Holy Spy (58 page)

‘And Mr Maywether?’

‘Gone this morning, not an hour since, up to the east coast, his purse bulging, as he insisted on telling me. He bade me wish you a farewell and thanks.’

Shakespeare cursed inwardly. He drank a cup of ale then went to the stableyard. A small handcart was standing on the flagstones close to the stalls. It would just about carry two bodies but, with his damaged ribs, he was not sure that he was strong enough to push it. Well, it seemed he had no option but to try. Without ado, he lifted up the long handles and began trundling south and west towards the bridge, close to where the bodies had been staked out. The wheels ran true and he found the going easy enough.

As he approached the crowds on Tower Street he realised that the procession was under way. His heart told him to turn away, walk home until the cavalcade of death had passed. But something within him kept him moving forward. Using the handcart to part the onlookers, he pushed himself to the front of the line, right at the edge of the dusty road. A grey mare was approaching, dragging an osier hurdle, which was bumping along the ground. Shakespeare saw instantly that the man on the hurdle was Anthony Babington.

His fine-cut hair, the pride of Mane’s of Bishopsgate, was tangled and thick with dirt as it trailed along the road. His eyes were wide open, staring up at the blue sky as though he would somehow take the image with him to the life eternal.

‘God go with you.’ The words came from Shakespeare’s mouth unbidden. Babington’s head, juddering from its proximity to the roadway, turned slightly and his upside-down eyes met Shakespeare’s. He must have known him, but recognition did not register. And then the procession moved on.

Shakespeare had seen perdition in the eyes. They were no longer the eyes of a human being, but of a wild animal caught in a trap from which there was no escape and only one end.

He would never forget those eyes.

Boltfoot tapped lightly at the door. From within he heard footsteps. He took a deep breath and tried to fix a smile to his face.

The door opened. Boltfoot started to say, ‘Mistre—’ but immediately stopped, for a man stood in front of him. Not just any man, but the water-bearer Tom Pearson.

‘Mr Pearson.’

‘Ah, Mr Cooper. It is a fine thing to see you alive and well.’

‘I – I wanted to see . . . is Mistress Cane at home?’

‘Indeed she is and I am certain she would be pleased to receive you. Come in, sir.’

This was not what Boltfoot had expected, nor what he had hoped for. As he recalled, he owed a debt to the timid little water-bearer for passing on his cutlass and caliver to Mistress Cane and for telling her how he had been taken by Cutting Ball’s men. ‘I believe I must thank you, Mr Pearson.’

Pearson smiled. ‘You must think nothing of it. We are all God’s creatures and therefore we are as one under heaven.’

‘Mr Cooper!’ Bathsheba Cane had appeared behind Pearson with one of her three small children attached to her skirts. She was rubbing flour dust from her hands.

He nodded awkwardly. ‘Mistress Cane.’

‘It is a wondrous thing to see you well and restored to your home. There was word put about that you had been pressed into service.’

‘That is so. I came to thank you, and Mr Pearson here. My cutlass and caliver . . .’

‘We were pleased to help. And has Mr Pearson told you our news? We are to be wed.’

The words hit like a blow to the heart. Bathsheba to wed the water-bearer? for a moment, Boltfoot did not know what to say. Feeling foolish, he summoned up an insincere smile and finally some words came. ‘Allow me to compliment you.’

Bathsheba clutched Boltfoot’s hands. ‘Mr Cooper? Are you well? You seem a little pale.’

‘I am well.’

‘Come, let me pour you some beer.’

He gently removed his gnarled seaman’s hands from her light and feminine fingers. ‘No,’ he said abruptly. ‘No, thank you. I have done all I came for. Just my thanks.’ He nodded. ‘Good day to you both. I wish you all happpiness.’ He turned away, for he could not bear to see the joy on their faces, nor have them see the disappointment on his.

‘Have you heard aught from your boy, Mr Tort?’ Shakespeare’s voice was quiet; even in the confines of Severin Tort’s home there was always the risk of a servant-spy overhearing what was said.

‘Indeed. And I do believe he is beginning to feel himself fortunate to have avoided the fate of the plotters. He is resigned to staying in the country. God willing, the experience will have made a man of him.’

‘It may be for the best. I have myself been berated by Justice Young, who demands word of him.’

‘As have I, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘I told him plain that Dominic was never a conspirator, that I had seen him eat and drink with men he considered friends, but he was never taken into their confidence. He was but a roaring boy, like many other innocents associated – foolishly perhaps – with the Pope’s White Sons. It is important he remembers that line, for it is misprision of treason not to reveal such a plot once known.’

‘He understands that.’

Shakespeare looked around Tort’s parlour. From somewhere in the fine house, he heard a rustling. ‘And where, pray, is Kat?’

‘She has something to show you, Mr Shakespeare. It seems she is to go to court next week. Her Majesty has sent word that she wishes to meet the heiress to the Giltspur fortunes.’

‘Indeed?’ So the ambitious Mistress Katherine Whetstone, innkeeper’s daughter, was achieving her heart’s desire. To dally and converse with nobles and royals. Doubtless her story would keep the court entertained for weeks.

‘Do I detect a note of disapproval, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘No, sir. It is none of my concern. The prize is yours, Mr Tort.’ But did he disapprove? He had believed she was eschewing wealth and luxury, that Giltspur House would become an almshouse for distressed mariners, widows and orphans, all funded by the remaining gold and silver in the strongroom. It would be named the Abraham Sorbus Home, in his memory.

Ambition had died on the gibbet, she had told him. Now, it seemed, she was to become just another glittering butterfly, fluttering around the court of Queen Elizabeth. Was that the life she wanted? How long would Severin Tort, attorney-atlaw, survive as the man in her life if Kat’s beauty were to be spotted by the likes of Leicester or Ralegh? They were men not given to allowing a comely woman’s skirts to remain unlifted.

Even without such distractions, would a wild spirit like Kat really be able to abide life with this man Tort, with his damnable precision and painstaking orderliness?

Shakespeare sipped at his crystal goblet of sweetened Gascon wine. Perhaps he was doing her an injustice. Perhaps she and Tort might yet make a match.

‘I do believe I hear her coming, Mr Shakespeare. Prepare yourself for the grand entrance.’

Her gown was French satin. The body was russet-coloured, flourished with silver bows and silk golden suns. The whole was lined with orange taffeta and the russet hanging sleeves were slashed with white taffeta. She looked every inch the court lady.

When Shakespeare had first set eyes on her early one grey morning in Yorkshire four years earlier, her hair had been tousled and her attire – a plain linen smock – unkempt and lived-in. Yet he had thought her the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Now, in this finery, she was still exquisite and yet she had lost something. He could not tell her so, but he preferred her as she was before.

‘My lady,’ he said with an extravagant bow.

‘You are mocking me, John. Will I pass muster before Her Majesty?’

‘You are perfect, Kat.’

‘It is not too much? I know she does not like to be outshone.’

‘No, it is not too much. It is a fine gown that will, I believe, draw admiring glances but not envy, which is as you would wish, I am sure.’ His eyes went to her throat and suddenly he felt a chill. The unmistakeable bruising of the hemp rope had been covered up by a necklet with a large gemstone at its centre.

Her eyes followed his, questioningly. ‘Do you like it? It is the Giltspur Diamond. Grandame gave it to me on the day I married Nicholas.’

Shakespeare could not conceal his bewilderment. The stone was larger than any diamond he had ever seen, but that was not the issue here. If Grandame had indeed given the jewel to her daughter-in-law, why had she told Arthur that it was missing? Her wit might have been fading when under the influence of the laudanum, but had seemed sharp enough at other times. And Arthur seemed to have no idea what had become of it; there had been much at fault with him, but why dissemble over a matter such as this? And why would the family keep such a generous gift secret?

‘I had thought it her most treasured possession . . .’

‘Which, I suppose, is why she made a gift of it to me. Is it then too much, John? Is that what you are saying? Will it not be well received?’

No, it was not what he was saying. He could not say what he was thinking. A cloud passed and the light of the sun suddenly lit up the room, catching the dazzling brilliance of the stone so that he had to turn his eyes away from its glare. He felt a deep sadness sucking him down. Whatever the truth was, he no longer wished to know it. Oswald Redd, dead, Nicholas Giltspur, dead, Abraham Sorbus, dead. Like one of Drake’s galleons, she left a trail of wreckage in her wake. He no longer wished to be part of her detritus.

He shook his head. Kat lose her ambition? A lioness might as well lose its taste for meat. ‘You must decide about the diamond. I cannot say.’

Her eyes narrowed, sensing his disapproval, and he suddenly regretted his censorious reaction. Whatever the truth about the diamond, it was not the full story. She had almost sacrificed her life in an attempt to save her friend Sorbus. The human heart was a strange thing; did God Himself understand His creation? He moved forward under the benign gaze of Severin Tort and embraced the woman he had once loved. He kissed her. Farewell.

Acknowledgements

Heartfelt thanks to my wife Naomi and the rest of the family for their much-needed love and support. Likewise, huge gratitude to everyone who has encouraged me in my endeavours, particularly my agent Teresa Chris and editor Kate Parkin, both of them brilliantly professional.

Two books have been especially helpful in writing this novel:
The Babington Plot
by Alan Gordon Smith; and
Queen Mary and The Babington Plot
, compiled and edited from the original documents by John Hungerford Pollen, SJ.

Historical Notes

The Babington Plotters Who Died

On 13, 14 and 15 September 1586, fourteen men were convicted of High Treason at a commission of Oyer and Terminer in Westminster. Seven were executed on 20 September, with added cruelty ‘for more terror’. The remaining seven were executed the next day, being allowed the mercy of dying by hanging before being butchered.

The First Seven Executed

Anthony Babington
:
aged twenty-four, he was witty, handsome and wealthy, having inherited the family estates at Dethick Manor in Derbyshire when he was ten. He was the great-grandson of Lord Darcy who perished for his Catholic faith in the Pilgrimage of Grace during the reign of Henry

VIII. Babington was educated at home, being brought up to believe that no one of breeding could be anything but Catholic. At eighteen he married Margaret Draycot, daughter of his guardian, Philip Draycot of Paynsley, Staffs. They had a daughter but within a year of marriage he went on a tour of France, where he met Chidiock Tichbourne and was visited by Thomas Morgan, the Paris agent of Mary Queen of Scots.

Returning to England, he entered Lincoln’s Inn, and began doing secret work for Mary and the Catholic underground. Realising the danger he was in, he ceased this work and planned to emigrate with his friend Thomas Salisbury. But in 1586, the priest John Ballard sought him out and persuaded him to lead a conspiracy to replace Elizabeth with Mary. Babington was flattered and, being a dominant personality, easily drew his young gentleman friends into the plot.

He was enthusiastic when interested but indolent when it came to drudgery. With the other conspirators he heard mass regularly at a house in Fetter Lane. They were known generally among Catholics at home and abroad as ‘
The Pope’s White Sons, for divers pieces of services which they do for Rome against this realm
’. At his trial, he blamed Ballard for all he had done.