‘Giltspur? Is this a Giltspur ship?’ Was it mere coincidence that he should have been pressed into service aboard a Giltspur ship?
‘Aye, one of their finest and newest. Mostly they have smacks and ketches for the North Sea, but they have bought into these race-built galleons for the long runs to Iceland and the Grand Banks. She’ll be ready to carry cannon if ever called on. And if any ship in the flotilla can get to the Grand Banks and back, the Falcon is the one. But they’re all fair enough – as is Herr Bootmann. I’ve sailed with him ten years and he is a fine navigator and taker of fish. You’ll have a good share of the catch on the Giltspur Falcon.’
‘So what will happen now that Mr Giltspur is dead and gone?’
‘That’s the fear for all of us. His nephew knows nothing of fish nor ships and cares less. Who knows what will become of the fleets?’
‘And what do men say about the killing and the guilt or innocence of his widow?’
Turnmill laughed. ‘She’s as guilty as a bushy-tailed vixen with a fowl in her mouth.’
There had to be a way off this ship. Had to be. He tried again. ‘I have little money, Mr Turnmill. But I would give it all to you, with the promise of more, if you could but find a way for me to talk with the captain.’
‘Herr Bootmann won’t let you go. He needs you, for there is no other cooper aboard and only two others in the fleet. Had he not been offered your services, the whole enterprise might well have been delayed.’
Boltfoot dug into his purse and pulled out the coins. ‘Here. Take it. Try, I beg of you. This is not just my life. There is more at stake here – much more.’
As he spoke, a man was descending the companionway from the poop.
Turnmill cupped his hand and spoke into Boltfoot’s ear. ‘That’s the ship’s master, Maywether. Don’t cross him.’
Boltfoot looked up and realised his situation was not improving. He knew Maywether, all right. How in God’s name had a dirty, scheming rogue like Godfrey Maywether ever ended up as a ship’s master?
Maywether looked at Boltfoot coldly, then turned to Turnmill. ‘Mr Turnmill, stop your damned idling. Get this man to work.’
Gilbert Gifford was in the anteroom, smoking a pipe. He smirked as Shakespeare came in, having clearly seen the confrontation between Shakespeare and Justice Young from the front window.
‘Mr Gifford.’ Shakespeare looked at the pink pigling with a mixture of relief and displeasure. ‘I trust I have not kept you waiting too long.’
‘An hour, maybe two. I thought to enjoy the company of your young housemaid, but she scuttled away to her chamber.’
‘You remember my warning with regard to her.’
‘What little faith you have in me!’
‘You forget, I know a great deal about your appetites, Mr Gifford. I trust Jane at least served you some refreshment?’
‘Fear not. I have wit enough to find your casks. Now then, is it time to deliver the letter?’
‘Soon.’
He exhaled loudly to demonstrate his frustration. ‘When exactly? I cannot wait in London for ever.’
‘When Mr Secretary decides. It is up to him, no one else. In the meantime, I have another task for you.’
Gifford brushed this aside with a wave of his plump little hand. ‘Before we discuss other matters, there is the question of the Smith sisters. I went to the Holborn house last night. They were not there.’
Ah yes, the Smith sisters. Shakespeare’s uncomfortable session with Sir Robert Huckerbee came to mind. Their favours were not to be dispensed lightly, it seemed. Walsingham’s assurance that expense would be no object in this endeavour was clearly founded on quicksand; the constraints of the Treasury were not being helpful. ‘You will have to prove your worth to us if you wish to see them again. I need you for a singular purpose.’
‘God’s faith, Mr Shakespeare, I have proved my worth time and again! No letters would have gone into Chartley without me. The letter now awaiting delivery to Babington would not be in Mr Secretary’s hands without my skill. You would not have knowledge of Goodfellow Savage’s deadly intentions without me. No man has done – is doing – more than me. I have risked life and limb and pushed myself to the edge on England’s behalf.’
Shakespeare could not deny it. The whole affair hinged on Gilbert Gifford, from Rheims to Paris and from London to Chartley; none of it would have happened without him. ‘Forgive me, I have great admiration for you, as does Mr Secretary. But as for the Smith sisters, their services are to be used sparingly. I swear I will bring them to you again, but I must ask this other service of you.’
Gifford eyed Shakespeare with suspicion. ‘What is it?’
‘It is Father Ballard, who presently goes by the name of Captain Fortescue. We had him closely watched, but his shadow has been discovered and so Ballard is on the loose. We cannot allow that. Get close to him, Mr Gifford.’
‘If he has discovered one shadow, he will be yet more wary than before.’
‘He will trust no one above you. You have mutual friends in the seminary at Rheims. Ballard must be acquainted with your cousin Dr William Gifford from the English College. He knows the history of your family.’
‘I want more. I want the Smith sisters – and I want more money. A lot of money.’
‘I will do what I can for you.’
‘And I want a written assurance from Mr Secretary that when this all blows up my head will be safe.’
‘No blame will attach to you.’
‘I want it written. Preferably in Walsingham’s blood.’
Shakespeare realised he was losing Gifford. He leapt forward and clasped Gifford in a bear-like embrace. ‘I will have the Smith sisters for you, sir, even if I pay them from my own pocket. I pledge this. Go to the Holborn house. They will be there. And you will have more money: a pension from the Treasury.’
‘And the assurance?’
‘That is for Mr Secretary.’ It was the one thing Shakespeare could not promise. Never would Walsingham put into writing the truth about his use of Gilbert Gifford, for if it ever came out, such a document would play straight into the hands of England’s enemies.
As Shakespeare released him from his grip, Gifford smiled, but the suspicion in his eyes was not diminished. Trust? Gilbert Gifford had long ago learnt never to trust anyone.
‘Now find Ballard. And remember: if you abandon this enterprise now, you will be England’s enemy and you will pay a heavy price.’
Gifford was looking out of the window again. He did not turn around. ‘Mr Shakespeare, do I detect the spirit of Mr Secretary in your words?’
‘Never doubt his ability to find you, wherever you are. He will not forgive you if you leave this endeavour uncompleted.’
‘That sounds very much like a threat. Have I ever let you down?’
‘You are like smoke in fog, Mr Gifford – and you know it.’
‘There are times when we all struggle with our loyalties, Mr Shakespeare – even you.’
‘Do not fail me.’
‘Your point is noted.’ Gifford gestured with his hand for Shakespeare to come to the window. ‘It seems your friends have left you their corpse.’
Young and his men had indeed gone, but the cart was still there. The body of Oswald Redd was being poked and prodded by a crowd of children. Shakespeare cursed.
Chapter 29
Sorbus stood at the door of Giltspur House and sighed as though the weight of the world had suddenly descended on his narrow shoulders. ‘He is at Greenwich with the court, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘I am not here to see Arthur Giltspur. I wish to talk with the maid, Abigail.’
‘I cannot admit you to the house without the express permission of my master.’
‘Then talk to his grandmother. She is the master in this house, I believe.’
Sorbus moved to close the door, but then appeared to reconsider. ‘Come in, Mr Shakespeare. I will speak to Mistress Giltspur. I believe she is awake.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sorbus.’ He loo
ked at the retreating back of the steward. For the first time, he had not looked down his sharp nose at his guest. Why? Shakespeare was left on a settle in an oak-panelled anteroom. A footman appeared with a tray, bowed low, and poured a small measure of brandy into a fine Venetian glass. Shakespeare sipped at it. He did not have to wait long before Sorbus reappeared.
‘Mistress Giltspur would like to talk with you herself. Please come with me.’
Joan Giltspur was sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair, beside the window in her room. Her door was open, but Sorbus knocked at it anyway. The old woman’s head turned slowly and a slight nod indicated that they should enter.
‘Good day, Mr Shakespeare. Please come in. You may go, Sorbus.’
The steward bowed stiffly and left, closing the door behind him.
‘Mistress Giltspur, thank you for receiving me.’
‘Indeed, I was rather hoping you would come again. I have been thinking much since last you were here.’
The old woman was dressed in a gown of gold and red which must have been the height of fashion fifty years earlier. He looked down where the sunlight fell on her feet and was surprised to note that they were bare.
Her eyes followed his. ‘I can no longer abide shoes, Mr Shakespeare. Tell me, have your inquiries proceeded to any degree?’
‘They are by no means complete, but I believe I have made some little progress. I have come here today in the hope of talking to your maid, Abigail.’
‘And why would that be?’
‘Because I think she is with child and I would very much like to know who the father is.’
She moved forward in her chair. ‘Abigail? Who told you this?’
‘No one,’ he lied. ‘It was the look of her, the healthy blossom on her cheeks, the swelling of her breasts and belly. If I am wrong, then I can only apologise.’
‘Abigail!’ The old woman’s voice was surprisingly loud and piercing.
The maid came scurrying in from an adjoining chamber.
‘Yes, Mistress Giltspur? Yes, ma’am?’ Her eyes swivelled between her mistress and John Shakespeare.
‘Is this true?’ The old woman pointed a bony finger at the girl’s belly.
She hesitated a moment too long and then shook her head. ‘Forgive me, ma’am, what are you suggesting?’
‘Who is the father? If you do not give me his name, you will be out of this house within the hour. Do you understand?’
‘But I am not with child, ma’am.’
‘When were your last flowers?’
‘Not two weeks since. Please, ma’am, I beg you don’t dismiss me.’
‘Get out!’
Abigail gasped, then put her hand to her mouth, burst into tears and ran to the door. Loud sobs trailed back into the room.
Shakespeare put his hand up. ‘Mistress Giltspur, let me speak to her. I had not meant to bring this upon the young woman. We cannot even be sure my suspicion was correct.’
‘Of course it was correct. I must be losing my mind, Mr Shakespeare. I have no notion how I failed to note it before. She must be almost six months gone.’
‘Allow me a few words. At least we might discover the name of the father. Perhaps the offer of a reference or a few shillings to tide her over while she seeks another position . . .’ Shakespeare looked for some forgiveness in the old widow’s eyes, but saw only stone.
‘I thank you for bringing me this news, but now I must ask you to go.’ Joan Giltspur snorted. ‘It will be some grubby serving boy from the kitchen, or a groom from the stables.’
‘There is another possibility. What if Nicholas was the father? What if the babe she carries is your grandchild?’
Silence hung in the old woman’s chamber. The deep lines in her face showed every one of her eighty-one years. She pulled her lips back from her teeth, which were remarkably white for one of her age. For a moment it seemed she would speak, but no words came.
‘It is a possibility, is it not?’ Shakespeare broke the silence. ‘She is a very pretty young woman. If the child was conceived five or six months ago, then it would have been long before he met Katherine.’
‘This is scurrilous talk. How dare you! This family has done more for England than the whole Privy Council combined, and yet you have the temerity to suggest such a thing. Get out.’
‘Of course I will go, but think on it. Why not Nicholas? She is a comely young woman and he was an unattached man. She would not have been the first maid to slip into her master’s bed of a night . . .’
‘And you believe this is something to do with his murder, Mr Shakespeare? Is that it?’
‘I don’t know. But I must look at all possibilities, and spurned love has led to many murders. But before I can even begin to think such things, I must ascertain the name of the father.’
‘Go to her. Tell her she can stay if she is honest with you. She will work in the kitchens. I do not wish to see her, but I wish to know the truth.’
Shakespeare found Abigail in her bedchamber, one of a number of small rooms in the extensive attics. She was sitting on a narrow cot with a thin mattress and meagre bedding. Her head was in her hands and tears streamed from her eyes. He sat down beside her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. The gloom was pervasive, for there was no window and the only light came through the open hatch.
‘Come now, Abigail, dry your eyes. I believe your mistress can be persuaded to relent.’ He tried to soften his voice.
The sobs were choking in her throat. Shakespeare had not expected such intensity of emotion. Suddenly his arm around her shoulders felt awkward, a little too intimate. He stood up. Still she did not raise her head from her hands or allow her eyes to meet his.
‘How long have you been here at Giltspur House?’
She did not answer, but kept on weeping.
‘I know you were lady’s maid to Mistress Katherine Giltspur. I can understand how dismayed you must have been at the events of a few days ago. It is all still a mystery, is it not? And that is the reason I am here – to try to solve this terrible puzzle. What I need from you is any information you might have; anything you might not already have mentioned, which is why I want you to tell me the name of your baby’s father. Perhaps he might know something. Anything you can tell me, however insignificant it might seem to you, could assist me.’
Her tears continued unabated. How was he to extract information from this woman? And then he seemed to hear a whisper through her sob.
‘Help me.’
The words were so quiet that at first he was not certain he had heard them.
‘What would you have me do?’
‘Help me, sir. I have done a bad thing,’ she whispered.
‘What have you done, Abigail? What bad thing?’
‘Please, Mr Shakespeare . . .’
‘Is this something to do with Mr Giltspur’s death? If so, it were better you speak now. Or are you speaking of the babe that grows in your womb? Is that the bad thing?’ He leant forward and took her face in his hands.
Briefly, Abigail’s moist red eyes met Shakespeare’s, then went back down, demurely, as though she were a virgin at the altar. She slid forward from the bed onto her knees. For a moment, he thought she was about to pray, but instead she clasped Shakespeare’s legs like a supplicant. ‘Please, sir. Please, help me.’
‘Yes, I will help you, but you must be straight and honest with me. Answer my questions truthfully and I will try to assist you. I ask again, what is this bad thing you speak of – do you mean the swelling of your belly? Or is there something else I should know?’
‘I will do anything. Anything.’
He tried to remove her arms from about his legs, to make her either stand up or sit back on the bed so that they could converse properly, but she held him tighter and nestled her tear-stained face into his groin, so that he could feel her warm breath through the wool of his hose.
‘Abigail, you must move away. This is not seemly.’
Her hands slid up the b
ack of his legs and tried to venture into the gap between his thighs. ‘Abigail!’ He tried to wrench himself away from her, but she clasped him all the harder. Now her right hand went to the front of his hose and began to stroke him. He grasped her hand to pull it away and was astonished by her strength in resisting him. But he was stronger. With his other hand he gripped her upper left arm and forced her back onto the bed. She let out a strange laugh, half tearful, half insane.
‘Abigail, this will not end here. Tell me, the bad thing, what is it? Tell me now.’
She pulled back her shoulders and turned her head sharply to the left to shield her face from him.
For two minutes he stood and looked down at her. But she did not move, except for the occasional shudder, which might have been a residue of her tears or the convulsion of a laugh.
There was nothing more to be said. Without another word, he clambered through the hatchway and down the ladder.
He found Sorbus in the hall close to the front door.
‘Mr Sorbus, a word.’
‘As you will, sir.’
‘The maid Abigail, I wish to know more about her. She seems almost deranged.’
‘I fear she has not been herself since the recent events, Mr Shakespeare. And now I am led to believe that you think her with child.’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Old Mistress Giltspur, sir. She is most displeased.’
‘So you suspected nothing, even when her belly swelled and her breasts grew?’
Sorbus cast his face into an apology. ‘I am but a man, sir, and a bachelor. The ways of women are a mystery to me. I do not notice things as others might. Indeed, as you might, sir.’
‘How long has she been in the house?’
‘A year. She was in service to Mr Tort. He had overheard me saying to Mr Nicholas that we needed a new housemaid and he said that he had a good girl who was surplus to requirements. And so we took her on. She did well and was promoted to lady’s maid when Mr Nicholas brought his new bride into the house.’
‘What is her family name?’
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