‘But you have enemies. How can you not have enemies when you work for Walsingham?’
He closed the chamber door. He did not want Jane to be implicated in the harbouring of a wanted felon.
‘Thank God you are safe, Kat.’ His prayer had been half answered. ‘I have been in a frenzy of worry.’
‘Do not be concerned on my behalf. When have I not been able to look after myself ?’
Never. But this was different. He could see the strain and fear in her eyes.
‘John, have you made any progress in your inquiries?’
‘I have found out that Will Cane was dying anyway. Joshua Peace discovered that he was riddled with cankers.’
Her face brightened. ‘Surely that must help.’
‘It gives him a possible motive for lying about you. But it does not clear your name.’
Shakespeare sat down on the edge of the bed at her side. She looked worn and haggard. How was it, then, that she still managed to look so beautiful, even in Osric Redd’s old jerkin? Just sitting next to her like this, the old stirrings returned. Absently, he began to brush one of the stray locks from her face, tucking it behind her ear, but then stopped. ‘Forgive me . . .’
‘You have nothing to forgive.’
‘Where are you hiding? Be straight with me.’
‘I cannot say. No, I will not say.’
‘Why did you leave Oswald Redd?’
‘I had to. He was seizing upon my misfortune to lock me away.’
‘What of his brother?’
‘Osric? What has he to do with this?’
‘When Redd told me you had disappeared without trace from the farm, I confess I looked at his brother with suspicion.’
‘Osric is harmless. I made his meals and we passed no more than two words a day. He talks to his sheep more than ever he would talk with me. Had I stayed, that would have been my life, for ever. Oswald had plans to make a farm wife of me.’
It was a familiar story. ‘Just as I had plans to make an intelligencer’s wife of you,’ said Shakespeare ruefully.
She had her hands to her head again. For a moment, he thought she was sobbing. Kat Whetstone weep? Was such a thing possible?
‘Kat,’ Shakespeare spoke gently. ‘Can you tell me who would benefit from the death of Nicholas Giltspur? Tell me everything you know about his family and associates. I have been to Giltspur House and I cannot but wonder whether the secret we are seeking abides there.’
She raised her tear-stained face. ‘What do you wish to know?’
‘Tell me about Arthur and his grandmother. And the steward, Sorbus. What about your maidservant, Abigail? And perhaps you need to tell me more about your late husband. You told me you loved him. But you also said that you would not have married him had he been poor.’
‘That is true. I would not have married him, but I would have loved him and shared his bed.’
‘What of Severin Tort? You placed a great deal of trust in him.’ A sudden thought struck him. ‘It is Mr Tort who is now hiding you, is it not?’
She shook her head, refusing to acknowledge the question. ‘Nick was a hard-working, God-fearing man,’ she continued. ‘An honest man, too, and I can think of no one who would have wished him harm – least of all me. But in the days before his death something was worrying him. When I asked him what was amiss, he just smiled and said that all would be well. Once he said he was worried because a ship was overdue, another time he said he had a difficult transaction to negotiate. I did not believe either explanation, but what could I say? All I knew was that he wasn’t sleeping.’
‘And his nephew, Arthur? He seems a charming fellow. That is all I discovered – that and his fondness for tennis.’
‘He is a privileged young man who enjoys his wealth. And when he is not at court playing sets with the nobility, you will see him at the gaming houses. He attracts women like jam attracts wasps.’
Another thought struck Shakespeare. ‘Did he ever display affection for you? You are more his age than your husband’s.’
She leant back across the bed and sighed with exhaustion. ‘You know, John, I am not sure. I usually know when I catch a man’s eye. There were times when I thought . . . but if so, he never made a move. He was a perfect gentleman. I think he sated his appetites elsewhere.’
‘Did you ever have cause to believe that he might resent your husband – either because of you, or for any other reason?’
‘I cannot imagine why he would have resented Nick.’
‘Then if neither you nor Arthur commissioned his murder, who did? What of Sorbus? Did he bear a grievance against his master? Did he begrudge you your place in the household? He does not seem like a man who would welcome change.’
Kat raised her hands as if in supplication. ‘Sorbus can seem severe, I grant you, but no, I am certain he would have done no harm to Nick. He was always loyal.’
‘Then what of the Giltspur grandmother? She has always been the power of the house, I believe. Is she ruthless enough to kill her own kin if crossed?’
‘Grandame? Nick was the joy of her life. I have not seen her since Nick’s death, but I am certain she would have been broken by the murder.’
‘She is surviving on spirit of opium.’
‘That is nothing new. Nick used to warn her it would kill her, to which she always replied that she had lived quite long enough and desired to die without pain.’
This was going nowhere. Shakespeare pushed on. ‘There are many servants. Perhaps one of them bore a grudge. Tell me about your lady’s maid, Abigail.’
‘She has no money. How could a woman without money offer a hundred pounds to commission a murder?’
‘She is fair enough, if a little plump. Beauty can bring rewards.’
‘Abigail could have had no cause. If you must know, I did not like her much but she was already part of the household. In truth, I rather think she had got herself with child, for I noted that her breasts were swelling. I would have had to broach the subject eventually.’
Abigail with child. That might change things. ‘Who was the father?’ Shakespeare rested back on his elbow and looked at Kat, lying on his bed. Her eyes were still closed.
She shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
Another thought was taking form. What if Nick Giltspur was the father-to-be?
‘You have gone silent, John.’
‘I am thinking.’
‘Keep thinking. Think me a way to avoid the scaffold.’
She pushed herself up, then stood.
He watched her as she undressed. He had always loved the slow way she undid her stays and slipped from her clothes, but this was different, for she was removing man’s clothing. Her skin was burnished gold in the flickering candlelight. She stood before him, naked. Never had she been ashamed of her body. He recalled the first time he saw her unclothed, in the waters of the Avon, before ever they were lovers. Her shoulders were straight, her breasts firm and unbowed by age or child-bearing. He gazed at her with longing. If only she had never left him, how different would both their lives be now.
Without a word, she pulled back the blankets and slid between the cool linen sheets.
He hesitated. He should not be doing this. She was a widow, her husband barely cold in his grave.
Her slender arm snaked out from beneath the sheets. Her eyes were steady and sure. ‘Come, John. This one night, no more. I am so afraid. Alone in bed I feel the rope about my neck and cannot breathe. I need you.’
This one night. The affirmation of life to scorn death. She had been his long before Nicholas Giltspur ever saw her. Their union might not have been blessed in the eyes of God, but he had never felt any guilt for enjoying her body and her love, nor would he now.
He undressed and joined her in the coolness of the bed. Her skin was as warm as summer sunshine. Her fingers on his body drew a long moan from his throat. ‘Kat . . .’
‘I will go before dawn, John.’
‘No, stay here. You will be safe. I will s
end Jane away for a few days. It will be better for her not to know. She should have no part in this.’
‘That will never work. Anyway, your house is watched. You notice things when you are a fugitive. I see watchers in shadows. I can pick danger in a doorway or among a crowd.’
He could not help laughing. ‘You should become an intelligencer. Sir Francis Walsingham would love you.’
‘I had thought he rather liked me anyway.’
‘Yes, indeed he did. And he knows I am trying to find the truth about your husband’s murder. He has afforded me some leeway, but he can do nothing to prevent the law taking its course.’
‘And so you cannot afford to have me here. Fear not, I will slip past Justice Young’s man unseen. But you, too, should be careful, John.’
‘How did you get in here unseen?’
She kissed his cheek. ‘Men have needs, John. Drinking or pissing. He went for a pint of ale at the Blue Boy. How could
he know that he was watched by me?’
‘Perhaps there were two of them.’
‘No there was only one. Trust me. Anyway, they would have battered down your door by now if they had seen me.’
‘They wouldn’t have needed to.’ He returned the kiss. ‘As you pointed out, my love, it is unbolted . . .’
Chapter 27
Kat left an hour before dawn, her hair tucked up beneath her plain woollen cap, still refusing to say where she was going.
‘How will I contact you if I discover anything?’
‘Post a note on the Si Quis Door. Mark it a notice of vacancy for a footman, inquiries to be referred to Lady Cutler.’
Shakespeare nodded. The Si Quis Door – from the Latin Si Quis, meaning ‘if anyone’ – was a door at St Paul’s where notices of jobs for would-be servants were posted every day. ‘So you will be staying close by? Do you not think it would be wiser to leave London? Your man’s guise does not bear close inspection.’
‘I must be on hand. This must be solved or I will have no life worth living.’
Shakespeare kissed her farewell. For the first time, he truly believed that she was both desperately afraid – and innocent. He had discovered something else, too: he no longer loved her.
Shakespeare went back to bed for two hours’ sleep, then took his time over a leisurely breakfast. If Jane had any suspicion that there had been anyone else in the house overnight, it was not evident in her demeanour or anything she said. She bustled about brightly, bringing her master fried links of sausage and
eggs. Her one concern seemed to be Boltfoot.
‘Will Mr Cooper be away long, master?’
‘Not long, I hope.’ There was no point in letting her know that he feared the worst. The poor girl could have had no idea what she was letting herself in for when she agreed to enter this house.
Babington arrived at nine o’clock, ready for his meeting with Sir Francis. He was attended by a richly attired valet and was himself dressed in court finery: a doublet of silver and red with a surprisingly modest ruff, probably worn so as not to risk irritating the Puritan sensibilities of Sir Francis Walsingham.
‘We are to meet Mr Robin Poley at Greenwich. Do you know him?’
‘I have heard his name. He is a Catholic gentleman, is he not?’
‘Indeed, he is, Mr Babington, but he has the ear and friendship of Sir Francis Walsingham and has already spoken to him on your behalf, entreating him to grant you a passport.’
Babington was shocked. ‘I had thought you would be making the arrangements, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘I feared my own intercession would be treated with suspicion. Walsingham is my master, not my friend.’
‘But this Mr Poley. Can we trust him?’
‘He is devout and honourable. He also has great beauty of face and character and he is as wedded to the true faith as we are, Mr Babington. Though he is not wealthy, he gives whatever he may in the way of grants to seminary priests. Being of modest means, he must always live in the households of great men.’
‘His patron is Sir Philip Sidney, I believe.’
‘Indeed, but with Sir Philip away at the wars, Poley has been taken into the house of Sir Philip’s father-in-law, who you will know to be Sir Francis Walsingham himself. Robin Poley has full use of Mr Secretary’s home and has even invited me to mass with him at Barn Elms, under the very nose of his host. I fear I took the coward’s way and did not attend.’
Babington was aghast. ‘Does Sir Francis know him to be a Catholic?’
‘He does, and likes him none the less for it. I would go further and say that he has Walsingham’s love.’
‘How can he bear to live with Walsingham? He is Satan made flesh.’
‘You could ask the same of myself or Abingdon or Tilney – or a hundred other men at court. Mr Byrd of the Chapel Royal has the Queen’s favour, and yet she knows he cleaves to his Catholic faith. We work among them because how else are we to live? And more to the point, how are we to defeat them? Our time will come soon enough.’
‘But Poley—’
‘Enough, Mr Babington. If you do not want his help, then do not come with me.’ Shakespeare took Babington’s hand in both of his. ‘Mr Poley is charming, pious and full of wit. But the greatest of his virtues is honesty. Which is why it is my firm belief that it were better for you if he rather than I were to broach the subject of your passport with Mr Secretary.’ He frowned anxiously. ‘I hope I have not gone beyond my brief.’
Babington hesitated, then nodded. ‘No. You have spoken well, Mr Shakespeare. I will take Robin Poley as I find him.’
‘If you still harbour doubts after meeting him, inquire at the French embassy where he has their full trust. Mr Poley is considered a very prince among the Catholics of this realm. And yet I must repeat that he is not wealthy. So he will ask money of you in return for his services.’
‘How much?’
‘Whatsoever you can afford. But bear in mind that he will be putting himself at great risk on your behalf.’
‘Fifty pounds?’
It seemed Babington had plucked the figure from the air, but Shakespeare imagined he had already given the matter of money thought; something as valuable as a licence to travel was not easily come by in these troubled days and would always cost a great deal.
‘I should not speak for him but I think he would consider that fair.’
Babington shook his handsome head. ‘Fifty pounds to put my head in the lion’s mouth . . .’
‘Fifty pounds to seek safer shores and protect your inheritance. Will you send for your wife and child when you are abroad?’
Babington did not answer. ‘Let us get to it, Mr Shakespeare. Midsummer is past. Time catches us unawares. Let us go now to Greenwich and meet your Robin Poley.’
The trip downriver to Greenwich Palace was swift and uneventful. On arriving, Shakespeare escorted Babington to the presence chamber.
If Babington was anxious, he disguised it well, for he held his head high and smiled at the numerous courtiers with whom he was acquainted: a wave of the gloved hand here; a nod of the head there.
Walsingham had been as good as his word. Shakespeare spotted Poley instantly.
‘Good morrow, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘And to you, sir.’ He extended his hand to indicate his companion. ‘This is Anthony Babington. Shall we step outside, gentlemen? I think it a fine day to stroll in the gardens.’
As they walked from the palace into the southern gardens, away from the river, Shakespeare observed his two companions with a little inner smile. Babington had fallen in love at first sight. Poley was as perfectly formed as a Roman statue; not tall, but lean and muscular with long fair hair and an aspect of innocence that would have won an abbot to his cause. Shakespeare stood back and watched as Poley drew Babington into an arbour of roses. It made a pretty picture. With fortune on their side, Babington would not notice the thorns until it was too late.
‘It will be my great pleasure to help you, Mr Babington,’ Pol
ey said. ‘I believe I can judge a man at first meeting, and I know that we will be the firmest of friends.’
‘Thank you, Mr Poley. My hopes accord with yours.’
‘Then let us get straight to business, for we have little time before you are called in to see Mr Secretary. I am so well acquainted with his daughter and wife that I flatter myself I know the innermost workings of his mind. He is a secretive man, but not beyond knowing, as some would have it.’
Shakespeare laughed. ‘He is beyond my knowing, Mr Poley.’
Poley dismissed Shakespeare with a playful flick of the hand. ‘Do not listen to him, Mr Babington. What you must realise is that while Sir Francis scorns the Pope and Catholicism, he does not bear antagonism towards those Catholics whom he sees as loyal to Her Majesty. He does, however, see them as misguided. And so you must be open and honest with him and declare your faith. He will tell you that you are a fool and may try to convert you to his interpretation of the scriptures, but that is all. Merely endure his barbs and all will be well. And then you need a story – a tale to convince him that you are not fleeing England into the embrace of the Jesuits. You need, too, to offer your assistance. Do you understand?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Then let us rehearse. Come, sit here at my side’
Anthony Babington had always looked down on men such as Walsingham. They were dour creatures, mere functionaries, men of poor family. A gentleman of great family did not spend his time dealing with papers and administrative duties unless they related to his own estates. And yet he smiled at him, bowed extravagantly and put out his hand as though he were his dearest and most respected friend.
‘Sir Francis, such a pleasure and honour to meet you.’
‘Come in, Mr Babington, come into my humble office. The pleasure is all mine. I am sure I have seen your face at court. I know you have attended on Her Majesty, for she has often mentioned you with affection and some disappointment that she does not see more of you.’
‘You flatter me, sir.’
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