The Spy of Venice

by Benet Brandreth

  William entered London through Ludgate. As he crossed the River Fleet he felt a certain satisfaction. It came from more than the sense of belonging that he began to feel in London. It came from contemplation of his verse. He had been reawakened to the power of poetry by his own efforts. The writing of the ditty for Sir Henry had been a challenge. The balance to be struck not easy. Throughout the writing of it William had wondered why Sir Henry would have another speak for him. William preferred to do his own seducing.

  Not everyone thought as he did, he acknowledged. William had been a small child when he first realised the truth of this. His only continual surprise was the recognition that others, far older and more worldly, had still to grasp it.

  He was briefly taken by wonder at whether Sir Henry would allow the whole course of the romance to be carried out by agents and deputies. Then by whether he could volunteer for a further role. Best to wait and see the lady before stepping forward, he thought. The Lord alone knew what the strange little man’s tastes might be in women.

  A man such as Sir Henry must be forced to trust many matters of a private nature to the business of others. A lonely and uncertain life, William thought. To be surrounded by others, forced to place special confidence in them, never knowing if that confidence was safely lodged. Little wonder that the company of rank flatterers was so common among great ones. Would such people prove friends in all weathers? How to know? His mother had been wont to say, when the sea was calm all boats showed themselves alike in floating. William’s thoughts turned to Stratford and especially to his parents. He wondered at the strange success of their marriage. His father, confronted by disaster, would wallow in it, unmoving, sinking. His mother, by contrast, was like a sleek ship. Storm winds only drove her forward faster.

  Such were William’s thoughts when the first man cudgelled the back of his legs.

  William sprawled into the mud of Cornhill, pain blazing across his thighs. A second man was dragging his scrabbling body into the darkness of an alley even as he hit the ground. Two men, hooded like the reaper, eyes and faces barely visible, hauled him to his feet and slammed him against the wall. The wind flew from him. Hands fluttered about his person. The velvet purse found and pocketed. Then the letter pulled from the recesses of his doublet and hastily scanned.

  ‘The name?’ the hooded man demanded.

  William stared dumbly at the hollow dark space beneath the hood. It seemed to him as if a comet passed before his eyes as the hooded man cracked him across the face with the back of his hand. His lungs struggled to suck breath in.

  ‘The name? The address?’ the first hooded man demanded again.

  ‘Quickly,’ hissed the second.

  William felt cold fire of agony across his body. The hands that held him choked him. He shook his head. The cudgel cracked across the front of his legs. William howled, he felt himself sinking into a sea of darkening sight.

  The hooded man leaned in. William could make out a nose, twisted as if it had once been broken, within the darkness of the hood.

  ‘The name?’ the hood demanded. ‘The address?’

  William drew breath as if to speak and then spat at his tormentor through bloody teeth. A space opened between them. William slumped down the wall and looked up at the cudgel raised above the hooded man’s head, poised to strike.

  ‘William, William.’

  How strange, William thought. At this moment I hear my name in the wind itself. Truly my poetic imagination is much awakened.

  A man he is of honesty and trust

  ‘He was not pretty to begin with,’ said Oldcastle.

  ‘God’s sake, hush,’ growled Hemminges.

  ‘There’s nothing broken, thank God,’ Oldcastle said.

  ‘Get him up and out of this stinking hole,’ said Hemminges as he bent.

  Hands hooked William under the arms and lifted him from his cobblestone bed.

  ‘Can you walk?’ asked Hemminges.

  William’s senses were returning. Slung on the shoulders of his two friends, he was brought from the narrow alley into bright day. Each part of him ached as if his assailants had struck him all over instead of simply twice across the legs and once in the face. He stumbled, each step making muscles knotted with the terror of the blows flinch and recoil anew. It was a blessing when he was deposited on a bench at the nearby tavern and drink put in his hand.

  Hemminges sat next to him and spat into the sawdust. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered, ‘William, why were you attacked?’

  ‘No idea . . .’ William shook his head and regretted it. ‘Wasn’t the money.’

  He patted his doublet. ‘Leastwise, not just the money. Took the letter too.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Hemminges spat again, ‘and nearly took your head into the bargain.’

  William let that selfsame head gently rest against the wall behind him, where it proceeded to swell and contract like the surging of an angry sea.

  ‘What letter?’ Hemminges asked.

  ‘Eh? Oh, Sir Henry’s to his mistress,’ said William.

  ‘Lord knows, I’ve no time for lovers,’ said Hemminges, ‘but you’ve had a savage beating for such an elderly Cupid.’

  ‘I had my revenge,’ said William.

  ‘How so?’ asked Hemminges.

  ‘Cut the back of his right hand,’ William replied.

  ‘That was well done.’

  ‘Very little needed doing,’ said William, ‘save to put my teeth in the way of the back of his hand when he cracked me across the face.’

  Hemminges snorted.

  Oldcastle, whose head during this terse exchange had swung back and forth between the two like a weathercock in a gale, took this as the sign for him to contribute.

  ‘You should have seen John,’ he said. ‘As that myrmidon raised his dreadful trident above you Hemminges flew like Hector to your defence. Seeing him they had no stomach for the fight but turned and fled.’

  ‘False, Nick,’ Hemminges said, ‘those men had no fear of me. They fled so as not to risk capture by the crowd our hallooing brought.’

  Oldcastle clapped Hemminges on the back. ‘Tush. They feared your might.’ Turning to William, he proclaimed, ‘Good fortune indeed that Hemminges and I should have received your message when we did.’

  ‘What message?’ asked William. ‘I sent you no message.’

  ‘Why, to meet you by Cornhill at this hour.’

  ‘I sent you no message,’ said William again.

  ‘You are sure?’ asked Oldcastle.

  He made a dumb show of William having his thoughts knocked out of him, which William did not enjoy for making him laugh and laughter making him ache anew.

  ‘My head is addled enough as is without worrying about false memory, Nick,’ William said.

  Oldcastle drew breath to speak but then subsided, silent.

  The three men sat quiescent, each considering the import of the morning.

  ‘They questioned you as to her name, her lodging?’ asked Sir Henry.

  He stood on the staircase in the hall of his house. William, Oldcastle and Hemminges were gathered at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘They did, Sir Henry. Most insistently,’ said William. ‘Their cudgels marked the questions.’

  William stood before Sir Henry like a waning moon, half his face darkening as the bruise began to show.

  ‘You did not tell them?’ asked Sir Henry.

  ‘No, but the letter is lost, Sir Henry. I am sorry,’ William said.

  ‘Not a word of her name, though? Despite their assault?’

  His hand waving at the angry purple of William’s face and the way he stood propped against Hemminges was the first sign in the interview that Sir Henry had noticed William’s injuries.

  ‘Not a word,’ promised William.

  Sir Henry looked at him. The sudden appearance of sharp intent on the normally distract face, like a hawk appearing from a cloudy sky, strained William’s nerves. Then Sir Henry’s eyes slid away from his and o
nto his companions.

  ‘Master Oldcastle, you I know, but who is your companion?’ he asked.

  Sir Henry descended to the floor of the hall to view them better.

  ‘John Hemminges, Sir Henry, a player of our company,’ William said. ‘Were it not for their arrival, I should have been killed in the assault.’

  Sir Henry’s face broke into a small smile. ‘Then we must be grateful to them.’

  He beckoned to a liveried servant who stood behind him. The man advanced and deposited a small bag in Sir Henry’s outstretched hand. Coins were produced and proffered to Oldcastle and Hemminges.

  ‘Well, it would seem no harm done,’ Sir Henry said.

  William’s wounds, borne in Sir Henry’s service, throbbed to hear themselves so lightly dismissed.

  ‘The letter, Sir Henry,’ William said, ‘the poem.’

  ‘You will write another, Master Shakespeare. Perhaps something a little less ostentatious in its imagery this time, hmm? The important point is that discretion was maintained.’

  Hemminges coughed. ‘Sir Henry, have you any idea who would seek to steal your correspondence in this way?’

  ‘None,’ Sir Henry answered. ‘Perhaps they saw me give young Master Shakespeare the purse for the poem and followed him for the money.’

  ‘Yet they questioned William about the letter,’ said Hemminges.

  ‘True, true. A mystery, Master Hemminges,’ said Sir Henry. ‘One I do not have time to ponder, alas. I leave for Venice.’

  Sir Henry studied William’s friend. ‘Hemminges. I know the name. Where from?’

  He stepped back, appraising afresh the characters before him and catching Oldcastle in the middle of an inopportune scratching of his hose.

  ‘Sir Henry,’ said Oldcastle, taking his cue to recover from the unfortunate impression given by his readjustment, ‘you will recall I mentioned Master Hemminges as part of our company of players. In connection with the embassy?’

  ‘Was that it? Perhaps. Of course. The players,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Well, Master Oldcastle assures me that you know your business in matters of drama, and I have had proof of your constancy to your companions. Do you still wish the commission for Venice?’

  Oldcastle looked across at Hemminges and William. ‘We do, Sir Henry.’

  ‘And you, Master Shakespeare?’ asked Sir Henry. ‘You do not signal your assent as your companion does.’

  ‘Forgive me, Sir Henry,’ said William, ‘my thoughts are too scattered to speak to so great an enterprise. Let me give you my answer anon.’

  Sir Henry turned away. As he left he called over his shoulder, ‘Do not take too long. We depart three days from now. Master Oldcastle, speak to my steward as to the transport of the accoutrements of your trade and other such necessities.’

  The three men stood outside Sir Henry’s house. Oldcastle was beaming, Hemminges frowning and William had his face held up to the sky.

  ‘Success, my friends. To Venice.’ Oldcastle smoothed his doublet.

  ‘To bed,’ William sighed.

  ‘It is a fool that treats that man as the dotard he pretends to be,’ said Hemminges. He was staring back at the ornate door. A carved green man, face wrapped in vines, peered back at him.

  ‘He seems harmless enough to me. Perhaps a little scattered in his dress.’ Oldcastle patted Hemminges on the shoulder.

  ‘Hemminges has the right of it,’ William said. ‘There is something here that I do not like.’

  William coughed and his lip split afresh. ‘Now, if you would be so kind, a bed,’ he said.

  Oldcastle and Hemminges took William’s arms.

  ‘Should have told those villains the address,’ said Hemminges. ‘Saved yourself a beating.’

  ‘I’ll have nothing stolen from me, Hemminges, that I would not freely give,’ said William.

  ‘Tell us, then,’ Oldcastle panted beneath his load, ‘who was this wondrous creature, Sir Henry’s mistress?’

  ‘Not to those with sticks. Still less to you, Oldcastle,’ replied William.

  Oldcastle sighed and Hemminges laughed. Together the three put their worries aside and limped their way north. Alas, worries, like bad dogs and naughty children, will scarce stay where they are put. They come back to bite.

  Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds

  William winced as the water hit his face. He held the bowl’s sides till the pain subsided. Then he thrust his head again into the water. Mud and blood swirled within. He tossed it aside and poured in fresh from the ewer. He wiped at his face and stared in the glass. A grim-visaged creature stared back. One side of his face was swollen, purple and lumpen. His lip pulled up in an unwarranted smile.

  For this beating who was to blame? The obvious villain was Greene, who would not pause at violence if it meant he would secure a lady’s affection. Or Towne perhaps, brooking no further delay, setting his companions on William. Add to this the strangeness of the message that Oldcastle and Hemminges had received. It had been a sore blow to his head but he was sure enough that he had sent no message to them. Who had? And known to send the two players to Cornhill at that hour? Were they meant to arrive to rescue him or to be parties to the beating?

  Too much, too much. It was all too much. No more coincidence. There was a hidden hand at work here.

  He pulled himself up. Such arrogance. To think that the great men of this world would make it turn on his axis. There was no magic here. He carried a letter from Sir Henry Carr, whose correspondence must be the target of many a curious villain. William began to give greater credit to Sir Henry’s rumoured role as a spy.

  He lay upon his cot and shifted, trying to find a position that did not drive a bruise into hard wood. Thoughts danced about his head denying him sleep. What did all this mean for the proffered place on the embassy? Venice meant employment and the company of Oldcastle and Hemminges. If Greene was responsible for his beating, then far from London was best for that reason also. William snorted. Sir Henry’s company was no refuge. His own glass showed the dangers of that man’s company. William was not sure he cared for the thought of the courts of Europe. His business was in London. Now he found himself an intended exile. How came I to this? One poem saved me from a beating and brought me money, another brought me to a beating and saw me robbed. A third is like either to have me killed or crowned the king of players. That thought carried him to sleep.

  I think he hath a very fair warning

  ‘Dear Jesu, your face, your poor, sweet face.’

  William sat up in terror and heaved himself back from the cloaked apparition at the end of his bed. His head cracked on the back wall.

  ‘Hell,’ he cried.

  ‘Will, calm, calm.’ Alice pulled back her hood.

  ‘Calm?’ William clutched at his head. He laughed and groaned. ‘Calm, Alice Hunt? You may not have noticed it, I hid it well, but I am little surprised to see you here.’

  He suddenly sprang from his bed to the door and peered out. The courtyard of the Theatre was quiet. The sun had gone below the horizon and only showed itself by a faint red beyond the wall. He’d slept the afternoon away. William turned back to Alice.

  ‘Is your father here? Does he follow?’

  ‘I think not,’ Alice said. ‘I hope he thinks me safe abed in Sir Henry Carr’s house.’

  ‘Sir Henry Carr’s house?’ said William.

  ‘Is that a habit of yours?’ Alice asked as she rearranged herself on the bed to lean against the stable wall.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Repeating what people say,’ said Alice. ‘If so, I am disappointed because I thought you a greater master of words.’

  ‘Alice, I tell you truly, I barely feel master of my own wits let alone our English tongue.’

  William sat down at the other end of the bed. He touched his sore face.

  ‘Be kind to me, Alice, and tell me, without too many questions needed on my part, why you are here.’

  ‘Sir Thomas Lucy is come to London and stays w
ith Sir Henry Carr. Some business of the State. Where Sir Thomas goes my father follows. Where my father goes I am now brought,’ Alice said. ‘My propriety is not to be trusted but must be guarded. You should know why.’

  ‘Oh, Alice,’ said William. ‘I know and am sorry for it.’

  ‘I am not,’ said Alice. ‘At least, I am not sorry for the night. For the rest, I am sorry for that but it is not your fault that I suffer for it.’

  ‘I should never have brought you into my –’ William started but Alice spoke over his words.

  ‘You’re pretty. At least you were until –’ she pointed to his battered face ‘– this happened. And you speak prettily too. And, Lord knows, little of this world can I speak of save as pertains to the small part of it I have seen at Sir Thomas’s estate. Yet I am not a puppet, Will.’

  ‘I know,’ said William.

  ‘Do you?’ asked Alice. ‘I think there is a little of my father in you. A part that sees others only for how they affect you. Not as actors in a play of their own devising but only as ciphers in your piece.’

  William said nothing for a moment.

  ‘I think,’ he said eventually, ‘that there is a little anger in you.’

  ‘It may be,’ Alice laughed.

  The laugh was deep and ribald and William thought that it became well the young woman sat on his bed.

  ‘I know now why you are in London,’ said William. ‘Why are you here in my palatial chambers?’

  The laugh left Alice’s face. ‘Oh, Will, I would I’d been here before tonight. I might have saved you this.’

  She reached out and stroked his bruised face. He covered her hand where it lay on his cheek.

  ‘How so?’ he asked.

  ‘My father wants you whipped for lying with me. Or rather for the shame he feels that you did so.’

  ‘He’s a little late,’ said William, ‘I’ve already had one beating.’

  ‘I know. It was at his asking.’

  Alice unfolded the story of her spying. The terror of her discovery by Watkins and how she’d been confined to her room for two days after.