Holy Spy (9 page)

‘Then be a good watchdog for us. Bark loud when you sense danger.’ Babington’s own voice lowered to a whisper. ‘Protect us well and we will have a new world shortly. Before this summer’s end a fatal blow will be struck against the usurpers. I have had this promise from Captain Fortescue, who has the ear of Mendoza himself.’

Bernardino de Mendoza, Spain’s ambassador to Paris.
Here, between the twin cities of Westminster and London, the beating heart of England, this man Babington was speaking with reverence of his country’s most lethal enemy. At times these young men, these Pope’s White Sons – the Bishop of Rome’s
innocent children
as they would have it – seemed almost harmless, but Shakespeare knew that there was a great deal more danger here than a casual observer might ever imagine.

Babington patted Shakespeare’s arm, then stood up and signalled for quiet. His tone was serious and solemn. ‘Tonight we drink to absent friends and pray that they are with us before too long. A health to Captain Fortescue and Mr Maude and their faithful servant Mr Gage as they return from their great good work in the service of God. We wish them God speed to our bosom and promise that we will do all we can to emulate them by carrying out our own work. Each man must find his own path to salvation, but I believe in my heart that all here are resolved to work for the true faith. I would wish for a peaceful transition, but wishes sometimes need a little poke.’

The young men all rose again. Shakespeare drank with them, but could not conquer the churning in his stomach; all those present knew that Captain Fortescue was, in truth, the priest John Ballard, a conspirator who would wash this land with English blood in the cause of his faith. But only Shakespeare knew the real identity of his constant companion, Bernard Maude. In truth, Maude was Harry Slide, the slipperiest of the earth’s creatures, an intelligencer for Shakespeare and Walsingham.

Shakespeare was alone when he left the Plough soon after midnight. He was unsteady on his feet but that could not be avoided. As a relatively new recruit to Babington’s circle of drinkers and debaters, he had to gain their trust by drinking as heavily as they did. Now, however, he had no alternative but to ride, for he had no intention of walking all the way across London at this time of night.

He took a deep breath of the cool air. Above him the sky was clear, purified by the rain. It promised fine weather come morning. He tried to shake himself sober, but his head was swimming. All he wanted was his bed and a blanket.

At the west side of the inn there was an arched entrance through to the mews where carriages were parked and a bank of stalls was set aside for customers’ horses. Shakespeare stumbled into the archway, unable to see his way, for the wall lantern had gone out. He looked around, bleary-eyed, hoping to find the night ostler;
he
’d find the nag and help him up. But first he needed a piss. He faced the wall, splayed his legs, and fished in his hose for his prick.

He failed to hear the sound of footsteps behind him.

The first blow was a kick to the back of his legs, just behind the knee. The strike crumpled him instantly and was followed, as he went down, by a hard push in the small of his back. The surprise of the attack gave him no chance. He fell helplessly towards the cobbles, only putting out his hands instinctively at the last moment to prevent his chin and face smacking into the stone. Sprawling on the ground, he tried to climb back to his feet, but a rough-edged boot caught his ribs, then a hobnailed toe smacked into the side of his head.

‘Papist vermin. Pope’s dirty son!’

He cried out, more in bewilderment than pain, and scrabbled backwards. There were three of them; spotty youths in apprentices’ blue tunics and aprons. He reached towards his belt for his poniard, but one of them kicked it out of his hand, and then brought his own dagger close to Shakespeare’s face.

‘Let’s carve something pretty on you.’

Shakespeare smelt his fetid breath through the fug of his own alcohol-laden senses.

‘A cross? A picture of the scarlet whore? What’ll it be, vermin? What shall I carve?’

Shakespeare grasped the knife-hand and twisted hard at the wrist. The attacker yelped, but his friends moved forward, their eyes angry beneath their flat caps. One of them wrenched Shakespeare’s hand away; the other put his boot on Shakespeare’s chest and thrust him backwards, so that he fell against the wall.

‘Let’s do the filthy boy-priest!’

‘Slit the verminous rat’s throat! See the blood all scarlet like the Pope’s rotten robes!’

One of them grasped Shakespeare’s throat in a shovel-sized hand and squeezed. ‘Give us the dagger,’ he growled at one of his fellows. ‘I want to burst his eyes.’

‘Here.’ The blade was handed over. ‘And then you can stick it up his arse. That’s what these foul boy-priests like. That’s what they do with each other in their rancid beds a-night. Christ’s fellows every one.’

Had he been sober, Shakespeare would probably have fought them off, for they were not strong, but he was floundering and couldn’t focus clearly enough to fight or reason with them. The point of the dagger was coming closer to his right eye. ‘I have money,’ he rasped, the grip tightening on his throat. ‘My purse . . . take my purse.’ He tried to fish for the purse at his belt.

‘We’ll have your glazers
and
your purse.’ An unpleasant sniggering, breath like a dunghill dog’s.

And then the hand was no longer gripping him and the dagger fell away. For one terrifying moment he thought it was being pulled back for the final plunge into the watery heart of his eyes. He closed his lids tight, but immediately opened them again and saw three other shapes behind his attackers, pulling the youths away. He heard a groan as a punch connected with a stomach, then an oath followed by an anguished groan and the sound of running footsteps.

Shakespeare put his hand to his throat and gasped for breath. He rested his head back against the wall, desperate to dredge up some strength.

‘Mr Shakespeare?’

It was Anthony Babington, holding a lantern and peering down at him.

‘I drank too much . . . they set on me . . .’

‘Have they hurt you? Let me see.’ He gave the lantern to one of his comrades, then knelt down beside Shakespeare’s trunk and began to examine his head, holding it this way and that with soft, gentle hands. Satisfied with what he saw, he turned his attention to Shakespeare’s body and limbs, moving them to test for fractures.

‘I’m not hurt. I must ride home.’

‘Your head has taken a blow.’

‘It’s nothing. A kick by a boy. Please, help me up and I will trouble you no more. Thank you for assisting me, Mr Babington.’

Babington and one of his companions took Shakespeare under the arms and lifted him slowly to his feet. ‘No bones broken?’

‘Maybe a bruise or cut, that’s all. I thank you again.’

‘It was nothing. We are brothers in Christ, are we not? Who were they?’

‘Apprentices, curpurses, I don’t know. They called me papist vermin, so they clearly had an idea who I was.’

‘Ah.’ Babington shook his head. ‘Maybe someone in the Plough alerted them to our presence. It would not be the first time something like this has happened. A group of them beat poor Chidiock here outside the Three Tuns last month.’

Shakespeare studied Babington’s two companions: Chidiock Tichbourne and Thomas Salisbury. They had both been at the feast, his closest friends.

‘Can you walk unaided?’

‘Yes. Please, I entreat you, pay me no more heed.’

They released his arms and he took a couple of paces, but caught the side of his foot on a cobble and stumbled into the
archway wall.

‘Come on, you’re coming with us.’

‘No . . .’

‘We will brook no argument. Thomas lodges near here. We will help you there and put you to bed until you have regained your balance.’

Shakespeare no longer had the strength to argue. And somewhere in the deep recesses of his befuddled mind, he realised that he would rather like to see inside the quarters of the treacherous Thomas Salisbury.

Chapter 9

Boltfoot spent all evening limping around the taprooms and bawdy houses of Billingsgate and eastward until he was outside the city walls at Whitechapel, and from there to the river, listening to the talk where he could and striking up conversations when possible, which was not often. Most men and women shunned him.

He wondered whether his method of introducing the subject of Kat and the murder was a little too blunt, but he had no idea what else to do. His master had asked him to listen in to conversations before, but this was different; he wasn’t merely gathering tittle-tattle but trying to steer the subject of the conversation – and looking for certain people.

‘That’s a fine old tale about the merchant getting himself murdered by order of his strumpet wife,’ he said to one whore in the Burning Prow, down by the wharfs at St Katharine’s.

‘Aye, and what’s it to you?’ she replied, looking at him with a cunning, rheumy eye.

Boltfoot was uncertain whether she was measuring him up for her stinking bed or a coffin.
At least you wouldn’t catch the pox in a coffin.
‘Just saying it’s a fine old tale,’ he continued. ‘Like a story from the Old Testament. It’s poor Will Cane I feel for, getting caught up in the middle. Got his neck stretched and she’s escaped like a sprite. Or a witch. Sounds like a witch, I’d say.’

‘Do you want to stick it in or don’t you? If you do, it’ll cost a shilling. If you want frigging, it’s sixpence, coin upfront. And if you don’t, then stow you, for I’m not here to discuss the weather and the tides.’ She was busy picking a scab from her face as she spoke and exuded an unwholesome smell. A man would have to be desperate or drunk.

‘All I want’s some friendly chatter to pass the night,’ protested Boltfoot. ‘I’ll get you a gage of cider for your company.’

‘I don’t want your cider and I don’t want your company. You’re an ugly brute and if you’re not a buyer, you can take your mangy foot and get out of my sight before I cripple the other one.’ She signalled to the bawd at the door, a younger woman with a pretty smile and businesslike eyes. ‘Here, Em, get the lads to throw this sheepshit out. Shove him in a pile of nightsoil to sweeten him up.’

The woman at the door strolled over. She was a lot more appetising than the trug he had been trying to engage in conversation. She gazed at Boltfoot, then nodded to the whore. ‘No need for trouble, Aggy. He’ll go peaceful, won’t you?’ She put her hand on his upper arm and began guiding him towards the door. Boltfoot tried to shake off her hand, but her grip tightened. ‘Be friendly, then no one’ll get hurt.’

‘I only wanted to buy her a drink and talk a while.’

‘You look like a mariner. Go up the street to the Topsail Arms. You’ll get talk a-plenty there. The Burning Prow is for them as wants a little spice with their beer.’ With her free hand she opened the door and pushed him out. ‘Go kindly and you’ll be doing yourself a favour, Mr Mariner.’ She moved her red lips close to his ear. ‘Come back with half a crown when you want to jostle and jumble and I’ll find you a better dish than Aggy there. One that washes and won’t fart in your face.’

‘Wait. Can I talk with
you
, mistress? Five minutes of your time and you’ll have a shilling. That’s all I want.’

‘Who are you?’ Suddenly suspicious.

‘That don’t matter. I want a little bit of information, that’s all. About Will Cane.’

‘You a friend of Will’s? You’re no law man.’

‘No, I weren’t his friend. Just want to know the truth, that’s all.’

‘And what might your name be?’

‘Cooper. By name and by trade.’

‘You’d better tell me your interest then, Mr Cooper. Elsewise, how will I know whether I can help you?’

‘Then you knew him?’

‘I didn’t say that. But I’ll tell you this: folks in these parts don’t like those that come around with questions.’

‘He’s dead, though. No harm can come to him now. Folks say he was a confederate of Cutting Ball.’