The Course of All Treasons

by Suzanne M. Wolfe

  If Walsingham could imagine Winchelsea’s state of mind as he was being blinded, then murdered, he gave no sign. His voice was low and uninflected. As always.

  The defining experience of Walsingham’s life, one that explained his fanatical hatred of Catholics and had hardened his resolve to establish an English Protestant state, had been when, as English ambassador in France, he was in Paris during the Massacre of St. Bartholomew’s Eve fourteen years earlier. There he had witnessed the wholescale slaughter of French Huguenots—men, women, children clinging to the skirts of their mothers, babes in arms, and the infirm elderly. Bravely, he had given sanctuary to as many of the terrified populace as the embassy could hold and barred the doors. Then he and his staff had stood guard with drawn swords all night, refusing to give up the Huguenots under his protection to the baying mob while the streets of Paris ran ankle-deep in blood and the screams of the dying had continued unabated throughout the night like a hellish chorus.

  Like Dante emerging from the Inferno, without the consolation of the Paradiso, Walsingham had returned to England a changed man, his soul seared by the sights and sounds of unimaginable horror, by the dark knowledge of what man was capable of doing to his fellow man in the name of God. Perhaps that was the reason he dressed all in black, Nick thought. Not because he was a Puritan, but because he was in perpetual mourning.

  “Judging from the lack of bloating,” Walsingham continued, “we think he went into the river the night before. Your physician friend confirmed this at the scene.”

  Walsingham was referring to Eli, the Jewish doctor who had performed the examination of the body of Lady Cecily, the first lady-in-waiting to be murdered at court. Rivkah had examined the body of the second lady-in-waiting. The Queen had sanctioned their involvement, knowing that Nick thought highly of their medical skills. Cannily, she also knew that a Jewish physician would keep silent about what he discovered because Jews were tolerated in England on sufferance. As long as the Jews proved useful, she would turn a blind eye to their faith and leave them unmolested.

  As for Walsingham, he was not above recruiting people he would ordinarily abhor if it served his purposes, especially if they were protected by the Queen’s favor. So long as they remained useful to him, they were relatively safe.

  Still, the fact that Walsingham had taken it upon himself to enlist the help of Eli made Nick profoundly uneasy, as if the tentacles of the spy business were reaching across the river and encircling the sanctuary Nick had built for himself in Bankside. He knew he had only himself to blame. It was he who had suggested Eli examine the body of Cecily in the first place.

  “He found three sets of footprints at the scene of Winchelsea’s death,” Walsingham continued. “The actual murder took place in a shed near the wharf. I am proceeding on the assumption that this third unknown person murdered Winchelsea.”

  “But surely a third set of footprints cannot tell us who murdered whom?” Nick said. “Just that there were three people. They could easily have been left by a witness or left there days before?” Nick was astonished that Walsingham should be so sure the murderer was the third man and not the mark whom Winchelsea had been tracking. The obvious series of events, in Nick’s mind, was that the man had discovered he was being followed and had deliberately led Winchelsea to a deserted place so he could kill him.

  “I am certain the third man killed Winchelsea.” Walsingham’s eyes were shuttered. Nick could read nothing in them. But this fact alone told him there was something more at stake here than just the murder of one of Walsingham’s spies.

  Nick waited for Walsingham to elaborate, but he did not. Instead the spymaster picked up a quill, then thought better of it and put it down, clasping his hands on the desk so tightly his knuckles whitened. Another sign that His Nibs was profoundly disturbed. As with Cecil and his obsession with Essex, Nick wondered if the normally unflappable Walsingham was coming unraveled. Witnessing this made him feel as if he had stepped into quicksand and was sinking fast.

  “It is imperative that you find this third man,” Walsingham said. “Do you understand?”

  Nick didn’t understand a damned thing except that something had gone terribly wrong with the spymaster’s grand design, whatever that might be, and he knew it was useless to ask. An actor had stepped from the shadows onto the center of the stage, one who had not been written into Walsingham’s script, and had irrevocably altered the plot.

  “How am I going to find this man?” It was not an unreasonable question, Nick thought.

  “I will come to that,” Walsingham replied testily.

  Time to change the subject.

  “How was the body discovered?” Nick asked.

  “He was bound with a belt, and it snagged on a nail under the jetty. Otherwise we might never have found him.”

  The Thames was tidal, and bodies had been known to travel miles downstream toward the Wash.

  If Nick had been tempted to regard the attempt on his own life as a one-off, he could now forget it. There was clearly something going on—another operation afoot—and it was serious.

  He felt a brief surge of relief that his loan to Essex had nothing to do with Catholicism and his family before his anxiety returned. Was he to blame because he had lost a Spanish assassin and set him loose to kill with impunity? He had trudged all over London inquiring at inns before he had finally located del Toro in The Red Bull only a few hours before dawn. At the time, he had chided himself for not starting his search there first, considering the proximity of the inn to the road to Oxford as well as the curious aptness of the tavern’s name. Did Nick have Simon Winchelsea’s blood on his hands?

  Despite St. Bartholomew’s Eve, or perhaps because of it, Walsingham was not a squeamish man, nor had he ever balked at sacrificing one of his agents if the larger game he was playing required it. Like Machiavelli’s prince, Walsingham believed the end justified the means. No individual life was more important than the holy cause he labored for, the cause of Elizabeth Regina, the great Protestant Queen. Even his own life was expendable. In this, Nick thought Walsingham had much in common with the religious fanatics who had butchered the Huguenots in Paris, but he was equally certain Walsingham was blind to this terrible irony. Doubtless Walsingham’s last thought on earth would not be for his wife or daughters nor even for his own soul poised on the brink of eternity, but for the safety of the realm he had spent his life protecting. In some ways, this made Walsingham admirable; in others, diabolical.

  As if reading Nick’s mind, Walsingham gave a weary smile.

  “Essex’s interference has played into our hands,” the spymaster said. “I had intended to fire you and let it be known it was because your carelessness led to Simon Winchelsea’s death.”

  When Nick opened his mouth to protest, Walsingham held up his hand.

  “Let me finish: that was the only plausible reason for letting you go. However, now that the Queen has commanded you to work for Essex, there is no need.”

  Nick was glad someone was happy.

  “Who was Winchelsea tracking the night he was killed?” Nick asked. “Was he a Spaniard?”

  Walsingham frowned. “That does not concern you.”

  “I need to know if I am to catch Winchelsea’s killer,” Nick said, allowing his frustration to show. “The fact that he was blinded means that whoever killed him was trying to extract information.” This was so obvious to Nick, he was astonished Walsingham had not mentioned it. His disquiet was growing with every word that came out of Walsingham’s mouth.

  And every word that did not.

  “Cecil suspects Essex is behind both the attempt on your life and the death of Winchelsea,” Walsingham said, as if Nick had not spoken. “And that there may be more attempts on my agents. Cecil may be right. Essex is certainly rash enough. Now I am informed by the Queen that Essex believes it is his agents who are being targeted.” Walsingham gave a little wince, whether from pain or disgust, Nick couldn’t tell. “Whatever the case, this can be turne
d to our advantage.”

  Like the Queen’s use of the possessive plural, Nick took this to indicate that Walsingham still considered Nick very much on his team. He was surprised at how relieved he felt.

  “Now the Queen has ordered that you be loaned out,” Walsingham was saying, oblivious to the way it made Nick sound like a bull passed on to a neighboring farmer to impregnate his cows, “Essex will, no doubt, make overtures to you to come work for him permanently.”

  “That will never happen,” Nick said. “Just to be clear.”

  “Yes, yes,” Walsingham said wearily. “Your loyalty to me is highly commendable. But to return to the matter at hand, if I may: I know Essex well and he would not miss the opportunity of suborning one of my own men. And there is the advantage that you are a man from his own class. He is such an insufferable snob that that will count the most in your favor. Her Majesty’s … generous suggestion that you aid Essex may well work to our advantage.”

  Generous, my arse, thought Nick savagely. She’s besotted. Her wits are gone.

  “Surely del Toro is a more likely suspect,” Nick insisted. “He certainly had time to kill Winchelsea the night before he left for Oxford. I didn’t locate him until after Winchelsea was killed.”

  Walsingham nodded. “Locating him is part of your brief. We believe he has returned to London. But you are also to look within Essex’s network.”

  “You know that I will not be able to act independently,” Nick said. “Essex will likely task Edmund to keep me under surveillance.”

  “Ideally, I would have used Sir Thomas Brighton for this assignment. But as he is ill, and now that the Queen has intervened, that is not now possible. Besides, your past acquaintance with Lovett will go a long way in allaying Essex’s suspicions that you are a plant in his network. That and your aristocratic birth. I am not concerned about Lovett.”

  Easy for you to say, thought Nick. It wasn’t Walsingham who had to operate with one hand tied behind his back. Aside from John and Hector, whom he trusted with his life, Nick preferred to work alone. Given the foolishly naïve way Edmund had blithely approached the assassin on the London Road, Nick knew he would be considerably hindered in his investigations by Edmund’s rank inexperience. In effect, Nick would be his nursemaid.

  “I want you to flush out the rat in Essex’s employ,” Walsingham said.

  That rat would be me, thought Nick, glumly. Out loud he said, “I don’t really have a choice now the Queen has taken an interest.”

  Walsingham didn’t even bother to nod. “You are in a perfect position to find out who is murdering my agents and why. This talk of Lovett being the target is complete rubbish. Of course, ultimately the goal is to discredit the earl so that the Queen revokes her favor.”

  In other words, Walsingham wanted Nick to prove that Essex was complicit in the murder of Winchelsea and the attempted murder of Nick. This case reeked not only of agents double-crossing each other but also of court politics, the nastiest smell of all. And if the Spanish really were behind the killing of Winchelsea, then that threw international politics into the mix as well. Compared to this assignment, Nick’s catching of the Court Killer last autumn had been child’s play.

  Perhaps scarpering off to the Continent, as Codpiece had jokingly suggested, was the wisest thing to do. Then Nick thought of John and Maggie, Rivkah and Eli, not to mention his own family and the perilous future they would face as recusant Catholics without him to keep the likes of Cecil off their backs, and he discarded the idea. That didn’t mean he would cease to try to talk sense.

  “But why would Essex employ me as an agent if he tried to have me killed?” Nick asked.

  “Having you close to him will provide plenty of opportunity to try again,” Walsingham said.

  That was comforting, Nick thought.

  Edmund had not recognized the assassin, but that did not mean the man had not been hired by Essex. There were plenty of men who would kill for a purse of gold, no questions asked. And it would have been an easy matter for Essex to find out that Nick was traveling to Oxford, although Nick had not felt he was being followed, and his instincts had never let him down before.

  “He will think that the fact that his man saved your life will count in his favor, but it will not,” Walsingham continued. “It will count in ours. He will assume that you now owe his man a debt. He will, therefore, be less inclined to suspect your loyalties.” Then Walsingham frowned as if struck by an unwelcome thought. “The meeting between you and Lovett was by chance, was it not?”

  “Yes,” Nick replied firmly. He saw again Lovett’s surprise at seeing him walk through the door of the tavern and his obvious pleasure. Walsingham was devious enough to entertain the possibility that Lovett had been part of the plan to kill him. “Lovett was wounded trying to protect me,” Nick said. “He saved my life.” And however cynical Walsingham made it sound, Nick was, in fact, in Lovett’s debt.

  “Essex would be mad to pass up an opportunity of trying to turn an agent like yourself who could supply so much information about my network.”

  “I would never …”

  “Yes, yes,” Sir Francis said. “That goes without saying. Laurence will supply you with interesting, though ultimately useless, facts that you can pass on. In short, you will be acting as a double agent.”

  Nick noted that Walsingham had never actually asked him if he was willing to take on the assignment. He flirted with turning him down, then just as quickly discarded the idea. He wanted to know who had tried to kill him and who had murdered Winchelsea. Besides, even if he himself was the son of an earl, there was no way he could refuse a request from His Nibs. He was far too powerful.

  “By now word will have got out that you were summoned here. And after you leave, news will leak out that you are in disgrace.” Walsingham rang the bell again on his desk, and instead of Phelippes, Laurence Tomson appeared.

  “Laurence will brief you on what you are to pass on to Essex,” Walsingham said. “And it goes without saying,” he added, “it is vital that Her Majesty does not hear about our suspicions of Essex. You are to discuss this with no one outside these four walls.”

  “Perish the thought,” Nick replied.

  * * *

  “So that’s what’s afoot,” Nick said. “The usual clandestine horseshit.” He had just finished telling John what Walsingham wanted him to do, confidentiality be hanged. There was nothing Nick and John did not share. They were in a dark corner of The Saucy Salmon opposite Billingsgate Fish Market, and the stench of Thames slime—a particularly noxious variety, considering that all of London’s waste was dumped into the river—was overpowering.

  “I don’t like it,” was John’s response.

  Hector seconded that with a low whine. He was staring mournfully into Nick’s face, his ears twitching as if he understood every word. Nick scratched him reassuringly under the chin, but he was not mollified and flopped down with a huge sigh, his chin on Nick’s foot. Neither was John happy when Nick told him that Walsingham had specifically ordered him not to take John with him when he was summoned to Leicester House.

  “I don’t buy the fact that Essex is bumping off agents. Why would he risk a full-scale war with Walsingham?” John said.

  “Because it destabilizes Walsingham’s network. Essex will simply step in and save the day. He sees himself as a knight-errant riding to the rescue of the Queen.”

  “Bloody silly, if you ask me. My money’s on del Toro. He has far more reason to want you out of the way. You were following him, for God’s sake.”

  Nick stretched. “Oh, I’m not ruling him out, John. I am going to be keeping my eyes peeled, believe me.”

  “Sheer lunacy,” John said, banging his fist down on the table and making the tankards jump.

  Nick surveyed his friend affectionately. “No, John, it’s not. It’s better you stay in the background. I may need you to shadow me.” When his friend started to protest, Nick laid a hand on his arm. “Besides, I have a task for you. W
alsingham said that del Toro was back in London. I want you to try to locate him.”

  John looked slightly mollified.

  Nick tossed back the last of his ale. Even to his own ears, this sounded thin. If he was in trouble, it would be difficult to get a message to The Black Sheep. Nevertheless, he smiled reassuringly. “You and Sir Thomas Brighton can be my cavalry.”

  “His illness means Thomas can hardly sit on a horse right now, let alone ride one.” John frowned into his ale. “Walsingham’s sending you into the lion’s den. Naked.”

  “That’s so that when I get eaten, he’ll know who the lion is that’s chomping on my liver,” Nick replied.

  “It’ll be a bit late by then.”

  “I expect Walsingham won’t lose any sleep over that.” Nick had meant to say this lightly, but it came out laced with bitterness. “He’s desperate to pin something on Essex. If he ordered a murder—two murders, if you count me—then the Queen will be unable to ignore that. She might even send him to the Tower.”

  “What are you going to do now?” John asked as they made their way to the door.

  “Pretend to be sulking after being given the boot,” Nick said. “And wait for my summons from God Almighty.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Relax,” Nick replied. “I wasn’t being metaphysical. I was referring to a summons from that prick Essex.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Leicester House

  Nick did not have long to wait. The next day Edmund Lovett showed up at The Black Sheep with an invitation from the “Great Man,” as he put it.

  “Who would that be?” Nick asked, noting bleakly that Edmund seemed to have lost none of his propensity for hero worship as he grew older. “The Archbishop of Canterbury? The Lord High Treasurer? God?”

  Edmund looked shocked. “Why, His Lordship, the Earl of Essex, of course.”

  Nick had been seated on a bench, sharpening his sword. Now he carefully wiped it with oil and sheathed it. Maggie, Matty, and the baby were out shopping on London Bridge, so he had taken the opportunity to refurbish his weapons, safe from curious little fingers reaching for razor-sharp blades. It was also something he did before going on a dangerous mission to the Continent, and this assignment, though in London, felt similarly dangerous. As if he were going into battle. He continued honing his dagger with his whetting stone, aware that Edmund was still hovering near the door. John and his stepson Henry were in the cellar, getting in a shipment of beer. The thunder of the barrels being rolled into place below their feet sounded like the Last Judgment.