The Course of All Treasons

by Suzanne M. Wolfe

  “You did the right thing,” John assured him after Nick had told him about his quarrel with Cecil. “Better to be on the outs with the Spider than with the Queen.”

  “I hope so,” Nick said. “But if Walsingham dies, I’m fucked.”

  “Better pray that he doesn’t.”

  * * *

  Arriving at Leicester House, they went straight into the front entrance and up the stairs to the second floor. Nick wanted to search Annie’s bedchamber before the Queen sent the palace guards over, as she surely would once Cecil told her that Annie was conspiring with the Spanish. He expected to find Essex in the building, frothing at the mouth at the accusations leveled at his beloved, but there was no sign of him. A servant informed Nick that Essex had left for Whitehall early that morning to take advantage of the beautiful spring weather by going hunting with the Queen. With any luck, Cecil was even now kicking his heels in the corridors outside the royal chambers and would be waiting all day for the Queen and Essex to return.

  Annie’s bedchamber was tidy, and only a few of her costumes hung from hooks on the wall—Meg the prostitute that frequented The Angel, and a man’s doublet and hose. A scabbard with a knife in it was lying on the bedside table. Nick removed the knife from the sheath and examined it, but as with the knives of Gavell and Stace that he had confiscated after his fight with them at Wood Wharf, the dark, threadlike stains between the blade and the hilt could have come from any animal, and the blood itself was not proof it had been used to cut Simon Winchelsea’s throat.

  Once again, they found no evidence of collusion with del Toro, no papers or even letters in cipher. Aside from the two costumes, the bedchamber could have been the chamber of any young woman.

  Nick and John turned the mattress, and Nick had just made a long slash in it with his dagger when there was a thundering on the stairs and Henry Gavell and Richard Stace burst into the room.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing in Annie’s room?” Gavell demanded.

  “Annie is a traitor working for the Spanish,” Nick said. “She also murdered Winchelsea and tried to murder Sir Thomas Brighton and me.”

  “You lie,” Gavell said, his hand going to his sword. Stace squared up beside him, his dagger drawn.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Nick said. The accusation of being a liar was an automatic signal for a duel of honor. Nick had no intention of engaging in one. For one thing, his head still hurt and he knew he would be slow in a sword fight; for another, he considered such duels to be childish, having less to do with chivalric honor and more to do with wounded pride.

  Even so, he glanced at John, and they both moved away from the bed so they would have room to maneuver if Gavell and Stace attacked. John had his hand on his dagger but did not draw it.

  “I saw Annie meeting with a Spanish agent with my own eyes,” Nick said. “I’m afraid it’s incontrovertible.”

  “You are a base liar,” Gavell said, advancing on Nick with his sword drawn. “Ever since you came here, you have been causing trouble. It’s not Annie who is a traitor but you.”

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Nick said, drawing his own sword.

  “Not so brave without your dog, are you?” Gavell sneered. Then he lunged. Nick parried the blow and, at the same time, snatched up the coverlet from the bed and threw it at Gavell. It draped itself over one of Gavell’s shoulders, and he shrugged it off.

  “Nice try,” he said, circling Nick, the point of his sword held rock-steady in the direction of Nick’s heart.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw John and Stace clash daggers, then break apart, circling each other warily. But he didn’t have time to worry about him, as Gavell stamped forward and thrust the point of his sword at Nick’s chest. Nick made as if he were going to parry the blow again, then at the last minute twisted sideways and watched as the point of the blade slid past him. He leapt behind Gavell and kicked him in the back, making him fall forward. Then he placed his sword point square in the middle of Gavell’s back.

  “Drop your sword,” Nick said, “or I will run you through.”

  Gavell slid his sword across the room.

  “Now tell your friend to do the same.”

  “Richard,” Gavell said. “Do as he says.”

  Stace dropped his dagger and stepped back.

  John kicked it under the bed.

  “Now, gentlemen,” Nick said, taking his sword from Gavell’s back and motioning for him to stand. “I hope this is the end to this foolishness. The person you should be blaming is not me or John but Annie. She is the one who has betrayed you.”

  “Never,” Gavell said. “She would never do that to His Lordship or to us.”

  Nick was surprised to see a kind of furious hurt in Gavell’s eyes and realized that, for all his violence, he was a loyal man. He had defended his fellow agent in the only way he knew how—at sword point. For the first time, Nick felt a kind of respect for him.

  “I’m sorry,” Nick said.

  He glanced at Stace, but if the huge man harbored a similar loyalty, Nick could not tell. More likely he just blindly followed Gavell’s lead, much as Ralph dumbly followed Black Jack Sims’s grandson Johnnie. Even now he was looking to his friend for instructions.

  “Let’s go, Richie,” Gavell said. Then, to Nick, “You haven’t seen the last of us, that I promise. We’re going to make you pay for your damnable lies.”

  Once Gavell and Stace had left the room, Nick and John sat down on opposite sides of the bed.

  “Phew,” Nick said. “He almost had me. He’s not a bad swordsman.”

  “That lout Stace knows how to use his knife, I’ll give him that,” John replied. “If you hadn’t got Gavell to call him off, I’d have been in trouble.”

  Nick saw him wiping a smear of blood off his neck. “Are you hurt?”

  “Nah,” John said. “Just a scratch.”

  “Better not let Maggie see that.”

  “I’ll tell her I cut myself shaving.”

  At that moment, Edmund ran into the room. “I just saw Gavell and Stace downstairs,” he said. “What’s this about Annie being a traitor?”

  Nick explained what had happened the previous day.

  Edmund joined them on the bed, sitting down heavily and putting his head in his hands. “I just can’t believe it,” he said.

  Nick remembered that Edmund was a little in love with Annie. He put his hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” he said for the second time. “But believe it.”

  “And she is conspiring with this Spaniard, del Toro?”

  Nick nodded.

  “Oh, my God. His Lordship will be devastated.”

  “He’ll be more than that,” Nick said. “I’m afraid his spy network is utterly discredited. My guess is the Queen will pack him back to the Netherlands in a hurry.”

  Edmund looked up. “That means I’ll be out of a job.”

  Nick hadn’t considered this, but he realized Edmund was correct. He only hoped Edmund did not ask him to recommend him to Walsingham, for in all truth, he could not. Edmund was too trusting, too easily taken in. He was lucky to be alive after approaching the assassin on the London Road.

  Edmund was still leaning forward, and Nick saw a chain around his neck with a ring threaded through it.

  “A love token?” he joked, touching it with one finger.

  Edmund dropped the ring back inside his shirt and sat up. “My father’s seal ring,” he said. “It was all he left me.”

  “Surely the farm …?” Nick began, but then could have bitten off his tongue.

  Edmund smiled bitterly. “The farm was sold to pay off his debts,” he said.

  Nick and John exchanged glances behind Edmund’s back. The debts had been the fine that Nick’s father, the old earl, had imposed on Edmund’s father for enclosing common land. But it was not the fine that had impoverished Edmund’s family—with good husbandry, the family would have recovered their former wealth in time�
�but that Edmund’s father had been a drunkard and gambled the rest of his fortune away. After bankrupting himself, he had then hanged himself. Shortly after that, Edmund had come up to Oxford. Nick had heard rumors that a distant cousin of the family had paid for Edmund’s education so that he could make his own way in the world after losing his inheritance. Now Edmund was going to lose his job with Essex.

  Nick clapped Edmund on the back and stood up. “Let’s go and have something to eat at The Angel,” he said. “I’m buying.”

  But their plan was forestalled by the sight of Essex riding into the forecourt of Leicester House, his horse in a lather as if he had ridden it at a gallop from St. James’s Park down the Strand, which afterward Nick heard was exactly what he’d done. He drew the horse up by wrenching cruelly on its bit and almost sitting it down on its haunches, its eyes rolling white with alarm. Essex flung himself out of the saddle.

  “What the hell is this I hear, Holt?” he raged. He grabbed Nick’s shirt and pulled him toward him. “What lies have you been spreading about Annie?”

  “Unhand me, my Lord,” Nick said.

  Essex looked at his hand grasping Nick’s shirt as if it were not his own. Nick thought he was about to see a famous display of Essex’s choleric nature and braced himself for a scuffle; then he saw something click in Essex’s eyes as if he had woken up and realized where he was. Essex let go of Nick’s collar and stepped back, visibly trying to get his temper under control, but the veins in his forehead were bulging and he was breathing hard, spots of color staining his cheeks and neck.

  “That low-born cripple Cecil has just informed the Queen that Annie is a traitor working for the Spanish,” he said. “He said that this is information you brought him this morning. Is this true?”

  “I’m afraid it is,” Nick replied.

  John had moved to stand closely on Nick’s right side. Edmund had taken a tentative step toward Essex, then stopped midway. Perhaps it was loyalty to Essex, or perhaps it was a desire to remove himself out of striking range should Essex assault Nick. But it put him in an oddly ambivalent place, a kind of moral no-man’s-land. Nick couldn’t help thinking that if Gavell had been present, he would have done as John had and arranged himself shoulder to shoulder with his master, his loyalties clear.

  Essex turned away and ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. Then, seeing his horse still unattended, he bawled for a stable lad. When a youngster arrived, Essex turned his full fury on the poor lad, berating him for not appearing sooner, blaming him for the horse’s lathered state. Nick thought it badly done for Essex to take his spleen out on an innocent boy.

  “Come inside and explain it to me,” Essex said.

  “We were on our way to The Angel to have a bite to eat,” Nick said. “Join us.”

  Essex looked at him. “Are you refusing an order?” he asked.

  Nick looked calmly back. “I take orders from the Queen.”

  “I speak for Her Majesty.”

  “I think not,” Nick said, remembering the quarrel between Essex and Elizabeth. “Come on, John.” He and John walked away. Edmund did not follow. “Are you coming, Edmund?” Nick called back over his shoulder.

  “I … er … I think I’ll pass,” Edmund said.

  “Nobody walks away from me, you piece of shit,” Essex yelled after them.

  “I smell burning,” John muttered.

  “What’s that?” Nick asked, puzzled.

  “The bridge you just torched between yourself and His Lordship. Not to mention the one with Cecil.”

  “Fuck them,” Nick said. “I’m hungry. And we have a traitor to catch.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The Black Sheep Tavern, Bankside

  Nick spent the next three days at The Black Sheep. Hector was ecstatic to have his master around, but Nick had an ulterior motive. He wanted to let the news of Annie’s treachery spread through the gossip vines of London and eventually reach her ears. With the prospect of war with Spain looming, any talk of treason would spread like wildfire in the city. His motive for going to The Angel the day he met with Cecil and had the fight with Gavell and Stace was to spread the word about Annie and his role in uncovering her treason. Patrons in their cups talked, and there was no better way of baiting his hook than to talk freely in a tavern, making sure he was overheard.

  Nick was convinced Annie was still in London. If nothing else, the gossip would tell her that he was not, in fact, dead as she had thought. He knew she had gone to ground, but he hoped he could lure her out in order to finish the job that she had failed to do twice: once on the London Road and once in the tavern. Should she ever be brought to trial, it was Nick’s testimony that could send her to the block. If Nick was out of the way, there would be no proof. Therefore, she had a powerful motive to try to kill him a third time.

  The Spider had sent him a message saying that, even though he had ordered the ports shut down after receiving Nick’s report about del Toro and Annie, del Toro had managed to slip through and take a merchant ship to Calais. An agent in France had reported that he had been alone when he disembarked, so evidently he and Annie had split up. The Spider seemed to imply that del Toro’s escape was Nick’s fault for delaying reporting in until the next day, even though he knew Nick had been half unconscious from the blow to his head.

  Nick had shrugged at this message. It was Annie who had murdered Winchelsea and it was Annie he wanted. He was heartened when the Spider’s message said that all shipping to Ireland had been suspended until she was caught.

  Now that spring had finally arrived, he took Hector for long walks in Paris Garden and wandered aimlessly around Southwark, trying to make himself as conspicuous as possible but keeping an eagle eye out for anyone who approached him on the streets or seemed to be watching him. The trouble was, he had no idea whom he was looking for, as Annie was bound to be disguised. So anyone who came within fifty yards of him was scrutinized, be it a soot-begrimed blacksmith’s apprentice or a beefy washer woman on the steps of St. Mary’s Queen Dock. Nick was also relying on Hector to alert him to Annie’s presence, whatever protean shape she took. That was Annie’s one small mistake—making friends with his dog.

  On the fourth morning, he was slouched on a stool in the tap room of The Black Sheep, breaking his fast with bread and small beer, when John appeared from his family’s quarters at the back of the tavern.

  “Where are you off to?” Nick asked.

  “Another meeting at the Brewers’ Guild,” John said. He was carrying a small cask of ale under one arm. “They want to sample Maggie’s brew before they make up their minds.” He pulled a face. “Cadge a free drink, more like. Bloody sods.”

  “Can you do me a favor,” Nick said, “and drop in at Seething Lane to see if Walsingham has replied to my message?” He frowned. “It’s strange that he hasn’t replied. I only hope it’s not because he’s dead.”

  “You would have heard, surely?” John said.

  “Not necessarily. The Queen might want to keep it quiet because of the situation with Spain. Losing her Secretary of State and head of her spy network would make us look vulnerable.”

  “I’ll stop by,” John promised.

  After doing some chores for Maggie—hefting barrels of her newly made beer up the cellar steps and into the taproom behind the bar in readiness for the evening’s trade—he decided to have a wander around Southwark with Hector and then go round to Kat’s and see how Thomas was faring.

  * * *

  Thomas was recovering but still looked wan. At least he was freshly shaved and wearing clean linen. No doubt due to female ministrations, Nick thought. He eyed the door that led to Kat’s own bedchamber. It was suspiciously ajar.

  “Just in case I take a funny turn in the middle of the night,” Thomas said, noticing the direction of his gaze.

  “Ha!” Nick said. He signaled for Hector to jump up on the bed and drape himself across Thomas’s chest. “Say hello to Thomas, Hector. He missed you.”

  “Get
the big brute off.” Thomas’s voice was muffled by Hector’s shaggy chest and forepaws.

  Despite savoring the sight of Thomas thrashing around under his enormous dog, Nick nodded for Hector to move.

  “I’m surprised you’re not up and about,” Nick said, surveying his friend, who was irritably picking dog hair off his nightshirt.

  “Oh, I’m up all right,” Thomas said, leering. “All these lovely ladies see to that.”

  But Nick could see this was pure bluster on Thomas’s part. He still looked weak, and his forehead was beaded with sweat.

  Kat breezed in. “Talking about me again?” She sat down on the bed and threw her arms around Hector. “Who’s a beautiful dog, then?” Joyously, Hector began slathering her face, his tail beating on the bed, making the whole structure shake.

  Both Nick and Thomas watched enviously.

  “Heard you had your own run-in with a lovely lady, Nick?” Kat said, sitting up and wiping the slobber off her face with a corner of the coverlet. “One in drag, no less.”

  “Oh, do tell,” Thomas said, perking up.

  Nick told them about Annie and del Toro. He was just explaining how he intended to lure Annie out in the open by making himself a target when there was a hammering on the front door of the brothel, shouting down below, then the sound of someone racing up the stairs.

  Henry, Maggie’s fifteen-year-old son and John’s stepson, burst into the room. If his presence in the brothel was startling enough—he had been strictly enjoined never to set foot in the establishment on pain of death by his parents—the expression on his face was even more so. He looked stricken. He didn’t even blush when he saw Kat reclining on the bed.

  “Nick,” he said. “Father’s been hurt. Badly.” Here his voice broke, but whether from his age or from tears stubbornly held back, Nick didn’t know. Nick leapt to his feet and took Henry by the shoulders.

  “How?” he said. “Where?”

  Henry shook his head and scuffed at his eyes with his sleeve. “Don’t know. Two men brought him to The Black Sheep. I told Eli and Rivkah on the way over. They’ll be there now. You must come.”