‘As I said, I have urgent business with her – information that may be to her benefit. Questions to ask . . .’
‘Then tell me – and I will pass it to her. Or if you prefer, write a letter for me to deliver.’
‘No. I want to see her.’
Redd shrugged, immovable.
‘Mr Redd, you have to trust me.’
‘No, Mr Shakespeare, I do not.’
Shakespeare was finding it increasingly difficult to stifle his fury. This was going nowhere. Perhaps Redd was lying; perhaps she was still here, hidden. He drew his sword and held it loosely at his side, not threatening but as a warning should Redd decide to attack with scissors or some other utensil. ‘I am going up through the house. I believe she is here.’
Redd turned away, realising perhaps that his poor choice of implements could not compete against an unsheathed sword.
Shakespeare climbed the ladder to the first floor and searched. He looked about the rooms, calling her name softly. Unless there was some prepared hiding place, she could not be concealed here; and, anyway, why would she not come out on hearing his voice?
He ascended the ladder to the loft, which was almost dark, lit only by the light from the hatchway. He had no candle, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom he saw that there was nowhere she could be hidden. Nor had she been living here. The space smelt dank and musty. Cobweb curtains had been knitted across the rafters and purlin. As he looked about in the dim light it became obvious that the room had never been inhabited and was used merely as storage for stage properties and costumes. Angrily, he descended the ladders to the ground floor where Redd was cutting a strip of woollen cloth with his iron scissors.
‘God’s blood, Mr Redd, I need information if I am to help. I have reason to believe now that Kat may be telling the truth, that Will Cane’s accusation was false. And if this is so, as I hope and pray, then it means someone else was behind the murder. What I need from Kat is this: who else might have had a motive? Who stood to gain from Nicholas Giltspur’s death and Kat’s execution?’
Redd put down the scissors and crossed his arms across his chest. ‘If that is all you wish to know, then the answer is simple. Giltspur’s nephew, Arthur, will inherit all his wealth if Kat is disqualified. Arthur Giltspur, that is the man you want.’
‘Do you know him? Where will I find him?’
‘With some slut, most like. Try the stews of Southwark. Or else go to Giltspur’s mansion in Aldermanbury, for Arthur was part of the household.’
‘Does Kat believe he is behind the murder?’
‘All she knows is that it was not her. Nicholas Giltspur was a man of immense wealth. Any such man will amass enemies as fast he he gains pearls.’
‘And you, Mr Redd . . . you must have had cause to wish him harm, for did Kat not leave your bed for his? Perhaps you wanted vengeance on Nicholas Giltspur. Perhaps, too, you wished to bring Kat to her doom for betraying you so callously.’
Redd looked at Shakespeare as though he were mad. ‘Hurt Katherine? How little you understand the human heart. Can you not tell that I love her? I would do anything for her . . . including killing you. Now go, sir, go.’
Chapter 12
As Shakespeare walked along Camomile Street, he spotted the red and white spiralling on the pole outside a newly painted frontage in the centre of a wood-frame building.
Mane’s of Bishopsgate was the prime barber shop for the modish young men of London, a place to be seen and to converse over a goblet of brandy during the daylight hours. A place, too, of notoriety for the talk here was careless and subversive.
Babington was already there, along with many of those from the Plough Inn feast. There was a hubbub in the large front room where the barber and his assistants did their work amid high excitement and much laughter. Shakespeare estimated there were at least thirty young men present, including some who had not been at the dinner but whose names he noted mentally. He spotted half a dozen women among the menfolk and wondered who they were; sisters, most likely.
One thing was certain: they were all defiantly Catholic.
Many of the assembled members of Babington’s band of friends drank their spirits and gossiped loudly. Others lounged in the barber’s chairs, having their beards and hair dressed. Chidiock Tichbourne stood up from one of the chairs and admired his new-cut beard in a small mirror. He spotted Shakespeare and hailed him with a wave of the looking glass.
‘Take this chair, Mr Shakespeare, take a chair and allow Mr Mane to trim you. A shorter cut is this year’s mode. There is no finer barber in all of London. He will curl you or poll you, to suit your humour.’ Tichbourne stroked his own newly shaved beard, which was trimmed to a point, and gazed at it once more in the looking glass.‘What say you to my piquedevant? Is it not the finest of fashions? Do I not look a little like the satanic Ralegh?’
‘Very fine, Mr Tichbourne. And yet more devilish than Sir Walter. But please, you must allow me to thank you for your assistance last night. You were gone before I awoke from my drunken slumber.’
‘It was nothing, sir, an adventure.’
Babington approached Shakespeare trailing young men in his wake. ‘I am glad you have come. There is a purpose to our meeting here today. Some of us are to be painted for posterity and I would like you to be one with us.’
Shakespeare was shocked. ‘A portrait? Is this wise?’
‘What has wisdom to do with anything? If I were a wise man, I would be in Derbyshire tending my estates and dying a slow death of idle boredom.’
‘But a portrait will serve to draw yet more attention our way . . .’
‘Which is the point, precisely. My friends do not avert their eyes from the great wrongs inflicted on us by the odious men who would supplant the true faith. Our children and grandchildren will look upon this picture and stand in awe. You will doubtless find fault with the inscription I have demanded: Hi mihi sunt comites quos ipsa pericula ducunt.’
‘These are my companions in danger. This is madness.’ Shakespeare looked around him at the barber and his apprentices. Who could know where their loyalties lay?
‘I had believed you brave, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘This is not about courage but staying alive long enough to bring about change.’ Shakespeare sighed and affected a reassuring smile. ‘I also wonder whether it would not be more shrewd to meet in private. You must know that any large gathering – such as this one – will be reported back to Walsingham. I know this because I see his reports day by day. London is full of scurvy villains who will scurry to Seething Lane with such tittle-tattle for the price of a gage of ale.’
Babington laughed and clapped Shakespeare about the shoulders. ‘Sir, you will be afeared of shadows next. Walsingham can do nothing against us, for nothing is said that could be seen as sedition. We always speak with great circumspection, and couch our oratory in terms with which no man could find fault.’
Shakespeare knew this to be untrue. ‘A few moments ago you spoke of odious men. Last night you drank to the death of usurpers . . .’
‘I put no name to any odious men. Nor did I name any usurper. What man of loyalty would not think a usurper worthy of death? Would not Principal Secretary Walsingham and Lord Treasurer Burghley drink to such a thing?’
‘This is sophistry. It will not save you if Richard Topcliffe or Justice Young get you on the rack. You must know that by the law of Henry the Eighth it is treason to call the sovereign a usurper.’
‘Yes, I have heard that you spent some time studying law. Very well, you have made your point and I accept it in good grace, Mr Shakespeare. This is why we like you – for you do not fear to show us our faults and you reveal the workings of Mr Secretary’s mind. But that is all for another time. Today our task is to be painted, and we will be, in the name of the Holy Mother – for our work is momentous and must be marked.’
‘Valour alone is not enough, Mr Babington. You need sound judgement and caution, too.’
For a moment th
e charm slid from Babington’s handsome face and a darkness crossed his brow. ‘Perhaps if I had sound judgement I would allow Mr Salisbury to kill you.’ And then he smiled. ‘But I happen to believe you are of more value alive than dead.’
‘And what would Mr Salisbury have me do to prove my loyalty to you and the Pope? Kill Walsingham, perhaps . . .’
‘It would be a start.’ From Babington’s cheery expression and open, guileless eyes, a man might be forgiven for thinking that he was merely an eager young puppy, very pleased with himself but no threat to the commonwealth. ‘Forget I said that, Mr Shakespeare. It was, indeed, unworthy. Now sit down in Mr Mane’s chair and ask for his Marquess Otto cut. It will do wonders for your lean and straight face. You must look your best, for the painter is setting up his easel and mixing his paints in the back room and would have us all in line within the half-hour.’
Shakespeare was about to stand his ground when the door to the shop opened and two men walked in.
‘Why, it is the Instrument himself,’ Babington said with delight. ‘Welcome, Goodfellow. And you have brought young Mr de Warre. The picture is almost complete. I think the painter will have to ink in a space and add Mr Salisbury at a later date.’
Shakespeare was relieved to have Babington’s attentions turned elsewhere. He had found their exchange uncomfortable. Now he hung back while Babington greeted Goodfellow Savage and his companion, but Savage did not linger. He blinked in the gloom of the shop, squinted, then raised a hand in greeting to Shakespeare. He strode through the mass of young men, his powerful hand – so used to wielding weapons of war – outstretched in greeting. His grip was firm and strong
and there was warmth in it.
‘Well met, John Shakespeare.’
‘Good day, Mr Savage. I had hoped to see you last night at the Plough.’
‘My purse is empty. Having once captained a company of soldiers, I am now reduced to the lowest of the low at Barnard’s Inn and so I must live on commons in the hall with my fellows.’
‘Well, next time we dine, I shall be happy to stand your expense.’
Despite himself, Shakespeare always enjoyed the company of Goodfellow Savage. He recalled their first meeting the previous August, at an auberge in Calais as they both awaited the morning packet-boat home. Shakespeare was with Gilbert Gifford, who was heading in the other direction, towards Paris. Gifford and Shakespeare had known Savage would be there, for his movements had been tracked by Walsingham’s man Henbird, and so it was easy to arrange an encounter.
At first Savage had been discomfited by the seemingly unplanned meeting with Gilbert Gifford. But Gifford’s own feigned surprise and innocent manner had soon won him over. His looks were so boyish that men could not believe that one who seemed so young could have learnt to deceive. Men did not doubt Gilbert Gifford, to their cost.
Shakespeare and Savage had taken an instant liking to each other. With Gifford, they had spent a pleasant evening in the Calais inn, drinking wine and discussing the hoped-for end to the persecution of Catholics in England. It seemed they were all agreed that the sooner Mary Stuart ascended the throne and brought about the downfall of Walsingham, Leicester and Burghley, the better it would be for England and for Catholicism. The matter of Savage’s vow to assassinate Queen Elizabeth to facilitate this transfer of power was never mentioned. Nor, at that first meeting, was Shakespeare’s association with Walsingham. That would come later and needed to be subtly introduced.
The chance came aboard the packet-boat to Dover. Gifford had stayed in France, so Shakespeare and Savage travelled together. The sky was blue but the crossing took many hours; the seas were pond-still and the sails barely filled so light was the wind.
‘I must tell you, Mr Savage,’ he had said, ‘that I am employed in the service of Sir Francis Walsingham.’
The words cut the air like lightning. At first it seemed Savage had not heard them; then his hand stiffened as though it might reach for his dagger. ‘Walsingham?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you are my enemy.’
‘No, sir, that is not so. I would be your friend, for we share religion. Nor am I alone in that regard among Mr Secretary’s men. We work against the regime from within. He likes to keep us close, thinking to control us. In truth it enables us to keep him close. I know much of what he knows and I know his thoughts.’
Savage had pondered a few moments. Suddenly a breeze came up and caught his hat so that he had to clamp it to his head with his soldierly hand. ‘Then that is enough,’ he said at last. ‘In battle, I have to make decisions in an instant and I will do so now, to trust you. My gut tells me you are a good man, and so I would value your friendship.’
‘And I yours, Mr Savage.’
They had been hard words to utter, for he liked Goodfellow Savage and he knew that one day, perhaps very soon, he would most certainly be responsible for his death.
Now, in this crowded and noisy barber’s shop, he felt that same stab of betrayal once more. But it had to be done; Savage had sworn himself to his own doom.
‘And who is this?’ Shakespeare demanded as Savage’s young companion joined them.
‘This is Dominic de Warre, who has recently joined me in my lodgings at Barnard’s.’ He lowered his voice and spoke close to Shakespeare’s ear. ‘He is of the faith, a Pope’s White Son.’
‘Then he, too, is well met.’ Shakespeare shook the young man’s hand and studied his face. He looked no more than seventeen – certainly a fair deal younger than Babington’s usual cronies, who were mostly in their twenties or a little older.
‘You are Mr Shakespeare, are you not? I saw you once at Barnard’s Inn.’ The youth bowed respectfully as though Shakespeare were his tutor, a thing which might have been possible had Shakespeare not been taken from the law into the employment of Sir Francis Walsingham.
‘I studied there a year before going up to Gray’s. It is always a pleasure to return to Barnard’s of an evening and help relieve Mr Savage’s tedious hours of scholarship by forcing him to take wine with me. In truth, he does not usually take much persuading. Now tell me, Mr de Warre, do you consider following the law as a profession?’
‘No, my stepfather says it is a precarious existence and that I would do better to return to our Lincolnshire estates, when they pass to me from my grandfather. He says I will need the law when I am raised to the magistracy and that such studies will sharpen any young man’s mind and help with the drawing of contracts regarding my lands. Normally I would not listen to a word my stepfather says, for he is a cringing piece of work, but he does know the law.’
‘Indeed.’ And what, Shakespeare wondered, is one as young as you doing here among these knaves and mischief-makers? Why in God’s name has Savage brought you here? You are like a lamb in the company of wolves.
‘And are you here because you wish to kill the so-called Queen of England, Mr Shakespeare? The tyrant of England as I should call her.’
Had he truly just said that? Openly in front of a man he had just met? Shakespeare began to reconsider his initial impression. Perhaps the lamb had wolf ’s teeth . . .
Savage seemed as appalled as Shakespeare and put a hand over the youth’s mouth. ‘Hush, Dominic, or we will wake up one morning and see your head decorating London Bridge.’ He turned to Shakespeare. ‘Forgive the boy, he is but a babe.’
Dominic de Warre broke free of the restraining hand, looked at Savage curiously, then walked away.
Savage managed an awkward smile. ‘Well, I need my beard trimmed and I need brandy. Feel free to buy me one, John Shakespeare, for Walsingham’s silver is much like another man’s.’
Had it not been for his height and military bearing, Savage could almost have passed for an ill-nourished vagrant; his clothes were plain, old and ragged and his body was lean. Not for the first time, Shakespeare wondered how such a man, seemingly so good of cheer and kind of heart, could be a sworn assassin.
Babington was standing on one of the barber’s chairs
. He hammered the haft of his dagger on an upturned copper basin. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ he called as the hubbub died down and eyes turned his way, ‘our painter awaits us. Let us make a fine show for God, the Pope and England.’
‘God! The Pope! Freedom!’ The words came from the tender mouth of Dominic de Warre.
Shakespeare shuddered. Surely this cry must have been heard in the street. He grasped Goodfellow Savage by his arms. ‘Come away, Mr Savage. Do not partake in this madness. I have warned Mr Babington that this notion of a portrait is poison.’
Savage hovered, then nodded brusquely. ‘Yes, you are right. Let us find refreshment elsewhere.’ He looked around for his young companion, but he had disappeared into the crowd. ‘No, I must stay. I cannot go without young Dominic.’
‘He is the main reason we need to go. He is a danger to all who congregate near him.’
‘He is young. I have a responsibility . . .’
‘Stay then. But I implore you, do not have your likeness painted. Walsingham will not need to hear from my lips what has occurred here this day; every maggot and kennel rat in Bishopsgate will be scurrying to him with tales of sedition . . . and if he finds the painting, he will have evidence a plenty with names and faces to match.’
Chapter 13
Shakespeare pushed open the front door and was met by the new maidservant, who appeared to be flustered and a little fearful. ‘What is it, Jane?’
‘You have a visitor, master. He is in your solar.’
‘Jane, you must put visitors in the anteroom. My solar is my own room. I keep private papers there.’
She nodded hurriedly, like a fowl at its feed. ‘Sir, I know that, but I could not stop him. He pushed past me and climbed up through the house. Mr Cooper was not here to help me, so I knew not what to do.’
‘Well, who is this man?’
‘He said he had many names, but that I might call him Mr Gifford or Gilbert if I preferred.’
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