‘He was not. Poley is nothing but a hireling. A killer for money, a mercenary. Had he been one of these men, there would have been no confusion.’
Shakespeare was silent a moment; that was just how he saw Poley. But he also knew that Poley had connections. He in sinuated himself with those on whom he would prey. ‘This core group – they are the ones who wrote the libels and placed the powder?’
Morley sighed heavily, his narrow shoulders rising and falling as his mouth opened and fell closed. ‘We all did write the words – though I confess it was I who put it into verse – but there was but one powderman, I believe.’
Shakespeare moved forward, drawing his dagger seamlessly and putting its point to Morley’s naked throat. ‘Give me his name, Morley.’ His voice now was a rasp. ‘Give me the name, for you have already told me enough to order you racked till every bone in your body crack asunder. And I will do it, for the Council would demand it of me.’
Morley recoiled from the sharp tip. A spot of blood dripped from his Adam’s apple on to the stained falling band about his neck. Shakespeare saw that he was shaking.
‘Fifty, Mr Shakespeare. I beg you. Find me fifty sovereigns and you shall have it all.’
‘The name!’
‘I will not. It is the one thing that can save me. I will give it to no man without having the silver and freedom that I must have. Elsewise I am dead, whether racked or no.’
Chapter 9
SIR ROBERT CECIL sat in a straight-backed chair and remained perfectly still as a barber shaved his whiskers from his cheeks, leaving moustaches and a neat beard, which he trimmed into a point. As Shakespeare entered the room, the privy councillor snatched a towel and dabbed at his face. ‘John, I am glad you have come to me. I was about to send for you. There is a change of plan.’
The barber did not wait to be dismissed, but immediately bowed and left the room, carrying his razor, strop and basin.
Shakespeare had been shown straight through to Cecil’s coolly efficient rooms at Greenwich Palace. There were dark, polished shelves here, a plain walnut table, two straight-backed chairs, an inkpot and quills; nothing superfluous to his needs as privy councillor with responsibility for the day-to-day management and security of the realm. He was not a man to clutter his desk with books and scrolls. Business was attended to, then filed away. The room was a reflection of Cecil’s own unflustered demeanour, yet today he seemed strangely agitated.
‘Sir Robert, I have an important development to report,’ Shakespeare said, bowing lightly in deference to his master.
Cecil did not meet Shakespeare’s gaze. Rising to his feet, he put down the towel and reached across to his shelves and took a paper from a file of records. ‘I am removing you from the powder inquiry, John. You are to travel to Gaynes Park Hall in Essex without delay.’ He did not wait for Shakespeare to register his surprise, but ploughed on. ‘You will there meet Antonio Perez and work your charm to secure certain intelligence from him. You will be gone from here within the hour and will ride overnight so that you arrive by dawn at the latest. Mr Mills, in the meantime, will take charge of the Dutch church inquiries. Pass on all your information to him. Here –’ he handed Shakespeare the sheet ‘– everything you need is in that paper. Clarkson has already drawn up letters-patent for you to present to Perez. He will organise a messenger to inform your wife that you will not be home tonight and perhaps not for days to come, until your work is completed.’
Shakespeare took the paper from Cecil’s taut little hand. For a moment he had no words; this change of mission was sudden, unexpected and disturbing. He had to speak. ‘Sir Robert, if you would give me a hearing before you take this further. Can no one else go to Perez?’
‘No.’
‘My inquiries are at a critical stage. I have a man in custody who says he has the name of the powderman. He is scared for his life and is begging fifty sovereigns to effect his escape. In return he will give us the name. Can there be anything more important than this?’
‘Get Topcliffe on to him. That will loosen his tongue.’
‘The man came to me because he trusted me. He deserves better.’
‘Frank Mills then.’
‘He will bring in Topcliffe. They have interrogated prisoners together in the past.’
‘I will talk to Mills. There will be no torture. But nor will there be fifty sovereigns. Mills will give the man ten marks if his intelligence is sound. Does that satisfy you, John? Well done in finding this man, but you must set him aside for others to deal with. I need you for this Perez assignment, for reasons that I shall explain.’
Shakespeare was stunned into silence. How could he bring up the other line of inquiry – Beth Evans was supposed to be taking him to Walstan Glebe this evening; he could not hand over Beth to the dubious care of Francis Mills.
‘You know a great deal about Perez, I believe, John?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’ He probably knew more about the Spaniard than any man in England, having followed his career – and downfall – closely over many years, both in his time with Walsingham and now with Cecil. In recent weeks he had read the intelligence reports assiduously since hearing Perez was coming to England. Calais swarmed with English spies and Spanish assassins, some of them intent on killing the Spaniard and claiming the reward of twenty thousand ducats offered by King Philip. Enough to make any man rich. Mentally, Shakespeare rehearsed all he knew about Perez. At one time he had been Philip’s most trusted minister; as powerful as a Wolsey or a Cromwell. More powerful, perhaps, for his master always followed his advice and was less capricious than Great Henry. Now Perez was a fugitive, having sought refuge in France to escape a death sentence for a lurid variety of alleged crimes, including the murder of Juan de Escobedo, another of Philip’s senior government officials.
As Shakespeare recalled it, Perez had installed Escobedo as secretary to King Philip’s half-brother, Don John of Austria, with orders to spy on him. Philip did not trust Don John and wanted him closely observed.
But Escobedo had not kept his side of the bargain – he had, in fact, fomented Don John’s subversive ambitions – so Perez had decided that Escobedo must die. Perez had tried to poison Escobedo. When that failed, he hired assassins to hack him to death with swords in a dark back street of Madrid. That was not the end of the matter, for there were those who said Philip had colluded in the murder.
Philip had never been averse to political assassination, but he did not like to have his name associated with a case such as this, so he determined to bring about the ruin and the death of Perez. The minister was arrested, but escaped and fled to Aragon where internal politics had stayed Philip’s hand. By the time Philip was eventually able to move against Perez, he had fled again, this time to France where, in recent months, he had been a guest of Henri IV, earning a precarious living selling Spanish secrets to the highest bidder.
Perez’s former partner in crime, the beautiful Princess of Eboli, had not been so fortunate. She had died in prison. Her relationship with Perez, and indeed King Philip, had never been clear. Some said she was the lover of both men, and that that had been the real argument between them, rather than the murder of Escobedo.
For the past few weeks Perez had been here in England, under the patronage of the Earl of Essex. Thus far the Queen had refused to receive him, fearing that to do so would unnerve her Dutch allies and provoke Philip unnecessarily. Anyway, it was not wise to show favour to traitors, even foreign traitors.
All this was known; what more could Cecil want?
As if hearing Shakespeare’s thoughts, Cecil said, ‘He has a secret to sell. You speak enough Spanish. You will negotiate a price, then bring him to me.’
Shakespeare felt distinctly uneasy; the word from intelligencers in France was that Perez’s secrets were rarely of any real value. He had been away from the Escorial court too long. And there was another problem here – Essex. ‘Sir Robert, you know my history with the earl. He is Don Antonio’s host – he will not allow
me into his presence.’
‘Essex is here at court, attending on Her Majesty. You have the field to yourself. Perez is in the country clutching his confounded box of potions and amusing himself with his little group of friends. There will be no better time. It is a difficult mission, John, and it will require your most delicate touch. He will try to extort a high price. I must tell you, too, that you are unlikely to enjoy these people’s company. One of them is Prégent de la Fin, son of the French ambassador. Be wary of him, yet do not make a foe of him, for we need to keep peace with France in these hard days. I fear you may not enjoy the stench of debauchery among this Spaniard and his train, but stop up your nose for the sake of England. Perez has got word to me that he wishes to sell me his secret, otherwise, he will dispense it elsewhere. I cannot allow that.’
Shakespeare wanted to ask why this was considered more important than the gunpowder inquiry. But he knew the answer. This might be no more than some inconsequential and ancient piece of tittle-tattle from the Spanish court, but it would be Cecil’s tittle-tattle, not Essex’s.
Cecil shook his head briskly, a short, sharp move from left to right and back as if fending off a wasp. ‘I know what you are thinking. That this will amount to nothing – a scraping of horse dung upon the road. But I am sure there is something here and it pertains to the succession. Nothing in this realm is more important than that. I pray I am wrong, but I very much fear that he will disclose something bad, some rotten stink. It is something we must know. Find out what it is. Bring it to me.’
Shakespeare bowed in deference. ‘Very well, Sir Robert. I shall do as you command. What may I offer to seal the secret?’
‘He will demand an impossible sum. It is his way. He has been accustomed to a life of immense wealth and great extravagance and is reduced to living off the charity of Essex and other noblemen. He will want many thousands of pounds. But I wish to pay no more than five hundred, less if possible. Above all, you must ensure that we do not pay a preposterous amount for intelligence that is without worth. There must be a proviso that the secret is both significant and true. Otherwise, let him know, we will have our gold back by any means. Now go.’
Shakespeare bowed again and turned to leave.
‘And remember,’ Cecil added. ‘Perez is hid away because Philip of Spain wants him dead.’
Mills stooped his crowlike frame over the table and scratched a note of everything Christopher Morley had told Shakespeare. ‘And you say he is in the Wood Street Counter?’
‘And most unhappy about it. He is in mortal dread.’
‘Good. He is a fly to be squashed.’
‘He came to me in good faith. I have as little time for him as you, Frank, but do not apply torture. Sir Robert has agreed there will be no racking, no Topcliffe. Offer Morley ten marks for the powderman’s name. Tell him the alternative is a charge of treason if he withholds it.’
‘As you wish,’ Mills said without conviction.
Shakespeare looked closely into Mills’s eyes and knew he was lying. He would have Morley racked as a first rather than a last option. ‘This is no jest, Frank. You have crossed me before – do not betray me on this. I will not forgive you twice.’
‘This is a matter of state, John. Bishops may fuck their fill and not be married. Secretaries of state may tighten your body with ropes and not be crossed. I will be guided by the wishes of Sir Robert. If, as you say, he forbids torture, then there will be no torture.’
There was no more to be said. The question left hanging was whether Cecil would change his mind. Shakespeare knew that Cecil did not like the use of torture, but he knew, too, that if it was the only way, he would authorise it. The only hope now was that Morley would take the ten marks and provide the name – or that Shakespeare’s mission would be completed in short order, allowing him a quick return to the Dutch church investigation.
Boltfoot Cooper was with Thomas Knagg in the powder-mixing room. William Sarjent was at the vault, inspecting the stores.
‘Happy, Mr Cooper?’ Knagg said. He was a stone-faced young man, not more than thirty years of age, and wore a pair of wire-framed spectacles perched at the end of his nose.
‘The stockade is very poor.’
Knagg was sitting on a three-legged stool with his booted feet upon a workbench. ‘The palisade is under bloody repair. And at least we have one. Look at Faversham. They have no stockade. And Godstone is so full of holes that a Roman general might march an elephant in unseen.’
‘Your guards stand idle. Who looks after this place?’
‘Those men are carpenters, not guards. They are repairing and improving our defences. Even carpenters must be allowed ten minutes now and then for a pint of ale and nourishment. And there are guards enough. You were stopped as you came in, were you not?’
Boltfoot murmured. Yes, they had been stopped – and Sarjent had straightway got into a dispute with the guard, a broad-shouldered bull of a man with an agitated, slightly timorous look that belied his great size and seeming strength. Boltfoot had had to pull Sarjent off the man.
‘He’s a bad lot that William Sarjent,’ Knagg said. ‘I did not like him when he was here in ’88 and I still do not. Sniff him next to a turd and you would not tell them apart.’
‘He says much the same about you.’
‘Aye, he would.’
‘What came between you?’
‘His manner and his opinions. His soldiering gave him ideas above his rank. I was his master, yet he believed he could command me through his knowledge of powder, which was no more than mine.’
The door opened. Sarjent strode in. His gaze was piercing, aimed directly at Knagg, who pushed his spectacles up closer to his eyes, tilted his head and gazed back with ill humour. Sarjent turned to Boltfoot. ‘We must close down this mill, Mr Cooper. Powder has gone missing. Knagg has been engaged in illegal trades. The place is a midden of villainy and rotten practice. One man had a tinderbox in his pocket.’ He held up the offending object. ‘We will take Knagg into custody and send pursuivants to take the place under proper control.’
Boltfoot looked at Knagg. ‘What do you say, Mr Knagg?’
Knagg shook his head slowly. ‘I say you should bring the man who supposedly had that tinderbox, for I do not believe any of my men has been so foolish. And I would ask Mr Sarjent for the poxy so-called evidence of missing powder, Mr Cooper. For I pledge on my word as a Christian gentleman that none is gone from Three Mills unaccounted for.’
‘The devil you do!’ Sarjent said, his body stiff with rage. ‘Let us show you the rack, then we shall hear the truth – and we shall have the powderman’s name from your dissembling lips.’
Catherine Shakespeare answered the door. There had already been two callers this evening – one a messenger from Cecil, the other a servant from someone called Henbird with a roasted turkey cock. Well, John was not here to share it, so it would have to wait.
Now, Jan Sluyterman was on the doorstep. He looked distressed. ‘Mistress Shakespeare,’ he said, a pleading note in his heavily accented voice. ‘Is your husband at home?’
‘No. He will not be here this night.’
She saw that Sluyterman seemed undecided what to do or say next.
‘Please, come in, Mr Sluyterman,’ she offered, opening the door wider. She glanced up and down Dowgate. The street was empty save for a pair of tethered horses along the way towards the stable block. She smiled at her Dutch neighbour. ‘Perhaps I can help in some way.’
He nodded gratefully and stepped inside. They went through to the refectory. She offered him refreshment, but he declined. His hands were clenched into pink fists. His face was flushed, the colour of raw pork belly.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Let me speak plain to you, mistress. I have tried to find lodging for Susanna, but no one is willing to help. The recent Return of Strangers, the placards, the gunpowder, our midnight call from Mr Topcliffe … all are scared.’
‘I understand.’
He looked around as if
suddenly wondering where his servant girl was. ‘Is Susanna—’
Catherine shook her head. ‘You have nothing to worry about. She is well. She is in the kitchen with Jane, my housekeeper. I believe she is learning a few words of English.’
‘You are good people. Thank you.’
‘How did Susanna arrive here in England?’
‘It is a terrible story. She is the daughter of my clerk in Antwerp. He was taken prisoner by the Spanish. His throat was cut while he was bound. His wife – Susanna’s mother – has disappeared. No one knows where she is, but we fear the worst. Susanna escaped to Flushing, but she has suffered most grievously, mistress. She must not be sent back to the Low Countries. I fear she would throw herself overboard if they forced her on to a boat.’
‘We won’t let that happen to her.’
‘But she cannot stay here?’
Catherine shrank from the question. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘No, Mr Sluyterman, she cannot stay here. That would be too dangerous for all of us.’
‘What are we to do, then?’
She reached out and touched his hand reassuringly. ‘Fear not, I believe I know where she may go and remain in safety.’
Shakespeare understood well what this Perez mission was all about. One word: Essex. It was said the earl had changed from an exuberant, hot-blooded youth into a mature statesman within the past year. That, at least, was the image he wished to cultivate. Since being appointed a privy councillor just three months previously, he had been affecting the ways of an administrator, attending the House of Lords every morning and sitting in committees during the afternoon. The field of battle was now in his past; he fought instead for high office. He had certainly cozened those close to him. Shakespeare laughed bitterly at the words of the earl’s steward, Anthony Bagot, reported to him with glee by one of his intelligencers: ‘His lordship has become a new man, clean forsaking all his former youthful tricks, carrying himself with honourable gravity.’ A new man? New tricks, perchance, but there was nothing new about the man, nor his dark desires. Shakespeare knew from sharp experience that Essex had but one ambition – his own advancement. Nobleman, workman, priest, sovereign – all could hang if they stood in his way.
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