The Enterprise of England (10 page)

‘A dreadful episode,’ he said, ‘and not one to our credit.’

‘It was to the credit of the men who held out there,’ I said stiffly. ‘If you could have seen, as I did, what they suffered–’

‘That is not what I meant,’ he said quietly. ‘I do not blame them. I have had a detailed account of the siege from Sir Roger Williams. Indeed he stayed with us for a time. The disgrace lies with those who failed to go to their aid.’

I relaxed. It seemed he was not going to name Leicester, but the name hovered there in the air between us.

‘We are still embroiled in the Spanish Netherlands, of course,’ he said, ‘fighting alongside the Protestants of the United Provinces against the Spanish tyrants. The Queen has agreed to support them, as they are amongst our few allies in Europe, along with the Huguenot faction in France, and some of the German states, and Denmark.’

He took a sip of his wine, staring into the fire, then turned to me.

‘The Huguenots have remained weakened since the massacre fifteen years ago, although they have a capable leader in Henri of Navarre. The Germans are hesitant in engaging outside their own borders.
Denmark used to be a strong ally, but with the death of her king, the crown has passed to his young son. Neither he nor his counsellors have any taste for resistance against the Spanish at present. Later, perhaps. But in the current crisis, we are on our own with the Hollanders. The Protestant Swiss cantons have flat refused to send us any of their very skilled troops.’

He took another sip of his wine. ‘And at the same time we are threatened from the west by the Irish and from the north by those Scots who supported Mary. The Scottish king’s Protestant forces may be able to hold them back, north of the border, but our own northern counties have ever been restless since the Queen’s grandfather became king.’

I listened attentively to this long speech, reflecting that I had missed my involvement in state affairs in recent months. I began to feel the stirrings of interest. Nevertheless I suppressed a smile at Walsingham’s tactful description of Henry VII’s seizure of power from Richard of York. The Tudors had only the right of victory in battle to claim the crown of England, and everyone knew it, though no one would speak of it openly. As for the northern counties – by which Walsingham meant Yorkshire, Lancashire, Northumberland, Durham and Cumberland, a vast portion of England – they had never truly accepted the Tudors as monarchs or indeed Henry VIII’s break with Rome. I was not sure where all of this was leading.

‘I did not know that
Denmark was no longer an ally, Sir Francis.’

‘Oh, she is still nominally an ally. But we cannot count on her support in fighting the Spanish now, in the
Low Countries, nor next year, when the Spanish invasion comes.’

I thought how confidently everyone talked of the invasion next year, as if it were as fixed as the cycle of the seasons. Yet the very thought of it filled me with dread. If the army landed, they would take the country, and once
Spain controlled England, the Inquisition would come.

Walsingham pressed his finger tips against his lips.

‘You are wondering why I have sent for you, Kit.’

‘I thought Master Phelippes must need my assistance, sir, with more code-breaking.’ I thought nothing of the sort, especially after that speech of Walsingham’s, but I thought I would feign ignorance.

He laughed. ‘Ah, Kit, you do not fool me for a minute. You know that it is more than that.’

I reddened and bowed my head, ashamed at my foolish attempt at deception.

‘I am sorry, Sir Francis.’

‘No, I am sorry, Kit. I will not prevaricate. Her Majesty has received a despatch from the Earl of Leicester which troubles her, and she has passed it on to me. The Earl writes that he is worried about treason and treachery. Not simply the treason and treachery we have been confronting here for years, and which you have helped to combat. He is alarmed that there may be treason and treachery in the
Low Countries, either amongst the troops he commands or amongst our Dutch allies. At the moment it is no more than a suspicion. He does not cite any clear evidence.’

I had to bite back my own urge to say that the Earl himself had been guilty of treachery at Sluys, but perhaps it was not so much treachery as pure blinding cowardice. Besides, it was not my place to express such a view to Sir Francis. I waited.

‘I am sending out a number of agents to different parts of our forces, to see what they can discover. Berden will go shortly, from Dover to Amsterdam. Gifford – do you remember Gilbert Gifford? – will travel to the Low Countries from Paris, but through Saxony and the Swiss cantons, to avoid notice. He will join the Earl, then move discreetly through the army. Other agents will come up from Italy and some of the German states. I need information from all parts of the army, both our own and our Dutch allies. I need to deploy as many agents as possible, and quickly.’

I continued to wait. I realised I  was holding my breath. I had guessed what was coming.

He gave me a shrewd look, as if he could read what was passing through my mind. ‘I want you to go as well, Kit.’

‘But, sir, I have no experience!’ It was the argument I had used the previous year. It had been useless then as well.

‘You have some experience now. And what I want you to do is not difficult. You will go initially as a messenger from me to the Earl, carrying despatches. After all, you have played the messenger before.’

‘Not in those terrible clothes!’ I said. ‘I burned them.’

We both laughed, breaking the tension in the room a little. The grubby clothes I had worn as Barnes’s supposed messenger boy had been the subject of some mirth last year.

‘No, you need not fear. You will go as an official messenger from this office, and may wear your own clothes. You will travel with Berden.’

‘You said I would go initially to the Earl.’ I realised that the way I phrased this implied acceptance, but I would not give way too readily.

‘Aye. In the despatches, I will ask him to give you and Berden any information he may have to confirm his suspicions, though there may be nothing.’

‘Perhaps there are no grounds for his suspicions,’ I suggested. ‘Perhaps he is imagining treason and treachery.’ Perhaps, I thought, it is Leicester’s way of excusing himself in advance for his next military failure.

‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘but we cannot be too careful. Afterwards you and Berden will separate and move amongst the troops, like Gifford and the others, keeping your eyes and ears open. When men are at leisure, drinking in ale houses or gaming with their friends, their tongues loosen. That is when secrets slip out. They’ll take no notice of a young lad sitting quietly in the shadows.’

A sudden cold terror seized me. As a girl not yet eighteen, I was to consort with these drunken and possibly treacherous soldiers, listening to their secrets and passing them back to Walsingham. I would be in terrible danger. Even if they did not discover that I was Walsingham’s agent, they might discover my sex. I found that my hands were shaking. I set down my empty wine glass, shook my head when Sir Francis lifted the flask toward me, then sat on my hands to steady them. At that moment I longed to throw away my disguise. What would Sir Francis say if I stood up now and declared: ‘I cannot do as you ask. I am not a young man in your service. I am nothing but a girl and I dare not do what you ask.’

He was watching me carefully. I knew Sir Francis for a very shrewd judge of people and I wondered whether my face had somehow given me away. I cleared my throat.

‘I…I would prefer not to go, Sir Francis. I am happy to work here for Master Phelippes. I know that my skills are useful to him. But I do not think I have the skill, the cunning, to do what you ask amongst the troops.’

‘I understand that you were on very good terms with the soldiers from Sluys.’

‘They were my
patients
, Sir Francis. That was a very different situation.’

‘I concede that. But you have shown that you can talk to them easily, they accepted you more readily than the older physicians.’

I wonder who had told him this. Did he have an agent even inside St Bartholomew’s?

‘Besides,’ he said, ‘I need a young man to get in amongst the young soldiers, in a way Berden and Gifford and the other older men cannot. I had thought to use Kit Marlowe, who has done this work before, but he has disappeared again.’

The name hit me in the face like the slap of an icy wave.

‘Kit Marlowe?’ I said, my voice not altogether steady.

‘Aye. I believe you met him at Sir Walter’s house some months ago.’

Was there nothing this man did not know?

‘I did,’ I said. Then, daringly, ‘I did not like him.’

He smiled grimly. ‘I believe he insulted you. You have every reason not to like him. He is not always a likeable fellow. But clever. Very clever. If sometimes rash and sometimes violent.’ He paused. ‘Will you do this for us, Kit? Berden will be with you for part of the time, and you can always turn to him if you are in difficulty.’

In difficulty? That was a strange way to phrase it. I would be in danger of my life, if there were traitors and if they suspected me. I heaved a great sigh.

‘How long would this last?’

‘You would be home by Christmas,’ he said, and smiled.

Christmas. I remembered last Christmas and the relief of being free of all this secrecy and plotting.

‘Very well,’ I said with resignation. ‘I will go.’

He stood up and reached again for the flask of wine.

‘I think you need another glass of this,’ he said. ‘It is setting in for a frost this evening. Berden had other affairs to attend to today, but he will be here again tomorrow afternoon. If you can be here about two of the clock, we will discuss together how best to proceed. Berden is a good man, very experienced. You have worked with him before.’

‘Yes,’ I said dully, accepting another glass of wine. ‘He is a good man. I would certainly trust him. But we worked together here in
England. In a strange country, I don’t know . . .’

‘All will be well,’ he said. ‘I have great belief in your talents, Kit.’

Small comfort. Walking home through the frosty night, with the hood of my cloak pulled over my head and my feet plodding slowly over the familiar cobbles, I felt nothing but dread. Yet how could I refuse a man like Sir Francis Walsingham?

By Newgate the chestnut seller stood stamping his feet against the cold. There were no other customers nearby.

‘A farthing’s worth,’ I said, ‘and another for the prisoners.’

‘Right you are, master,’ he said eagerly filling two twists of paper.

I pushed one through the grid to the prisoners. I could see nothing of them but a white blur of faces. Then I walked on, peeling my chestnuts and leaving a trail of shells behind me all the way to Duck Lane. Fond as I am of chestnuts, they turned to dust on my tongue.

The following morning I asked permission to leave the hospital before midday, and it was granted. It seemed that Sir Francis had made his usual arrangement with the governors, and they must have instructed the assistant superintendant, who ran the day-to-day affairs of St Bartholomew’s. I also told my father that I would not come home for our usual dinner. I felt a compelling urge to see and talk to Simon. He had called a few times at the hospital while we were treating the soldiers from Sluys, but there had never been time for more than the exchange of a few words. I told myself that I wanted to draw on his experience of acting, as I had done before when undertaking a spying mission for Sir Francis. He was adept at taking on different characters and he would surely be able to give me advice once again. If I had other reasons for this urgent need to see him, I concealed them from myself.

At the Theatre, I found Guy Bingham and James Burbage backstage, seated either side of a wooden packing case, which they were using as a table. They were planning the music and the comic interludes for the next production and looked up distracted when I asked for Simon.

‘He hasn’t come in yet, Kit,’ Guy said. ‘Probably still at his lodgings in Holywell Lane.’

James Burbage grunted. ‘If you see him, remind him I’ll dock his wages if he isn’t here in time for rehearsal. Two o’clock sharp. We must run through all the scenes of tomorrow’s play before this afternoon’s performance of
The Spanish Tragedy
.’

‘Let us hope that is a prophetic title,’ Guy said, ‘for next year.’

Even here in the playhouse I could not escape the foretelling of next year’s invasion.

‘Where?’ I said. ‘Which house in
Holywell Lane?’

‘I thought you would know.’ Guy looked surprised. ‘Tall thin house, with three jetties, nearly blocking the lane. Yellow front door.’

‘
Yellow
!’ I felt myself colouring, that they should think I knew Simon’s lodgings, but there was no reason to suppose that they meant anything by it.

‘Aye. Yellow.’ He laughed. ‘The landlady’s husband paints our scenery. He used some left-over paint from Apollo’s chariot to paint his front door. You can’t miss it.’

‘I don’t suppose I can.’ I thanked them and retraced my steps to Holywell Lane, walking back a little way towards Bishopsgate. Many of the players had lodgings here, but the house with the yellow door was unmistakeable. The building loomed over the lane, its jettied upper stories – almost certainly added illegally – made it look as if it was about to topple over on to unsuspecting passersby.