All his attempts to free himself from his bindings had been in vain. He had stayed awake until it was dark, then he tried to sleep. It was uncomfortable but no more so than some of the berths he had had in his time; ships were not constructed for those who valued soft feather beds. He used a trick he had often employed to make sleep come: summon up the face of a beautiful woman. This time, it was easy; the face and shape of Will Cane’s widow came to him, blotting out his pain and the stench of his surroundings.
But now he was awake. From outside he heard footsteps, then a scuffling at the entrance and the bearded face of one of his captors peered in.
‘Good morning, Mr Cooper. A pleasant night’s sleep in our hostelry, I trust.’
‘Never slept better.’
‘Good, then you will have strength for the ordeal that awaits you.’
Anthony Babington was not impressed by the painting.
‘I believe I have captured the likenesses most precisely,’ the artist said with no hint of irony.
‘Indeed, do you, sir?’ Babington said. ‘And which one am I?’
‘Why, you are the chief gentleman, Mr Babington.’ He stabbed his slender finger towards the centre of the painting, without quite touching it. ‘Here, in the king’s position, in all your dignity and magnifience, sir.’
Babington turned away from the easel. He did not have the energy to argue. The very sight of the picture made him despondent, for it was just one more sign that everything was falling apart.
Thomas Salisbury grinned and patted him on the arm. ‘It is not so bad, Anthony.’
‘It is worse than bad,’ Babington said in a muted voice, but loud enough for the painter to hear. ‘It is yet shabbier than you, Thomas! That is how rough it is. Come, let us away from here before I take a taper to the wretched thing.’
Ignoring the painter’s yelps of protest, they walked from Mane’s barber shop out into the street. Chidiock Tichbourne was leaning against a tree, smoking his pipe in the welcome shade, and he hailed them over, pointing along the street. Two horsemen were approaching.
‘Captain Fortescue and Mr Gage!’ Salisbury said.
The two horsemen reined in. Their mounts were flecked with foam and dust; the riders clearly exhausted.
‘Thank God you are here, Captain Fortescue,’ Babington said.
‘Indeed, welcome, sir,’ Salisbury said. He cupped his hands to make a stirrup, but Ballard did not move from the saddle.
‘A word, Mr Babington.’
Babington approached. He had expected Ballard to return in triumph but instead he and his companion seemed disturbed. Babington’s blood began to run cold. ‘Where, pray, is Mr Maude?’
Ballard beckoned Babington yet closer, then leant forward across his horse’s neck. ‘I fear we have been betrayed,’ he whispered.
If John Shakespeare was surprised to find Anthony Babington and Thomas Salisbury at his front door, he did not show it.
‘Why, gentlemen, how delightful to see you – please come in.’
‘We need your help, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘Then I am, as always, pleased to be at your service. What is it you desire?’
‘We want passports for France.’
Both men were clearly agitated; Salisbury in particular looked even more wild and unkempt than usual. Shakespeare tried to conceal his dismay. The last thing Walsingham would want was these men fleeing the country. He maintained an even tone. ‘Do you have business there?’
‘We do – and we may be some little while. We fear our estates will be compromised without passports.’
It was an offence for anyone to leave the country without permission for more than six months, on pain of having all their property confiscated. This had been enacted to deter Roman Catholics fleeing abroad to the seminaries, and to punish them if they did so. Anthony Babington was a very wealthy young man; the prospect of losing his Derbyshire estates would be a heavy blow to both him and his heirs.
‘And how do you hope I will obtain the papers for you?’
‘From Walsingham,’ Salisbury said.
The change in Salisbury was remarkable. He seemed drained and timid, a blank stare of panic in his eyes that usually burned with uncontainable fervour.
‘You enjoy the Principal Secretary’s trust, Mr Shakespeare. Your word will be enough.’
‘Gentlemen, this is most difficult. I must think the matter through carefully.’ Perhaps this might not be the disaster that he had initially feared. Indeed, it might be just the opportunity he had been waiting for. Yes, he was beginning to see possibilities here. His face remained grave. ‘Given the febrile nature of our relations with France, Mr Secretary would be unlikely to grant such documents without first interviewing you himself.’
Babington’s expression turned to one of disbelief. ‘You truly think he would want to see us?’
‘It is likely. Do you wish me to inquire on your behalf? He would need a full and convincing account of your reason for wishing to travel.’
Babington and Salisbury looked at each other. Go to Walsingham? It was like being asked to walk into the lion’s den.
‘Advise us, Mr Shakespeare. Is this really a possibility?’
‘Well, yes, a possibility . . . I would put it no stronger than that. My first thought is that it would be best if only one of you applied. If you apply together, he is more likely to become suspicious. I would suggest you, Mr Babington.’
‘Why me?’
‘You are already known at court. You have charm and wit. By which I mean no disrespect to you, Mr Salisbury.’
Babington hesitated, then nodded cautiously. ‘And what would you have me say?’
‘Well, what exactly is this business on which you are engaged? What is the purpose of your journey? He will insist on knowing the details, so you would do well to tell me here and now.’
Babington shuffled his feet. ‘The summer is suddenly become too hot.’
‘I fear such an explanation will not serve your purpose.’
‘Then what?’
‘Well, you might say that you wish to tour the Italies, perhaps, that you have a great desire to collect books and works of art. I am sure he would look favourably on such a request, though he would ask favours in return.’
‘Favours?’
Shakespeare laughed. ‘Come, come, Mr Babington, you know what I mean. Mr Secretary requires information of anyone who travels. You would be required to spy for him. He would want word of developments at the Jesuit college and he would have you send word of any great men and women you meet.’
‘But he would never know if I wrote him the truth or not.’
‘Indeed, he would never know.’
‘When can you arrange this meeting, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘He is a busy man. If you are fortunate, he may issue a passport without summoning you. If you are unfortunate, he will merely turn you down flat, with no meeting and no explanation. We can but hope for the best.’
Babington clasped Shakespeare by the hand. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you.’
After they had gone, Shakespeare called Jane and ordered food and ale, then climbed to the top of the house. He pushed open the door to his solar.
‘Good news, Mr Shakespeare?’
He glared at his visitor. ‘Not exactly, Harry.’
Chapter 24
Harry Slide had arrived a mere quarter-hour earlier. But before Shakespeare had had time to make sense of his garbled tale, he had been called to the front door by Jane. He had shuffled Harry Slide off to the solar and ordered him to remain silent while he dealt with Babington and Salisbury.
Now he wanted answers.
‘Tell me again what happened, Harry – and this time make it convincing.’
‘Might I not beg a little food and drink? My ride south has been long and hard, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘My maidservant will bring bread and ale. In the meantime, talk.’
Slide spread wide his hands. ‘I had thought we were getting on well.
If anything, I was more fervent than they. The trip north was going badly for Ballard: there is no interest at all from the northern gentry. In truth, they could not wait to get him out of their houses. But I tried to keep him cheered with bawdy tales and good brandy. I had thought he was retaining his spirits well. And young Gage was always humble and obedient.’
‘Get on with it, Harry.’
‘We shared a chamber. They had the tester, I had the truckle. When I woke up, they were gone. They had not even paid their share of the reckoning, which I had to fund from my own
purse and for which I would hope for recompense.’
‘Why did they leave so suddenly?’
He shrugged. ‘I fear they suspect me, but I know not why. As far as I know, I did not say a word out of place.’
‘This is not good enough, Harry.’ Shakespeare knew his man. ‘Something must have happened.’
Slide sighed. ‘The only thing I can think of is that someone spoke against me. There was a man at the inn who seemed to watch me, but I paid him no note – perhaps I should have approached him?’ He turned beseeching eyes to Shakespeare.
Shakespeare knew Slide was concealing something. He knew, too, that it would be very hard to prise it from him. Slide might have the charm of a Ralegh, but he was twice as hard. And deadly, too.
‘Never mind that now. We must consider what this means to our mission. How much start did Ballard and Gage have on you?’
‘Two hours. Maybe three.’
‘And so they are probably in London already.’ It explained everything – Babington and Salisbury’s panic; their wish to leave England as soon as possible. ‘If Ballard believes you have betrayed them, he will immediately spread alarm among the Pope’s White Sons.’
‘Perhaps not, Mr Shakespeare. Ballard will wish to hold the line. He is not a man to fear for his own life and it is his nature to shun inconvenient truths. Yes, he will say that I am no longer to be trusted, but he will also do his utmost to lighten my importance to the cause and he will do all he can to strengthen their resolve. I know his type.’
Jane appeared at the door with ale and a plate of meats and bread. When she had placed them on the coffer, he nodded at her to leave. ‘Eat your fill, Harry. You look as though you need it.’
He could not be angry with Slide. He had placed himself in great peril travelling with Ballard and Gage and his earlier reports had done more than any to reveal the nature of the conspirators. The question was what was to be done now.
‘And you are certain that there will be no uprising in the north?’
‘I am certain. Not one man, be they the most zealous Catholic ever made, will raise himself from between the legs of his wife or mistress to assist the Pope’s White Sons. None will countenance a Spanish invasion or assassination of the Queen.’
‘Then you have done well. Your mission has been successful.’
Shakespeare fetched a sheet of paper from the far side of the room, then put it down at his desk beside the quills and ink.
‘Write a report for Mr Secretary,’ he said. ‘Then leave London tonight. All I require of you is word of where you will be and a pledge that you will not return here until this matter is concluded and I have sent for you. Simply disappear. Ballard and Babington must never see you again. Is that understood?’
Slide smiled. ‘Indeed, Mr Shakespeare. I thank you for your forbearance, as always.’
‘And Harry, I still want to know how Ballard discovered you.’
‘So do I, sir.’ Slide’s face was as open and innocent as any babe’s. ‘So do I.’
Shakespeare did not bother to reply. Harry was a liar, but he deserved to be kept safe. What of his trustworthy Boltfoot, though? And Kat, too? Where in the name of all that was holy had they got to?
Boltfoot was dragged from the pigsty, then hauled into the great tithe barn. His leg bindings were cut, but his arms remained bound.
Without a word, his captors pushed him down onto a wooden stool and waited.
‘A little ale or clean water would ease my throat,’ Boltfoot said. He would not mention it before these men, but it was the ache in his club foot that troubled him more than his thirst. He could live without drinking well enough; long days without fresh water in the Pacific Ocean had taught him how to still his thirst through force of will.
‘A knife to your jugular would ease it just as well,’ one of the men growled.
‘Even a dying dog is allowed water.’
A fist hit the side of his head and almost knocked him from the stool. ‘Just wait and keep your mouth shut.’
He did not have to wait long. Cutting Ball arrived with his sister at his side.
Ball stood in front of his captive, his bare arms protruding from his leather jerkin, muscles rippling like a prize bull. He gripped Boltfoot’s jaw in his powerful hand, and looked into his eyes from a distance of no more than six inches.
‘And so you came back . . .’
‘I am your guest, Mr Ball, and I have a mighty thirst.’
Ball nodded to one of his men. ‘Get him beer.’ He turned back to Boltfoot and shook his head like a father forced to punish a recalcitrant child. ‘You disobeyed me, Mr Cooper.’
‘You are not my master.’
‘No, indeed, that would be John Shakespeare, Walsingham’s man. Well, he’s not here to save you now, and so you must pay the price. Do you know what is to become of you?’
‘I am sure you will tell me again if I have forgot it.’
Cutting Ball snorted. ‘You do not show fear. Either you are a brave man or a foolish one.’
‘Merely resigned to my fate. You have me bound, you have your friends and you have your dagger.’
‘This?’ Ball withdrew his hand from Boltfoot’s jaw and pulled his bollock-dagger from his belt. ‘I am a very craftsman with this blade, Mr Cooper. When I play the barber-surgeon I can open up or remove any portion of a living body within half a minute.’
Boltfoot said nothing.
‘A mere thirty seconds,’ Ball continued, ‘but it will seem longer than a lifetime to you. Nothing makes a man squirm more than sharp steel applied to the bollocks.’
One of Ball’s henchmen reappeared with a cup of beer and held it to Boltfoot’s lips. He drank greedily. It was good, strong beer; if it was to be his last sup ever then let it be a long, deep draught.
‘You were a mariner, were you not? A cooper by trade.’
The cup was taken away from Boltfoot’s mouth; he had almost managed to empty it.
‘Aye. I told you as much.’
‘And so you like the sea?’
‘There was a time I liked it.’
Cutting Ball turned to his sister. ‘What say you, Em? Is this one for the fishes?’
She laughed. ‘Indeed, I think him one for the fishes, brother. A fine notion. A fine notion, indeed.’
Walsingham rubbed his hands together. A smile crept over his sombre face. ‘This is a clever scheme, John. Well done, sir. Bring Mr Babington to me here on the morrow. In the morning, about eleven o’clock, before Privy Council. I will promise him the earth and all its pleasures.’
‘And Mr Poley?’
‘I shall send for him now. He will be here, fear not.’
They were in Walsingham’s offices at Greenwich Palace. The Principal Secretary had listened intently to the report of Harry Slide’s unmasking by Ballard and the desire of Babington and Salisbury to flee the country and had understood Shakespeare’s plan immediately.
Shakespeare took a breath. Now was the time to press an advantage. ‘In the matter of Mistress Giltspur, Sir Francis . . . might I beg more time? I have not uncovered the truth and I can feel it close to me. There are matters yet to be understood.’
‘Nick Giltspur was a good man – a helpful man. He was much admired by both Her Majesty and Lord Burghley.’
‘In what way was he helpful?’
‘He was rich and powerful. He offered assistance when required.’
‘Can you te
ll me more?’
‘It would not be diplomatic to say more. Suffice it to say that I would be most pleased if his assassin were brought to the scaffold. And if that is his wife, then so be it. But I want to know the truth.’
‘Then I have more time?’
‘Very little. But yes, if the Babington matter goes as planned, then you have a little more time.’
Shakespeare took his leave of Walsingham and walked through the halls of Greenwich Palace down to the river moorings. He was stepping into a tilt-boat for the journey back to London when he was stopped by an out-of-breath servant.
‘Are you Mr Shakespeare, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Forgive me, but Sir Robert Huckerbee sent me after you, for he desires the pleasure of your company. He is in his office adjoining Lord Burghley’s apartments.’
Huckerbee? Shakespeare had barely met the man and had scarce passed half a dozen words with him at the meeting with Walsingham and the other intelligencers. As he followed the servant back into the palace, Shakespeare struggled to think what Huckerbee might want that could not have been communicated to him by Walsingham. As far as he knew, Huckerbee’s only purpose in life was collecting, auditing and dispensing money on behalf of the Treasury.
The office was a world away from the austere chambers of Sir Francis Walsingham; walls hung with rich tapestries from Turkey and the eastern Indies, and cut flowers everywhere, their sweet scent cloying. Huckerbee had settles laden with cushions and a leaded window, thrown open to afford a view of the river. Was that how he had seen Shakespeare? Had he been watching for him, or had it been mere chance that he was spotted?
Huckerbee was sitting behind a large desk. He looked a great deal cooler than he had last time Shakespeare saw him, on the tennis court at Giltspur House. Not something to be mentioned, perhaps. He curled his smooth fingers to beckon Shakespeare forward into the room. Yet again, Shakespeare found himself irritated by the man’s haughty bearing. Was it his knighthood that made him assume superiority over his visitor, or something in his upbringing? To a man of modest birth, such entitlement was like a stray eyelash caught in the eye.
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