Holy Spy (23 page)

‘There are exciting tales told of his exploits, mistress,’ Abigail said. ‘I have heard that men often admire him.’

How had Cutting Ball become a folk hero? ‘There is nothing valiant about Mr Ball. He does not steal from the rich to help the poor; nor does he seek to improve the lot of the labouring man. He steals from everyone to enrich himself and he murders and maims those who stand in his way.’

There was silence in the room and Shakespeare realised he had revealed himself a little too clearly. He looked at the woman in the bed. She was becoming drowsy, but there was something in her eye that told him she was playing with him. She knew very well who Cutting Ball was and what he did.

And then it struck him: she was not simply the doddering matriarch of this family. She was the very heart of its trading empire. If the Giltspurs had ever paid money to Cutting Ball to protect their ships from his malicious attentions, then she knew all about it. She knew everything. Arthur’s father and uncle had not built the clan’s great riches; they had merely worked for their mother, done her bidding, been the public face. Mistress Giltspur –
Grandame
– was the power in this household.

‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘I would value your opinion. Do you believe your daughter-in-law paid Will Cane to murder your son?’

Her breathing was more pronounced, almost a snore. A few words seemed to escape her lips, but Shakespeare could hardly discern them.

‘She will be asleep any moment,’ Giltspur said. ‘I think your questioning is at an end, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Did she say something? I could not catch the words.’

Arthur Giltspur smiled. ‘You will get nothing more from her now. When she is awake she is usually lucid. But then the laudanum plays games with her . . .’ He paused. ‘She wants the diamond. Sometimes she sleeps with it. She says it brings her comfort.’

‘The Giltspur Diamond?’

‘It is famous, I think. A rare piece. A diamond of one hundred carats, brought from the Africas. It hangs as the centrepiece of a necklet.’

‘Is it here with her now?’

Giltspur affected a puzzled expression. ‘Your questions go in remarkable odd directions, sir. She either has it with her or it is locked away in the strongroom. It is hers, so I know not.’

For a few seconds more, Shakespeare gazed upon the ancient, lined face and thought he saw the beautiful young woman whom Great Henry had held in his deadly arms. He imagined her wearing her great diamond about her neck, its brilliance catching the light and dazzling all eyes. He saw something else, too: Kat Whetstone, now Katherine Giltspur, fugitive and widow. Though separated by two generations, Kat and the old grandmother shared beauty, immense ambition and unstoppable willpower. When Nicholas Giltspur fell for Kat, he had found a replica of his mother.

‘Are you done with us, sir?’

‘I am, Mr Giltspur.’

Arthur Giltspur touched Shakespeare’s arm. ‘Grandame had hoped that Katherine would give her another grandson, to carry on the family enterprise. She despairs of me. The truth is, I have no interest in ships and the sea. Nor fish.’

‘You have never explained how you were freed from the Fleet gaol so early, Mr Maude. I was told that you were sentenced to three years for extorting money from the archbishop, yet it seems you served little more than half that time.’

Harry Slide was taken aback by the sudden turn of Ballard’s questioning. They had been consoling themselves with a well-earned meal after another fruitless day trying to extract pledges of support from Catholic gentry. No one in Nottinghamshire was interested. The lords and knights and burghers had land to be farmed, mines to be dug and, anyway, they all had seminary priests in residence to attend to their spiritual needs. The last thing they wanted was insurrection and civil war. Memories of the 1569 Northern Rebellion and the 1536 Pilgrimage of Grace were all too fresh. Each had ended in ferocious reprisals.

‘What a curious question, Captain.’ Slide’s knife, with a fine slice of beef attached to it, hung in the smoky air, halfway to his mouth.

‘I had a dream last night, Mr Maude. It seemed to me that something was not quite right about you.’

Slide shrugged, pushed the beef into his mouth and chewed. He had a mighty hunger from the day’s wasted efforts.

‘Do you hear me?’

He put down his knife, pointedly. ‘Yes, I hear you. A dream, you say? Are you a sorcerer that you take note of such things?’

‘It was most vivid. I saw you cloaked in treachery, come to us with a knife behind your back. A winged angel swept you away and dropped you into the pit.’

Slide picked up his knife again and held it towards Ballard. A red drop of beef juice dribbled down its sharp edge. ‘This knife, Captain Fortescue? Was this the knife that I held behind my back? Take it. It’s yours if it worries you.’

‘I don’t want your knife.’

‘Dreams! Perhaps you will converse with your winged angels next – like Dr Dee. I am surprised and not a little disturbed that you should ask me such things. Do you think I am some sort of spy? Or perhaps you think me a fugitive from justice and would have me returned to the Fleet.’

‘I know not, but I would like an answer nonetheless.’ He looked to his other companion, Robert Gage. ‘
We
would like an answer. Why did you serve but half your sentence?’

‘And all for a dream.’ Slide shook his head as though this conversation was altogether too tedious ‘Very well. If you must. I was released early at the archbishop’s own request. I am told he felt my continued presence in gaol only served to prolong the mockery and derision aimed at his person. He wished the whole thing forgotten as quickly as possible.’ Slide snorted with laughter. ‘A vain hope! Men will make merry at the expense of the dirty Archbishop of York and the landlord’s bawdy wife for many generations to come. Does that satisfy you, Captain Fortescue? May I return to my beef while it yet has some warmth to it?’

He met Ballard’s eye. It was a dark, scowling thing. He was in his late thirties, mad-eyed and dark-bearded, wearing an extravagant cape laced with gold, and a satin doublet with slashes; attire most uncommon here in the east Midlands. At his side, on the bench, was a hat adorned with silver buttons. He wore the guise of a rich and generous captain-of-war with assurance, as though born to the role; the very image of a soldier of fortune. Why, Slide wondered, had such a man – with a taste for assassination and insurrection – not joined a real army rather than the priesthood? Would he not have preferred the blood and thunder of a true man-at-arms to the sneaking and slithering of the underground clergy?

Slide looked away, but was still aware of Ballard’s eyes boring in to him. He ignored them, ate his beef greedily and tossed back his strong beer. What a pleasure it would be to
observe this priest’s blood washing into the Tyburn soil.

‘Is that true?’ Ballard pressed.

Slide sighed. ‘Yes, for pity’s sake. Otherwise I would not be here, but manacled in my cold cell.’

Ballard attempted a smile, but it was more like a grimace. ‘Forgive me. These checks and disappointments . . . I begin to see enemies in the shadows.’

‘Well I am
not
your enemy. Now eat your beef and allow me the same courtesy.’ Harry Slide had no more time for this. He had spotted a face across the taproom floor, studying him closely. Was it someone from the past when he lived and operated in these parts? Slide always remembered a face, but in this case he was uncertain. Only one thing for it: find out.

Shakespeare rode to meet Goodfellow Savage at Barnard’s Inn. The street here at Holborn Bars was a scene of chaos, with building work proceeding on Staple Inn next door to Barnard’s. The new inn was designed as an extension to Gray’s and the work was disrupting the movement of livestock and wagons. A delivery of timber had just been unloaded and was strewn across the highway. Shakespeare had to pick his way over piles of oak.

Savage was at his studies, his head bent so low that his eyes were scarce three inches from the paper he read. He had his hands over his ears to blank out the sounds of hammering and shouting from the nearby building site.

Shakespeare clapped his hands. ‘Come, Goodfellow,’ he shouted. ‘Let us remove ourselves from this din.’

Putting down his quill, Savage rubbed his tired eyes and blinked. ‘They do their damnable work from dawn until dusk. There is as much noise here as on the field of battle.’

‘Let us dine together. I will pay the reckoning.’

Savage stood up from his table and stretched his arms so that he touched the ceiling. ‘Free food and ale? You are most persuasive, John Shakespeare.’

‘Good.’

Shakespeare looked about the cheerless room where Savage lived, slept and worked with his three fellow lodgers, including Dominic de Warre. Apart from the table there was a basin and four poor beds of straw, but today Savage was alone, red-eyed from his long hours of study.

Together, they walked out into the warm evening air and headed east, away from Holborn Bars towards the Silver Grayling. As they passed Hern’s Rents, Savage stopped and looked up at the six-storey tenement. ‘Shall we call out Anthony Babington?’

He wanted Savage to himself. ‘Another time. Let us talk of women, wine and the hunt. There are days when a man needs nothing more serious than the fellowship of a good friend and a jug of good beer.’

‘I hoped you would say that. He pushes me incessantly.’

‘Pushes you? In what way?’

For a moment it seemed to Shakespeare that Savage was about to reveal his murderous vow, but he merely smiled. ‘You know – the way he pushes us all. Do you think it will ever happen, this rising?’

‘One must hope. There is much to plan, many preparations to be made. God will surely show us the way, but we must do our part, too. He gave us free will so that we might choose to follow his path or take the other way. The brave man’s path – or the coward’s way—’ Shakespeare stopped short.

Savage stood rigid, his head held high, his long soldier’s beard thrust forward, like a statue, frozen in stone, eyes wide open and staring.

‘Goodfellow – is all well with you?’

He shook himself and gasped for air. ‘I . . . forgive me, John.’

‘What is it?’

‘I saw the cross before my eyes. I saw Christ’s blood, flowing like molten gold from his wounds. His mouth did not move but I heard his words. He was talking to me.’ Another deep gulp of air. Savage closed his eyes.

‘Goodfellow?’

‘I think it was a sign.’

Shakespeare placed a comforting hand on his companion’s arm.

‘John, I am sore troubled. What do you believe the Church’s teaching to be on the matter of taking one life to save a nation’s soul?’

‘You mean
assassination
?’ Shakespeare barely whispered the word. His heart was pounding. He did not wish to be told this secret. The fact that he had learnt of Savage’s vow from Gifford rather than from his own lips somehow made it distant and he had always secretly hoped to find some way to save him. But if he were to have this man’s confidence, it would be altogether different. How could he keep such a secret when it flew against all that he believed in?
Oh that my ears should fill up with mortar and that deafness should suddenly take me
.

And yet this was his work: the defence of Queen and realm. His country before his friends. He chose his reply with care. ‘I have heard it said that if such an act is carried out for God, and not for man, then there will be rejoicing in heaven.’

‘
Regnans in Excelsis
seemed to make it clear, but since its suspension . . . How can a man know where he stands?’

Shakespeare nodded his head gravely.
Regnans in Excelsis
. This proclamation of Pope Pius V in 1570 excommunicating Elizabeth had, in essence, ordered her subjects to rise up against her or risk excommunication themselves. It had supposedly been suspended in 1580, but all that had happened was that the people of England were given freedom to obey her orders to save their skins – all the while waiting, hoping, praying and scheming for her death and the destruction of her regime.

‘Do you think it still gives a man freedom to—’