Divided Loyalties: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Yet no such thing has been proven.’

  ‘Please, sir. Now, if we suppose these men exist, then they are hot Protestants. They hate the Catholics and want to work against them. That’s why they tried to kill me. And they tried to kill the countess, sir – a man was poisoned by accident when he was tricked into delivering it to her house. I didn’t get the chance to tell you. So we have a league of hot Protestants trying murder.’

  ‘I must say, my dear girl, you paint the blackest face of our faith.’ Walsingham’s voice had dried out. ‘Yet here is where your calumnies fall. Your husband is at work in the north of England. And I hear from all voices out of that country that it is good Protestant folk who are being butchered in their homes. It is the Catholics who have never been more hated there. It is those of the true faith who have had grisly deaths and cruel, taunting words written about their walls.’ Amy sat back, feeling deflated. ‘So you see, if any men of this diamond league are behind it, they are not of the true faith, but papist scum. Yet …’ He drummed a finger on the desk.

  ‘Yet?’

  ‘It is nothing. Probably it is nothing.’ He hesitated. ‘Some months ago, there were two men found. Both dead. The baubles of the Romish religion were found and our men in the north discovered that they had been seminary priests, smuggled into England. It looked … it appeared that one had killed the other, before taking his own life. I shall not give you the details.’ Amy tutted, disappointed. ‘It did not look right to me. The manner of it. I was glad to see the creatures gone, it is true … but the manner of their going disturbed me.’ He sighed, and she sensed a note of regret. ‘It made the papists look bad it is true – I let it lie. But …’

  ‘But diamond plotters might have done it.’

  ‘Why should any plotters kill people of both faiths? If they are papists, they attack Protestants. If they are Protestants, they attack papists.’

  ‘Who is coming out of these attacks looking worse?’ asked Amy.

  ‘The papists. The news from our good capital of the north is that the Jesuits have turned wicked. Too wicked even for those who share their faith.’

  ‘Have you ever been a servant, sir?’

  ‘What?’ Amy repeated the question. ‘We all serve someone, girl,’ he replied.

  ‘But you’ve never carried someone piss-stained sheets, nor emptied what they leave in a bucket in the night?’ Walsingham made a face. ‘No, I didn’t think so.’

  ‘What does this peculiar line of questioning have to do with anything?’

  ‘It’s just … this talk about bringing things into hatred. If you had a master, what would make you hate him?’ Walsingham shrugged.

  ‘Cruelty?’ he offered.

  ‘Yes, sir. If I hated my master, or my mistress, and some new servant arrived, I’d want them to be on my side. To hate them too. And so I’d make sure that this new girl saw them as a monster.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Well, think. Think about it. This diamond league must look to be Catholic – must seem to be, I mean. That’s how come they can settle into the north of England, and especially about the French queen-mother. Maybe they even are Catholic. But they must hate their church, as if it was a bad master. And if it isn’t, they’ll make it look like one.’

  ‘So …’ Walsingham placed his elbows on the desk and began rubbing his temples. ‘Your belief is that these men exist. They are scattered about these places, and their mission is to bring their own church into hatred?’ Something dawned on his face. Moving quickly, more quickly than she had yet seen him move, he got up and went to a chest, opening it and retrieving a book. He flew back to the desk and sat, flicking rapidly, absorbed. ‘Listen, girl,’ he said. ‘The word of God … what does it tell us has led us to chafe against the chains that bind us in the past? When those holding the chains are cruel, when they are monstrous and evil. We fear them, yes, but we gather strength and resist them.’ He began quoting in a deep drone. ‘Overthrow the wicked … And the house of the righteous standeth.’ He flicked more pages. ‘This is what the Lord says …. Don’t kill innocent people here. If you carefully obey these commands, kings who sit on David’s throne will come through the gates of this palace with their officers and people, riding in chariots and on horses … But if you do not obey these commands, says the Lord, I swear by my own name that this king’s palace will become a ruin.’

  He closed the bible in triumph, its gold edging twinkling. ‘These men are plotting to bring their own church low. To make it hated. To rebuild it from blood and ashes and ruin. If you desire to make a man hated, you might make him look guilty of some heinous crime – rape or murder. If you desire to make a great body hated, make it look guilty of causing a great and general slaughter.’

  ‘It could be,’ shrugged Amy. Her bottom lip jutted. Somehow, Walsingham had taken her idea, wrapped it in bible verses, and made it his own. Something the countess said came back to her and she retracted her lip and lowered her lashes. ‘I wouldn’t know sir, being only a simple maid.’ She chanced a peek up.

  Confusion had etched twin lines on Walsingham’s brow. ‘Whatever wiles you are trying, you foolish girl, cease them.’ She dropped the act and put her lip back out.

  ‘Would you prefer they were hot Protestants who killed their own kind?’ she asked.

  ‘I would prefer the whole thing to be but fond fantasy.’

  ‘But you said people are being murdered.’

  ‘So they are. And if this thing is true – if there are mad Catholics with a grudge against their Romish church, I should say leave them to it. Let them damn themselves and their false religion. But for … but for the fact that they are killing those of the true faith. I will not let good men die to serve the turn of backbiting papists. How many of these diamonds are we dealing with? It must be more than three, else they could scarcely speak with one another.’

  ‘Do you have a pack of cards, sir?’

  ‘I do not play cards.’ Light dawned in his eyes. He called for a servant, who brought a deck. Without Amy asking, he drew out the diamond suit, spreading it on the desk in an uneven semicircle. ‘Eleven? Eleven men?’

  ‘Yet with three leaders. A king, a queen, and a knave.’ She put her finger on each of the little painted faces in turn and slid them to the side.

  ‘England, France, and Bruges – the murders in England, and poisonings here and at the rebel-countess’s house … where else?’

  ‘Across the seas is all I heard. But yes, the Low Countries, for sure. One of them put poison in an ale-seller’s wares and sent it to my lady of Northumberland. Killed the poor old soul.’

  ‘All places where men are hot for fighting between the two faiths. I understand the Low Countries are infested with Spanish soldiers fighting honest Dutchmen. Tell me, is the ace card significant in games?’

  ‘Sometimes. Depends on the game.’

  ‘So perhaps four leaders. Involving themselves in a plot against their own church. Some private grievance, perhaps. Yet if they are Catholic plotters, then our queen is in danger, even if their target is just now their own faith. What would help them bring resentment against their church more than murdering the queen?’

  Amy bit her lip and then winced. Since the scabbing had started, she could not seem to resist nibbling away the flakes, despite the little pinpricks of blood that sprouted. Walsingham would only be interested in pursuing the matter, she suspected, if there were a threat against Elizabeth. At length, she said, ‘possibly.’

  ‘We had better fear that there is, for safety’s sake. They must have some date planned. Plotters always have some day of their enterprise. I will write home. I will warn Secretary Cecil to ensure the queen’s safety. I thank God her Majesty got through the revels in all safety. Yet there will be the Easter holy days, Lady Day, I–’

  ‘Please, sir,’ said Amy, raising a hand. Strangely, years had fallen away from Walsingham’s face as he waxed lyrical about the days on which the murder of his queen might be planned. ‘
Yes, the queen must be kept safe. But remember there is a diamond agent here, in Paris, about the dowager. And she has demanded that I discover this person before the king and queen have their royal entries to the city. First the king’s and then the queen’s.’

  Walsingham sat back, reluctantly, Amy thought. His hands began flexing and unflexing, as though she were keeping him now from an important task. ‘I hear Queen Elisabeth is sickly. Not poison? I have not heard rumours of poison – just a chill.’

  ‘I only was thinking … if they wished to do in Paris what they’re doing in England – making violence on the streets. Murder. Bringing their church into hatred. Couldn’t they do that here?’

  ‘The new queen is a Catholic.’

  ‘Yes, but the two faiths are at peace, aren’t they? So at the king’s entry, both Catholics and Protestants will be present. Great men and women of each faith. A diamond plotter with a gun of some kind shoots it off and blows away the head of … I don’t know … some Protestant leader … then the whole of Paris would fall to fighting. It would be …’

  ‘It would be a nightmare. The Seine would run red.’

  ‘Will you be there? At the entry?’

  ‘I am afraid I must. Our own queen is …’ he trailed off, as though realising he was talking to a nobody and a woman, despite her dress. ‘She is engaged in delicate discussions with the royal family here. I must do my part if England is to have any hope of heirs.’

  ‘What can I do? I’m living in the Tuileries. Only a few ladies – older ladies and servants – but … the diamond plotter has to be there, sir, not with the royals. That’s how come they could poison me.’

  ‘Mrs Cole,’ said Walsingham, smiling for the first time. Again, it took years off of him, even though it almost looked painful. ‘You are a rare creature. “How come they could poison me” indeed. I see your young man had no need to fear your safety. I would lay money on you over three, or four, or a hundred plotting Catholic madmen.’ Amy smiled, and hers was certainly painful.

  ‘Sir, what do you know of the duke of Guise?’

  ‘I have heard things. Why?’

  ‘Someone in the queen’s house had traffic with one of his men. I don’t know what it means.’

  ‘The duke of Guise,’ said Walsingham, his smile gone entirely, ‘is a dark creature. Catholic, and the worst of them. A demon in man’s form, like all of his foul race. The Guise, they say, will never fall in war, but rise in it. In peace alone the clan has lost its power.’

  ‘I thought he was quite a handsome creature. Charming, I thought.’

  ‘I take back what faint praise I had for you. You have a woman’s heart.’ Silence fell about the room, the flecks of dust not even bothering to float wildly on the air. ‘The duke’s father did fall in the wars of religion. Brought down by a shot from a brave Huguenot’s pistol. He has nurtured revenge and hatred in his black heart since. If the duke of Guise is in league with one of these diamond plotters, or if he is one of them himself, then all France is doomed. He commands many. If war erupts, he will see the whole country bathed in blood. He hates the peace we have laboured towards. He hates the efforts I made on my last visit to secure the Huguenots the right to practice the true faith in peace’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Go home, Mrs Cole. Back to your fine palace. Keep your eyes and ears open. Watch at night, if you must. Bring me anything.’

  Amy got up to leave. Her heart sank. She had felt elated at working out what she felt sure was the goal of the plot and the complexion of the plotters, but it was only at the thought of returning to the palace that she realised nothing had been solved. She found she did not want to leave the relative security of the house. Its owner was English – he was her countryman – and there was something oddly comforting and solid in that. It felt good speaking to someone, even this man, in her native tongue. Yes, her mind reminded, her, Walsingham had given her no more than the news that Jack was well; that was welcome, but she would still be living with a poisoner. Queen Catherine would still be expecting results. ‘If I can’t find this plotter, sir, can I leave France? Not to go back to the countess, but … but to have my husband back and go?’

  Walsingham looked genuinely disarmed. Had she been a man, she was sure he would have laughed at her and sent her on her way. As it was, he said, ‘tell me, Mrs Cole, why do you involve yourself in this matter? In the discovery of these plotters?’ She looked at him blankly. ‘Is it for your queen? Your country? France? To stop the innocent being slain? Or to protect the false faith your husband has forced you to?’

  ‘Jack hasn’t forced–’

  ‘Hush. Be plain with me.’

  ‘I … I wish them to be stopped so that Jack might be at liberty. To come back to me. I wish that we could both be out of all bondage.’

  ‘I see. Singularly minded. The right thing for the wrong reasons. You are a well-suited pair.’ He sighed. ‘Your husband is under the care of a man of mine. If that man is satisfied he has done us good service, then … then yes, girl. You can have your husband and you can both stay out of my sight. Until then, watch the proceedings of this royal entry. If you see anyone behave suspiciously, meet with Guise, anything, then bring it straight to this house. You have protection here.’

  Mollified, Amy stood up. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and meant it. Walsingham was not the stubborn, ambitious mule she had thought him to be when they had last met.

  ‘One moment.’ She paused, still smiling, still certain she had got the better of him. ‘You asked if I had ever served anyone. I own my ignorance of piss pots and washhouses. Tell me, do you know how often her Majesty’s privy council sits, and what items its great men require?’ Her smile faltered. ‘Do you know by what means summonses are sent for to bring together our parliament? How it is that we have news of the Turk? How our law courts are provisioned with good ink and paper?’ Amy bowed her head. ‘No, mistress. Think on that, in all your pomp of borrowed raiment wrapped around a prideful servant’s heart. Now you may go.’

  Amy bowed. He had had the last word, but she was sure to look him in his dark eyes before she left the house in Saint-Marceau. Let him feel that he had won something. The chance to have Jack out of his clutches was more than she had hoped for. All she had to do was wait out Catherine’s period, send Kat to the countess, and wash her hands of the whole sorry lot of them. She wandered the city awhile, drawing admiring looks for her clothing and then sudden, awkward looks away as people caught sight of her lips. Probably they thought her a courtesan, riddled with the pox from whoring. One day soon, she might be free entirely of what French peasants thought. French queens and ladies, too.

  By the time she returned to the royal apartments, it was quite dark, though the bells rang out the early evening. She was delighted to find the room empty, her peers and the servants having gone to the evening service – in fact, she had dallied deliberately so that she might avoid it. She wandered the room, looking around the scattered bedclothes and cots. When she reached her own, she spotted a note. Lifting it, she read, ‘the duke of Guise’s man and his whore are in the privy garden together, inside the gate and the left inner garden’ scrawled in French. There was no signature. Kat, she thought – she had asked Kat to inform her of any servants’ gossip about the duke and his lover.

  Yet … what if it was not Kat.

  She read it again, and again, and again. It was possible she was being lured into some kind of trap. The clever thing to do would be to rouse the palace guards and take them with her. But to do so would be to advertise what she was and, if the note spoke true, to parade the secrets of the court. Walsingham’s voice came into her head: ‘I would lay money on you over three, or four, or a hundred plotting Catholic madmen’. She had killed men who had tried to hurt her before, and she would welcome the chance to do it again. With one hand she lifted an empty, gilded wooden candlestick and tested the heft. It would make a good weapon if someone really was trying to trap her. She scrunched the note with one hand and l
eft the room with the candlestick in the other.

  Amy followed the course she had taken the night she had found the couple in the closet. She opened it and looked in. Nothing but coffers and wooden eating utensils. The stairs it was. Crunching over the gravel, she let her breath mist out as she passed through the courtyard. Above, stars twinkled behind the frayed edges of clouds.

  The ground had been thoroughly churned – a party of men and horses had certainly been stabled. Nodding to herself, she entered the privy gardens, the hedges springing up, maze-like, around her. The pleasant strolling space took on a strange aura in the dark, as though it had another nature altogether. She came to where she had walked with Catherine on their first meeting and spotted the tall wall with the gate standing closed. Passing to it, she found that it was unlocked, the iron bars scraping across the gravel.

  Amy had not entered the private garden before. She understood it to be an eastern garden of some sort – a place for strange foreign birds and little trifles from the far east. A place, she more often supposed, for lovers’ trysts. That was the French way. She still did not trust the note entirely and was sure to leave the gate open behind her, just in case her poisoner had lured her with thoughts of striking. To her left was another area, this one with a low fence and another gate. She pushed it open quietly and went inside. Sure enough, the sound of laboured panting came to her. Her head cocked, she lifted her skirts and crept forward. Grass and gravel were arranged in squares in the small enclosure, and at the far end, directly opposite her, was a little house, with only a door-less entry. The noises were coming from there. She moved to the left, hugging the outer wall, and crept towards it.

  The gate closed behind and she turned, her mouth falling open. All she saw was an arm wrapped in grey or white. She made to move back towards it when the panting sound drew her back to the house. From inside, something lumbered out. A beast, a wolf, a dog – it looked like some monstrous mix of all three. It was dressed, black velvet hanging down over either side, something written in gold picked out. She could not read it, but she did remember the duke of Guise’s horse, with its motto, ‘shall chance or God provide the path?’ emblazoned on either side. A black tongue lolled from its head and it howled, fangs emerging to pierce the night. Amy heard the delicate snick of the lock behind her. As she turned to run, she heard the crunch of the beast’s paws on the gravel.