Holy Spy (38 page)

‘A hundred and twenty thousand men in total then. Surely this heretical regime will crumble to dust before such an onslaught.’

Gifford had his eyes closed, his hands gripped tight together, deep in thought.

‘We must have this right. You, Mr Babington, must have it right, for it will be your letter and you have her trust. Phrase it well and she will read every word with hope in her royal heart. You should tell her how pleased you will be to serve her once again and what joy there will be among her subjects both in England and Scotland when you ease her path to freedom and the throne . . .’

‘You mean the dispatch of the usurper.’

‘The dispatch of the usurper. Yes, indeed. And then, at last, you must humbly entreat her to reply as soon as possible, giving her authority for you to proceed with these plans. For she is not only your sovereign but your captain-general in all things. We must have this authority.’

Babington was up from the settle, striding around the room with renewed vigour. The room was almost dark. He needed to light candles. With Gifford’s help, he would draft the letter now, even if it took until dawn. And then he would have to encrypt it; a chore, but one that had to be done.

For a mad moment, he wished to take Gifford in his arms.

No, not Gifford. It was sweet Robin Poley he wanted. If only he were here now, to share this moment.

‘But first, Mr Babington,’ Gifford said solemnly. ‘I think it only meet that we both go down on our knees and pray for God’s wisdom . . .’

Chapter 32

‘You had a visitor, master,’ Jane said when Shakespeare returned to Seething Lane in the early evening. ‘A young lady named Bathsheba Cane with three small children.’

Shakespeare accepted the news without really taking it in. ‘Who is she?’ He was still thinking about his dinner with Robin Poley and the Walsinghams and wondering whether Gifford had been received into Babington’s bosom or thrown out by his heels.

‘She said she was the widow of Mr William Cane.’

The name jolted Shakespeare from his distraction. ‘Will Cane’s widow? God’s teeth, Jane, what did the woman want?’

‘She wished to speak with you, sir, and she wanted to return Mr Cooper’s weapons. His sword and hagbut. I think it was a great struggle for her to carry them all this way.’

Jane nodded towards the settle beneath the window, a mere two yards away. Shakespeare picked up Boltfoot’s cutlass and caliver; they were in perfect condition. His heart sank. If Boltfoot’s weapons were here, that did not bode well for his health.

‘How did she get hold of these?’

‘She did not say, sir. She said she had hoped to find Mr Cooper here to return them to him.’

‘Did she give any indication as to his whereabouts?’

Jane shook her head nervously. ‘I did ask her that, but she merely said that she didn’t know. She said that if you came home before Mr Cooper arrived that she would be happy to talk with you, and she told me how you might find her. Should I have asked more? Did I do wrong, master?’

‘No, you did well. What manner of woman was she?’

‘Of a pleasant disposition, but exceeding worried, I would say. Worried for Mr Cooper. And that, in turn, caused me great concern for his welfare.’

Shakespeare breathed in sharply through his teeth. He, too, was worried for Boltfoot’s welfare.

Darkness was falling when Shakespeare found the house. The woman seemed relieved that he had come, but put a finger to her lips and begged him to speak low, for her children were asleep.

‘How did you come to be in possession of Mr Cooper’s arms, Mistress Cane?’

Bathsheba Cane told him all that had passed between them. ‘After he left me, he must have been followed, for Tom Pearson the water-bearer saw him being apprehended by three men, who were accompanied by two women. Mr Cooper was still unarmed and so would have had no way to defend himself.’

‘Did Mr Pearson have any idea who the abductors might be?’

She nodded, her face drawn and fearful. ‘They were three of Cutting Ball’s men. They are well known around here, for they prey on the ships moored at the wharfs.’

‘Did he know their names?’

‘No, sir.’

‘What of the women?’

Bathsheba looked pained. ‘It is a life I would wish to put behind me, sir. But from the description, I believe one of them was likely to have been Em, the sister of Cutting Ball. I have met her – indeed she has been here in this parlour with my late husband and Mr Ball himself – and I would be content never to see them again.’

‘What do you think they might have done with Mr Cooper?’

‘I fear the worst, sir. But before he left, I did talk a great deal with him and there was one matter he believed would be of great import to you . . .’ She tailed off uncertainly.

‘Please continue.’

‘My husband had another woman. You might call her paramour or lover, but I would call her whore and trug. Her name was Abigail and she was a lady’s maid in the household of the Giltspur family. He liked to spit her name in my face.’

So his doubts about Abigail were confirmed, but not in the way he had expected. Surely Cane must be the father of her unborn child. Now, at least, there was a certain link between the murderer and Giltspur House.

Shakespeare absorbed the information. What precisely did it mean? Did the connection help Kat’s case, or hinder it? ‘Mistress, did your husband know this Abigail before she went to work there – or was he already acquainted with someone within the house?’

She shook her head.‘That is not the kind of thing that he would have told me.’

‘I have met this Abigail and she is big with child. Do you believe your husband is the father?’ He tried to speak gently.

‘Who can tell? The woman is a harlot. When next you see her, please spit in her face for me.’

‘Did your husband ever talk of the Giltspur family?’

‘He trumpeted their great wealth and ease of living and how, by the grace of Mr Ball, he would one day rise to such wealth and stature himself.’

‘What of Cutting Ball? Do you know where I might find him?’

She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘No.’

‘I beg you, mistress. If you know something, tell me. Mr Cooper might yet be alive – it might not be too late to save him.’

She sighed. ‘Ask Em Ball. She runs all the whores for her brother in the stews east of the Tower. Mr Cooper met her in the Burning Prow, which is no more than five minutes from here.’

He nodded. ‘Boltfoot told me of the place. Can you take me there?’

As they walked through the darkening, dangerous streets, Shakespeare felt an icy chill in his veins. If Boltfoot had been at the mercy of Cutting Ball all this time, then there could be little hope for him. What evil had they wrought upon him before merciful death? The bile rose in Shakespeare’s throat. Someone had to pay.

From the outside, the Burning Prow looked like a large alehouse, set into the centre of a woodframe house without windows. The street was largely deserted, for this was Sunday, but a few men were making their furtive way towards it. Shakespeare was painfully aware that he had no plan, nor any strength of arms against Cutting Ball’s men. But nor could he simply wait and do nothing. He had to confront Em Ball, whatever the risk.

Inside, the main hall was busy and stank of perfumes from the Orient. A young black man sat on a stool, playing a ballad on the lute. Men drank and sized up the women, of whom there were about ten, deciding which one they wished to buy. The room itself was decorated in shades of red and black, with commonplace tapestries and painted cloths on the walls, depicting scenes of bawdiness: satyrs with pricks like Priapus, fleshy women with no clothing but welcoming smiles, devils with forks chasing bishops into the fire.

‘There she is,’ Bathsheba said as soon as her eyesight had adjusted to the candlelit interior. She nodded towards a good-looking woman talking with a pair of girls at the left side of the room. ‘Don’t be fooled by her comely face and manner, Mr Shakespeare. She is pretty like the falcon, but with sharper talons.’ And with a squeeze of his arm, she slipped unseen into the crowd.

As Shakespeare approached Em Ball, she turned to him and smiled in welcome. He did not smile back.

‘Well, sir, and who might you be?’ she said.

‘John Shakespeare, master to Mr Boltfoot Cooper.’

If she was surprised, it did not register on her handsome face. ‘Then it is my pleasure to welcome you. Indeed, I had been expecting you.’ She swept her hand around the room to indicate the scantily clad women. ‘Is there one you like? I would offer the very finest to a Walsingham man.’ She pointed to the far corner where a young woman with fair hair was seated all alone. ‘That is Kristina. She came stowed away aboard a carrack from the Swedish lands. Is she not a faerie princess, all pale and smooth? She knows tricks that even the French have not yet learnt. Take her, she is yours for the night.’

There was a hardness in Em Ball’s bright eyes that Shakespeare had not noticed from the other side of the room. This was a woman of ruthless intelligence.

‘I want to speak with your brother, Miss Ball.’

‘Ah.’ She feigned disappointment. ‘That will not be possible, I fear. He has gone to the country to recover from a summer sweat. Forget him. Kristina will soothe you, sir. Both soul and body. ’

Shakespeare bent his head to her ear and spoke slowly and clearly. ‘Do you wish me to bring this empire of yours crashing down around your ears? Do you wish to be brought to the scaffold for being accessory to murder? Take me to your brother, now. I want to know what he has done with my man Cooper, God damn your filthy, rotten soul.’

Em Ball widened her eyes. ‘Why, sir, he has gone to sea! My brother found him a berth aboard a great vessel.’ She shook her head and tutted. ‘But fret not, he will be back by year’s end. Gone fishing to the Grand Banks, I do believe. A long voyage, but a profitable one.’

‘You lie. Mr Cooper would not take ship if he had the choice.’

‘But I do know for certain sure that he has gone to sea, and I will happily swear it to you. Think of it as a favour to you and the esteemed Mr Secretary. Come, Mr Shakespeare.’

Without waiting for him, she turned and pushed open a door into an inner chamber. He followed her into a functional room with dark panelling, very unlike the bawdy, colourful den beyond.

‘Take a seat, Mr Shakespeare. Can I bring you refreshment? I have some fine apple brandy.’

‘I want none of your ill-gotten produce. Nor do I want to sit down. I want Boltfoot Cooper – and I want him alive.’

‘You have nothing to fear. He will come back from his voyage a wealthier man. My brother would do nothing to harm any man or woman close to Sir Francis Walsingham.’

‘This has nothing to do with Walsingham.’

‘Oh but it has, Mr Shakespeare. It has everything to do with the Principal Secretary. Why else do you imagine I allow you the services of Beth and Eliza Smith?’

For a moment Shakespeare was speechless.

‘Did you not know they were my creatures? Every profession needs a company or guild, even night-workers. And so you may think of me as their warden.’

‘Warden? You are a grubby bawd, madam. You trade in flesh and disease.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘And you and your master are among my finest customers.’

‘And do you think then that Walsingham would protect you?’

‘He protects us all, does he not? England, Queen Bess and all her true subjects are safe thanks to the vigilance of Mr Secretary and the work of good men such as yourself.’

‘No.’ Shakespeare’s voice was cold with fury. ‘He would hang you, and all your villainous crew. And I would fashion the noose for him.’ Should he cart this woman to gaol? See how she fared under hard questioning with her hands and legs in irons.

She seemed to read his mind. ‘Do not even think of it, Mr Shakespeare. There are four strong men out there, each of them armed with blades and pistols. You would not get me past the door.’

It was true. For a moment he considered his options and realised they were exceedingly limited. ‘Damn you, madam, I will be back – and with a squadron of men-at-arms, if necessary from the Queen’s own guard.
They
are not in your pay.’