‘It’s the priest, Heydon. I have cause to think he is coming here with some evil design.’ Walsingham’s eyes widened – she decided in shock and barrelled on. ‘But I couldn’t tell Mr Brown – you’ll know he’s gone from Tutbury, gone from watching the Scottish queen. So I was to come here with the countess, so I thought I could maybe find him, or someone, and warn you all, and you could catch him. He’s using my husband as his – his groom, but Jack doesn’t know anything, he’s just a –’
‘You say a priest is coming here with evil design?’
Amy closed her mouth, nodding in frustration. Up close, in better light, Walsingham wasn’t so attractive. Somewhere under forty, his smiles seemed weak, almost false. He made her think suddenly of a household accounts keeper. Only his dark eyes and the shadowed lines around his mouth gave him intensity. ‘But you know about him. Mr Brown knows about him. He works for Mr Cecil –’
‘Sir William.’
‘Sir William, yes.’
‘The fellow who was just here?’
‘Yes,’ said Amy, aware that her own voice was sharpening. ‘I did what I was told. I watched Queen Mary for him, as Mr Brown told me. I even promised that I would … you know, the other thing. If she ever tried to get loose or if the Catholics ever attacked her Majesty. But they might – Heydon might.’
‘I know of no priest Heydon,’ said Walsingham. He lifted a hand and stroked at a small, dark beard. His eyes seemed to look past her. ‘Heydon. A name from the north.’
‘That’s right. From Newcastle Mr Brown said. An old family. He was a young son – he’s about twenty-one – he fell in with the Catholics.’
‘Mistress, you keep speaking of this Mr Brown. Who is he?’
‘He’s – why, he’s one of your men. One of Mr – Sir William’s. He watches the queen of Scots.’
Walsingham frowned and looked back into the room, towards the door through which Cecil and the others had left. Then he looked back down at Amy. ‘I don’t know what game this is, young woman. But no. No, I have an eye for names and a memory for our friends. I tell you, there is no Mr Brown in her Majesty’s service. None.’
7
The words struck Amy like bullets. She spluttered for a few seconds. ‘But … but … I’ve met him. Many times. By Tutbury, by Wingfield.’
‘You are mistaken,’ said Walsingham. She could hear in his voice that he was tiring of her. ‘Our only man in that part of the world, he … well, I’m sure your household heard of it. He was slain. We have had no man, no Brown or any other, living by the Scottish queen. We need no sneaking spies to watch her. She is well kept, as your mistress informs us.’ Something seemed to dawn on his face, turning it flinty. ‘If,’ he said, ice in his tone, ‘you think to make trouble for the countess, young woman, you will find no succour with me.’
‘No, no – the countess is a fine woman, a good woman. It’s … I …’ she trailed off, then with renewed vigour, insisted, ‘there is a Mr Brown, whether you know of him or not. It won’t be his real name of course – but you have a man up there. I know him – a brown suit and silver hair. Whether you know of him or not, I do!’ You stupid old fart, she wanted to add, all sense of attraction vanished.
‘Mind your tone.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but there was. He knew all about the priest Heydon, wanted him watched. For Secretary Cecil, he said.’
‘Ah,’ said Walsingham. He drew away from her a little, straightening the black gown he wore. ‘I see. Mistress, you’ve been taken for a fool by a grasping fellow. Probably he sought to spend his lust with you.’ He caught her horrified expression and his eyes softened a little. ‘We have many men who try their luck with us. Hoping to sell knowledge. A lowly, grasping rabble. I suggest you learn not to speak with strange men. He showed you no proof of his allegiance to Sir William, I suppose?’ He smiled nastily at her silence, at her suddenly averted eyes. ‘No, and you did not think to ask.’
‘I didn’t know I should – I’ve never been –’
He held up a milky hand. ‘Then you must learn to keep your wits about you. But … if there is some priest using the name Heydon, our men in London will inform us. Fear not, mistress – our sovereign lady is well protected. By real men. Not ghosts. I suggest you return to the countess. I shall say nothing of this … this nonsense. You might find something for your household to eat. You have missed dinner. It might explain your absence, yes?’
He bowed and walked away from her, his measured step chiming on the dancing hall floor. Her mother’s old poem echoed in her head: why does evil so clearly mark the monstrous government of men?
She felt tears spring hot to her eyes. She wasn’t ready to let go of the fantasy of Mr Brown, and she clung to the idea that Walsingham was simply an idiot – that Cecil kept things from him. Frantically she tried to force sense into the world. Brown had seemed to know of Heydon. She thought back, as hard as she could. What he had told her - about him coming from an old family - that could have been common knowledge. She had no way of knowing. Had he said anything - about anything - that was truly secret? Anything that only an informed and involved man would know? She couldn’t think. She had trusted him, had no reason to record what he said and examine it. The house of cards fell. She knew she was wrong. She had fed information to a chancer – not to a spy or an informer, but to a trickster who hoped to become one by selling on her information.
Only – only – if that were the case, why hadn’t he? Even using his real name, whatever it was, why hadn’t he made himself known to Cecil and Walsingham, offering the knowledge Amy had given him?
And what of the poison he had given her? Was it some harmless concoction? Rainwater and pond scum?
Her mind whirled and, in a daze, she wandered out of the dancing hall. The sound of laughter and conversation hummed from the great hall ahead of her. Shame clawed at her and she let anger flare to meet it. A young page with a loaded trencher of comfits darted past. ‘Stop, you,’ she said, her voice a razor.
‘Mistress?’
‘Give me that.’ She wrenched it from his hands. He seemed too surprised to stop her.
‘But that’s for Master Secretary. He missed dinner.’
‘And he’ll miss this. Buzz off.’
‘Hey,’ he cried. ‘Hey, you are no lady! I’m telling on you.’
She stuck her tongue out as he ran away, knowing it was a stupid, futile thing to do. Men were going to be no help to her. She had gone to the highest and been dismissed as an addle-brained strumpet, singing her heart out to a trickster. An ugly, rational part of her mind added: that is exactly what you are, Amy Cole.
Wherever Jack was now, he was on his own.
***
The old boathouse was a meagre affair. Two rooms, the first of which had steps leading to an upper floor that had been knocked away, giving it the feeling of a tiny old tithe barn. The wood throughout was rotting and the whole placed smelt like an old, unkept fish pond. Jack and Heydon stood in the first room. The door to the second had a rusting lock on it.
They had galloped westwards, hoping to beat the sun. It had overtaken them, a surprising heat in it for the time of year. ‘Not much of a place, is it?’ said Heydon, a lopsided smile on his face. ‘But the best I’d heard of this near to the place.’ Heard of from whom, Jack wondered. ‘Listen to me, mate. I have to … get all things in readiness.’ He tapped the box, still tucked under one arm. ‘Get this machine together. You go down to the village. Get us some meat and drink. Enough for some days. Can’t say when the old bitch will take to her boat. I would … like some time to pray. To speak with God. Don’t return until dark. Try not to be seen.’
Jack did as he was told, happy to get away from the shabby little shack. He considered riding down to the borough of Windsor, but it seemed a waste. Better to let his horse rest in the roofless stable that lay a short distance from the boathouse.
Windsor was a rickety town, the streets haphazard and the buildings partially eaten away by neglect. A dism
al wind whispered promises of winter through its wooden shacks. It was strange, he thought, that such a dunghill could lie so close to the splendour of the castle – in its shadow, almost. That, he supposed, was what happened to things left in the shade of greater things.
He found a selection of street vendors, their carts boasting little. There was no meat to be had, but plenty of stale bread and stoppered wooden tuns of ale. He bought up all the bread he could carry, and a sturdy wooden jug with a flat cap. It hadn’t taken him long. Already the people in the streets were beginning to look at him, making him feel conspicuous. Watched. He looked up at the sky. A few clouds drifted, and the sun burned a low orange. Heydon couldn’t have finished his prayers yet – Latin masses went on awhile. And he had told him to stay away until dark. Yet Jack decided to return anyway. Staying in the village could only arouse suspicion. There had to be at least one man who made his living up at the castle, and who might wander up there at any point and report a strange young man buying up provisions. Besides, his earlobes were starting to go numb.
He struck out over the unkept, dying grass towards the boathouse. As he approached the door, he thought he heard voices coming from inside and his heart skipped a beat. Caught. Caught before any diabolical scheme could be carried out. That might not be such a bad thing – although he doubted any searchers would let either Heydon or him walk away. Perhaps his friend’s connections and money could get them release. He drew towards the door, setting the sack of bread and the jug of ale down and leaning close. The boards were thin enough to let him hear.
‘until this evening. He believes me to be praying.’
‘Still thinks you’re a papist then,’ spat a cold, metallic voice. A voice Jack recognised.
‘Of course. Christ Jesus, could you not have found a better place? Where is the key?’ A sound of movement. Jack’s heart sped. Heydon’s casual speech had given way to a sneering kind of huffiness.
‘Have you found the wife?’
‘She must be at the castle. If you had warned me –’
‘If you had kept her close! You said she was in thrall to you, for the love of Christ.’
‘She is a forward little bitch, I told you that.’
‘And she will ruin everything. Everything. Christ, what a mess. I still say she saw me in Wingfield.’
‘Bah! She is a fool. I made her think you were some woman.’
‘She is not the fool he is. She is not such a fool that she would kill that Scottish bitch and without that we are lost. What use is one dead queen if the other lives, eh? An end to the unnatural government of women, my friend. Not woman. That is what you want, is it not?’
‘It is not my fault she is too weak to kill, to obey. I knew a woman would not work, as foul as their natures may be. A laundress! What does a laundress know of the art of dispatch? The papist whore will die, if I have to slit her throat myself. Unnatural – unnatural it is! An end to this foolish dance between weak, crowned women.’ He said ‘crowned’ as though it were an insult. ‘A papist beldam and a woman who feigns the true faith watered with tolerance and womanly frailty. By the book, I will slit her damned throat.’
‘It might well come to that, sirrah. But … we are not lost yet.’ A long pause drew out and Jack heard the sharp, stuttering thuds of pacing. ‘We must get her back to Tutbury. Get her back to Mary’s side. Let her be seen there. And then you poison the bitch yourself. Yes – yes – and then get rid of her too. Make it look like suicide. Like she cannot live with what she has done. Same as her daft husband. But make sure the empty vial is found on her person. Then … then get yourself north. Before they shut up the borders. Get the Scotch regent told to bring the new king south before the fools in yonder castle can gather their wits. His wife will be expecting you. I told her something was to happen requiring her husband and the boy-king.’
‘But … but … I’m supposed to take ship for Scotland. How am I to tell the regent to bring the babe south if I’m meddling at Tutbury and the wild north stands in my way? By the good book, how do I even get that foolish wench to Tutbury? I cannot wander into the Court and steal her away.’ Jack read panic in the man’s voice – or something like anger.
‘Think of something, then. The enterprise stands. I have enough to do keeping the husband in check. Think of something, my dear – what is it? Mr Brown.’ A murmur. ‘Good man. Now hurry out of here. My soft-headed little friend will return soon. No doubt the moment the sun has passed. Sheep that he is. And then I shall have to take him down somehow, bind him.’
Fury filled Jack. Passed. Fear flooded in to replace it, and a desire to be away, far away from the boathouse. From the whole world, if possible. Something was going to happen to Amy. The idea struck horror into him. He would have to do something, to save her, to rescue her. He turned away from the door, leaving the food and drink, and began to walk away, picking up his pace as he moved towards the stable. To take the horse or to run?
Take it. Move.
As he stepped towards the low wooden railing, a hand gripped his elbow. ‘You going somewhere, mate?’ He half-turned, and something hard thumped on the back of his head. The browning grass rose up towards his face and he knew no more.
***
The countess had selected the best of Amy’s selection of stolen dainties, leaving the rest to her staff. She had barely noticed her seamstress’s absence and did not bother to thank her for the food. Instead, she had stormed into her bedchamber, leaving the door open. Amy had followed.
‘We’re staying here awhile,’ said Bess. ‘I don’t know how long. If I go back to Tutbury, if I go back to that … that woman … By God, I think I’ll take a bite out of her. Schemes and accusations, eh? I’ll give her schemes and accusations. The days I’ve spent listening to her whine and mewl. The days I’ve missed at my accounts, at my good, honest workmen. Schemes and accusations! And what we have spent on her – the expense of her! That … that bud-mouthed bitch!’ She kneaded at her forehead and then seemed to remember others were in her chamber.
‘Girls. Girls, I need you to fix up something warm for me. The true queen has asked I should accompany her on the river tomorrow. After dinner. Last chance to take the air for pleasure before the weather turns. A mark of favour from a true sovereign, not a fallen one. And by God she’ll hear all there is to hear about that other. I’ll make my lady Majesty’s ears fit to burn with the truth of that wench, by God.’
Without feeling, Amy took to a corner and began to sew a fur stole around a collar. It was pleasant, having something to do she enjoyed. In and out went the needle, rhythmically, soothingly. She might once have taken pleasure in hearing Queen Mary being spoke ill of, but she could not. All she could think about was what a fool she had been. All she could wonder was whether Jack would come to his senses. Was he in London now? Was he safe?
She offered up a silent prayer, demanding that God make things right.
8
Jack awoke to the splash of ale on his face. He smiled stupidly. It faded. As his vision returned, he saw the man who called himself Brown standing over him. Yes, it had been his voice speaking to Heydon. He recognised the grey hair, the unlined face – the one he had seen barking at Amy in the woods near Tutbury.
‘Have a care, man,’ said Heydon. ‘That ale has to do me some days.’ Brown stepped away, placing the jug on the floor by the wall. Jack’s eyes followed him. He was in the first room of the boathouse. He moved and felt the binding around his wrists. His ankles, too. ‘Ah, you’re alive, Cole. I must say, you went down far easier than did you wife. She must have a stronger neck.’
As though in response, the back of Jack’s neck throbbed. Automatically, he tried to rub it. His hands, wedged and tied behind his back, refused to cooperate. ‘Now,’ said Heydon, ‘you will do us a favour.’
‘Go to hell,’ said Jack. ‘You’re … you’re no priest.’
‘Well seen. At last. Although I did study abroad with the papists. My Latin, I think, is worthy of any Oxford master.’<
br />
‘Who are you? What are you?’
‘A gentleman,’ Heydon smiled. ‘As I said.’
‘But … you want Queen Mary dead. And Queen Elizabeth.’
‘True. Stop talking. You tire me. I have heard enough of you these past months.’
‘You’re a Scot!’ Jack cried, causing pain to crash over him.
‘What? Oh. Oh, I see. No, Cole, I am no such rabble. Yet I would have the young Scotch king brought here and raised an Englishman. The Scots’ leaders know the true faith, not papistry or the weak-willed softness of Elizabeth.’
Brown moved back towards them. ‘The true faith,’ he echoed. ‘This realm will know it. The time-servers will flee. The land will be free of womanish rule.’
‘Quite.’
‘But … the earl of Moray, the Scotch regent. You … I … we…’ He could not form thoughts, and his words stalled accordingly. ‘You work for him?’
‘I did,’ said Heydon. ‘Though you were too stupid to see it. Do you recall, Mr Jack Cole, the day the duke of Norfolk met the earl at Hampton Court? I was there. I was the earl’s gentleman, though I had my beard cut off before I made your acquaintance. I saw you then, as I see you now. A simpering sheep, ripe for the slaughter.’
‘Moray … the earl … he would kill his sister? And his cousin?’ Heydon shrugged and got down on his haunches.
‘I have known the good earl since he was an exile in Newcastle, when I was a slip of a lad. He knows nothing of this, yet he will be brought to see the sense of it. As his wife has. A good man, the earl. He knows how to play the cards he’s dealt. And how to ignore the means by which the dealers shuffle.’ He shrugged again, bored. ‘Now, you will do us a favour.’
‘You go and fuck yourself,’ spat Jack. ‘I’ll kill you.’
A Dangerous Trade: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller Page 21