Jack hissed to himself. Then, with regret, he reached down to his belt and yanked free the purse of coins he did not trust to the lodging house. Fingering open the knot, he loosened the string and cried out, ‘largesse! Largesse!’ Heads turned in confusion as he launched the contents into the air, and a shower of silvery coins rained down on them. A mad scramble ensued, men and women throwing themselves into the street, stretching out greedy hands. Jack was nudged, jostled, and pushed in the scramble. So too was the man who had followed him. The jumble of people came between them. Before he slipped away, Jack locked eyes with the furious creature which loomed over the bent, screeching bodies. It was a face he recognised, but not entirely – he could not place it. He took a circuitous route back home, entreating strangers to crowd the direction from which he’d come, where a madman had lined the streets with gold.
‘Duck!’ Doll cried when he burst into the taproom. ‘What’s happened to you?’ She pushed through a crowd of drinkers and barrelled towards him. ‘You’ve been through a hedge backwards.’ Her broad hands reached out to him and he pushed them away. He could not get words out, and instead gave her what he knew to be a ghastly smile. She recoiled from it and he threw himself through the door to the backroom.
Polmear was waiting for him, picking dirt from his nails with a pin. He looked up with his usual expression of sardonic amusement. On seeing him, his face lost its smile. ‘What happened?’
‘Attacked,’ Jack wheezed. ‘Fucking attacked.’ He let the anger rage, kicking the blankets, kicking the wall. Spidery cracks traced their way out from where his boot made contact. ‘Bastard chased me into the woods. Grave already dug. Ready for me.’
‘How did you escape?’ Polmear took him by the shoulders. Jack’s eruption of anger vanished.
‘Ran. I threw money. All of it. People got in the way. Blocked him.’
Polmear grinned, and the grin became laughter. In spite of himself, Jack began laughing too, and the pair dissolved in it for some time. Only after they had calmed down did the older man say, ‘well, you’ll be demanding more in your expenses from Mr Walsingham, eh? Tight-fisted old shit, is the queen’s man, God love him. Looks like I’ll be buying the ale. Don’t think of arguing, laddie – you’ll take a cup or three with me this night.’
‘I recognised him,’ said Jack, when his nervous laughter had subsided. ‘I don’t know how, but there was something familiar in his face.’
‘Describe him.’
‘I dunno,’ Jack shrugged. ‘Young. Dark. Thin. Beardless.’
‘Sounds like me,’ smiled Polmear. He had been shaved since he had last visited, and he ran the back of his hand over his neck. ‘The young part especially.’
‘Younger than you. More like my age. Maybe a bit younger even. Eighteen?’
‘And you’ve seen him before?’
‘No. I don’t think so. I can’t place him … but he looks like someone I’ve seen before.’ His mind worked. It was useless. Recognition danced on the periphery of his mind like a coy mistress, refusing to come closer. The man might have been stalking him for some time. He might be a fruit-seller, or a baker’s boy he had seen but not really looked at. ‘He saw me looking. He knew.’
‘Aye, well, if he’s been sent to kill you and failed in it – and you’ve seen his face … an assassin whose face is known is worse than dangerous. He’s useless.’ Jack lapsed into silence for a while. ‘You say a grave was ready dug?’
‘Yes. I saw it. Out in the old Dominican Friary.’
‘Well, it was certainly a bit of work planned, then. No lad you know from the town who spied your purse and decided to turn cut-throat. No crime of chance. No, I’d say that it was definitely our local madman at play.’
‘What do you know of the French wars? The religious wars?’
‘What, are you turning Sir Schoolmaster? “The second Punic War was fought between Carthage and the Republic between …”’ He ceased the whining impression. ‘You’re serious?’ Jack nodded. ‘I know that the papists and the Protestants have drunk of each other’s blood for years. Damn near brought down the country, brought both churches into the people’s hatred. Found a kind of peace now, though, so Mr Walsingham says. Fragile kind of peace.’
‘Would anyone like the wars to start again? Spread, even, out of France?’
‘I can’t …’ Polmear scratched the side of his nose. ‘There’ll always be jackasses want to bring wars on.’
‘Why?’
‘Who can say? For profit. Glory. Revenge. Anger. Madness. War is just martyrdom for whole countries. There are as many reasons for wanting it as there are wars. You think that’s what’s been happening here? Someone’s trying to bring the French religious wars here? Neighbour against neighbour, that kind of thing?’
‘Is it possible?’
‘It’s possible – of course it’s possible.’
‘It would explain why different folk have been killed. Catholics, Protestants … to raise a great tumult. Have each side blaming the other. You know when men argue they reach for their weapons. And you’ve seen it out there – people all in anger and fear of each other.’
‘I’ll have to take it to someone.’ Jack thought Polmear’s voice sounded a little reluctant, and embarrassment flooded him. ‘Perhaps. Best not to lay out plots and fancies before we know the truth of them. And with Mr Walsingham abroad–’
‘Where is he? Is he in Bruges? Has he word of my wife?’
‘Peace. No, he’s not.’ Reluctance paused him. ‘Paris. He’s in Paris. I’ll write and ask him. I promise. Soon.’
Jack bit his knuckle. That, he supposed, would have to be good enough. ‘There’s something else, though. Something that’s … uh … disturbed my mind.’
‘Can it wait till we’re at table?’
‘No. I need you do so something for me. It might be nothing. Might be wrong. But I don’t think so.’
‘My God, boy, you do like to be mysterious.’
Jack said nothing. If he was right, he would shortly have answers to at least some of what had been going on. If he was wrong, he would be sending an innocent man south to have his guts torn from him at Tyburn.
***
Acre, his arms heavily bandaged, stood with his head bowed. Cold anger simmered. ‘How can it be that you failed us?’
‘He is one of Walsingham’s men, you said. They are … they must be trained to avoid detection. He’s no foolish young priest, no old man or old woman.’
‘Yes, yes. And no poor little dog nor cat either, asking to be buried alive. He cannot be allowed to live long. Not if he knows your face. He must be made to disappear.’ Acre looked up, aggrieved. His role throughout had been to dispatch those he had been called upon to dispatch. It had become a source of pride. His willingness to take lives had been his strength. The stupid brat had robbed him of it – made him weak.
‘I promise you, brother – he will. You know his lodging – I will risk taking him from there.’
‘No. I will be rid of him.’
‘But –’
‘But nothing. You know his movements. He will go to that damned Friary in the morning to hear Mass. He lives by routine. I shall get him at that place, make an end of him there. After it is done, then I will call on you to get rid of his body. Can you do that, or will you allow his corpse to run from you?’
Acre kept his mouth closed. He gripped at his forearm, letting the blood ooze under the bandages. The pain was a tonic. ‘I will.’
‘Good. He knows and says too much. The man is a blundering fool with a headful of knowledge. A danger admixture, is it not? A conscience too, more dangerous than that. Ach, but I am not sore angry at you. These things happen. He is nothing. He dances with both the Jesuits and the heretics. Neither side will miss him.’
‘I … I do not like that you should have to bloody your hands. This is my work. Always has been.’
‘It is all our work. I … we … never intended that your days as our dagger should last forever. We share
our labour. And God knows, there will be daggers enough drawn soon. I mean to say, you cannot go to France and get the wife, can you?’
‘Is there news from there?’
‘None. But let us hope that his woman is more accepting of death.’ He shrugged, his face in shadow. ‘It might be that she is dispatched from this earth already.’ With a hand under the chin, he raised Acre from his kneeling position. ‘Do not let it trouble you, brother. Remember why we chose our name. Diamonds are steadfast.’ He gave him a long, indulgent look. ‘There,’ he said, brushing Acre’s belt. ‘Is that the blade you took from the old heretic witch?’
‘It is.’
‘May I?’
Acre slipped the dagger out and handed it over. The other man held it up close to his face. ‘You stabbed her? I thought your burned her?’
‘I did not stab her.’
‘But there is …’ His voice trailed off, as his eyes fell upon the minute flakes of blood that still stood around the hilt. Acre looked at the ground. ‘I see. I will put this to use, do not fear. And do not punish yourself. It is a sinful thing, self-flagellation – one of the fripperies our faith should do away with. Your grave will be put to good use on the morrow. Go now. I will come to you when it is done. We will then both have shed blood in the name of cleansing the true faith.’
As Acre left to seek his own nameless lodgings, he let his hatred of the boy who had escaped take charge. He would put him in his grave, to be sure, but not before he tore his body limb from limb, taking the head off and making it watch. Shedding blood for the true faith was a fable, but he was happy to let the rest believe it. For him, their plot had always been about humiliation and revenge. Since the day he had discovered the truth of his birth from his ugly, greedy mother, and destroyed both her and his father, he had been intent upon lancing the corruption that had brought him to them. He could remember the day clearly, the salon bathed in sunlight. He had only been a child, and already his mother and father despaired of him. Wanted rid of him. Told him he was sick and corrupt. And then they told him why, and in the night he had watched them burn.
7
Amy looked up at the house in Saint-Marceau, south of the old city walls on the left bank. It was, though, nothing to look at. The district was crowded, the houses shabby and overhanging the street, and the tannery smell of industry seeped out from innumerable workshops. It could not have been more different from the grand mansion from which Sir Henry Norris had conducted his ambassadorial duties, and in which he had lived like a prince, supposedly projecting the might and glory of England’s queen. If the house Mr Walsingham had chosen was any indication, England was a small, ugly nation and its queen a toothless labourer. Yet, whatever the face of it, inside lived the new ambassador, and he might have news of Jack. In fact, on the walk to the district, she had convinced herself that he would. She took a breath, went up to the peeling wooden door, and rapped.
A maid answered, looked her up and down, curtsied, and then called into hall, ‘A lady come to call on you, sir.’ She spoke in English. Before Amy could object, she was ushered into a small sitting room where Walsingham was prodding a fire, absently reading a paper held in his other hand. He turned to look at her and his face registered no recognition.
‘Mr Walsingham,’ he said. ‘It’s me, sir. Amy Cole. What news of my husband?’ He paled and his eyebrows lifted.
‘You,’ he said. ‘But you … why are you dressed … who the devil gave you permission to come here? You are to …’ He seemed to recall where he was. ‘I will not speak in my parlour. Follow me.’ She did, almost tripping over a small wooden horse. ‘Mind yourself, girl. That … that is a gift … my daughter, not yet come to Paris.’ He cleared his throat and then mumbled, ‘she will play with toys, fond things. Come. My office.’ He coughed again and went up the stairs. Amy wondered if his abruptness was surprise, awkwardness around women, dislike, or some combination of all three.
‘I cannot seem to be rid of you Coles,’ he said. He made to close the door, seemed to think better of it, and eventually shut it. ‘By my truth, you have a pert manner about you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘It was not a … do not bandy wits with me, girl. I counsel you to weigh your words with care.’ And then, more gently, ‘sit.’ She did. He took a seat opposite her, behind a mirror-like polished desk, the edge of which he gripped with both hands, as though he were at sea and it likely to roll away. It was a utilitarian room. On the desk, carefully placed, were a stack of papers, held in place with an onyx paperweight. The only sour note was struck by a jumble of brightly coloured materials – gloves and doublets, by the look of them – stuffed in a corner like a shameful secret. ‘Gifts,’ said Walsingham with distaste, following her gaze. ‘Fripperies of welcome from the peacocks of this city. The stuff of vanity.’
Amy wondered if the introduction of Walsingham’s wife and child would make a difference to the house. Even if it did, she suspected this room would always be dry and cold. It was the brain, not the heart. ‘You are in Bruges. You are supposed to be. I have heard no word of the countess of Northumberland leaving that place.’
‘My lady commanded me to Paris, sir. I tried to tell Sir Henry Norris. He was gone.’
‘Gone, yes. He’s gone home. And I forced to this dreadful city again. Why did the wench order you here? And in such array?’ He gestured at Amy’s fine, rose-coloured dress.
‘Happen she wanted rid of me. She said as much.’
‘A fine pair of eyes you are to me if she distrusts you,’ said Walsingham. ‘Had she some reason for sending you hither?’
‘To give her regards to the dowager queen. The French royals. She thought that someone involved in a plot was about the old queen. Thought her Majesty might welcome the news of it. But all the women here talk about is trifles, sir – the supposed bastards of dead noblemen and who’ll be picked to hold a napkin before the new queen’s face when she spits.’
‘What happened to your mouth?’ Amy sucked in her cheeks, and Walsingham’s colour again faded. ‘I mean … forgive me, my lad- Mrs Cole … I … your lips.’
Amy knew that her lips had grown scabby and duck-like as the effects of the poison faded. Her hand rose to cover them. ‘I was poisoned, sir.’
‘What? By whom?’
‘By one in Queen Catherine’s house. They poisoned the face washes my lady gave me. It’s one of the plotters, sir, I’m sure of it. There is a league of men calling themselves the diamonds, that’s what the countess heard. They seemed to be Protestants, courting the Scots.’
‘This name again, this diamond league.’
‘You’ve heard of it? It’s real?’
‘Only from your husband.’
‘Jack?! You’ve seen him – where is he? Is he here?’
‘No – he is not. Cease your prating. First, tell me what you have discovered, girl.’ In response, Amy let her swollen lips protrude in a ghastly pout. She thought, but did not say, that Walsingham’s little girl was not the only one in the family who liked to play with her toys. When she did speak, the pain had gone, leaving a strange numbness that made her voice sound odd to her.
‘Nothing. Until you tell me what has become of my husband. I said I would tell you of the Lady Northumberland’s doings in Bruges, and I did – I wrote you of the man Prestall.’
‘Prestall is a known troublemaker – a fool and a gambler, out only for money. If the lady is trusting such men as he, Queen Elizabeth can sleep soundly at night.’
‘Well … that’s as may be – but I sent you information and I hoped for some in return. You know, don’t you? You know who took Jack and where he is.’
‘Moderate your tongue, girl. It is ever women’s tongues that breed their cares. And their sorrows.’ His eyes roved over her gown. ‘And their vanities.’
‘Please, sir.’ She licked her lips. ‘I’m not a proud woman. I’m begging you. Please tell me.’
Walsingham rolled his eyes and released the desk, sitting back
. Amy felt her heart begin to skip erratically, fear and hope buffeting it. ‘You are a remarkably single-minded creature. Your husband is well, I assure you.’ She exhaled and closed her eyes. ‘He is kept well in the north of England. He does his country good service in return for your safety. I confess, I had thought that ignoring you and your silence from Bruges was fair recompense for his service. I did not know you would turn up on my doorstep. In truth, I dislike the using of women in grave and weighty matters.’ Acid fizzled in his tone. ‘Your husband, I recall, observes with right humility the humble station to which he was born. He does not beautify himself in false feathers.’
‘You promise he is well? Unhurt, despite what we did? It was me who made him do it,’ she lied. ‘I was to blame.’
‘Enough. You have my word that he has come to no harm. I daresay he is at unaccustomed peace without such a wife.’ Amy started to rise. ‘Forgive me, girl. That was rude of me. Beneath me. These past weeks have been a trial. Coming here, my own wife and daughter apart from me.’ She reclaimed her seat, fixing her dress over her lap.
‘I came to you for aid, sir, beyond all else.’ He stared blankly, but she thought she caught a flicker of interest. ‘Do you recall I begged your aid once before?’
‘I do. And I did not listen to you. That was an error.’
‘And me and my husband, we saved the queen’s life. Two queens.’
‘You were given recompense. Forgiven your part in the affair, sent into exile. And have since repaid us with this business of the Northumberland woman.’ Then he added, a little too emphatically, ‘as we knew you would. That is why you are both quite well. Now pray come to your point, girl. I have to make this place habitable for my family. Lay out what you know and let us see if we can make sense of it.’
‘First thing,’ said Amy, leaning forward. ‘The countess heard that some men calling themselves part of the diamond league were pressing the Scotch Protestants. Saying they had fellows in the north of England, France, and across the seas.’
Divided Loyalties: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller Page 14