Holy Spy (49 page)

‘I have not come to kill you, but to prevent you murdering the Queen.’

‘She is a tyrant!’ The words were shouted by Dominic de Warre. ‘You cannot kill both of us, Shakespeare. One will survive and do for her.’ He was reaching for a pistol.

‘Tell him to stay his hand, Goodfellow. I have no wish to kill a boy.’

Savage nodded to de Warre. ‘Hand him the pistol, Dominic.’

‘No! I am man enough to kill – and die if necessary.’

Savage reached over and, without ceremony, wrenched the pistol from de Warre’s hand as he pulled it from his belt. He turned it around in his hand so that he was clasping the muzzle, and proffered the handle to Shakespeare. ‘It is not even loaded, John. My young friend is a little too eager for martyrdom.’

Shakespeare took the weapon. ‘Wheel your horses. I am taking you back to London.’

‘I say again, shoot me here. It will be a kindness, for you know what is stored up for me. You would do as much for a dog.’

‘I cannot shoot you. In the name of the Father – both of Catholic and Protestant alike – I swear I do not want this. I would let you go, if you would only let me. I would even give your horse a slap, point it southwards and send it galloping for the coast so that you could take boat to France. I would do this with a glad heart if only you would pledge to me that you will desist from your wicked design.’

‘Wicked design?’ Savage emitted a despairing sigh. ‘The greatest doctors of the Church have told me that her death would be God’s work. I cannot make such a pledge to you, John. A vow to God cannot be undone by a pledge to man.’

‘Then I have one more offer for you.’

‘Name it.’

Shakespeare jabbed the petronel in the direction of de Warre. ‘I will allow
him
to go free. But you must come with me, Goodfellow. Come without dissent or fight. Ride with me unbound. Do this and the boy goes free. He is no Pope’s White Son. We both know it. He fights injustice, nothing

more. And I confess that in many ways I am as one with him.’

Savage turned to the boy. ‘Dominic?’

‘Where you go, I go.’

‘No, if you love me you will stay alive. You say you are obedient, in which case do as I say.’

‘Go to your home in the country,’ Shakespeare said. ‘Far from London – and do not stir from there for a year.’

‘They will find me.’

‘Will they, John?’

Shakespeare was not at all certain how this would work. Other men had seen Dominic with the Pope’s White Sons. Yet somehow he would have to be protected, even if he had to go down on his knees and kiss Mr Secretary’s feet in supplication. He nodded. ‘I give you my word. If Dominic turns now and rides north, he will be safe. This is my vow to you, Goodfellow.’

‘Is this well with you, Mr de Warre?’

‘No.’

‘And if I say you
must
do it?’

‘I entreat you not to say it.’

‘I say it: you
must
go.’

‘You are a cruel master, Goodfellow Savage.’

‘Kiss me farewell.’

‘It cuts me to the heart to leave you.’

‘It would cut me deeper if you were to stay.’

De Warre looked longingly at Savage, like a puppy turned out from the warmth of the kitchen on a bitter winter’s day. At last he leant across and embraced Savage. ‘You are a man among men, Goodfellow. I will pray for you and remember you always.’

‘This is my journey, not yours.’ He pulled at his reins to create distance between his horse and de Warre’s.

Shakespeare handed the boy his unloaded pistol. ‘Take this – and go. And when next you see your stepfather, take him in your arms. For he loves you as though you were his flesh and blood. One day you will know how much.’

Shakespeare and Savage watched as the boy rode off into the distance, northwards, away from Richmond and London.

‘Thank you. You are a fine friend, John.’ He patted his horse’s neck. ‘Here. It would please me if you were to have my horse. I bequeath it to you.’

‘Do you have no kin?’

‘None.’

‘You should have stayed a soldier, Goodfellow.’ Shakespeare tilted his chin towards Savage’s garish and ill-fitting court clothes of blue and yellow. ‘I am certain steel armour suits you better than satin.’

‘This? It was acquired in great haste.’

‘Come, let us ride.’

As he spoke, they both turned and saw a rising mantle of dust along the highway to the east. A large band of riders was coming their way, at speed. And at their head was Richard Topcliffe, his white hair billowing in the wind.

Chapter 41

The pursuivants came to a juddering halt on the highway. There were twenty men, all attired in black leather jerkins, complete with the Queen’s escutcheon, just as Walsingham had ordered. Their horses were flecked with foaming sweat, their faces coated with dust.

Topcliffe drew his sword, rested it across his lap and urged his horse forward until its head was beside the head of Shakespeare’s mount, their breaths mingling. He gazed first at Savage, then at Shakespeare.

‘Hand over your weapons or die here like dogs.’ He wiped his sleeve across his besmirched face, turning his head sharply.

‘I do not need you, Topcliffe. This man is arrested and is now under my charge. I have his pistols already.’

Topcliffe raised his arm as a signal to the men behind him. They all drew their own weapons, swords and pistols. ‘Your weapons, Shakespeare.’

‘What is this?’

‘Your weapons. All of them. I will not ask again.’

Shakespeare suddenly understood. ‘This is madness. You will not get away with it.’

Topcliffe laughed with scorn. ‘When you are pacing your cell, waiting to die a traitor’s death, I will be safely abed, sleeping as sound as a newborn, knowing that I have done my duty by God and Her Majesty.’ He raised his hand again and the pursuivants began to move forward, waiting for the hand to drop as a signal to fire their pistols.

Shakespeare realised all too clearly that Topcliffe would do it. He could kill both men here and now and he would get away with it. To survive, Shakespeare could neither fight these men, nor defy them. He threw the petronel and the pistols to the ground, and then the swords.

‘There, grovel for them.’

Topcliffe gestured to five of his men, who immediately dismounted. One of them began gathering up the array of firearms and blades while the others wrenched both Shakespeare and Savage from their saddles and forced them to their knees, with their hands on their heads.

‘Where’s the other one, Shakespeare?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Savage was with another – a young one. You followed them. Did you think you were not watched? Did you think we would not discover your foul plan to murder the Queen?’

‘There was no one. Savage alone had the plan and I captured him. He is
my
prisoner.’

‘Bind them across their horses,’ Topcliffe ordered, then waved two men forward. ‘Tom, Jacob, you carry on along the highway towards Richmond. Go at speed. If the young one is there, arrest him or kill him. I care not which. It is these two I most want for questioning.’ He pointed his sword at Shakespeare and Savage. ‘Let us see how they enjoy my entertainment in the Tower. I am sure we shall have them dancing like bears for our pleasure.’

‘Mr Secretary will not let you get away with this.’ Even as he said the words, his hands were being tied with thin cord that bit into his wrists, as were Savage’s.

‘And how, pray, will he know of it?’

‘God damn your stinking hide to hell, Topcliffe.’

Topcliffe laughed again, then leant from the saddle so that his mouth was close to Shakespeare and his fetid breath assailed his nostrils. ‘I have fine news for you. Your murdering whore is in custody, awaiting the hangman in short order.’

Shakespeare’s blood ran cold. He tried to get up, but was instantly tripped and his captors set to work binding his feet.

‘Indeed, I am led to believe she gave herself up. Walked all alone to Richard Young’s house and turned herself over to his mercy. But that will not save her; no soft womanly entreaties or feigned remorse will save her neck.’

‘And if she is innocent?’

‘Innocent? She is as guilty as you, and you will both die. You are an accessory to murder and a traitor. The company you keep is all the evidence needed. Indeed, the judge may have to invent a new form of execution to reflect the depravity of your crimes.’ Topcliffe had his silver-tipped blackthorn stick strapped to the horse’s flank. He pulled it out and jabbed at the silent figure of Goodfellow Savage. ‘Your friend is very quiet, Shakespeare. He won’t be so quiet when I burn him with irons.’

Anthony Babington scraped his knife across the trencher, pushing his food to the side. He had eaten almost nothing. John Scudamore, meanwhile was eating with great relish. He cut an enormous chunk of pork, wrapped it in a hunk of buttered bread, then dunked it into the middle of a fried duck’s egg, so that the yolk burst forth like a golden sun and covered the bread. He forced the whole into his mouth and chewed with enthusiasm.

‘This is fine fare,’ he tried to say, then took a sup of ale to wash the mouthful down. ‘I say this is fine fare, Mr Babington.’

‘I have no appetite.’

‘So I see. Perhaps you would allow me to finish your food for you.’ He was sitting opposite Babington in a small booth and pulled the trencher towards him and piled the food on top of his own. ‘It would be a crime to waste such fare, for it will only go as fodder for pigs or dogs if I do not eat it.’

The tavern was almost empty. This was a working day. Scudamore tucked into Babington’s meal, looking at him occasionally with what he clearly intended as a reassuring smile, but saying little.

The reassuring smiles did nothing for Babington, who was as tense as a line with a trout on the hook. He was horribly aware that
he
was the catch. He leant back. His sword-belt and cape were slung casually over the back of his chair.

The terror was worse here, in this mundane place in the company of this pleasant, ravenous man. The visions of blood were more real now; he saw his own blood washing into the earth but also that of his friends – Tom Salisbury, Chidiock Tichbourne and the rest.

What had he done? Oh dear God, what had he done to them? Neither man had been a willing accomplice when first he mooted Ballard’s deadly schemes. Tom would never have become involved in such things without his insistent urgings. And now poor Tom was to die, as were they all.

And yet, surely there must still be hope of escape.

The tavern door opened and Scudamore looked up and nodded. Babington turned. He thought he recognised the newcomer from court, but he was not sure. He was tall and bent and dressed in the sober attire of one of Walsingham’s men. Without a word or other acknowledgement of Babington’s presence he walked up to Scudamore and handed him a sealed note.

‘Thank you, Mr Mills.’

‘My pleasure, Mr Scudamore.’

‘Will you have some ale with us?’

‘Indeed not, I must be away. Good day to you.’ He departed without another word.

Babington watched as Scudamore took his dagger and sliced open the seal on the note. Trying not to make himself obvious, he strained to read the words upside down. He had to stifle a gasp. There was his own name. And another word:
arrest
. Scudamore had been ordered to arrest him.

Babington stood up. ‘This was my idea, Mr Scudamore, so I shall pay the shot.’

Scudamore merely grunted. He was reading the note.

Without touching either his sword or cape, which he left slung across the back of his chair, Babington strolled towards the counter to pay the reckoning. He asked the sum, then handed over a half-crown. He noted that his hands were shaking. ‘Keep the small coins, Master landlord.’