Divided Loyalties: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller

by Steven Veerapen

  Jack was barely listening. Over Walsingham’s last words, he had begun gushing thanks. He was eager only for the day to be over and for the royal entry to be upon him. No feelings of foreboding troubled him.

  3

  Though not part of Queen Catherine’s elaborate ceremonial lever, or waking ceremony, Amy found herself able to sneak into the bedchamber when the hot towels were being tested for poison. If Catherine noticed her unwarranted and unorthodox presence, she did not make an issue of it. Probably the day ahead was too important. The queen-mother and her entire household must be present and waiting when the king arrived. All must be a picture of harmony, to be carried over the course of the whole day, before the night’s feasting could begin.

  When the queen-mother was ready – a process which took several hours, beginning before dawn – she finally acknowledged Amy’s presence, waving away some scandalised ladies and beckoning her forward. Amy looked at the other women – a little apprehensively. ‘Leave us. We are guarded.’ When they had gone, she said ‘You have broken with all good sense, girl, to come into my presence thus.’

  ‘I’m sorry, your Majesty. I thought I must bring you news. Others might not.’

  ‘You presume much. And against my honour. What news?’

  Amy, on her knees, looked up into Catherine’s face. Her eyes rested on the receding chin, half-buried in a gold-edged, ruffled collar. ‘There is a rumour going around amongst the ladies, your Majesty.’

  ‘This is no news.’ The older woman’s voice was accompanied by the rasp of skin on lace.

  ‘About … the duke of Guise.’ When Catherine did not respond, Amy dared a glance up towards the old woman’s face. The pale eyes were drilling into her. She presumed that was her signal to continue. The words tumbled. ‘There is a vicious and cruel rumour. False, of course, I’ve no doubt. That the duke of Guise is planning to force himself upon a Protestant lady. A guest of the king. An attendant of my lady of Bourbon.’

  ‘My grandson’s betrothed?’

  ‘I believe so, your Majesty.’

  ‘What nonsense news is this you bring me?’ Amy felt she had scored a victory; the old woman sounded genuinely bewildered.

  ‘It is nonsense indeed. Yet …’ She swallowed and took the plunge. ‘Yet the news might get around the court. And on such a day.’

  ‘If it does, I shall find the speakers and have their tongues.’

  ‘But,’ said Amy, fear threatening to give the game away, ‘it might be to your advantage, your Majesty. And the king’s. And the new queen’s, too.’ Silence again. Amy went on before Catherine could speak. ‘The diamond plotters – their goal is to bring the church into infamy. To … um … besmirch it. This rumour – it is so dangerous – it will bring out our plotter. They will seek to draw attention to the duke’s … to the duke. Whoever follows him – brings men who might be angry at such a …’

  ‘A liaison?’

  ‘Yes. A liaison. Well, whoever does that – they are exposed.’

  ‘But this is foolishness. It is a rumour. There is no liaison.’

  ‘No, your Majesty. I’m sure there isn’t. Yet you could order the duke to go somewhere. Tell him ahead of the feast tonight that at a certain time, he must leave the palace and go to … well, I think the rumour is to our own ladies’ bedchamber yonder. But others might be here to protect his honour already. And then, when our plotter comes, with a group of aggrieved Protestants hoping to find a liaison, they will find …’

  ‘They will find the duke and a number of guards reading the bible. A picture of innocence and peace. At worse a friendly jest on our Protestant friends.’ said Catherine. ‘I will think on it, girl.’ She waved a dismissive hand.

  Amy grinned before using her hands to get up off her knees. Before she could leave, Catherine spoke again ‘You have a great knowledge of these plotters. One might almost think you had been putting your pretty little head together with some man of strategy and cunning. I warn you, if this is some English plot to embarrass the duke … I warn you.’

  ***

  Rather than lapsing into grinning, incessant, unwanted chatter, Jack found that the morning of the royal festival made him pensive. It had been half a year since Amy had seen him, and in that time he had grown thin. His hair, which always fell in an untidy fringe, was wild, and a sandy beard stuck out like a duck’s tail. Thankfully, Walsingham insisted that his barber attend to him, to prevent embarrassment to the English contingent.

  When both men were suitably attired, the master in an austere black suit and the servant in a similar one of lower quality, they set off from the house. Before leaving, Walsingham had warned him not to make a scene. Amy would likely be sitting with the dowager queen’s ladies at a quite separate stand from that on which the king’s honoured foreign guests were invited to sit.

  The streets and rooftops of the city were packed. People stood gathered in clumps: most were in bright colours, but others were in black. The Huguenots were present, and they even waved white banners in the air, but it was evident from the clusters of black that they were not mingling with the Catholics.

  The king was scheduled to enter the city through the Porte Sainte-Denis, over which had been erected an arch topped on either side by two enormous, painted stucco figures: the Trojan Francus, the legendary founder of the nation, and Pharamond, the greatest of the early kings. People were fighting around the giant statues – men and women eager to be the amongst the first to welcome the young king to his capital. Further along the route was another painted decoration, this one representing Gallia. It showed a figure vaguely in the shape of Queen Catherine, holding a map of the country. It was carved with hieroglyphics celebrating the queen-mother’s efforts at securing peace. It was to the guarded wooden stands erected hard by this edifice that the dowager and her ladies were to sit. Walsingham led Jack to it.

  ‘She will be brought here. You may have a moment’s conversation with her, no more. My presence is required at my own seat.’ As he was talking, a singing man rolled between them, burping to punctuate each verse of his bawdy song as he went on his way. Walsingham tilted his head back, disgust carved on his face, and brushed his shining black doublet where the fellow’s arm had touched it. ‘Fripperies,’ he mumbled. Then he shielded his eyes from the sun and looked upwards. ‘No lessons learnt from the death of the Scottish regent last year. Any rooftop might house a madman, and yet see how the houses cry out under the weight of men.’

  Jack said nothing. He took no interest in the torrents of people moving to and fro about the streets, jostling for the best position. As time passed, conversation would have been pointless in any case. The chorus of shouting and singing, the music coming from dozens of street entertainers, and the shouts of aldermen and soldiers attempting to keep order rose to a deafening cacophony.

  Suddenly, the crowd quietened, and people fell to their knees. A small troupe of hautboys appeared from the direction of Les Innocents, their instruments tooting. They were leading the queen-mother and her ladies, some guards in glittering metal at their sides.

  Jack’s mouth ran dry. Walsingham took him by the arm, hard, and pulled him into the shadows. He did not protest, but he craned his neck.

  At the back of the little procession was Amy.

  Jack fought free of Walsingham’s grasp, but he only succeeded in tightening it. ‘I warned you,’ hissed the secretary, close to his ear. The ladies at the front were helping Queen Catherine ascend the stand, and the junior, less important ladies fell into a line behind them. Amy stood at the back, a little apart from the women who were not her peers. Her arms were folded, and she had a curious little look of determination on her face. When the queue of women had made progress, Walsingham jerked Jack out of the shadows and moved towards them. A guard stepped in front of them. The secretary lifted his chin and said something which seemed to cause the nervous young blonde man to step aside. ‘Mrs Cole,’ he said, his voice tight.

  ‘Hm?’ Amy began to turn.

  �
��Amy!’ cried Jack.

  She stood for a second, looking at him, disbelieving, he thought. And then she was on him.

  ‘You’re hurting me,’ he croaked. ‘You’re choking me.’

  ‘You’re alive!’ She squealed. ‘I knew it – by God’s truth I knew it.’

  ‘You look like a lady, a real lady.’

  She laughed, before throwing a look of thanks to Walsingham. Jack noticed he did not return warmth. Instead, he said, ‘I have fulfilled my pledge to you. Your husband is alive. You must be satisfied with that. Now go, girl, before the queen hears of this … this scene.’

  Jack kissed her forehead, and realised she was not going to let go. Gently, he had to pry her arms from around his neck. ‘But wait! Have you been hurt? You’ve lost weight – are you well?’

  ‘I’ve missed you, Amy. But I’m well. And soon all this will be over.’

  ‘Soon,’ she echoed. ‘I’m not going up there. To hell with it.’

  ‘You are going up there, girl,’ said Walsingham. ‘Or I will arrest your husband. It might interest you to know that he has uncovered one of the diamond plotters. A disgusting papist living in York. You have work yet. Get on and get up there, in the name of her Majesty of England.’ Jack turned to him, and felt Amy stiffen beside him. He realised that she was on the brink of saying things, shouting them probably, that could not be undone.

  ‘I have something to do here,’ he promised. ‘So that we’re free forever.’ He leant over and kissed her again. ‘You have to get through today.’

  She opened her mouth as if to object and then closed it. Tears had sprung in the corner of her eyes. ‘Today. And tonight.’ She turned her attention to Walsingham. ‘Then our business is over, you said? Then he’s mine again, not yours.’ The secretary did not respond. Jack sensed that the old man had a grudging respect for his wife. But he suspected also that Walsingham was not planning on allowing them to escape his charge.

  ‘Er … I think it’s you who’re mine, Amy,’ Jack grinned. ‘Again.’ It was her possessive, protective attitude towards him, he knew, that routinely got her called a shrew and a termagant. Never having had anyone else who cared about him, he did not mind it.

  The noise of the crowd, which had resumed, changed in pitch. From deep within it, from down towards the Porte Sainte-Denis, cheers had begun. ‘Vive le roi’ rose from hundreds, thousands, of throats.

  ‘It begins,’ said Walsingham, in the tone of a physician speculating on a particularly unpleasant patient’s bowel movements. He pulled Jack away, leaving Amy standing by the base of the wooden staircase, her hand at her mouth.

  Quickly, Walsingham led Jack through the crowd, resolutely trying to shout his authority that the way be made for England’s ambassador. Eventually, he reached another stand somewhere near the middle of the parade route. Jack, who had kept his head turned to watch Amy until she and the queen-mother’s party were swallowed by the colourful multitude, looked up. Seated amongst the orderly rows were a number of distinguished gentlemen, some conversing and others with their backs ostentatiously turned to one another. ‘My fellow ambassadors,’ said Walsingham with distaste.

  ‘Do I go up there with you?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘I’ll wait here then.’ Jack kicked at the ground.

  ‘You shall not. I see no reason why a foolish festival should prevent your business. It shall rather aid it, I think.’ When Jack only stared dumbly, he sighed. When he spoke, he had shifted from physician to schoolmaster. ‘The goldsmiths and silversmiths will have their own place by the road – their own welcoming offer to his Majesty. Seek them out. When you have finished, return to my house and do not leave it. I shall try and escape the supper that is to follow as soon as I might.’ Discreetly, he produced a small purse and handed it over. ‘Spend as sparingly as you can to loosen their tongues.’ Jack nodded and Walsingham turned and, heavily, began trudging up to take his place. When he had gained it, he stood stiff and uncomfortable, a raven in an unfamiliar and uncomfortable nest.

  Jack lost no time. Every step forward was a step closer to Amy – a step closer to regaining his life. He pressed himself into the crowd packed against the houses, the roads themselves having been cleared. Something hit his hat, running off the edges in a liquid rush. Bloody.

  With a start, he realised what it was. Houses overhung the streets, and people, he knew, were using the tiled roofs as viewing platforms. Someone had spilled a jug of wine from a window or a roof above and it had come raining down. Others were gaily urinating over the edge onto the crowd below. He chanced a look up. The fellow who had spilled the wine held up the jug in salute. Jack hurried on.

  He did not get far. The closely packed people prevented it. Suddenly the screeching cheers went up around him, as though explosions were going off in the crowd. The king was riding by. Dressed entirely in white and riding a white stallion, he had his right hand raised as he turned in either direction. A large white ruff framed his face, which was forgettable: even the wispy brown beard could not hide the receding chin. Guards in golden armour flanked him. Jack ignored the king and hurried on, pleading from those that would listen to him for news of the goldsmiths’ stall.

  ***

  At first, Acre believed he was imagining things. He had pushed his way through the Parisian crowds with the skill of the violent. As he had approached the queen-mother’s stand, he saw Jack Cole, alive, and well, and embracing a little whore in a cream-coloured gown who must have been the wife. He stared until they parted, never blinking. It was certainly Cole, albeit he was a little better groomed than before.

  Initial anger turned into laughter, and Acre swiped a mug of ale from an old man, shoving him back into the crowd. Mr and Mrs Cole were somehow both alive. The fellow he had slain in the lodging house in York was some other waste of skin.

  When Cole went hurrying off with a crow-like man, Acre followed. Through the people they had went, pursuer and pursued. Then his quarry had been abandoned at another stall and run off again into the seething masses. Again, Acre followed.

  He had punished himself severely for letting passion overcome him in killing the creature he thought was Cole. That act had necessitated his flight to France and, as recompense, he had had a brief glimpse of his avenging angel in the city; he had found that Mrs Cole was alive; and, miracle of miracles, he had found that the man himself, the man who had killed his brother, still breathed.

  The surprise was so sudden that he needed time to formulate a plan. The thousands of people on the street were both a blessing and a curse. He could easily stab the man in the back, leaving him to bleed and be trampled, probably only to be found the next morning by the poor folk looking for lost things. The victim of a robbery gone wrong is how it would appear. Probably he would be one of many.

  Yet many people meant many pairs of eyes. It meant many soldiers and guards on the lookout for anything that might harm the important people gathered. It only took one curious onlooker to make a fuss and he would find it difficult to escape through the people. As a suspected thief, he might be torn to pieces.

  Acre shook his head, his mind working rapidly. None of that mattered. He did not want to stab Jack Cole in a Parisian street. Now that the wretch was alive again, he wanted him to suffer, slowly, surely, and for as long as possible. He would take care of the wife, too, where the avenging angel had shown mercy. If possible, he would get them together, use one to draw the other. And when both were in his power, they would suffer together.

  4

  Jack stood back as the goldsmiths passed around the pin. ‘Fine work, fine work,’ was the assessment.

  ‘Of course it’s fine,’ snapped a crotchety, elderly one. ‘It’s mine.’ With surprising vigour, he grabbed it from the man who had been inspecting it. ‘Away,’ he cried. ‘Let me see it.’

  Jack had found the goldsmiths standing at a table set up at the roadside, above which were hung the usual painted signs and the insignia of their guild. A painted effigy of Ph
ilip the Fair stood on the table – a reminder, thought Jack, of the link between the French monarchy and the gold-workers.

  ‘Please,’ said Jack. ‘Who bought it?’ He had not released the purse from his grip, and his knuckles were still white around it.

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’ The old man looked around at his fellows, and they all began nodding agreement and making supportive gestures.

  ‘It’s … I need to know – I must know.’ He lifted the purse. Rather than elicit greed, it seemed to fan the flames of the goldsmiths’ indignation.

  ‘Keep your money, my Huguenot friend,’ said the old man. Jack’s eyebrow rose, and then he looked down at his black suit, and lowered it. ‘I’ll share no secrets with you, peace or no peace.’

  ‘But … it concerns the safety of the king,’ tried Jack.

  ‘Yes, yes. I’m sure it does.’ The old man held it back out to him.

  Jack tried to think of a more detailed lie. Then he sighed. He put a hand to his forehead. ‘The truth,’ he began.

  ‘Will do as well as a lie,’ observed the goldsmith.

  ‘The truth’s that I need to discover who bought this. My wife won’t be safe till I do. Nor will I. A man tried to kill me who owned this pin. Don’t know where he went. He will still be after us.’

  The old man looked at him with sharp green eyes, and then gave out a low whistle. ‘Quite a story, son.’ Jack leant forward, daring to hope. ‘In all my years of people telling tales to get secrets from my lips, that is the biggest pile of horse shit yet.’ As the goldsmith shook his head in wonderment, Jack’s face crumpled. Then the fellow held up a veiny hand. ‘I’m an old man. I don’t know how much shit I’ll see shovelled before God takes me. I think you’ve earned a little something by that nonsense.