Traitor js-4

by Rory Clements

  Norreys had told him that the stratagem had been many weeks in setting up, that Eliska had passed information to Madrid through the French embassy in London. It was already a well-known route — the route used by the Babington plotters in their conspiracy to raise Mary Queen of Scots to the throne of England.

  The story told to Spain was that John Shakespeare could no longer stomach the persecution of Catholics. He wished to defect, bringing the innermost secrets of England’s spy network with him. Names of intelligencers, codes, conspiracies. Eliska had vouched for him; so, at her bidding, had Walter Weld.

  Now he had to adopt the role of traitor. It was a part that sickened him. If only he had his brother’s skill at play-acting …

  Crozon stretched away in front of them. It was a rocky, sparse outcrop. Trees were bent away from the wind. Hardy cattle and squat stone houses told the nature of those that inhabited this land. Shakespeare laughed. The region was called Finistere — land’s end. The end of the world, perhaps. Was ever a place better named?

  ‘We ride on then, my lady.’

  By sunset, they stood before the fort’s land-facing ramparts. It was a remarkable structure, unlike anything Shakespeare had expected. He had been prepared for an ugly, uncompromising wall, built with but one purpose: to stand against all comers on the landward side, and to attack enemy shipping from the sea-facing walls.

  The fort had a magnificent towering gatehouse keep, a dense curtain wall and, on either side, a bastion shaped like the spade suit in a game of cards. Though elegant, it was clearly functional, too. It was there to be impregnable from land, and to menace and control the port of Brest, a mere two miles or so across the water.

  Four Spanish guards in morion helmets and steel corslets trained the muzzles of their calivers on the two riders and demanded to know who they were. Shakespeare explained to them in their own language that they came in peace and wished to confer with their commander.

  The senior officer ordered them to dismount, then looked them up and down closely and asked their names. He gazed at the monkey, then spat on the ground with derision. But he was clearly satisfied that these people and their pet were no threat, for he nodded and strode away through the main gate without saying another word.

  Shakespeare took note of the defensive works. In advance of the curtain wall was a deep ditch preceded by an imposing counterscarp — a thick, sloping hill of earth and stone that would act as bulwark against any bombardment and would be nigh on impossible to scale without coming under heavy fire from the ramparts above. Likewise, the main gatehouse would be protected from cannonfire. The gateway itself consisted of two immensely heavy oak doors, eight feet high with powerful iron straps, designed to foil the use of battering logs. Shakespeare could not see a portcullis. Well, he would discover all in due course.

  ‘The castle of your dreams, my lady,’ Shakespeare said.

  ‘I am sure it suits its purpose well.’

  He nodded. There could be no doubt about that. More importantly, did it suit their purpose?

  After a few minutes the chief of guards returned and ordered Shakespeare and Eliska to follow him.

  Inside the fort they were confronted by an elaborate trench system, then a row of military houses, each in the Spanish style with flat, pointed facades topped by crosses at the highest point. The one on the right was clearly a guardhouse; the central one was the most elegant and probably housed the commandant and his staff. The one on the left was squat and had a brutally functional air. It had to be the munitions store.

  Shakespeare observed that the two bastions, either side of the curtain rampart, had heavy artillery pieces covering the landward approaches. They were a likely match for Norreys’s siege train. The bastions were colossal structures.

  Through a central alleyway, he saw the main compound, a wide open square for drilling and mustering. Buildings were ranged all around the square: barracks for the men, cookhouse, chapel, stabling.

  This was an astonishingly well-constructed fort, impervious to undermining because of the solid rock it stood on. Shakespeare was forced to acknowledge that the military assessment was correct: it had to be taken from the inside.

  A soldier was walking towards them. He was a man of fifty or so, with grey hair and a strong, weathered face.

  ‘Mr Shakespeare?’ he said in English. ‘Lady Eliska? Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain Tomas de Paredes. I was expecting you. You are most welcome. I trust your journey here has not been too unpleasant.’

  Eliska smiled. ‘Indeed not, captain. And I am delighted to tell you that I bring important information, and a gift of great value.’

  Paredes smiled. ‘It is as I was told. But first, I am certain, you will both wish refreshments and the chance to wash. These Breton roads are pitted and hard on rider as well as horse. Later we will talk and you can bring me all your secrets regarding the force that is to be sent against me. Then in the morning, you will be given passage with an armed escort to General del Aguila, who is presently in the south, at Blavet Harbour. As for your comforts, I have evicted an officer from his chamber for you, my lady. Mr Shakespeare, I fear you will have to share my rooms.’

  The commander nodded to the chief of guards, standing stiffly at his side.

  ‘Show the lady Eliska and Mr Shakespeare to their quarters, Captain Ferreira.’ He turned back to Shakespeare and Eliska. ‘I must apologise,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘You will find it is not the most palatial of accommodation.’

  They spoke over supper in Paredes’s apartments. The rooms were comfortable enough, in a masculine, military way. Paredes had a good table of food. Attentive servants brought them some of the best wines of Spain.

  ‘So to business,’ Paredes said at last. ‘I thank you, Lady Eliska, for your fine gift.’

  ‘The pleasure is all mine, captain. It is the thought of those angry English faces when they discover that it is missing that causes me the greatest joy.’

  ‘So what else do you bring me? Intelligence from Norreys’s camp, I trust. Do I have anything to fear?’

  Eliska looked at Shakespeare. If she was uneasy, it did not show in her demeanour or beautiful features. Her eyes were as animated and luminous as ever he had seen them.

  ‘That is for you to decide. Let us begin with the complement of his forces, which will soon march from Morlaix. He has five thousand four hundred men, a siege train of six guns, which will be supplemented by navy cannon, and some pieces — and more men — supplied by Aumont. In all, you will face fourteen or fifteen cannon.’

  Paredes interrupted. ‘You mention Morlaix. Surely, the siege train is needed against the castle there. My messengers have told me the Catholic League is holding the fortress against Baskerville’s veterans and some of Aumont’s troops. Norreys cannot come while the siege remains; his back would be compromised.’

  ‘The castle fell without a fight, captain. They surrendered as soon as Frobisher appeared off the coast and rolled out his guns.’

  Paredes snorted. ‘This so-called Catholic League! They should be hanged for cowardice. Which side are the French on?’

  ‘A very good question — and one that troubles the English as much as you, captain. Just ask Norreys.’

  ‘Well, Lady Eliska, the pirate Frobisher’s guns will not frighten us so easily. He is already here, you know, and keeps us entertained with his paltry cannon. They may wake you during the night. Pay them no heed, for the balls can scarcely hit the base of the ramparts, let alone clear them. He might as well shoot arrows at the moon.’

  Eliska slid a scroll of paper from her sleeve and handed it to Paredes.

  ‘There you will find full details of Norreys’s manpower, equipment, gunpowder and munitions, down to the last halberd, trumpet and brick for building ovens.’ She touched the paper with her forefinger. ‘There, fifty pioneers. Eighteen cannoneers, two hundred thousand pounds of artillery powder and fifty thousand for small arms, two hundred ladders, one hundred mortars.’ She stabbed he
r delicate finger at another section of the paper. ‘There you will find the effective companies and the ones you may ignore, the pressed men.’

  Paredes read the paper slowly. Every so often he smiled. ‘So the Privy Council has sent a thousand spades and fifteen hundred pickaxes for trenchwork and undermining. That should afford us great amusement. We will shoot them one by one as they break their tools and backs on solid rock.’

  Every sinew of Shakespeare’s being raged against the divulging of these military secrets, and yet he smiled and nodded as Eliska revealed detail after detail. She was giving away the muster numbers, the disposition of General Norreys’s army, and probable siege and battle plans. These were the general’s most intimate secrets. Under any other circumstance, the passing of such intelligence to an enemy power could lead only to the scaffold and another severed head to decorate the southern gatehouse of London Bridge.

  Paredes looked up. ‘What of the royalist French troops, Lady Eliska?’

  ‘My knowledge is not so good. I have not shared a bed with Marshal Aumont.’

  Paredes laughed.

  Shakespeare interrupted. ‘Aumont has three thousand men, captain, many of them unreliable and mutinous. They have been drifting away home for the grape harvest. They do not like fighting alongside the English. As for Aumont himself, he tries to rule Norreys, but Sir John won’t have it. They quarrel and bicker like old maids. I am not certain they will be able to work together much longer. Aumont will not allow the English into the port of Morlaix, nor into Brest. Norreys is a man of action; Aumont wishes a quiet life and will be reluctant to attack you.’

  Paredes signalled a servant to pour more wine for Shakespeare. ‘Then we have little to fear.’ He tugged at his grey beard and met Shakespeare’s eye. ‘It was said you were coming here as a friend of Spain, that you were a Roman Catholic at heart. That you had information of a critical nature to impart. That was my intelligence from Don Juan del Aguila.’

  Shakespeare sat back and looked at his nails with a nonchalant air. ‘Indeed, that is so. Do you doubt me?’

  Paredes continued to study his face for some sign of dissimulation. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘that is for others to rule on when you go to General del Aguila on the morrow. But for now, I wish to have your secrets.’

  Shakespeare sighed. ‘Captain Paredes, I do not wish to cause you offence or insult you in any way, but I worry about your information. Did your messenger not tell you that I was to talk to no one but del Aguila in person?’

  ‘No. I was not told that, only that you were both coming to me with vital intelligence.’

  ‘That is so. The military intelligence has now been given to you, by the Lady Eliska. That is all you need. The remainder, which I keep locked away in my head, is political and diplomatic, and will be imparted to Don Juan del Aguila alone. He will know the names of every English spy operating in the Spanish empire. He will know the secrets of every code at Cecil’s disposal. He will know how many blackened teeth the Queen of England has left in her pox-ravaged face if he so wishes.’

  Paredes’s eyes were piercing. The moments ticked by. Then suddenly he laughed.

  ‘Of course, you are right not to trust me. I am nothing but a soldier, a common capitan.’ The smile left his face as quickly as it had appeared. ‘But I tell you this, Mr Shakespeare, though I treat you with civility here as an honoured guest, you may not have the same reception at Blavet if you are suspected of false dealing. There are secret chambers there, where masked men with fire and iron can be very persuasive.’ He furled the paper Eliska had given him and clutched it tight. Then he smiled. ‘More wine, I think. These Breton nights are cold and long.’

  Shakespeare did not sleep. He was deeply troubled by the evening, particularly the gift from Eliska to Paredes.

  ‘You mentioned a gift. What did you give him?’ he demanded beneath his breath as they were escorted to their chambers.

  Eliska lifted her chin and her face glowed in the candlelight. ‘Are you jealous, Mr Shakespeare?’

  ‘This is no time for games. Tell me.’

  ‘It is a pistol, a wheel-lock with a handle of solid silver, and the initials J. N. inlaid in red gold. It belonged to Norreys.’

  ‘Does he know you have taken it?’

  ‘I imagine he does now.’ She laughed quietly and leant towards Shakespeare to whisper in his ear. ‘I would have you warm my bed this night. I had hoped … but it seems you are billeted with our host.’

  Now, in his single cot bed, he stared by the light of a single candle at a carved wooden figure of the Virgin Mary on the stone wall. For the first time he understood its significance. Mary and Elizabeth … Both sides had their own virgin to honour.

  Two guards stood outside the room and Paredes snored close by.

  Shakespeare turned over and looked away from the wall. He could no longer bear the eyes of Mary, mother of Jesus, upon him. He listened to the wind howl outside as he shifted on the thin mattress, but could find no comfort.

  At dawn, he began to drift into sleep, but his peace was shattered by a prolonged discharge of musket shots. Without opening his eyes, he smiled, for he knew what it meant: Norreys’s arquebusiers were here, just as promised. Three hundred of the best shot. The fort was now secured from land and sea. He and Eliska would not be going to Aguila at Blavet after all. No one would be moving from this fort. The first stage was in place, thank God. He and Lady Eliska were here for the duration.

  Chapter 43

  The rain teemed down without respite. Reaphook could not go on. His thigh was turning black where the girl at the farm had stabbed him. He knew he had gangrene, for he could smell its sickly sweetness.

  ‘He’s done for, lad,’ Pinkney said to Andrew. ‘Musket-ball in the heart would be the kindest thing. That’s what you’d do for a mastiff when its days were up.’

  ‘Could we not cut the leg away?’

  Pinkney shook his head briskly. ‘First, we’ve no surgeon. Second, the wound’s too high. The rot’s spread to his body. He told me his prick has turned black and it pains him to piss. Even if we could save him, no man wants to live like that. You keep him talking so he don’t see it coming. Easier that way.’

  The provost marshal turned aside, huddled against the constant rain.

  Andrew went and sat by Reaphook. Neither of them had soles to their boots and both had strips of rags wrapped about their feet. They were soaked through. Andrew could not recall the last time his skin had been dry. The stink of Reaphook’s rotting body was somehow made worse by the eternal damp, and it almost overpowered him.

  Reaphook’s breathing was shallow and laboured, but he opened his eyes at the touch of Andrew’s hand on his arm. He was burning up. Andrew handed him a mess-tin of rainwater that he had caught in his cap and Reaphook drank greedily, then clutched at Andrew’s dripping cassock with his wasted, claw-like fingers.

  ‘I saw you do that thing with your hand over them Frenchies you killed.’

  ‘The sign of the cross?’

  ‘Aye. What does it do?’

  ‘It’s a prayer for their spirit, seeking forgiveness. The extirpation of sins. A blessing.’

  ‘I done a lot of bad things, Private Woode.’

  ‘I know you have, Mr Reaphook.’

  ‘Is it too late for me?’

  ‘God tells us it is never too late. I no longer know if I believe it.’

  ‘But it’s got to be worth a try, though.’

  ‘Would you like me to pray for you? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You should repent your sins.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Say you’re sorry for all you’ve done wrong, all those you have harmed and robbed and … murdered.’

  He wanted to say raped, too, but could not bring himself to utter the word, for it brought back memories of Ursula Dancer.

  ‘Well, then, I’m sorry.’

  ‘And for what you did to Ursula.’

 
; ‘For everything. I was born bad. My slut of a mother was bad and I never knew no father.’ Reaphook smiled slyly at Andrew. ‘You liked her, didn’t you? Wouldn’t have minded yourself, eh? Ursula pigging Dancer.’

  Andrew felt the heat rise to his face. ‘You should not have treated her like that. She is a good woman.’

  ‘Like you. High-born. Never fitted in with the likes of us. A haggard, she was — a wild she-hawk that would not be tamed. I used to be copesmates with Staffy, you know. There wasn’t always bad blood between us. Used to go sharking, wenching and drinking together when he wasn’t so soft. He was sweet on her, but wouldn’t touch her. That was the problem — wouldn’t let no other man touch her neither. Went against the natural order. Anyone would have thought she was the virgin bloody queen. But once when he was cup-shotten, he told me stuff. I know where she came from. Gentry, her mother was. Squires or lords or somesuch from Grantley Brook. Rich as lions with land and gold. I’d cut all their throats. I’d have cut yours, too, just for being better than us. I wanted Spindle to do it, wanted to watch it and see her face as you died.’

  ‘Is she still alive?’

  ‘Well, she was when bloody Pinkney came back for me. That bastard Spindle had run away in the night, so I was taken in his place. And here I am.’

  ‘Say, “Father forgive me, for I have sinned.” That should be enough.’

  ‘Father forgive me, for I have sinned. And you can have my sickle. I bequeath it to you.’

  Andrew made the sign of the cross over him and tried not to look past him at the approaching Pinkney, sword in hand.

  Reaphook didn’t look either. He closed his eyes tight shut in anticipation of impending death. Pinkney pulled back the sword with both arms, then swung it at Reaphook’s neck. First strike did it. The head fell away, three-quarters severed, and blood gushed like a fountain.

  They buried the body in the muddy earth, along with his sickle; no one wanted it. Then they resumed marching.