortescue and his faithful serving lad as they would have it – both went under assumed identities that neither of them suspected Maude himself might not be quite the man he purported to be.
‘I fear it is a tale I never tire of telling. And it all came to pass in an inn of good cheer, very like this one and not ten miles from here. But I will spare you the story this night.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Ballard said. ‘I confess I am a little tired. The day did not go as well as I had hoped.’
They were to stay the night at this inn. In the morning, they would ride south into Nottinghamshire, to the great houses and manors of the Catholic nobility, to ascertain their willingness to rise up against the usurper Elizabeth and her government of heretics. How many men would they be able to muster to support the Spanish invasion? Which were the best ports to give entry to Philip of Spain’s galleons? These were the questions that the ambassador Don Bernardino de Mendoza had demanded of Ballard during their recent trip to Paris.
Ballard had assured Mendoza that sixty thousand good Catholic Englishmen would take arms for the Pope – the same number that Spain was promising as an invasion army. But the Spanish ambassador wanted more evidence before a fleet powerful enough for the task could be commissioned. So far, the response had been unfavourable. The Catholics all the way north and into Scotland had spoken reassuring words, but had balked at giving promises. Today had been no more encouraging than any other. They simply did not have the stomach for a fight. Even Ballard was beginning to have doubts.
‘Those who should be most forward are most slow; and the older the colder,’ he had complained to Slide and Gage as they rode to the inn. But Ballard was not a man to remain downcast long. He was certain things would improve in the region of Nottingham; Mendoza would have his sixty thousand Englishmen.
Harry Slide drank deep of his beer, then wiped his expensive sleeve across his mouth.
As though to put the disappointment of the day to one side, Ballard returned to the subject of the archbishop. ‘These Protestants! They are too weak for chastity. They would have wives and whores. Their feebleness will be their downfall, for they will never know the pure love of God.’
‘That is true enough. To see the archbishop sweating and grunting like a dog above the young woman’s naked flesh was a marvel to behold.’
‘It is what we fight against every day of our lives.’
‘I had him, Captain, a dirty dog on a leash.’
‘But you yourself were made to suffer, Mr Maude . . .’
‘I was, Captain, for I could not keep the cleric’s humiliation to myself. I wanted the world to know what he had done. An acquaintance with a wagonback press did print me a broadsheet to proclaim the news in London. That was my undoing, for it reached the ears of the archbishop’s fellow privy councillors and he realised the secret could not be kept. He confessed all to Lord Burghley. I was sentenced to a term in the Fleet and was fortunate to keep my ears. And though I served two years in my cell, I
would have done twenty or more – and lost my ears – just to know that Edwin Sandys is scorned and mocked in every tavern and playhouse in York and London and, I am certain, far beyond these shores.’
‘Mr Maude, you are indeed a wonder. I do dare believe you could charm the bees from their hives and the eels from the reeds.’
He took another little bow. ‘At your service, Captain.’ And what is more, I shall charm you to the scaffold. Harry Slide drank the last of his beer. It was time for bed. The sooner they were done with this northern excursion and back in London, the better.
Chapter 17
Shakespeare’s head told him that Kat probably was her husband’s killer; only his foolish heart and the evidence of the Searcher of the Dead suggested that she might be innocent – evidence that might yet prove irrelevant.
As for his examination of Oswald Redd, that had achieved nothing. Threats proved as worthless as entreaties. He had cursed the man for the sheep’s-head that he was and gripped his hand about his miserable throat. ‘You will not help me – which means you will not help Kat. And so I leave you to survive as you may, Redd. I care not a dog’s fart for your neck, but if you do not heed my warnings, you will be the cause of Kat’s death too.’ Releasing his grip on the man’s throat, he had pushed him in the chest so that he fell back against the huge puncheon cask, then turned away and stalked out into the night. There was no more to be done.
Now, in the pre-dawn gloom, he went downstairs to take his breakfast at the long table. At least there was good food to be had in this house since the arrival of Jane. She was already up, so he asked for bread and eggs, then demanded after Boltfoot.
‘He is already up, master.’
‘Fetch him to me if you would, Jane.’
Shakespeare took his place at the head of the table and nodded in greeting to Boltfoot as he hobbled into the room. It seemed to Shakespeare that his limp was more pronounced than usual, and he was certainly slower. His face was bruised and one eye was blacking over.
‘Good day to you, Boltfoot. How are your wounds?’
‘Healing, master. They are as nothing.’
He looked closely at Boltfoot’s injured face. ‘You look close to death, Boltfoot. Rest up for the day. Jane will care for you with hot broth. I will send her to the apothecary for lotions and herbs.’
‘Please, master, no. I have unfinished business.’
‘It will wait; remember, this felon Ball has threatened your life if you go east of the city. From all that we know of him, his threat must be taken seriously.’
Boltfoot’s face was set hard. ‘I cannot let this pass.’
‘What do you think you can do? Are you hoping to find Cutting Ball again? You were blindfolded, Boltfoot.’
‘I can find the whore Em. I am certain of that. If she is his sister, as I suspect, then she will surely lead me to him.’
‘And then what would you do?’
‘I will extract the truth from him.’
‘Boltfoot, there is a line where courage becomes foolhardiness. You will not be helping our cause if you cross it.’
‘But this is not about you and me, is it, master? It is about Kat . . . Mistress Whetstone. Who will save her if we do not?’
Ah yes, that was it. Boltfoot had been almost as distraught as Shakespeare when she left. He had always held a candle for her while knowing she was beyond his reach. Shakespeare managed a smile which he hoped evoked his sympathy, a shared anxiety. ‘At least wait until you are whole again. Then we will discuss our next step, calmly, when the heat has gone from your temper.’
Boltfoot said nothing, merely cast the same look at his master as he had done when defying him over the matter of hiring a new maidservant. Shakespeare saw it and knew the battle was lost. The only way Boltfoot would stay in this house today was if he were fixed to the wall by fetters. Shakespeare shook his head with a light laugh. ‘Take care, Boltfoot. You are worth nothing dead.’
Shakespeare sighed with relief as he arrived at the Holborn house at nine o’clock and ascertained that Gilbert Gifford was indeed still there. He and the Smith sisters were eating heartily, so Shakespeare joined them, for his breakfast had not assuaged his appetite.
‘Thank you, ladies,’ he said as he rose to go.
‘It was our pleasure, sir.’ Eliza gazed at Gifford. Her little pink pigling.
‘Mr Gifford, if you would accompany me, we have an appointment with Mr Secretary.’
‘I want them again tonight. Will you bring them here?’
‘First let us talk to Mr Secretary. He may have other plans. Come, sir.’
On their way to Walsingham’s Seething Lane mansion, Shakespeare called in at home briefly. Boltfoot immediately approached him. ‘A messenger came, master, not ten minutes since.’ He held out a sealed letter. ‘It is from Mr Tort.’
With his poniard, Shakespeare sliced open the red wax seal, unfolded the paper and read the short missive. Go to Aldermanbury at noon. Mr Arthur Giltspur has agreed to see you. Well, that was something, but it might be no more than the last turn of a card in a hand that was already doomed.
Taken alone, a conversation with the dead man’s nephew was unlikely to help. Shakespeare had to talk further with Kat. Now that it was clear her husband’s killer might have had a way to implicate her, he needed to hear from her own lips the names of all those who might have stood to benefit from his death and her downfall.
To one unversed in the labyrinthine twists and turns of his humours, Walsingham’s mood might have seemed unremarkable, for he did not shout or curse or hammer his fist. But Shakespeare knew him better than that; Mr Secretary was in an unholy rage, like the churning current beneath a placid sea.
‘This is falling apart, John. This infernal trinity – Babington, Ballard and Savage – where are they? Why are they not bringing the strands of their demonic plot together? If they were captains-general, their army would have turned tail or been slaughtered by now. Can none of them hold to the sticking-place? I am told Savage has become a model scholar at Barnard’s Inn and is devoted to his studies. Is he to be assassin or lawyer?’
Shakespeare soaked up the onslaught. Only when Walsingham had stopped talking and was silent for a few seconds did he reply. ‘They lack leadership.’
‘Then you provide it!’
‘I am not trusted enough.’
‘What of Babington? Has he not been placed in the lead role by Ballard? I had thought the others of these Pope’s White Sons followed him like sheep.’
‘Yes, but Babington is idle and with Ballard gone north, he drifts. As for Ballard himself, he wastes his energies in the futile cause of raising a Pope’s army. His head is full of bees. He promises the Spanish he can raise a force of sixty thousand English, when we know he is unlikely to rouse one Englishman from his slumbers.’
‘And Goodfellow Savage?’
‘Like an obedient, well-disciplined soldier, he is waiting for others to give him the order to strike. All I can say is this: he may procrastinate, but he will never betray his vow. He still means to do it; he merely awaits the time and the method.’ He paused. ‘But you have the letter from Mary to Babington now, Sir Francis. That surely will spur these men to action.’
‘You have Gilbert Gifford with you?’
‘He is in the anteroom. Would you have him take it to Babington this day?’
Walsingham gave a brisk shake of the head. ‘I will wait until Ballard is back. I want him to boast to Babington about legions of Englishmen rising in the north and foreign armies sweeping in to support them. Only then will he have the confidence to write back to Mary with a detailed plan. A plan she will seize on. A plan that will provoke her into writing to him yet again – and this time giving her backing to treason. That will be the letter that will give us her wicked head.’
‘I am anxious about Gifford. The longer we wait, the more likely he is to run; if we do not use him soon, I fear he will be gone.’
‘Then tell him straight. If he leaves now, th
en he is England’s enemy and will pay the price.’
‘Very well. And I am still giving thought to the idea of using Robin Poley. He would prod Babington on.’
Walsingham nodded gravely. ‘There is something of the snake about Poley. Can you introduce him to the plotters?’
‘I said I would find a way, and I will.’
Walsingham gripped the edge of the table and stood up. He pushed his dark, glowering face forward and glared at Shakespeare with eyes as cold as moonbeams. ‘Indeed? And do you have time for such inconsequential matters? I had thought your energies were all directed elsewhere . . .’
Shakespeare felt the prickles of hair rising on his neck. ‘You know what I am talking about, John Shakespeare. Do you think you can go about your private business in this town without my knowledge? How little you know of me after eight years in my service.’
‘I protest that I am not neglecting my duties. I cannot spend every minute of the day in the company of Goodfellow Savage. But I watch him nonetheless.’
‘How do you watch him from Shoreditch?’
There was no point in dissembling; Walsingham already knew far too much for that. ‘May I ask who told you I was there, Sir Francis?’
‘Frank Mills told me! You attacked and bound Jonas Shoe, who is one Mills’s men. He was working on behalf of Justice Young, trying to snare this monstrous widow, this Jezebel who has got the whole of London talking. Her Majesty is appalled that so wanton a murderess is still at large. Nicholas Giltspur was a good friend to her government and the murderess must pay the full and dreadful price. She committed a crime that is an offence to God and man and she will hang for it. So will anyone who assists her, before or after the fact! Do you now understand what you are playing with, John?’
‘And if she is innocent?’
‘Pah! The man who wielded the knife implicated her with his dying confession. There is no doubt. None at all.’
‘What if he was paid to do so? What if he was dying already?’
John Shakespeare 07 - Holy Spy Page 13
