John Shakespeare 07 - Holy Spy

by Rory Clements

  ‘Look at this, Mr Shakespeare,’ Fleetwood said, removing his spectacles and laying a paper before him. He signalled to one of his many servants who brought over a selection of sweetmeats, while another poured two glasses of fine Burgundian wine ‘You must excuse my poor copy.’

  Shakespeare read the words.

  ‘No free man shall be taken or imprisoned or denied what is rightfully his, or made outlaw or sent to exile, nor will he be proceeded against with force except by the lawful judgement of his peers or by the law of the land.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s Magna Carta, Your Honour.’

  ‘Of course it is, chapter thirty-nine – and I will not be subjected to your honours in my own home.’

  Shakespeare laughed. It was an old jest between them. ‘Then it will be my honour to address you as plain mister.’

  ‘And so the thirty-ninth clause – what does it say to you?

  ‘It says, Mr Fleetwood, that no man may be punished without due process of law.’

  ‘A fine summation. You were a loss to the law when Mr Secretary snatched you away.’

  ‘What is your interest in the clause, Mr Fleetwood?’

  ‘Bridewell. It was given its charter as a house of work and refuge for the poor, but has become a prison by another name. As you know, Mr Shakespeare, I am not squeamish when it comes to administering the law of the land and will hang a dozen rogues and murderers in a day if necessary. But I will not execute or lash a man without evidence of guilt.’

  Shakespeare drank some of the wine. In court, the judge was considered a hard man who believed himself fair and just; yet Shakespeare thought him unnecessarily harsh at times. Justice needed to be tempered with mercy. It was a point on which they were unlikely ever to agree, and he did not pursue it now: Fleetwood was in full flow.

  ‘The burghers order their squadrons of ruffians to lift men, women and children from the streets and take them to Bridewell for the mere fact of vagrancy without evidence of felony or misdemeanour, simply to clear London of its human night soil. No trial, not even an appearance before court. And once there, Mr Shakespeare, they are punished further by severe floggings at the whim of the keeper. If Magna Carta is to mean anything, then it must mean that Bridewell is unlawful in its present form. It is an abomination for English men, women or children to be punished without first being found guilty of some infringement of the law.’

  Shakespeare nodded. ‘I agree entirely.’

  ‘It is the likes of Justice Richard Young and Mr Richard Topcliffe, MP, who feed this wickedness. They are such men as I would expect to find with forked prods in the deepest circles of hell.’

  ‘What can be done about the matter?’

  ‘I am composing a treatise, which I intend to lay before Her Majesty. I doubt it will be acted upon; the merchants of London will not allow it, for they are at their happiest when vagabonds and masterless men are gathered up and disposed of like rats. And who is strong enough to deny them when they feed the exchequer with gold and plate? Yet I must have my say, for if injustice is unseen it can never be corrected.’

  Fleetwood took a piece of cake and thrust it into his well-fed mouth. His cheeks were red from the warmth of the room and the fervour of his argument. ‘Eat, Mr Shakespeare, eat. The cake is good!’

  Fleetwood would not let him leave without sampling the delicacies of his kitchens, so Shakespeare took a sweetmeat. ‘Thank you, I will.’

  ‘You know, Mr Shakespeare, you are not only a great loss to the law but I truly believe you would have made a fine judge. A little too soft, sometimes, but rigorous and fair . . . like me. Sometimes I think I am but a voice lost in the wind against the likes of Young and Topcliffe.’

  ‘Without your voice, England would be a poorer place.’

  The judge brushed the compliment away with a sweep of his hand, sending cake crumbs flying. ‘I do not need flattery. You are here for a purpose are you not? You have not called at my humble home to taste apricot cake, I assume.’

  Shakespeare smiled. ‘Indeed. I wanted to ask you about a case you recently tried at Justice Hall. The matter of Will Cane for the murder of Mr Nicholas Giltspur.’

  ‘May I ask your interest?’

  ‘I used to know Giltspur’s widow. I have seen in the broadsheets that she is implicated, which surprised me, I confess. It does not sound like the Katherine I knew.’

  ‘Really?’ Fleetwood sat forward, his sharp little eyes alive with interest. ‘Describe her to me if you would. In court, she was painted by Cane and the prosecution as a devil whore.’

  ‘Well, she was never a saint, that is true. But devil? Whore? Neither of those words would have suited Katherine Whetstone, the name by which I knew her. In the days of our acquaintance, I would have called her an adventurer – an adventuress if there is such a word. She had a great desire for wealth and position and a remarkable beauty with which to acquire it. But I could not imagine her stooping to murder.’

  Fleetwood took more cake, grinned and patted his ample belly. ‘I must work hard to fill this cavern,’ he said with a light laugh. ‘It seems forever empty!’ He paused, then nodded. ‘Very well, what do you want to know?’

  ‘What evidence was given against her? Was it conclusive, in your judgement?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where she is, Mr Shakespeare?’

  ‘If I knew where she was, it would surely be a felony not to reveal it.’

  ‘That does not answer my question, but we will let it pass for the moment. Was the evidence conclusive? Indeed it was.’

  ‘Perhaps you would describe the course of events as they were outlined to you.’

  ‘The facts were straightforward. Mr Giltspur was dining at Fishmongers’ Hall. It was a great feast, I am told. When he emerged at about midnight, his steward Sorbus and others of his retinue were waiting to convey him home by his carriage. As he stepped towards the coach, his killer moved out of the shadows and thrust him a single deadly blow to the throat. The weapon was a bollock-dagger with a nine-inch blade. So violent was the thrust that the blade pierced poor Mr Giltspur’s throat from beneath the left crook of the jaw to the right. The killer removed his weapon and dropped it in the street. Mr Giltspur died within a minute in a floodtide of his own blood. This was all confirmed in a report from the searcher.’

  ‘And the killer?’

  ‘He managed no more than twenty paces as he tried to escape up New Fish Street. He was brought down and apprehended by Mr Giltspur’s servants. At no time did he bother to deny his guilt and he immediately revealed that the dead man’s widow had contracted him to do the evil deed. “Hundred pounds she said I’d have. Ten before and the rest on proof of death,” were the words he used, as I recall. The servants all confirmed this. And Cane said the same to me himself, from the dock.’

  ‘Did he name the woman who had hired him?’

  ‘Yes, he did so at the scene. Then later at Newgate and also in my courtroom. There can be no question of her identity. He said it plain and described her in detail, down to the gap between her teeth and the mole on her wrist, all of which were agreed upon as distinguishing marks by those who knew her.’

  ‘And did he say how she came to meet him?’

  ‘No, he refused to say more, only that he had been to Giltspur House, in Aldermanbury, and that she had admitted him to her bedchamber, where the transaction had been settled.’

  ‘And that is it?’

  ‘That is it. He swore all this on the Holy Book and asked mercy of God. I sent him down and he was dispatched yesterday at Smithfield. I fear the punishment was not adequate to the crime, which I consider to have been among the most heinous I have tried. For a wife to kill a husband must always be considered petit treason.’ He leant forward and touched his guest’s hand. ‘Mr Shakespeare – John – I fear that if you are looking for some hope that your friend is innocent, then you are to be sore disappointed. The case against her is simple and clear. When she is caught, she will hang.’


  ‘So it seems.’ The old judge could have no concept of how heavy-hearted he felt. This was raw, gut-churning news. He had one last question. ‘Was anything known about the killer, Cane?’

  ‘The constable told me he was an associate of Cutting Ball and his crew. Certainly the use of the bollock-dagger as a weapon would bear this out, for they all carry them, as though it were their livery. I imagine that if you wished to find a hired assassin, Cutting Ball or his villainous friends would be a good place to start.’

  Cutting Ball. Shakespeare winced. A name to be feared. It was said he took a share of all the crime proceeds north of the river from Whitechapel to the Isle of Dogs – and that he handed down his own brand of outlaw justice to any man or woman who dared defy him. A justice that involved more pain than even the Tower torturer could manage to inflict. He stood up. ‘Thank you, though I fear you have brought me no joy.’

  Fleetwood heaved himself to his feet. ‘Cutting Ball,’ he said. ‘Now there is a man I would dearly love to have before me in the dock. God willing, the egregious Mr Ball will be apprehended and brought to my sessions house in Old Bailey, where I may send him to his doom.’ He rubbed his plump hands together. ‘And I hope and trust this will occur one sunny day soon.’

  Chapter 8

  ‘Boltfoot, have you heard of a man named Cutting Ball?’

  ‘Yes, master. I do believe every man and woman in London town knows of him.’

  ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘I know that he is reputed to be an infamous villain, much given to violent persuasion in the getting of coin. I know, too, that he is held in dread, especially in the wharfs and quays east of the bridge. It is said he demands one part in a hundred of all cargoes unladen from the Indies carracks and has some hold over the wharfingers and lightermen. Some say his true name is Ball and that he is called Cutting for his custom of cleaving men’s balls from their bodies, very slowly, before he kills them.’

  Shakespeare was surprised to detect an edge of awe, even fear, in Boltfoot’s description. Had he perhaps encountered some of Cutting Ball’s men during his time as a ship’s cooper? There must surely have been times when he was docked in the reaches of the Thames where the outlaw held sway. But Boltfoot afraid? No, that could not be so; Boltfoot was frightened of nothing under heaven.

  They were in the kitchen, which already seemed a lot less dusty and more polished in the few hours since the arrival of Jane Cawston. She opened the door, looked in and saw the two men at the table, bowed quickly, then scuttled away like a startled rabbit.

  Shakespeare followed Boltfoot’s gaze. ‘A comely girl that, Boltfoot, would you not say?’

  ‘Comely enough, master,’ Boltfoot growled as though the words were torn from him with a hot iron. He raised his eyes with mild defiance. ‘But take a look in the larder for that’s where you’ll find her true worth. She’s been to market and brought home food.’

  Shakespeare held up his tankard of ale. ‘And a fresh keg, too. Perhaps you were right after all.’

  Boltfoot grunted and took a quick draught of his own ale.

  ‘I have a task for you, Boltfoot. I want you to go to the taprooms and hovels where Cutting Ball rules and find out what you can about a felon named Will Cane, who was hanged yesterday.’

  ‘The one who killed the merchant? It’s the talk of London. The wife paid Cane to kill her husband so she could inherit all his wealth.’

  ‘So it is said. And do you know the wife’s name?’

  ‘No, master.’

  ‘Katherine Giltspur, born Katherine Whetstone.’

  Boltfoot had known Kat as long as had Shakespeare, and he had been here during the years she shared Shakespeare’s bed in this house. The blood seemed to drain from his weather-worn cheeks and his brow furrowed in bewilderment and disbelief. ‘Kat . . .’

  ‘Yes, Kat Whetstone. Our Kat.’

  ‘But how . . .’

  Shakespeare shook his head. ‘It is all as much a mystery to me as it must be to you. She married him two months ago and is now a widow, in hiding, wanted for his murder.’

  ‘Not Kat!’

  Shakespeare shrugged. ‘I want to agree with you, and so I would like to discover more – especially about Will Cane, who was a known associate of Cutting Ball. Find his haunts and talk to those who knew him or knew of him. What sort of man was he? Had he killed before? Who were his friends? Was he married? Listen to tittle-tattle; sometimes there is a semblance of truth there. But bear in mind the hard possibility that the truth may be as simple as everyone believes: that Kat paid Will Cane to murder her husband.’

  ‘No, Mr Shakespeare,’ Boltfoot said stoutly. ‘No, I will not believe that.’

  ‘Then find me a better explanation. For if we do not, our Kat will surely die with a noose about her pretty neck.’

  Anthony Babington gazed through the clouds of tobacco smoke at his assembled friends and felt a surge of pride. They were here, at this feast in an upper room at the Plough Inn on the south side of Fleet Street, near Temple Bar, because of his presence. He was their leader and their inspiration.

  He rose from his chair, hammered his tankard down for silence, sending up a spray of strong beer, and called the gathering of young men to order. As their hubbub subsided to a murmur, he raised his tankard.

  ‘Raise your cups! The death of usurpers!’

  The sixteen other men around the table all stood up, held their own tankards aloft, roaring their approval. ‘Death to usurpers! Death to usurpers!’ They threw the contents of their drinking vessels down their gullets then brought the empty tankards onto the tabletop with an explosion of banging.

  ‘Now charge your goblets and tankards and let us drink to the Pope’s White Sons!’ Once more they shouted and drank. Babington sat down and the other men followed his lead. He looked about once more. At his right hand sat John Shakespeare, one of the newer young gentlemen, recommended by Goodfellow Savage as a fellow of influence and secret knowledge; just the sort of man they needed. Was he to be trusted, though? He knew the mass well enough, but any spy worth his salt could learn that. On the other hand he was too valuable to be dismissed. He had already brought information about the inner workings of Sir Francis Walsingham’s intelligence network and promised more. Well, they would watch him carefully. And use him ruthlessly. Walsingham might think himself cunning, but Babington knew that he was a great deal cleverer. If Shakespeare was a spy, he would find out soon enough.

  Shakespeare was becoming more than a little drunk, yet even through the fog of smoke and alcohol he could not rid himself of the tautness in his neck that came with playing a part. An hour earlier he had betrayed his religion to hear mass with these men at a house nearby. Now he was seated at Babington’s right hand, drinking to the death of the Queen he had sworn to serve loyally.

  Through the haze of his inebriation, he studied Anthony Babington: the doublet of gold and silver threads shining in the candlelight; the long, carefully tied hair, so soft and clean; the small gold earring; his puffed-up pride. The word popinjay might have been coined for him.

  A sudden hubbub of hail and welcome made Shakespeare look towards the door. Two late arrivals were entering – Edward Abingdon and Charles Tilney. Shakespeare knew them well and a sudden chill crept over him. Abingdon and Tilney were courtiers with access to the Queen, honoured members of the Queen’s Guard. And here they were among a group of malcontents and putative traitors with insurrection and assassination in mind.

  He put his fears aside for another day. For the present, nothing must be said or done to raise alarm in the minds of those gathered here. Instead Shakespeare raised his tankard to the two men. Tilney came and clapped him on the back and pushed his way onto the bench on his right side.

  ‘Well, well, Mr Shakespeare, I had not expected to meet you here.’ His voice boomed.

  ‘Nor I you, Mr Tilney. It seems we both have a taste for interesting company.’ He moved a little way further from his new companion, who was known as ‘Roarer’
Tilney with good reason.

  ‘Does Mr Secretary know you are out?’ Tilney shouted.

  Shakespeare grimaced. ‘Mr Secretary may own my body, but he does not own my soul. And what of you, Mr Tilney? Does Her Majesty know that you are here? I had thought you to be a Gentleman Pensioner with care for her safety. Should you not be guarding her royal body with your life?’

  ‘Why, she does not need me! She has God on her side!’ Tilney bellowed with laughter at the preposterous notion that a Protestant God could protect anything or anyone. Eyes turned his way and then, seeing who it was, turned away again.

  ‘You speak so loud, I suspect you are heard at Greenwich, Mr Tilney. Watch your roaring lest you ruin us all.’

  ‘They are looking for men who huddle and whisper, Mr Shakespeare. When I roar, the spies know I can have nothing to hide. And what of you? You talk in hushed tones here, but are you not heard at Seething Lane?’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ Shakespeare’s senses sharpened, despite the ale he had drunk.

  Tilney shrugged. ‘It was but a jest. I have come for ale and good roasts with fine company, no more.’

  ‘It was no jest. I do not like your insinuation.’

  ‘Insinuation?’

  ‘You know why I work for Walsingham. I will not be defamed by you or anyone else.’

  Tilney shrugged. ‘I meant nothing by my remark. If you inferred anything, examine your own conscience.’

  ‘Damn you, Tilney, I will not listen to this.’ Shakespeare turned away, as though nursing hurt pride.

  Anthony Babington had evidently been listening to the exchange. ‘Pay him no heed, Mr Shakespeare. The likes of Tilney are a mischief that must be endured. We need such men.’

  ‘Forgive me. I am too sensitive.’ Shakespeare changed the subject. ‘Is there word from Captain Fortescue and Mr Maude? We must hope they return soon.’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Shakespeare. They are much missed, but they are doing God’s work.’

  ‘In the north?’

  Babington raised a finger, like a schoolmaster. ‘We do not ask such questions. It is enough that they are God’s soldiers, which is a noble calling. Are you a soldier of God, Mr Shakespeare? Will you take up your sword and pistol and follow me?’