Salvation (21 page)

‘By all means, signor.’

The room above the shop had windows looking onto the street. As the stairs creaked under the goldsmith’s retreating footsteps, Manfredi went to survey the view.

‘We are safe, I believe,’ he remarked, peering out.

‘How much does the goldsmith know?’ asked Lamotte.

‘Signor Albert? I told him we are arranging for the illegal import of some Venetian glass into
England.’ Manfredi sat down in a battered leather armchair. ‘Well, Signor Lamotte, I believe our friend the Milord Walsingham thinks very highly of you.’

‘And of you, Signor Manfredi.’

Manfredi smiled. ‘I am flattered, although I understand you have served him many years longer.’

‘Since I was a young man and he was the English ambassador in
Paris.’

‘And you are French?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you prefer to live in
England?’

‘My wife died and I had no family left here. Walsingham offered me work in
England. My training and experience was of no use there but he helped me to fulfil a long-held desire to go into the theatre. In England, it is common for troupes of players to travel the country, with all the opportunities that affords to gather information.’

‘Interesting,’ Manfredi remarked. ‘Now to business. You may tell our friend, Milord Walsingham, that
Cadiz will not forget Drake’s visit in a hurry.’

‘That was the intention.’

Manfredi smiled. ‘But what use was it? The Spanish are already building new ships to replace the ones that were lost. Drake took Cadiz by surprise but King Philip is determined such a thing will not happen again. Some of the ships weren’t even Spanish. One was a Genoese, seven hundred tons of her, waiting in the harbour for the turn of the tide. She was bound for home laden with a fortune in cochineal, hides and wool.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘I myself lost money there. Others were smaller merchant ships that Drake fired when he had the main prizes he wanted.’ He shrugged. ‘No doubt Queen Elizabeth will claim he acted against her orders but many do not believe it. Does she want the whole of Europe against her?’

A burr of impatience chafed Lamotte. Had he come all the way to
Paris to be lectured? Manfredi had better have something more useful to divulge.

Manfredi lowered his voice. ‘You frown, signor, but do not be afraid. Your journey will not be in vain. An old friend of mine has been appointed to a position in the household of the Marquis of Santa Cruz.’

Lamotte’s ears pricked up. A man with inside knowledge of what went on in the house of the admiral of the Spanish fleet was almost as valuable as an informant in the Escorial itself, perhaps more so.

A shrewd twinkle came into Manfredi’s eye. ‘I think this is of interest to you?’

‘Indeed it is.’

‘My friend tells me the marquis is in a rage, not just at the destruction of the Cadiz fleet but also because while Drake remains off Cape St Vincent, none of the Spanish fleet in the Mediterranean can reach Lisbon to join the rest of the Armada.
Santa Cruz’s main supply lines are cut off. He is short of guns and ammunition, even food for his crews. Meanwhile, Drake ravages the coast seizing any ships he happens to find. The fisherman cannot fish because they have no seaworthy boats left and coastal vessels are afraid to put to sea. Not long ago, Drake captured and burnt a cargo of staves going down to Lisbon to make barrels for the Armada’s food and water. They will have to be made of unseasoned wood now.’

The import was not lost on Lamotte: unseasoned wood meant leaky barrels, rotting food and bad water. Walsingham would rub his hands at the thought of Spanish crews too sick to fight.

The light caught Manfredi’s rings as he flourished a plump hand. ‘So, signor, I trust your time has not been entirely wasted. I expect more information from my friend very soon. When do you leave Paris?’

‘When do you expect your information?’

Manfredi heaved himself out of the chair. ‘It is hard to say – shall we meet again in a week?’

Inwardly, Lamotte groaned. He must not refuse, but it meant being away from
London for longer than he had planned. ‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly, ‘in a week.’

‘I suggest you come to my lodgings. I never like to use the same place more than once.’

‘I understand.’

‘Rue des Vieux Marchands, number five.’ He held out the cherries. ‘Another?’

‘Thank you, but no.’

Manfredi popped
the last two into his mouth, ate them and spat out the stones. He crumpled the paper cornet into a ball and threw it in the hearth. ‘We must shake hands in the English way, signor,’ he smiled. ‘God be with you until we meet again.’

*

In the days that followed, boredom drew Lamotte back to the Parvis at Notre Dame. He studied the books and pamphlets at the bookstalls and bought a few. Many were so scurrilous in their abuse of the French king that if they had been written of Queen Elizabeth, those involved would very likely have lost their lives.

Then there were the same prophecies of doom that you could find on the stalls at
Cheapside. He wondered, as he often had before, if they really were just old wives’ tales. What did we truly know of the workings of the Almighty? Strange and terrible events were certainly not unknown. It must be seven years ago that the great tremor had rocked London. People said the earth had heaved like a stormy sea in other places too, bringing down church towers, chimney stacks and city walls. Some said they had seen darkness at noon and ghostly armies marching in the sky. Others spoke of a gigantic hunter crossing the heavens driving a pack of coal-black hounds.

Lamotte shivered. There was no use dwelling on such things. What would come to pass would come to pass.

One afternoon, he loitered on the edge of a crowd gathered around a preacher who had set up a makeshift pulpit near the cathedral. Murmurs of assent swelled as the man fulminated against all Protestants – especially Queen Elizabeth and her ministers – calling them necromancers and murdering heretics: tools of the Devil fit only to roast in the fires of Hell.

His words sent a chill through Lamotte. Fifteen years ago, in the name of religion, hatred like this had blazed through
Paris. Human nature did not need much encouragement to turn to brutality. This man had his audience in the palm of his hand, blood lust gleaming in their eyes. As he reached the climax of his tirade, a flock of pigeons feeding nearby rose into the air in a flurry of beating wings. For a moment, imagining he heard the crackle of flames, Lamotte flinched. A sudden desire to be safe at home in England seized him. As soon as he had seen Manfredi again, he would be on his way.

*

That night, a storm rumbled for hours around the heights of Montmartre then broke over the city, flinging down sheets of hail and rain that turned the cobbled streets to rivers and sent people scurrying to their homes. In his lodgings, Lamotte lay on his bed listening to the hammering of the rain on the roof. The idea of a farewell visit to the little grisette who had entertained him the night before had lost its appeal. Old age, he sighed. It was a sorry state of affairs when the fear of a chill stifled a man’s desire. In his youth, before he met Amélie, he would have braved a torrent to reach a pretty girl’s bed. With a sigh, he turned over and closed his eyes. No doubt Amélie would have teased him for his old man’s ways. Perhaps he was a fool to hope he would ever find someone to take her place.

E
arly the next morning, he rose and strolled in the streets. The storm had cleared the air and his spirits lifted. Paris was still the most beautiful city on earth and not all his memories were sad ones. He stowed what remained of Walsingham’s money in a concealed pocket in his doublet and set out for the address Manfredi had given him, doubling back once or twice to make sure he was not being followed.

A bleary-eyed young woman answered the bell. ‘Signor Manfredi? I haven’t seen him this morning but after last night, I’m not surprised.’

Lamotte frowned.

‘The storm,’ she went on. ‘If he was like me, he must hardly have slept a wink. It frightened the baby too. He made such a commotion with his squalling.’ A thin wail came from behind her and she sighed. ‘I must go and attend to him, monsieur. Will you find your own way up? It is the second floor, the door to the left of the stairs.’

‘Of course, I’m sorry to have disturbed you, madame.’

‘It’s nothing.’

The stairs were steep and Lamotte’s hamstrings grumbled by the time he reached the second floor. Wheezing a little, he knocked and waited. There was no answer. Strange, he was sure he had the right day. He knocked harder and a slit of daylight appeared between the door and its frame. It was not locked. Cautiously, he pushed it a little wider.

The room was plainly furnished with a table, two chairs and a cupboard against one wall. Dirty pewter plates and cups lay on the table with a dish of cherry pits, a half-empty carafe of wine, the remains of a camembert and a few morsels of bread. The smell of cheese and stale wine lingered in the air. A metallic tapping made him jump but it was only the window banging. He went over and fastened the latch. Outside, a crazy patchwork of tile and slate roofs glinted in the sun. At the sight of him, a black cat slunk away, swishing its tail.

The door to the next room was ajar but its shutters were closed. The stuffy air had a rank, meaty smell. It took a few seconds for his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light but then he made out a shape on the bed. Going to the window, he undid the shutters and pushed them open. Then his gorge rose.

Manfredi lay on his back, his eyes wide open. His fleshy lips were no longer pink but stained crimson and between them was stuffed his severed tongue. Blood soaked the front of his cambric shirt and a swarm of bluebottles fed at the gash in his throat. More swarmed over his pudgy hands. They were covered with slashes, dark with dried blood. He must have fought for his life. A brown stain spread from his breeches to the sheets.

Bile rushed into Lamotte’s mouth. He blundered back to the first room, drained the carafe of wine and wiped his lips. His legs shook. Had Manfredi been tricked? Had the contact he was expecting murdered him? All Lamotte’s instincts told him to leave straight away but if there were any clues, he ought to look for them.

He steadied
his nerves and made a swift search of the lodgings but apart from a few clothes, he found nothing except bills from a tailor and a shoemaker in the city and a letter concerning the cargo of a merchant ship in which Manfredi appeared to have an interest.

Lamotte put the papers in the grate and reached in his pocket for his tinder box, but then he hesitated. Even though it was unlikely they were of any importance, Walsingham liked thoroughness and he should see them.
He tucked them in his jacket then went downstairs and let himself out into the street.

19

London
 

August, 1587

‘Sluys has fallen,’ said Walsingham.

Lamotte absorbed the news with dismay. Since
Spain had seized the great port of Antwerp two years previously, the importance of Ostend and its neighbour Sluys, the two remaining Flemish ports under Protestant control, had soared. Sluys’s fall brought Spain within a hair’s breadth of complete mastery of the Southern Netherlands.

‘The Duke of Parma managed to smuggle his men across the marshes when the tide was low to take the
island of Cadzand. That gave him the vantage point he needed to bring up his barges and blockade the deepwater channel leading to the city. Our forces tried to dislodge him before it was too late but they failed. After that, he was free to attack the city undisturbed.’

Lamotte frowned. ‘What about our ships?’

‘The Earl of Leicester was with the Dutch fleet off the coast but as has so frequently been the case, Parma outflanked him. Leicester launched a fire ship but he acted too late and Parma’s men were ready for him. They simply uncoupled the barges in its path and let it through. If Leicester had been close behind it, he might have forced the channel, but he was not. Parma must have smiled when he saw the fire ship run aground on a sandbank and burn out harmlessly.’

Walsingham’s low opinion of the military capabilities of the queen’s favourite, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, came as no surprise to Lamotte: many shared it. He was certainly no match for the Duke of Parma, who was universally hailed as the finest commander of his day.

‘Our ships stayed off the coast for three more days,’ Walsingham went on, ‘after which Leicester abandoned hope of saving the city. Eight days later the garrison surrendered. Most of them paid with their lives for their defiance. It is a sorry tale. I hope you have better news for me.’

Lamotte braced himself. ‘I’m afraid not. Manfredi
’s dead. After our first meeting, he asked me to wait a few days then meet him at his lodgings. He told me he had an informer in the Marquis of Santa Cruz’s household and was expecting news. I waited as he asked then set out to see him. When I arrived, I found him with his throat cut.’

Only a tiny tic at the corner of Walsingham’s left eye betrayed his reaction to the news. ‘Do you have any idea who killed him?’

‘None. I had no reason to believe either of us was being followed and I did not meet anyone connected with him except the goldsmith who arranged our first meeting. Manfredi told him we were discussing a contraband shipment of Venetian glass. He appeared satisfied with the explanation.’

‘I
’m sorry to lose Manfredi. He served me well and it will not be easy to replace him. You say you only had one meeting with him. Did you learn anything of substance?’

‘The Spanish are already rebuilding their ships after Drake’s attack on
Cadiz, but Santa Cruz is struggling to pay his sailors. He’s also short of supplies. In particular, Drake seized and burnt large consignments of wooden staves and Santa Cruz has been obliged to use unseasoned wood to replace them.’

Walsingham smiled. ‘That was good work. The old pirate is no fool. Were you able to talk to Manfredi about the map?’

‘I fear not, the time didn’t seem right and then it was too late.’

‘No matter. Are you sure no one saw you together apart from the goldsmith?’

‘The girl at the house where he lodged saw me. She let me in and we spoke briefly.’

Walsingham scratched a few notes
with a quill. ‘Did you find anything in his lodgings?’ he asked when he had finished.

‘Only these papers. They may be of no importance but I thought you might wish to see them.’

Walsingham took the sheaf of papers and glanced at them, then he smiled. ‘I am glad you escaped unharmed, Alexandre. I can ill afford to lose another good man. Will you have a glass of wine with me before you go?’

Lamotte felt a surge of relief at such affability. It had not been beyond the bounds of possibility that Walsingham would blame him for the failure of the mission. Some of the credit for his escape should probably go to Drake’s bonfires.

When a servant had poured the wine and withdrawn, Walsingham stared pensively into his glass. Still a little wary, Lamotte did not venture to disturb his train of thought.

‘Do you believe in omens, Alexandre?’ he asked at last.

‘Omens? Why do you ask?’

‘I dismissed them once but now I confess I am not sure I was right. No doubt some of the tales are exaggerated – apparitions, storms and floods of biblical proportions – but I cannot recall so terrible a summer. Perhaps we should heed the astrologers.’

‘Certainly in Paris I found many pamphlets on sale predicting catastrophe.’

Walsingham’s eyes narrowed. ‘For
England in particular, I suppose?’

‘Yes,’ Lamotte said quietly.

To his surprise, Walsingham’s expression became animated. ‘Omens may be of use. I believe there have already been many desertions from the Spanish fleet. If fear breeds with hardship, there will be more, for sailors are superstitious men. I intend to have pamphlets of my own printed and distributed among my agents abroad. They will circulate them where they are likely to do the most damage. But that is for another day. Let us drink a health to Her Majesty.’

Lamotte raised his glass. It was rare for Walsingham to be in an expansive mood. Perhaps it was an opportune moment to mention Tom again. He took a deep breath.

‘I hope I do not speak out of turn, my lord, but I wonder if you have had time to consider the case of my young friend, Tom Goodluck?’

Walsingham frowned. ‘Tom Goodluck?’

‘He was accused of the murder of a lawyer named Kemp.’

‘Ah yes. I fear the press of business drove your request from my mind but now you have reminded me, I shall look into the matter.’

Concealing his disappointment, Lamotte smiled. ‘Thank you, my lord.’