“What’s your name?” Nick asked.
The Fool blinked as if he hadn’t expected such a question. “Richard.”
Nick stepped forward and held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Richard. Nick.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the Fool took it. His hand was small, but the grip strong. “Better stick to Codpiece in public,” he said with a wry smile. “Don’t want to blow my cover.”
Nick sat down on a crate next to him. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I can help you find whoever murdered that poor child,” the Fool said. “I can be your spy.”
Nick laughed out loud. He couldn’t help it. The irony was too great. “Sorry,” he said at last, recovering himself. “I’m not laughing at you, Richard. I swear.”
“I know,” the Fool said. “You’re laughing because you work for the Spider, and you hate him, and now here you are being offered a spy of your own.”
Appalled, Nick looked at him. “How the hell do you know that?”
“I told you: people underestimate me, say things they shouldn’t, leave incriminating documents around. They pay me as much mind as they would their dog.” He said this remarkably cheerfully. And well he might, Nick thought. It gave him access to enormous power. It was also a dangerous game to play without a protector. “Anyway,” Codpiece said. “I picked the Spider’s pocket when he wasn’t looking and had a gander at a document he was carrying: instructions for the “Black Sheep.” Wasn’t hard to figure out that was your code name.” The Fool tried unsuccessfully not to look smug.
“Who’s a clever dick then,” Nick said, miffed at the Fool’s obvious hilarity at his code name, one he hadn’t known until this moment. But he had to own that he was impressed by the Fool’s sleight of hand. And his courage. Codpiece grinned.
“Does the Queen know?” Nick asked. “I mean, does she know the difference between Codpiece the Fool and Richard the Spy?”
The Fool eyed him. “You’re really quite bright,” he said. “All things considered.”
“What things?” Nick asked, still irritated at being laughed at. By a court jester to boot.
“Your ancestry, for one. All that inbreeding over the centuries tends to dull the mind. Robert’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, I notice.”
Nick was aware that the Fool was watching him, interested to see how he would react to a slur on his family name. “Robert may be a bit slow,” he admitted, “but he’s honest and kind. Qualities I, alas, do not possess. Robert takes after our father; I take after my mother.”
“Agnes, Dowager Countess of Blackwell.” The Fool nodded. “The Queen is very fond of her. Plus, you are a recusant Catholic. That puts you in an awkward situation, I imagine. One where you are keen to prove your loyalty.”
Nick blinked, astonished at how well informed the Fool was and deeply disturbed at this mention of his recusant status. It seemed that however much he proved his loyalty to the Crown, there would always be doubt as to where his allegiance lay. This was the nightmare that he lived with, that at any given moment Elizabeth could decide to have him and his family arrested on a charge of treason. To be a Catholic, even a secret one, was enough to send someone to the block. He wondered if finding Cecily’s killer was yet another test of his loyalty.
Slapping his palms on the tops of his thighs, Codpiece seemed to come to a decision. “To answer your question,” he said, “the Queen does know. Why do you think she keeps me by her all the time? Not merely for my charm and good looks, surely? I imagine the same applies to you. We are both outsiders with something to lose. That keeps us loyal.”
“Why the cunning, old—”
“Now, now,” said Codpiece, holding up his hand. “That’s treason.”
Nick was surprised to see the Fool was serious. Then he remembered that just five years before, an Act of Parliament had been passed stating that any derogatory remark about the Queen, no matter how trivial, was illegal. Many had found themselves hauled up before the magistrate in the assizes after a ribald comment about the Queen’s vaunted virginity or the absurdity of her wigs, remarks usually made in their cups. If they were lucky, they got away with a hefty fine; if unlucky, a public whipping followed by a hefty fine. People muttered about tyrants, but it was surprising, or perhaps not so surprising given human nature, that informers out for a reward were ten a penny.
“I’m very loyal,” Codpiece said, eyeing him. “Best to keep that in mind. The Queen told me you were loyal too.”
Nick thought back to his conversation with the Queen about Kit Marlowe. She must have talked to Codpiece right after he left, or perhaps the jester had been in the room, hiding behind the arras. A stage cliché, but an effective hiding place especially for someone as diminutive as the Fool. That meant the Queen herself had set up this meeting. Codpiece was her spy at court as Nick had been the Spider’s abroad. Now he was back in England, Nick wondered if the Queen had her eye on him as an adjunct to the Fool; after all, Richard had to stick close by the Queen’s side, whereas Nick was free to roam. Nick wondered if the Spider knew of Codpiece’s real purpose other than entertainment.
“The Spider knows nothing of my true role at court,” Codpiece said, reading Nick’s mind again; like his royal mistress, it was an unsettling knack he had. “Nor does the Big Cheese.”
Nick suddenly became very thoughtful indeed. If Cecil and the “Big Cheese,” as Codpiece put it—the great spymaster himself, Sir Francis Walsingham, Secretary of State and architect of her state spy network—knew nothing of Codpiece’s true identity, what did that say about how much the Queen trusted them? Or perhaps she trusted them but still needed an alternative source of information, one she could count on absolutely when it came to the shifting loyalties and machinations of her court. Utterly dependent on her largesse and forever barred from high honors, even an advantageous marriage—not to mention someone who, by his very role as court jester, was never taken seriously, the Fool was the ideal choice. He was the Queen’s eyes and ears. And it seemed that the Queen was using Nick in the same way. Who better than a recusant Catholic to investigate her court? Clever, clever Bess.
“How can you help me?” Nick asked.
“I can keep my eyes peeled,” the Fool said. “My ears open. You are much too conspicuous. That dog you have, he’s like a herald announcing your presence: ‘Hey everyone, Nicholas Holt’s coming!’ ”
Nick flushed. “The Queen’s not the only one who appreciates loyalty,” he growled. “I’d kindly ask you not to abuse my dog.”
“Sorry,” the Fool said, although he didn’t look very penitent. “This murder is aimed directly at the Queen,” he said in a more serious voice. “It’s clear Cecily was not the true target. That child never harmed anyone.” His voice became husky, and he cleared his throat. “She was killed,” he went on in a steadier voice, “not because of who she was but what she was—a lady-in-waiting.”
“Thank you, Richard,” Nick said dryly. “That much I managed to work out for myself.”
“Never hurts to summarize and clarify, Nick,” the Fool replied airily. “Where was I? Oh yes: So who is trying to discredit the Queen? That’s the question that must be answered.”
“Her enemies are legion,” Nick said, ticking them off on his fingers: “Catholics at home and abroad; the Spanish, obviously; supporters of Mary, Queen of Scots, in Scotland, France, and Spain, not to mention the ancient Catholic nobility at home, mostly in the north; the Calvinist Scottish government; the Puritans; Anabaptist extremists; disgruntled courtiers.”
“Not the last,” the Fool said emphatically. “This is not a personal crime; this is political. I can feel it in my water.”
“It’s also religious,” Nick said. “The placement of the body tells us that. The Chapel Royal. The altar. Which means it’s also political. Whoever killed Cecily left her there for the Queen and the court to find. It’s clearly an attempt to destabilize the Crown and the government.”
“Correct,” Codp
iece said approvingly, like a schoolmaster to his brightest pupil.
Nick knew he was taking a risk, but he also knew that, even in the spy game, he had to trust someone sometimes. Still, he had to remember never to let his guard down completely in front of the Fool. There was plenty Nick didn’t want passed on to the Queen.
Nick told Codpiece of the clues he had found at the scene, of his fruitless follow-up at the apothecary’s.
“November third. That’s something.”
“Not much,” Nick said. “I doubt you’re going to come across a diary saying: “November third—purchased Guinea spice; December fourth—murdered sweet young girl in the Chapel Royal.”
The Fool’s mouth twisted with distaste, and Nick regretted his flippancy. Who was the Fool now? He told Richard about the topaz. “But no one’s going to be wearing a stiletto in their belt,” he said. “So that’s a bust too. Still, I’ll have to check all the daggers.”
“Topaz as a charm against anger,” Codpiece mused. “Interesting.” He jumped down from the crate. “Must be off. The Queen will be back shortly. No doubt in a fury after having to deal with those loggerheaded dunces for an eternity of blah, blah, blah.” He grinned and swept into a low bow, his crimson velvet cap brushing the floor. “Splendid to make your acquaintance, Nick. So looking forward to working with you.”
Fascinated, Nick watched as he reverted from Richard, the Queen’s clever spy, back to Codpiece the Fool. Not only had his voice taken on a higher, more singsong register, but his mannerisms had changed, were jauntier, more devil-may-care.
“Likewise,” he said, opening the storeroom door. “You should be on the stage.”
“I was,” the Fool said, blowing out the candle and stowing it back in the crate, careful to first pinch off the wick so it wouldn’t smolder. “That’s where I met the Queen for the first time. I was in a play at Greenwich.”
He did not elucidate further but, as Nick stepped out of the storeroom, took hold of Nick’s sleeve.
“There is one good thing to come of this tragedy,” Codpiece said, grinning. “It’s put a stopper on the countess. She’s gone quiet. She approved of Cecily when she first came to court.” He grunted. “Well, she would, of course. Cecily was as green as they come, not a scrap worldly.” He looked thoughtful. “But she seemed to have taken against her recently.” He shrugged. “Probably due to the girl’s friendship with Mary, who—let’s be honest—was a bit of a bad influence. Anyway, she seems to be shocked by Cecily’s untimely death. Seems the miserable old bag has a heart after all.”
“Is the countess in the royal apartments?” Nick asked.
The Fool shook his head. “She’s still at her nephew’s house in the city.” Then he darted through the door, and Nick watched as he skipped off down the corridor, singing, “Hey nonny, nonny” in a ridiculous falsetto.
CHAPTER 7
House of Sir Christopher Stokes, Cheapside
When he emerged from the palace at the Privy Stairs, Nick discovered the boatman had abandoned him in favor of another fare—always plenty to be had when the court was in residence. Cursing himself for forgetting to encourage the ferryman’s loyalty with the promise of a generous tip, he doubled back into the palace complex, emerging through the Court Gate onto King Street. A small crowd had gathered near the gate, mostly farmers from the outlying districts, but also a few tradesmen and carters.
“Filthy Jews,” Nick heard one man mutter, a bricklayer, judging by the hod he carried over his shoulder.
The man, a big burly fellow with currant eyes set in an expanse of puffy flesh like buttons sewn too tightly to an overstuffed pillow, his breath hot and yeasty from the ale that appeared to be his main sustenance, bellied up to him. “Filthy, pox-ridden, plaguey Jews. String ’em up and good riddance.”
“Aye,” the crowed chorused. The two soldiers standing, pikes crossed, before the gate shifted uneasily.
“There’s no problem, I trust,” Nick said to him, keeping his voice friendly. Despite the Queen’s attempt to keep Cecily’s murder a secret, word of it had already gotten out and was clearly spreading. It wouldn’t do to provoke these men into outright panic. Like a contagion, rumor would spread until it crossed the river and inflamed Bankside. If that happened, he was fearful harm would come to Rivkah and Eli.
“We heard the Jews had killed an innocent lass,” the bricklayer said. “One of the Queen’s ladies. Cut her up on the altar like a side of beef.”
“Aye,” the crowd intoned again, the sound darker, more menacing.
“There’s absolutely no evidence to suggest it was the Jews,” Nick said, but he could see from the skeptical faces around him that they didn’t believe him. “Go about your business,” he said. “I can assure you, in the Queen’s name, that she has the matter well in hand. She thanks you for your concern.”
At the mention of the Queen, the bricklayer stepped back a pace. Perhaps he was reassured, or perhaps he was reminded that large gatherings outside the royal palaces were regarded as seditious and could result in imprisonment and even death if violence broke out. Either way, the bricklayer gave a sign to the others, and the crowd began to melt away.
“Ta for that,” one of the soldiers muttered. “For a moment there, I thought things were going to go tits up.”
“They still may,” Nick said. “So keep your eyes peeled and get reinforcements if you need them. But no heavy stuff,” he warned. “It will only make matters worse.” Confident he had managed to diffuse the situation, at least temporarily, he set off north to Charing Cross. At the intersection of King Street and the Strand, he turned right toward St. Paul’s. Despite his casual demeanor to the crowd and guards, Nick was profoundly disturbed by what he had just witnessed. Cecily’s body was barely cold, and news had begun to spread that the Jews were responsible. By tonight, the whole of London would be inflamed by the ugly rumor. By tomorrow, so would Bankside. Like the plague, bigotry was no respecter of rank, trade, or distance. The bridge that he and Rivkah had so lightheartedly traversed that morning, reveling in the bustle and hum, would carry the disease of fear and hatred just as easily as it did commerce. He must warn Eli and Rivkah to keep a low profile until Cecily’s murderer was caught.
Nick also pondered his conversation with the Fool, or Richard as he now thought of him. Still rattled by the fact that Richard knew he was a spy, Nick realized he was also relieved. It was a lonely business pretending to be someone else—the wanton will-o’-the-wisp noble who, inexplicably, had turned his back on his family to run a tavern in the shadiest district of London. No matter. The Black Sheep was the perfect place to receive information straight from the wharves, the boats and ships that docked there carrying secret information that was slipped into his hand as he sat in the taproom pretending to be more drunk than he actually was. Sometimes, like the other night, he was precisely as drunk as he seemed.
The Fool’s sudden transformation reminded him of the processions he had seen in Spain on Holy Days, a strangely disturbing yet exhilarating experience. A statue of the Virgin, pale, serene, eyes cast modestly down, bobbing shoulder-high through a seething mass of humanity. What did she see as she looked down with that enigmatic half smile? The innocent babes held aloft for her to bless, the leering faces of the drunks, the crazed eyes of the ecstatic, the calculating eyes of the cutpurses moving through the crowd, identifying easy marks, eyes averted in guilt like Nick’s own eyes because the gentle gaze of this lovely woman was more than he could bear, knowing he had just taken the life of a man who had tried to kill him in one of Madrid’s backstreets.
And the masks—devils and angels, apostles, martyrs. An assassin’s eyes looking through the mask of an angel, an innocent’s behind a devil’s. Presumably, the Queen of Heaven could tell the difference, could see the true nature of her subjects, the heart of flesh beneath the velvet and sequins and lace, all that beguiling glitter of earthly pomp. Nick wondered if his own Virgin Queen was so adept. Elizabeth’s precarious position at court when she w
as a young woman had made her a shrewd judge of character. But she was only human, despite the divine attributes bestowed on her by a largely adoring populace, a status she assiduously cultivated with her white face paint and dazzling jewels. She might abhor all things Popish, but she had freely borrowed from the Catholic Church’s rituals and superstitions when it came to how she presented herself to her people. The Virgin Mother, a paradox she exploited for all it was worth. Despite pulling off this theatrical coup—and it was a brilliant piece of theater, Nick had to own—she must know her limitations. Why else instruct her Fool to spy on her own court?
Where the Strand became Fleet Street, Nick continued east toward Whitefriars. He crossed the bridge over the Fleet Ditch, London’s main sewer, which emptied into the Thames a few blocks south, instinctively holding his breath and refraining from looking down. If he had, he would have seen hundreds of rats swarming over human and animal waste, burrowing and rooting in refuse of all kinds, including the occasional corpse.
* * *
Approaching St. Paul’s Cross, his eye was caught by a young beggar girl, crouched on its steps, selling nosegays—in truth, mostly dried grasses and dead twigs in December. Digging out a shilling, he walked over and gave it to her. Her eyes widened at the amount, twelve times too much—a penny would have been too much for her sad wares.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, biting the coin in a disturbingly professional way to check it wasn’t clipped or counterfeit. Apparently satisfied, it disappeared into the bundle of rags she called clothes. Greasy strands of hair straggled out of a dirty bonnet; her face was smeared with dirt, her nose red and lips chapped from the cold. Her thin frame shook as if afflicted by the palsy. She could not have been more than six or seven.
A Murder by Any Name Page 8