‘Suppose,’ said Allen, ‘that I know of whom you speak. Why should I tell a turncoat man anything? By your own admission, young man, you are not to be trusted. You work for more than one master.’
‘Because Adam is dead. I killed him.’
That got Allen’s attention. The priest rose, sudden fear passing over his face. ‘There has been no word from Adam,’ he whispered, half to himself. ‘Nothing to say he has been hunted down and butchered by the heretic queen or her dogs.’
‘No,’ said Jack, biting at his lower lip again. ‘He was not … Adam was not a true Catholic. I mean, I know he studied here – the other two knew him. Trusted him. But the countess of Northumberland knew of a plot. The diamond plot. We discovered that Adam was a part of it.’
‘You and Mr Walsingham?’ frowned Allen.
‘Me and my wife,’ grinned Jack. He fought to return his face to more serious lines. ‘We discovered that Adam was son to a woman called Vittoria de Brieux. A Frenchwoman. She … well, she claimed to have had him by a priest, who sold him and two other children to an English couple. And when she found them again, they made this plot to bring disgrace on the faith. Father, they killed people.’
‘This is all hard to believe, Mr Cole. I … I knew this Adam.’
‘What was his true name? Where did he come from? Did he have brothers?’
‘Whom did he kill?’
‘Well, it was he and another. His fellow plotter – a man who’s been trying to kill me. I don’t know who did what. But … two priests. Last year, two priests were killed. It was made to look like they’d died in sin, one killing the other. But it was Adam’s fellow. Killed them so that Adam could be sent from here. And then there was a Protestant reverend and a poor old woman. Both Protestants. Both killed so that the English Catholics might be inspired to violent acts, or that others might be so disgusted they would rise up against their own faith. All to blacken the name of the Roman religion. To bring violence and hatred and war.’
‘A strange tale. An ugly one. You know, Mr Cole, there are men of ambition in this world. Men who would invent plots … encourage them in order to stop them. If someone has embraced our faith in order to do evil … well, I should imagine the devil queen of England’s disciples are behind it. One of them likely encouraged Adam in order to then discover the plot and crave favour at her cloven feet.’ Allen sat back, scrutinising Jack’s reaction. The scepticism must have been apparent. ‘I know the two priests. I knew them, I should say,’ said the priest, tugging again at his beard. ‘And I heard about the nature of their deaths. I knew it could not be true, what was whispered about it. They were like father and son, not a catamite and a murderous pederast.’
‘And Adam?’
‘It is true, that young man was … he encouraged violence. Often. It was why I agreed to send him into England. Not to do it, of course, but to prevent his wild talk infecting his fellow priests here. Some were frightened of his talk. I worried it might discourage them from the faith – that it might make them think the lies told about us by heretics are true.’
‘His family, sir. We know the mother. She’s dead. We think her to have been the chief plotter – the queen of diamonds. Yet there is this other creature who’s tried to kill me, and one other, we suspect.’
Allen did not respond for some time. The clouds shifted outside, and the room was thrown into sudden gloom. ‘It was a sad case, as I recall’ he said. ‘We investigated Adam when he arrived. His parents died in a terrible accident, both of them. He had letters from Paris commending him for study. From a grand French lady. Her word meant we had to do no more thorough searches into his past, into his friendships. She was attached to the royal court of France – and untainted by the heretics who were then at war with it. He was visited by no one, but he did speak of his siblings.’
‘Who were they? Brothers? A brother and a sister?’
‘I do not know. I had no reason to take note of them.’
‘Might anyone else? Could you ask the other priests?’
‘I will make enquiries. Visit me again in a day.’ He gestured towards the door, a flick of his hand indicating dismissal. Deep lines were suddenly etched between his eyebrows. As Jack was standing up, Allen said, ‘I do recall, Mr Cole, that before he left, Adam had a letter from Scotland. I do not read the letters of the seminary priests – this is not a gaol – but I note where letters come from and where they go. In case our investigations into our young men fail and we end up with some planted heretic, here to do mischief. Dark fellows, these creatures. They infect any good Catholic household they can under the guise of innocence and honest labour.’
Something clicked in Jack’s mind.
Bowing to Allen, who still looked troubled, Jack nearly tripped over his feet in his hurry to flee the room. He left the building which housed Allen’s office and went out into the gardens. He broke into a trot, slowing only when he was free of the college building and back at the little confluence of streets that marked the town. He stared at the ground, his mind racing as he walked.
As he passed a side street, he failed to see the dark apparition, hobbling but full of insane strength, leap at his back. Before he could cry out, a rope was around his neck, choking him and pulling him into the lane. He did not think. He simply ceased to feel at all.
7
The choker dug in, tight. The little triple string of pearls was the only thing Amy had taken from the stock of finery the countess had originally sent her into France with, and she considered it fair recompense for her labours. It looked odd, perhaps, glimmering above a plain servant’s gown, but if people took her for a thief, that could not be helped.
The royal escort had got Amy and Kat across France and the Spanish Netherlands, from Paris to Bruges, in five days. Since the pair had been gone from the place, it seemed that the countess had returned to something approaching her former state – she was spoken of in the town as the English lady who lived under the Spanish king’s protection. Rather than a small house on the main square, she occupied a great townhouse staffed with servants seemingly speaking every language. The place was on the outskirts, hard by the canal which embraced the city in an almost perfect circle. If the countess needed to flee at short notice, it would be an easy thing to take the water stairs to a small boat and go.
‘A good place, my lady,’ said Kat. ‘Safe.’
‘You don’t need to call me that anymore, Kat. We’re not doing that anymore, not pretending. Amy I was born and Amy I’ll die.’
‘Amy. Feels strange, after the last months.’
‘Well, get used to it. Come, let’s go. Your new home, eh?’ In truth, Amy was nervous about seeing the countess again. Still, it had to be done. It could ensure a clean break with the past.
The usual train of access rooms was still in place, despite the change in surroundings. Amy had released the guards who had escorted them on the road, but here Spanish soldiers stood in a large, outer hall. Amy and Kat, in their service clothes, breezed past them, rightly assuming they were there to watch for suspicious gentlemen. A smaller hall lay inside, populated by clerks, accountants, and those gentlemen who were not deemed suspicious. Beyond this was the countess’s private chamber. ‘I’m one of the lady’s servants,’ said Kat. The guard at the door gave a military-style nod, not looking at her, and leaving Amy to push the door open.
The countess was sitting on a carved wooden chair with gilt arms, dictating something to her secretary, the unpleasant, sallow-faced Cottam, who sat on a stool with a portable desk before him. Both looked up in surprise.
‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’ asked the countess when Amy strode into the room and took a theatrical bow.
‘I bring news of the French court, my lady,’ said Amy. ‘And the diamond plot.’
‘Not you,’ said the countess, giving her an exasperated look. ‘You, girl.’ Amy spun, confused. Kat stepped nimbly past her with only the briefest of apologetic looks.
‘I’d no reason
to stay, what with her going,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t stay her, my lady. Couldn’t think of a reason, with her playing the mistress.’
‘What is this?’ Astonishment had fallen over Amy’s face, her mouth hanging open. She looked at Kat as if seeing her for the first time. ‘You,’ she said, feeling as though she had been punched in the gut.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cole. The countess is my mistress. For now and forever.’
‘You – you were watching me? The whole time …’ Amy put a hand to her mouth. Dropped it. Laughed. ‘You cunning little bitch.’ She reddened. ‘I’m sorry, my lady. I … I … you sent her with me to watch me?’
‘Yes,’ said Lady Northumberland. ‘It was you who gave me the idea, Mrs Cole, with your tales of watching the Scottish queen whilst cleaning her sheets. I did not trust you. Why should I? Yet I trusted my little Kat. She would not betray me. She has kept me informed of all your news. All that has passed at the French court. You were never intended to be my eyes or my ears. My clever Kat was always to be those. You were merely a mask for her. Yet I commend you on playing the lady.’
‘Queen Catherine saw I was no lady on the day we met. She let me stay as long as the king and his bride were from Paris. As long as she might use me to spy on a lady she didn’t trust.’
‘I see.’ Turning her attention again to Kat, the countess asked, ‘stand matters where they did?’
‘The woman who poisoned us is dead. And I heard on the road out of Paris from Mrs Cole and her husband that one of the diamond men is dead. I’d have written that sooner if I’d known.’ Kat’s intelligence was interrupted by the clatter of Cottam’s inkpot falling to the floor.
‘Poison,’ said Amy to herself, her wits beginning to return. ‘The Frenchwoman, Brieux – she was the mother of the diamond plot. Its queen. A dark, painted lady. Dead. By her own hand. And one of her sons dead too. Adam. What was he … the knave? The ace? And an attempt was made at poisoning here, in the old house – the ale-seller. It wasn’t an attack on the countess at all. It was aimed at me.’ Realisation dawned on her face as she spoke. ‘You,’ she breathed, pointing at Cottam. You were there, in Aberdeen. In the old house here.’ The realisation blossomed into wild excitement. ‘Madam, it’s him. He’s the king of the diamond plotters, the eldest son!’
‘What nonsense is this?’ spat Cottam.
‘It’s you! You! You’re how they knew who we were – how men in York and a woman in France knew who we were. Kat?’ She turned to the girl. ‘Kat, you were writing to the countess, right? Weren’t you? Writing all you saw me do, heard me say?’ Kat gave an embarrassed nod.
‘Aye – yes – I wrote. In your name, but my lady knew it was me.’
‘And so all that you wrote went through his hands. For him to pass on to his brothers in England and his mother in France.’
‘Enough,’ said the countess. There was neither anger nor surprise in her voice. ‘I have heard enough of your accusations, Mrs Cole.’ She raised her voice and called for the Spanish soldier stationed outside. The man entered, a hand at the hilt of his sword. Amy backed towards the corner of the room.
‘Take her – she is a madwoman,’ Cottam spluttered. The guard made a move towards her.
‘Arrest Mr Cottam immediately,’ said the countess. Momentary confusion crossed the soldier’s face and was quickly gone. He moved towards Cottam and took hold of his arms, twisting them behind his back.
‘Don’t believe her, my lady! She is a liar – a madwoman! Please, my lady, I have served–’
‘Wait,’ cried Amy. ‘Search him – search about him for a jewel.’ Roughly, the soldier began tearing at Cottam’s clothing, ripping open his secretarial robes and pawing at his doublet. ‘There, there!’ The soldier withdrew a diamond-headed pin, identical to the one Jack had shown her on the road out of France as having come from the York priest.
‘A token bought with my money?’ asked the countess. Cottam did not reply.
‘It’s a proof of his guilt, my lady. The diamond plotters each wore one.’
‘I see. Well it is his no longer. Lock him up securely. Bind him. Have two men guard any means in and out of his chamber,’ Lady Northumberland said. Still, her voice remained entirely calm. The guard passed the pin to her, still holding Cottam with the other hand. She looked down and began rolling it between her thumb and forefinger as her secretary was hauled away. The movement shook him out of his silence and again he began protesting and screaming.
‘You knew?’ asked Amy when he was gone. ‘You knew?’
‘Mind your tone, Mrs Cole. You are a feigned lady no longer.’ The two women locked eyes, and the moment drew out until Amy, scowling, dropped her head. ‘I own,’ said the countess, ‘that I made careful and secret enquiries into all my people when you turned out not to be as you appeared. I owe you a debt of gratitude. You have given me the gift of suspicion. Thereafter I found that Mr Cottam was a man of cunning in his letters. Much more correspondence came in and went out than I heard tell of. Monies, too, have been strangely handled. As you can see, I have met with generosity. Gifts from the Holy Father and my friends abroad have been depleted before reaching me, the excess gone astray. More, I discovered from Dr Prestall – you remember Dr Prestall? – that the fellow had purchased certain admixtures from him the day the ale-seller was killed. He claimed to buy them as a means of creating some potion to send the supposed English queen.’ Amy remembered the strange, mystical-looking conjurer who had visited the countess that day. ‘And in my suspicion, I instructed dear Kat, bless her, to write me in your name. Even Cottam did not know that intelligence from Paris came from her and not you. I did not know the nature of this diamond plot, not precisely. You say you have discovered it – that it was a family affair?’
Amy took a deep breath and explained all she knew to the countess.
‘A most horrible conspiracy,’ was Lady Northumberland’s assessment. ‘Catholics turning on their own true faith. Yet you say one of these creatures is still at large.’
‘Yes, my lady. If Cottam was the king, and Brieux the queen, then the priest, Adam, was the ace or the knave. Whichever one he wasn’t is still out there. And he’s the one who has been trying to kill my husband.’
‘Trying and failing,’ corrected the countess. ‘Yes. And he is abroad somewhere. As is your husband. Well, perhaps we shall have something by Cottam. I understand that Spanish soldiers are very skilled in interrogation. They can make it last many days.’ Her smile sent icy fingers down Amy’s spine.
***
Acre rode unmolested through the Belgian countryside, making all the haste he could towards Bruges, where his surviving brother dwelt. The eldest of the three had always been the most reluctant of the diamond league. His interest was money, and it was the chance to raise great sums of it that the angel, their true mother, had promised him. War, especially religious war, always provided the chance to become rich. She had pulled herself up to great wealth during the last wars, investing the monies she had inherited from her merchant father on foodstuffs and supplies and then doubling, sometimes trebling, the price when the fighting got hot and the people were starving. That had been enough to convince William.
Acre did not have any strong feeling for brother William, but he was the only remaining link he had with the past now. More importantly, he had a shrewd mind. If the diamond plot was to continue, or any part of it, it would be for him to decide.
A groan drew him from his thoughts.
Bound and gagged on a small, low cart behind him was Jack Cole, lying next to a large shovel, a good length of rope, and a cheap wooden clothes chest – each purchased from different sellers on the road. The creature’s neck was still swollen and red. It had taken a good deal of self-restraint not to simply kill him outright, but he had learnt from the first time he thought he had done that that it would be unsatisfying. Jack Cole was bait. He would draw his wife out, and only when both were in thrall would their pains begin.
Acre reined his horse in, di
smounted, and looked around. They were not far from Bruges. The road passed through a dense, swampy forest called the Bulskampveld – a hunting ground for the local gentry. As good a place as any. Acre withdrew some bread he had purchased on the road and, pulling away the strip of his old bandage that went around Jack’s head, he stuffed the food in. ‘Don’t choke,’ he said, replacing the binding. He had tried to talk to the man as little as possible. It might bring on rage. As he was watching to make sure his captive swallowed, the sound of hooves turned him to the road behind.
‘What is this?’ asked a soldier, drawing his horse to a halt. His French was seasoned with Spanish.
‘Prisoner, sir,’ said Acre. ‘Dutch rebel. Heretic. Taking him to the city governors.’
‘A prisoner … do you need an escort?’ He looked down as Jack began to thrash against his bindings.
‘No, sir. Orders from the duke of Alba’s men that he’s to talk to no one and go straight to Bruges.’
The Spanish soldier looked momentarily flummoxed. Acre waited. Alba’s was a name few in the Low Countries cared to meddle with. The lie had worked all the way from Douai. It worked again. ‘Yes. Good. Get him there.’ The soldier gave one hard nod and rode on towards the city. He did, Acre noticed, turn his head a few times to look behind him. Then he was gone.
Acre tethered the horse to a tree and detached the low cart from it. Before anyone else could come to or from the city, he pulled the contraption into the woods, going as deep as he dared. Before the ground turned marshy, he halted and took out the shovel. With the pleasant sounds of Jack Cole’s frightened mumbling, he began digging a grave that he would be sure the man filled. His wife, though, would go first. If all worked out as he hoped, she would go in still breathing, her husband watching as she was buried alive, every limb broken first.
When the grave was dug – the perfect width to accommodate the clothes coffer, and deep enough that no one could climb out unaided – he hauled himself out using the rope he had tied to a tree before setting to work. He removed the heavy lid and slid the box to the edge of the grave, carefully lowering it in. He then checked and double-checked Jack’s bindings.
Divided Loyalties: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller Page 23