Holy Spy (27 page)

He shook his head vigorously. ‘Nothing.’

‘And nothing to suggest that officers of the law came and took her away?’

‘No. The house was not disturbed in any way.’

‘Did she ride or go by foot?’

‘Our mare is still in her stable. So unless someone brought her a mount, then she must have walked.’

‘Well, let us ride on. I wish to see where she was lodged.’

They trotted across the meadow, scattering sheep as they went. The life of a farmer with little acreage could be hard, but this looked a comfortable place and Shakespeare wondered why Oswald Redd had ever considered leaving.

Redd pushed open the front door and called out. ‘Osric?’ There was no response.

‘We will seek him out later if need be. First, show me her room.’

They ascended a ladder to the first floor. The bedchamber was on the left, through a low doorway with no door. The bed was plain and old. It might, thought Shakespeare, have been here since the Black Death. How many people had been conceived, born and died in it? Kat would not have felt comfortable here.

‘What were you planning to do, Mr Redd?’

He looked puzzled. ‘I do not understand the question, sir.’

‘Well, let me put it this way. Where would she have gone from here?’

‘She would have stayed here. It is safe enough, and a comfortable life.’

‘This is a sheep farm!’

‘I was planning to leave the playhouse and come here to run the farm once the hue and cry had died away. We would have married in time. It will still happen if we can find her.’

‘Are you seriously saying that you believe Kat Whetstone might have become a shepherd’s wife? Do you know nothing of her?’

Redd bridled. ‘I know her better than any man, Mr Shakespeare. She is the love of my life and it was a cruel day when Nicholas Giltspur chanced upon her with his great wealth. Any young woman’s head might have been turned by such riches.’

Shakespeare could see the anguish in Oswald’s eyes; she had forsaken him not once but twice. Perhaps none of them knew her. He himself had clearly not known her as well as he had thought, for he failed to see what might have made her desert his bed for the doubtful charms of Oswald Redd’s. Was there some hidden frailty that made her betray every person who trusted her?

In the corner of the room, there was an old coffer. Shakespeare lifted the lid. The comforting smell of wool rose to his nostrils. The coffer was packed with folded clothes and bed linen. Idly, he picked up the topmost sheet. Beneath it, he noticed a dress. Though plain, it was made of fine linen; it did not look like the attire of a farm wife and certainly not that of an old woman. He pulled it out and held it up.

A chill ran down his spine. ‘This is Kat’s. She was wearing this when I saw her at your house in Shoreditch.’

Redd nodded. ‘It was indeed the dress she wore when she was with me. She brought no other when she fled her home.’

‘Then what is she wearing now?’
Or what has been done to her
 ...

They heard a sound downstairs.

‘That will be Osric,’ said Redd. ‘Come down when you are ready.’

Just as he had done at Giltspur House, Shakespeare searched Kat’s bedchamber in the thorough manner he had learnt from Sir Francis Walsingham. He removed all the blankets, sheets and old clothes from the coffer but discovered nothing more of interest. He looked beneath the mattress, in the gaps between floorboards, in any nook or hole in the wall, however small. He tapped at walls for hollowness and closed and opened the shutters to see whether any hidden message or object should fall out. Then he lifted the old, scratched washbasin to peer underneath and did likewise with the ancient vials of herbs and potions that seemed more likely to have belonged to Redd’s mother rather than Kat. All the time, he felt a gnawing fear: who had hidden the dress – and why?

He went downstairs to question Osric Redd. You could not mistake the two men as anything but brothers: both had complexions the colour of a Thames salmon, but Osric was nowhere near as well favoured as his brother.

‘When did you last see Kat?’

‘Yesterday morning. Dawn. She made the breakfast, then I went out and she weren’t here when I came back.’

‘What was she wearing?’

He shrugged. ‘Didn’t notice.’

‘And what was her humour?’

‘Don’t know. She were making breakfast. Mutton broth with beans. Same as I always have.’ He shrugged again and looked at his brother for guidance.

Oswald put an arm around his brother’s shoulder. ‘Osric is not like others, Mr Shakespeare. He’s happier in the company of sheep than people. He’ll spot the staggers, scab or scrapie sooner than he’ll note a broken leg in a man. He understands them and will note their temper when the same will go unnoticed in a human. Isn’t that so, Osric?’

‘I like sheep.’

‘Mr Redd, a word in private with you, if I may.’

Redd nodded to his brother. ‘Off you go then, Osric. Time to feed the pigs.’

‘I don’t like pigs.’

‘I know you don’t, but you like bacon, don’t you. And without pigs, there’ll be none. Now off you go.’

He grunted. ‘She took my jerkin, you know. Why’d she do that?’ Without another word, Osric walked out.

His brother watched him go, then smiled grimly at Shakespeare. ‘Before you ask, the answer is no. Oscric could not have harmed Kat; he has never harmed any creature. Wouldn’t even slaughter a hen, let alone one of his beloved sheep. Slaughterman has to do it for us.’

‘Her dress was abandoned and hidden.’

‘I know nothing about that – nor does he. I doubt he ever spoke more than half a dozen words to her.’

‘Mr Redd. We have two possibilities here. Either Kat has taken Osric’s jerkin and other articles of clothing from this house and run off wearing them, or something has happened to her and she has never left.’

‘Osric’s done nothing to her. If he says she took his jerkin, then that’s what happened.’

Shakespeare sighed. ‘Come, Mr Redd. Show me around the rest of the house and any outbuildings you have here. And set a fire for we must burn Kat’s dress. It would do you or your brother no good at all for it to be found here.’

Chapter 23

Boltfoot Cooper was finding it hard to think clearly; he was almost overwhelmed by the intense stink of pig manure. That and his raging thirst. His hands and feet were bound and he had been thrown here, into this enclosed place, like an unwanted sack of rotting turnips.

At least it was daylight now. They had brought him here many hours ago and seemed to have forgotten about him.

He had been caught close to the Thames, within sight of the river stairs where the water-bearer was waiting for him nervously. There had been three men – brutish individuals with bare arms and bulging muscles – and two women: the whore named Aggy who had led him to the home of Will Cane, and Em Ball.

‘That’s him. That’s the dirty little turd,’ Aggy had said, pointing at him.

Boltfoot had nowhere to go and no way to defend himself. His caliver and cutlass were still with the water-bearer, a matter of yards away but as good as a mile for all the use they were to him.

There were plenty of people about, but none that would try their luck against three of Cutting Ball’s crew. Everyone knew who the men were by the sleeveless leather jerkins they wore and the curling serpents carved into their arms.

‘Well, Mr Cooper, you can come with us easy or with broken bones.’

Boltfoot had looked towards the stairs and the timid Tom Pearson. The terror in the water-bearer’s eyes suggested that he had had no part in this. Pearson backed away into the crowd, and why should he not, thought Boltfoot? No reason for a decent working man to sacrifice his life for a stranger. Boltfoot met the cool stares of his would-be captors; they hadn’t even bothered to draw their weapons. He shrugged. ‘Let’s make it easy.’

They marched him down to the water stairs, where they hauled him into a rowing boat and cast off into midstream. A hood was placed over his head. Apart from the lapping of the water and the cawing of the gulls, the only thing he heard was the macabre wit of his abductors. ‘We could always drop him in here.’

‘It would save him much pain.’

‘No,’ Em Ball replied – he knew her voice – ‘Mr Ball will have other plans for him.’

Within a few minutes the boat had come to another mooring, away from the crowds, and he was dragged out, then thrown over the back of a horse and tied in place. His wrists were attached to his ankles beneath the horse’s belly. An uncomfortable ride of about three-quarters of an hour ensued.

Only at the last minute, when he was untied from the horse, was the hood removed from his eyes. Then he was bound tight again and flung here in this pigsty. Apart from the remarks on the river, his captors had said nothing and given him no clue as to what was to happen to him. He guessed that he was probably back by the barn where he had met Cutting Ball, and that his fate was likely to be an unpleasant death.

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.