‘What a curious question, Captain.’ Slide’s knife, with a fine slice of beef attached to it, hung in the smoky air, halfway to his mouth.
‘I had a dream last night, Mr Maude. It seemed to me that something was not quite right about you.’
Slide shrugged, pushed the beef into his mouth and chewed. He had a mighty hunger from the day’s wasted efforts.
‘Do you hear me?’
He put down his knife, pointedly. ‘Yes, I hear you. A dream, you say? Are you a sorcerer that you take note of such things?’
‘It was most vivid. I saw you cloaked in treachery, come to us with a knife behind your back. A winged angel swept you away and dropped you into the pit.’
Slide picked up his knife again and held it towards Ballard. A red drop of beef juice dribbled down its sharp edge. ‘This knife, Captain Fortescue? Was this the knife that I held behind my back? Take it. It’s yours if it worries you.’
‘I don’t want your knife.’
‘Dreams! Perhaps you will converse with your winged angels next – like Dr Dee. I am surprised and not a little disturbed that you should ask me such things. Do you think I am some sort of spy? Or perhaps you think me a fugitive from justice and would have me returned to the Fleet.’
‘I know not, but I would like an answer nonetheless.’ He looked to his other companion, Robert Gage. ‘We would like an answer. Why did you serve but half your sentence?’
‘And all for a dream.’ Slide shook his head as though this conversation was altogether too tedious ‘Very well. If you must. I was released early at the archbishop’s own request. I am told he felt my continued presence in gaol only served to prolong the mockery and derision aimed at his person. He wished the whole thing forgotten as quickly as possible.’ Slide snorted with laughter. ‘A vain hope! Men will make merry at the expense of the dirty Archbishop of York and the landlord’s bawdy wife for many generations to come. Does that satisfy you, Captain Fortescue? May I return to my beef while it yet has some warmth to it?’
He met Ballard’s eye. It was a dark, scowling thing. He was in his late thirties, mad-eyed and dark-bearded, wearing an extravagant cape laced with gold, and a satin doublet with slashes; attire most uncommon here in the east Midlands. At his side, on the bench, was a hat adorned with silver buttons. He wore the guise of a rich and generous captain-of-war with assurance, as though born to the role; the very image of a soldier of fortune. Why, Slide wondered, had such a man – with a taste for assassination and insurrection – not joined a real army rather than the priesthood? Would he not have preferred the blood and thunder of a true man-at-arms to the sneaking and slithering of the underground clergy?
Slide looked away, but was still aware of Ballard’s eyes boring in to him. He ignored them, ate his beef greedily and tossed back his strong beer. What a pleasure it would be to observe this priest’s blood washing into the Tyburn soil.
‘Is that true?’ Ballard pressed.
Slide sighed. ‘Yes, for pity’s sake. Otherwise I would not be here, but manacled in my cold cell.’
Ballard attempted a smile, but it was more like a grimace. ‘Forgive me. These checks and disappointments . . . I begin to see enemies in the shadows.’
‘Well I am not your enemy. Now eat your beef and allow me the same courtesy.’ Harry Slide had no more time for this. He had spotted a face across the taproom floor, studying him closely. Was it someone from the past when he lived and operated in these parts? Slide always remembered a face, but in this case he was uncertain. Only one thing for it: find out.
Shakespeare rode to meet Goodfellow Savage at Barnard’s Inn. The street here at Holborn Bars was a scene of chaos, with building work proceeding on Staple Inn next door to Barnard’s. The new inn was designed as an extension to Gray’s and the work was disrupting the movement of livestock and wagons. A delivery of timber had just been unloaded and was strewn across the highway. Shakespeare had to pick his way over piles of oak.
Savage was at his studies, his head bent so low that his eyes were scarce three inches from the paper he read. He had his hands over his ears to blank out the sounds of hammering and shouting from the nearby building site.
Shakespeare clapped his hands. ‘Come, Goodfellow,’ he shouted. ‘Let us remove ourselves from this din.’
Putting down his quill, Savage rubbed his tired eyes and blinked. ‘They do their damnable work from dawn until dusk. There is as much noise here as on the field of battle.’
‘Let us dine together. I will pay the reckoning.’
Savage stood up from his table and stretched his arms so that he touched the ceiling. ‘Free food and ale? You are most persuasive, John Shakespeare.’
‘Good.’
Shakespeare looked about the cheerless room where Savage lived, slept and worked with his three fellow lodgers, including Dominic de Warre. Apart from the table there was a basin and four poor beds of straw, but today Savage was alone, red-eyed from his long hours of study.
Together, they walked out into the warm evening air and headed east, away from Holborn Bars towards the Silver Grayling. As they passed Hern’s Rents, Savage stopped and looked up at the six-storey tenement. ‘Shall we call out Anthony Babington?’
He wanted Savage to himself. ‘Another time. Let us talk of women, wine and the hunt. There are days when a man needs nothing more serious than the fellowship of a good friend and a jug of good beer.’
‘I hoped you would say that. He pushes me incessantly.’
‘Pushes you? In what way?’
For a moment it seemed to Shakespeare that Savage was about to reveal his murderous vow, but he merely smiled. ‘You know – the way he pushes us all. Do you think it will ever happen, this rising?’
‘One must hope. There is much to plan, many preparations to be made. God will surely show us the way, but we must do our part, too. He gave us free will so that we might choose to follow his path or take the other way. The brave man’s path – or the coward’s way—’ Shakespeare stopped short.
Savage stood rigid, his head held high, his long soldier’s beard thrust forward, like a statue, frozen in stone, eyes wide open and staring.
‘Goodfellow – is all well with you?’
He shook himself and gasped for air. ‘I . . . forgive me, John.’
‘What is it?’
‘I saw the cross before my eyes. I saw Christ’s blood, flowing like molten gold from his wounds. His mouth did not move but I heard his words. He was talking to me.’ Another deep gulp of air. Savage closed his eyes.
‘Goodfellow?’
‘I think it was a sign.’
Shakespeare placed a comforting hand on his companion’s arm.
‘John, I am sore troubled. What do you believe the Church’s teaching to be on the matter of taking one life to save a nation’s soul?’
‘You mean assassination?’ Shakespeare barely whispered the word. His heart was pounding. He did not wish to be told this secret. The fact that he had learnt of Savage’s vow from Gifford rather than from his own lips somehow made it distant and he had always secretly hoped to find some way to save him. But if he were to have this man’s confidence, it would be altogether different. How could he keep such a secret when it flew against all that he believed in? Oh that my ears should fill up with mortar and that deafness should suddenly take me.
And yet this was his work: the defence of Queen and realm. His country before his friends. He chose his reply with care. ‘I have heard it said that if such an act is carried out for God, and not for man, then there will be rejoicing in heaven.’
‘Regnans in Excelsis seemed to make it clear, but since its suspension . . . How can a man know where he stands?’
Shakespeare nodded his head gravely. Regnans in Excelsis. This proclamation of Pope Pius V in 1570 excommunicating Elizabeth had, in essence, ordered her subjects to rise up against her or risk excommunication themselves. It had supposedly been suspended in 1580, but all that had happened was that the people of England w
ere given freedom to obey her orders to save their skins – all the while waiting, hoping, praying and scheming for her death and the destruction of her regime.
‘Do you think it still gives a man freedom to—’
‘I think you have said too much, Goodfellow.’
Savage was not to be stopped. ‘You are the only man in England whose opinion I trust and respect, John Shakespeare. If I cannot talk with you, then I am alone.’
Shakespeare put his finger to his lips. ‘Say nothing.’ The street was busy, as always, but they were cocooned in their own private world. Their voices were low. It was safer here than in the tavern. The Silver Grayling could wait.
And then it came out, unstoppable like a flood. ‘I have made a vow to kill her. I made it in church, on my knees, before the cross, before God himself. It is a vow I cannot escape – and yet I cannot bring myself . . .’ Savage seemed to struggle for breath again. Then he pulled out his sword and held it by the hilt in his huge hands. ‘See how my hands shake? Never in the heat of battle did they quiver so. This thought, this unbreakable pledge, turns me to jelly.’
By now bystanders were starting to look. Shakespeare’s hand tightened on Savage’s arm and he pulled him into a narrow alleyway. ‘You will get us both hanged if you speak so publicly!’ he hissed.
‘I had to tell you, John.’
‘Why are you sacrificing your life? What made you promise this?’
‘We are all risking our lives – you included, John Shakespeare.’
‘But your death is certain.’
Savage’s smile was the saddest thing Shakespeare had ever seen. ‘My life is already done,’ he said quietly. ‘I surrendered it to God on the fields of Flanders. It was only His will that I should survive when others died in battle. He spared me for this greater purpose.’
Who had told him that? Was it Gilbert Gifford, or others at the seminary in Rheims? There were many men of God who were happy to tell others that the Lord wished them to sacrifice their lives, without once hazarding their own.
‘Who else knows of this?’
‘Babington, Gilbert Gifford, two fathers in Rheims, Ballard
– Captain Fortescue, that is.’
‘God’s blood, Goodfellow! How do you know you can trust these men? You are in so deep.’ Shakespeare groaned. ‘I would rather your lips had been sealed and your tongue cut out than that you should have spoken these words to me, for now when I see you, you are in your winding sheet.’
‘I will never utter your name. You will never be named accessory.’
‘It is your life I am thinking of, not mine.’
‘My day is almost done. But you will live.’
‘Will I? Do you think any man living can keep his mouth closed on the rack?’
‘You are safe. I swear to you, John Shakespeare.’
‘So what will you do now?’
‘My vow is made. I await only word from Rome. They told me at Rheims that it was lawful if done for God’s glory, just as you said. But I must have confirmation from the Holy Father.’
‘And who will bring this word to you?’
‘I await letters from Morgan in Paris. Gifford says he will bring them, elsewise I must go there myself.’
‘And the vision?’
‘It has made me unsure . . . bewildered. What do you think
it meant?’ Shakespeare shook his head. What was to be done? Savage was on a course of self-destruction that no one could prevent. For a few moments they stood looking at each other, then Shakespeare took a grip of himself. ‘I think I had better get you roaring drunk, Goodfellow. Come, let us drink the Silver Grayling dry.’
‘And you are paying?’
‘My purse is full. But I must ask you one more thing. The young fellow you brought to Mane’s . . .’
‘Dominic?’
‘That’s it. Dominic de Warre. You said he was one of us. But what more do you know of him?’
‘He is pleasant enough, but hotheaded. Why, what is your interest?’
‘I know his stepfather, Severin Tort. I had not realised the link between them until I saw him at home. It gave me pause for thought. He is only a boy. You and I are men, Goodfellow. If we risk death, that is our choice. But young Dominic . . .’
Chapter 20
Just before the tide turned, when the race through the stanchions of London Bridge was at its tamest, Boltfoot took a boat downriver from the Custom House water stairs. He had his caliver slung over his back and his cutlass at his belt. He was not going unarmed again. Disembarking at St Katharine’s Dock, a mile downstream from the bridge, he made his way slowly and carefully along the narrow lanes to the Burning Prow. At the end of the street, not fifty yards from the bawdy house, he found a spot in the shade of a tree where he sat down and lit his pipe of tobacco. The smoke was rich and heady and went some way to ease the aches of his beating.
He had a good view of the entrance to the whorehouse, but the evening was still early and business was quiet. A few men came and either stayed to carouse or left with a woman to one of the rooms they used for their work. He was hoping the one called Em would turn up, but by nine o’clock there was no sign of her.
The other whore – Aggy, the scabby, ill-favoured one he had tried to engage in conversation – came out from the alehouse on the arm of a grizzled mariner. They sauntered northwards. Boltfoot put away his pipe, rose slowly from his place by the tree and followed them. Every few steps the couple stopped to kiss and fumble. The man’s eager hands lifted her skirts and stroked her inner thigh, while her hands went into his hose, accompanied by a great deal of grunting and slurping.
The next street was an alley of poor tenements and crumbling hovels where children in rags played in the dust and toothless gossips stood with their arms folded passing the time of day. Many of the houses were nothing but a tangled skeleton of blackened timbers, a commonplace hazard in this part of the city where half a dozen families might squeeze into a house and one accident with a knocked-over rushlight could lead to disaster. Aggy led her client into a leaning house that was isolated between two such burnt-out ruins.
Boltfoot found a spot where he could watch the doorway. The residents of the alley took one glance at his caliver and cutlass and decided not to interfere with business that did not concern them.
Half an hour later the mariner emerged, reeling as though he still had the rolling deck of a ship beneath his feet. Boltfoot smiled as the man strode away. He’d have no money left in his purse by night’s end. Boltfoot had seen it a thousand times. He unslung his caliver, loaded it and stepped through the doorway with the muzzle pointing ahead of him. He halted and listened, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. He heard a sigh and a scuffing of feet. She was in the room at the back of the house, behind the half-open door.
He pushed through, his gun at his chest. She screamed. The room was bare save a filthy mattress of straw. She was squatting over a tin basin, her skirts pulled up to her chest so that her bare legs and nether parts were obscenely visible.
Boltfoot ranged the caliver at her and tilted his chin. ‘I want to ask you a few questions, Aggy.’
She scrabbled backwards, grabbing the pisspot from beneath her as she did so, flinging it in Boltfoot’s direction. He ducked sideways, but the pot hit his left arm and sprayed him with her pungent urine, soaking his sleeve and splashing his cheek.
She cackled. ‘Ah yes, the dirty cripple. Come to play, have you?’
‘Back against the wall.’
She emitted another foul laugh. ‘Is that how you want me? Front or back?’
Boltfoot limped forward and pushed the muzzle of his weapon into her belly. ‘Move.’
She stayed where she was, pushing out her chest, defiance in her eyes. ‘How much you got, cripple? Shilling for a fuck, sixpence for a frigging. Told you before, didn’t I.’ She opened her mouth in a roundel. ‘Or this for nine pence. That’s a favourite with my sailor friends. Reminds them of the cabin boys, so they do say.’<
br />
‘Comely as you are, Aggy, I want nothing like that from you. What I want is information and I’ll pay you more than a shilling for it. Be straight and helpful and I’ll make it more than worth your while.’
‘Put up your evil-looking weapon and I’ll think about it.’
Boltfoot lowered the stock of his caliver to the rubble-strewn floor, dried his face with his unsoaked sleeve, and fished a handful of coins from his purse. ‘What’s there to think about?’ He proffered a few shillings to her. ‘That’s all you’re after.’
‘I’ve got to think about my lovely throat, which I don’t want slit.’
‘Who’d do that to you, Aggy?’
‘Em. Who else.’
‘So that’s why you wouldn’t talk to me back at the Burning Prow.’
She nodded, brushing down her stained skirts and pushing them between her legs to dry herself.
‘What’s she to Cutting Ball? She’s kin, isn’t she?’
‘Em Ball? She’s his sister. Everyone knows that. Where you been living all these years? Now hand over your purse if you want anything out of me.’
‘You’ll have half-a-crown if you tell me where – and with whom – Will Cane lived. And you’ll have another if you can tell me who paid him to kill Nicholas Giltspur. And don’t say his wife, because I won’t believe you.’
‘How do I know you won’t tell Em?’
‘She’s no friend of mine. See this?’ He pointed out the bruises on his face. ‘Her brother’s men did that to me. All I want to know is who killed Giltspur.’
‘Well, if it weren’t the widow, I don’t know who done it. But I’ll tell you where Will Cane lived for a sovereign.’
‘No. A crown. That’s my limit.’
She thrust out her grubby hand. ‘Give it to me, then.’
John Shakespeare 07 - Holy Spy Page 16