Walsingham stepped into the parlour, locking the door behind him. ‘I was attacked,’ he said, feeling the rosiness in cheeks. The secretary wasted no words on sympathy.
‘Who?’
‘The same man from York. The one who must have killed Polmear, who tried to kill me before that. He’s followed me here.’
‘Or come in search of a higher master. Come. I will not discuss such things in this room. This …’ Walsingham seemed to debate whether or not to speak openly. Eventually he sighed. ‘This will be my family’s room when my wife and daughter arrive later this month.’ As though hoping to reclaim authority, he added, ‘by which time I heartily desire you and your wife to be gone from my side and from my service. Come.’
As they trooped upstairs, Jack asked, ‘it’s a girl you have, isn’t it, sir? A little girl?’
Walsingham stopped with his hand on the wall. He did not turn. ‘Yes,’ he said, tonelessly.
‘That’s a good thing. I’d like a girl. Not so much trouble from a girl, I don’t reckon.’ Jack was smiling stupidly at his master’s back. ‘Unless she marries a fool who gets her in trouble. Like Amy did. I hope your girl doesn’t marry a man like me.’
Still without turning, Walsingham said, ‘you’re a strange young fellow, Jack Cole. Yet an honest one I think.’ Then, barely above a whisper, ‘a shame.’
In the office room upstairs, Jack relayed all that had happened, from the goldsmith’s revelation to the chase across the rooftops. Walsingham even attempted to get him to trace out his journey on the map that hung on his wall, though to what purpose Jack could not understand.
‘You should have stayed in the street, in faith,’ said Walsingham. ‘And listened for news of him. He could not have run after a fall. You should have arrested him.’
Jack reddened. ‘This not England, sir. I could not arrest him.’
‘Tsk. It were better you had kept him in your sight howsoever you did it. You are a poor pair of eyes to me if you run from danger.’
‘I don’t want to be eyes. I wish to be free of madmen trying to kill me,’ said Jack, the nervous smile on his face.
‘Which you shall not be,’ said Walsingham, his tone dry, ‘if you let the said madmen escape you.’
‘It was I escaping him, sir.’
‘Enough!’ Walsingham collapsed in his chair, gesturing over the desk for Jack to sit. Before he could, a knock came at the door, and the pair locked eyes. ‘Answer it. My man is not yet returned. Perhaps it is himself, or one of the other servants forgotten their backdoor key. I am sure you have experience in acting the servant. Go.’
Jack put his hand on his dagger hilt and crept downstairs. The knocking repeated. He considered asking who it was. Despising the cowardly thought, he opened it.
‘Jack!’ Amy screeched it as she threw her arms around his neck. She was out of her borrowed finery, wearing instead her usual old grey dress. Behind her was a girl he recognised but took a few seconds to place. She was, he realised, the countess of Northumberland’s little Scottish maid, a travelling chest at her feet. He managed to flash a smile at the sullen-looking girl before Amy began chattering.
‘We found one of the diamond plotters. Brieux – Vittoria de Brieux. She’s dead. By her own hand. Would rather die than be forced to talk, I think. A woman in Queen Catherine’s household, a right odd and crazed old wench, painted face and, and she tried to kill me, and … oh Jack. Things have been mad without you. Madder than ever before.’
‘Come in,’ he said, looking out over their heads. When they were inside, he closed the door, turning the key in the lock. ‘Did anyone follow you?’
‘No. I don’t think so. We came here straight from the palace. The queen-mother, she threw us out, really – though I think she meant it kindly. I think. But that woman, Jack, the diamond woman. I’ve been living with her. She spoke of children.’
‘He’ll want to hear this,’ said Jack, jerking a thumb upstairs. Amy gave a tight, resentful nod, before gesturing to Kat to remain in the parlour.
‘Good evening to you, Mrs Cole. I heard that it was you.’ A note of gentle mockery wavered in Walsingham’s voice. ‘What news?’
When Amy had finished telling him all about Vittoria de Brieux, the secretary stood and crossed to his map of Paris. Even in the candlelight, it looked indistinct to Jack, but he did not think that Walsingham was really studying it. Instead he seemed to be thinking.
‘So,’ he said, not turning to look at them. ‘This plot concerned a French woman who had three children by a corrupt priest. They were given into the care of an English man and wife. When that man and wife died, the woman reclaimed them. Together, this fiend and her children plotted revenge on their faith. She sent them out into the world hoping to bring the corruptions of the Romish religion – of which there are many – into the general hatred of the people. The goal was to provoke the Christian world into discontent. Into wars of religion.’ He paused, but neither Jack or Amy spoke, sensing that he was still thinking. ‘Now two plotters are dead. One is here in Paris, possibly injured. Another remains abroad somewhere.’
‘Can we leave this, sir?’ asked Amy. ‘Can we be free of it?’
Walsingham crossed his arms. ‘No. No. I regret to say it, Mrs Cole, but you are both entangled very deeply in this. You have witnessed the death of a son in one country and his mother in the other – the mother who set this thing in motion. Another son – for I think we can assume he is her son – has even tonight tried to kill your husband.’ Amy turned to Jack in alarm.
‘I’m well enough,’ he grinned.
‘So,’ continued Walsingham, ‘I regret that neither of you can run from this plot whilst two dangerous agents remain abroad.’
‘He’s right,’ said Jack. ‘This man … he’s tried to kill me twice now. And failed. He’ll try again. And when he finds out that the mother’s dead …’
‘I will make enquiries tomorrow about this man. I have business to attend to in the city. If he fell from a roof and was hurt, there must be people who nursed him. Or at least who know what became of him. If the people of this city are in any state to talk tomorrow, I shall find out.’
‘You don’t want me to ask?’ asked Jack. Before Walsingham could speak, Amy did.
‘He won’t. He can’t. This man’s after his blood.’
‘Peace.’ The secretary pointedly put a finger to his lips, staring at Amy. ‘No. I suggest you leave Paris tomorrow. As soon as you can get gone.’
‘Please, sir – the queen-mother said we should have an escort out of Paris. To speed us, she said.’
‘Speed,’ said Walsingham, stroking his chin. ‘Yes. Good. Mr Cole, you have rid us of one of these vile men, the false priest in York. That dead man might yet answer questions. You know where he sprang from?’
‘Douai,’ said Jack. ‘Where he came from, him and the other Jesuits. We’ll go to Douai.’
‘Jesu, that dread place. If it must be, let it be. For security’s sake, these people must be stopped. But you go, Mr Cole. Alone.’
‘No,’ cried Amy, before Jack could speak. ‘We go together.’
‘Control your wife, boy.’
‘He’s right, Amy.’
‘What?’ she wheeled around.
‘Your husband sees that it is too dangerous for a woman. You will only slow him, you and your little wench. And you, Cole – do you wish your wife to swim in dangerous waters?’
‘Dangerous … I’ve been near eaten by a wolf. Poisoned. I’ve lived in the most dangerous place in the world – with a crazed woman near my head at night. I’m going and you can’t stop me. There’s no law can keep me here, I’ll break open the doors.’
‘Amy,’ said Jack. ‘You can’t come if I don’t take you. It’s as simple as that.’ He let his old smile touch his features and then steeled it away, all in a flash. It would have to serve better than a wink.
‘I … this is not the end of the matter.’
‘There, do you see?’ said Walsingham.
‘Here you can be granted protection. And I am sure that you have learnt these past months that you can live without your husband at your elbow.’
‘I can, sir. I can, but that doesn’t mean I wish to.’
‘What you wish does not signify in this matter. Your husband might go to Douai, which is in any case no friend to women. Then he might visit that devilish lady of Northumberland. Whilst he does so, I imagine this house will be a place of greater safety.’
Jack frowned. Clearly, the old man still hoped to have eyes on the countess. That was probably why he had shown his friendly face these past days. His ostensible desire to protect Amy was his old form of insurance – a cosseted hostage to ensure his charge did as he was bid, returning with news. Having a man with news of the English Jesuit college and the countess of Northumberland’s household would be a coup. Queen Elizabeth and Sir William Cecil would kiss his hands in gratitude.
When the discussion was closed, and the drunken servants returned, the house in Saint-Marceau was locked up. For the first time in months, Jack and Amy Cole slept sound in each other’s arms, in a dank closet under the staircase. ‘He was right about one thing,’ said Jack, cradling her head. ‘They won’t let you in Douai. It’s a priests’ world. A world of men.’
‘Hmph,’ she grumbled. ‘Then what – where do I go?’
‘Out of France. To the countess, I guess, with that girl. As soon as he goes to his business on the morrow.’
‘Hmph. Well, I’ll see you on the road out of Paris first. You’ll need me to get the royal escort.’
They slept soundly - that night.
***
Acre lay with his ankle tightly bandaged on a cot in a widow’s house not far from where he had fallen. The old woman spoke to him from the kitchen. She had a look about her of the woman he had pushed into the flames, he thought. A pulse of pain banded his ankle and he winced.
‘Don’t even know how many have taken tumbles yesterday and last night. You young fools, drinking up on roofs. Asking for trouble. Asking for it!’ She brought a tumbler to him and he sipped at the ale. ‘There’ll be more than just you being nursed this morning.’ He swallowed. Mechanically, he thanked her.
‘I wouldn’t trouble you longer,’ he said. His French came easily. It was the benefit of being raised in a town that had become more French than it ever was English.
‘No trouble, son. But I tell you, I’m glad this royal entry is over. If you’ve seen one king you’ve seen all of them. Rotten pack. The things that go on in their courts.’ He began to tune out her chatter. ‘… painted face about the city a lot, de Brieux, probably a lover of–’
‘What? What did you say?’
‘The woman they’re saying took ill and died last night. At the palace. It’ll be poison by a rival or else they stuff themselves to death with rich food.’
‘A woman died?’
‘Yes,’ she said, smacking her lips, enjoying the scandal. ‘Heard it as I swept the vomit from the front step this morning. Name of Vittoria de Brieux – one of the queen-mother’s painted ladies. It’s all over the city, they say – that she was probably done to death. But the story going out that her heart failed her. Well, they always say that, don’t they? I’ve seen her myself, lots of times, going about on her horse. You know what I think? That those fancy powders they wear make them mad.’
Acre pushed away the ale. His voice, when he spoke, seemed to come from far away. ‘Who else is at home?’
‘None but yourself. If you’d like to help in payment for the bed, you’d better wait until you can put weight on that foot.’
Acre leant on the wall and got to his feet, putting the pressure on his good ankle. The old woman opened her mouth to speak and he cuffed her across the face, knocking her to the floor in a stunned heap. Before she could cry out, he began kicking her with his sore foot, blooming pain shooting through his entire leg each time he made contact. He was scarcely aware of what he was doing.
When he came to, he stuffed her broken body under the mattress on which she had nursed him. He then found her key and left the house, locking the door behind him. Within the hour, he had managed to walk to the Tuileries, where he ascertained that his mother was truly dead. Asking about the whereabouts of a friend, he found that the English lady had gone to live with that realm’s ambassador. As he took the road to Saint-Marceau, he nearly collapsed in pain. Realising he would be unable to take Amy Cole and her husband without resting, he sat in the shade of a tavern. He had only just done so when the filth-strewn street clattered with the sound of riders.
There, as though they were continually trying to escape him, went the Coles, man and wife and a little servant girl, a pair of royal guards riding before them in tandem.
Rest would have to wait. He would find a horse and follow them at a distance, asking about their passage at every gate out of Paris, at every town, at every village, at every tavern on the road they were taking. It would not be difficult to find news of a group of people with a royal escort – the countryside would be full of speculation. There was nowhere they could run. Nowhere they could disappear.
He would not stop until they were dead at his hand, one forced to drink the blood of the other before spilling his own.
6
The English college at Douai, in the Spanish Netherlands, was notorious in England as the breeding ground for Catholic priests. Jack had heard it spoken darkly of even before he had become entangled with Francis Walsingham. Even though he had embraced Catholicism, in his mind the place was still shadowy and frightening. Words alone had had the power to make it so, and once a picture had been painted in words, it was hard to erase.
Rather than a brooding, black-walled fastness, he was surprised and delighted to instead find a compound of new, neat brick buildings set in leafy, clipped parklands. It had the look, indeed, of an English college. Young trainee seminary priests walked the grounds, discussing their faith and reading to one another.
Much as Walsingham had predicted, women were not permitted. Although Amy had protested that she could remain in the town outside whilst he did his work, he had eventually convinced her to go on ahead to the countess of Northumberland, to return Kat safely and inform the countess that she would be leaving her service, the mission to the French court having concluded. Walsingham did not prove a problem. When he went off to the city in the morning, he had simply accepted that Amy was required to go with Jack as far as the city limits, directing the royal guard to accompany him. The fact that she had left her chest of fine clothes in his house seemed enough to convince him that she could not go far. Mr Francis Walsingham, Jack had mused, had some lessons to learn if he wanted to become a true master of intelligence.
Amy took with her the royal escort, the two agreeing that they might as well make the most of them. Only men in French royal livery could commandeer horses and ensure speed. Journeys that might take a week on one set of horses could be done in a couple of days with their help – and Amy and Kat would be well protected. There was a greater distance between Paris and Bruges than between Paris and Douai, and the additional men would even out their trips.
In Douai, Jack found that he could not secure an appointment with anyone in authority for some days, being given assurance after assurance, and then politely put off. It was a bluff, of course. He was being discretely interrogated as each new priest enquired as to what business he brought and what urgency it had.
After several days of trying at Douai, the names of the countess of Northumberland and the Scottish queen, both women he had met and whom he could describe, got him an audience with Father William Allen, the college’s middle-aged founder.
‘You come from England, as I’m told,’ said Allen, standing, and leaning over his desk to take Jack’s hand as he entered. ‘I understand you served the queen of the Scots. And have more lately come from the blessed lady of Northumberland.’ He shook his head. ‘Both good creatures, driven into infamy and scandal by the false tongue of the whore Elizabeth. Ple
ase, sit.’
Jack sat on a stool in the office, as Allen regained his own seat. The desk between them was covered in curled papers and inkpots. Sunlight fell in through diamond-paned windows, making the college’s master glow. ‘Do you know, Mr Cole, that being the master of a religious college is more writing than praying?’ He chuckled softly. ‘I apologise that I could not see you sooner. I am told you have news out of Paris.’
‘Yes, father. But … I’m sorry that it’s me who has come to beg news from you.’ Allen said nothing but cocked his head to one side and began plucking at his neat beard. ‘And I would be honest with you. I’m a true Catholic, father. I was brought to the faith when … when I served the Scottish queen.’
‘Yet?’
‘Yet … I’ve been forced to serve the English queen’s man. Walsingham. Against my conscience.’
‘You have come here to confess? Or to save your soul by telling us of this Walsingham’s doings?’
‘I … to confess, yes. But in faith I have protected your seminary priests.’ Jack bit at his lips and then plunged in. ‘Three priests went to York late last year. Fathers Adam, Thomas, and Robin.’ Allen’s expression betrayed no flicker of surprise and he gave no denial or affirmation. ‘Mr Walsingham – he had me set to watch for such men. And I did. But I didn’t betray them. I gave them news of where to go in safety. Father Thomas, he didn’t trust me. I don’t know where he went. But Robin – with the red hair and the freckles – he went to Newcastle. If you know them both to be safe, you know I speak true.
‘But it’s not for them I’m here. The other, Adam. I have to know everything you can tell me about him. About his family.’
Divided Loyalties: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller Page 22