Shakespeare did not move. ‘Before I go, Sir Francis . . .’
‘I am busy, John. The council meets in ten minutes. There are arrangements to be made, correspondence to be read and written.’
‘Forgive me, it is the matter of the murder of Nicholas Giltspur.’
‘What now? I do not have time for this.’
‘I need a warrant to go into Giltspur House, and a squadron of guards to enforce it.’
If Walsingham thought his man was jesting, he did not laugh, merely stared at him with disbelief. ‘What insanity is this? Have you gone moon-mad, John?’
‘I am certain the truth about Giltspur’s death lies within the walls of that house. There are secrets there, and I need to conduct a search.’
This time Walsingham did laugh. ‘Forget it, John. It will not happen.’
‘Believe me, Mr Secretary, I do not enjoy coming to you with this matter. I would go to Judge Fleetwood, but I need more than he could provide. I need a royal guard, untainted, for this involves matters of a sensitive nature. I believe you know what I mean, sir.’
‘Do I?’ Suddenly suspicious.
‘Would you have me speak it?’
‘Yes. If you have something to tell me, then say it. I may delve into men’s souls but I cannot read the contents of their minds.’
Shakespeare had been considering this on the boat journey downriver to Greenwich Palace; could he afford to let Walsingham know that he was now privy to this great secret? Now it was being unavoidably prised out of him, for he had already said too much.
‘Speak, John.’
‘It is something I should not know, something I was reluctant to believe – and yet now I do believe it to be true.’
‘You are circling the subject. Time presses.’
‘Money, Sir Francis – the money that comes from the felon Cutting Ball to the Treasury of England. It passes through the hands of the Giltspurs.’
‘Who told you this gibberish, this half-boiled kettle of lies?’
‘It is true, is it not?’
‘Who spake it?’
Shakespeare shook his head. ‘I discovered this for myself. You pay me for my ability to seek out such secrets. My method is mine to know, but not to say. But I can tell you this: a great sum has disappeared from the Giltspur coffers. I am not yet certain why, but I believe this to be the reason for Nicholas Giltspur’s death.’
‘You surpass yourself. Am I to believe you are saying that my lord Burghley conspired with Cutting Ball to murder Nick Giltspur? Next you will be writing comedies for the playhouse stage.’
‘Mr Secretary, that is not what I am saying. But nonetheless, I am certain the truth lies inside the heavily guarded fortress that is Giltspur House. And so if you wish to know who killed Nick Giltspur – a true friend of England – then I must crave your assistance.’
He wanted to ask about Sir Robert Huckerbee and his links with the Giltspurs, yet this seemed neither the time nor the place. He had clearly pushed his master as far as he would go this day.
Walsingham said nothing for a few moments. His long features were drained of the jubilation that had greeted Shakespeare on his arrival. His eyes moved from his intelligencer’s face to the open window through which the sound of birdsong intruded, then back to Shakespeare. ‘What I crave from you is your mind to be fixed to the purpose in hand: keep tight with the plotters who would kill our Queen and supplant her with another. I fear you are straying into dangerous waters.’
‘Again, it is what you pay me for.’
‘Be careful. Clever answers will not always save you. As to Giltspur House, it is not going away, so you have time. I must take advice, John. This matter you speak of concerns others. Come to me at Richmond and I will give you my answer.’
The walking was slow and becoming slower. At first, Boltfoot had kept up a reasonably steady pace, but his club foot made the going tough.
‘Shall we take a horse or two, Mr Cooper?’ Maywether suggested as they passed a fenced field with half a dozen of mares grazing, just west of Faversham.
‘I have no wish to be hanged, Mr Maywether.’
‘At this rate, we won’t be in London by Christmas. It would have been quicker to go by way of the Grand Banks.’
‘Go on ahead if you wish.’
‘And you are certain you have nothing of value to sell, whereby we might buy or hire a mount?’
‘You have seen the contents of my purse. Not enough to buy a horse’s leg.’
‘That’s England. The poor get poorer and the rich get richer. Tell me, do you like the cockfight, Mr Cooper?’
‘I’ll eat a fine capon; don’t need to see him get ripped apart.’
‘But the cockfight’s the place you’ll find rich and poor together, the nobleman and the peasant – but never the honest burgher. I went to a fine cockfight at the Isle of Dogs not a month ago. And Arthur Giltspur was there.’
‘Arthur Giltspur?’ Boltfoot was taken aback.
‘Indeed he was. Biggest night of the year it were, bigger than anything at the Smithfield cockpit. Five hundred or more of us, I reckon. Cost half-a-crown to get in if you wanted a pitch anywhere near the pit. Shiploads of beer and sotweed, scores of trulls and every outlaw within fifty miles of London Town. They were all there for the main event, A proud ten-fight battlecock against an eight-cock - England’s finest roosters, so they said. Oh, the thrill of it, the smell and the excitement. And Giltspur was there all right, weighed down with a bag of gold to stake on the ten-cock. Five thousand pounds he laid out on his feathered darling that night. Five thousand pounds
on a bird!’
‘What happened, Mr Maywether?’
‘What do you think happened? As soon as I heard the bet had been laid I knew to stake my sovereign on the eight-cock. Do you think the layers were going to pay out on a stake of five thousand pounds? Course they weren’t. They fixed it so the eighter won. The ten-cock’s spurs were blunted and loosened and he was fed grain to slow him down. Never stood a chance. Cut to pieces. Blood, flesh and feathers spread like straw across the pit.’
‘So Arthur Giltspur . . .’
‘Lost five thousand pounds in the blink of a chicken’s eye.’
Boltfoot listened grimly. The story was revealing. An ox-dray, unladen, drew to a halt at their side a little way along the dusty highway.
Boltfoot and Maywether approached the carter, an old man with thin grey hair and a long beard.
‘Good day to you, gentlemen,’ the carter said.
‘Are we on the right path to London town?’
‘You’re on the right path to Tenham, where I’m going. Do you want to hop aboard? I can drop you at Hinkley’s Mill.’
‘How far’s Tenham?’
‘Two miles.’
Boltfoot and Maywether looked at each other and nodded. An ox-drawn wagon would be scarce faster than their own feet, but it would give them a little respite from the endless miles of walking.
‘Trusty and well-beloved . . .’
So began the letter from Mary Queen of Scots to Anthony Babington. It was a deciphered copy of the original encrypted version. Thomas Phelippes, the codebreaker, had drawn a little gallows on the cover.
Walsingham ran his elegant finger along the lines, picking out the passages he wished to read aloud to those present.
‘Trusty and well-beloved . . . you must first examine deeply: what forces, as well on foot as on horse, you may raise amongst you all, and what captains you shall appoint for them in every shire . . .’ He looked up from the paper. ‘That alone must cost the devil her neck, gentlemen. It is proof of hostile intent. Listen carefully as I read on, for you will see that she presumes not merely to accept their plan of insurgency, but to tell them how it would best be organised. She raises herself up as their captain-general.’
So the letter Walsingham sought had indeed come. And with such little delay. How, Shakespeare wondered, had the Scots Queen been so foolish as to commit such words to paper, even in c
ipher?
Walsingham resumed reading. She demanded details of invasion plans, of munitions, troop numbers, and then came to the heart of the matter: ‘By what means do the six gentlemen deliberate to proceed?’
He allowed a smile to pass his brooding features. ‘The assassination. You see, she even asks – with no trace of shame or horror – how her cousin is to be killed.’ He stabbed the paper again. ‘She then demands that the assassins be accompanied by four men to ride with the news of its success to Chartley so that her own freedom may be effected before retaliation can be made. And here . . .’ He wagged his finger at the four men listening – Shakespeare, Scudamore, Gifford and Mills – ‘And here, gentlemen, she even designs her own escape by one of three means. The first, to sweep her to safety with a force of fifty men while she is out walking. The second, to start a fire in the barns and outbuildings at Chartley so that the guards will run to douse it, leaving her alone to be sprung away. The third, to send in a force hidden in wagons in the early morning like some Trojan horse, to overpower the sentries.’
Shakespeare was watching Gilbert Gifford. The pink pigling’s eyes were fixed on the gallows that Phelippes had drawn so triumphantly on the letter.
‘Her Majesty,’ Walsingham concluded, ‘has seen this letter and is deeply shocked. She had always known this Scots cousin to be ungrateful and scheming, but never had she expected to see written in her own words the devilish designs that she intends on her throne and life. She now fears there are courtiers about her willing to carry out this assassination and so has asked Mr Phelippes to add a postscript to the Scots Queen’s letter asking the names of the would-be murderers, which he is now engaged upon. The letter will be ready by noon tomorrow, at which time you, Mr Gifford, will take it personally to Babington.’
Gifford nodded, but said nothing.
Walsingham turned to the others and continued his instructions. ‘Her Majesty also demands that our name be kept from the warrants of arrest when at last they are issued, and so you will use the name of the High Admiral, Howard of Effingham, in all such matters. And remember, there is but one plot, the plot of Babington and the Queen of Scots to destroy this realm. There must be no confusion about this.’ He folded the paper.
One plot. Would the world believe that? There were clearly two plots here: one by Babington and Mary to usurp Elizabeth, the other by Walsingham and his men to have Mary’s head. They were like two briar stems, intertwined and sharp with thorns. But that was not for John Shakespeare to say. Let others deduce what they may.
‘Well, gentlemen, I think we have succeeded,’ Walsingham concluded. ‘All that we now await is a reply to the postscript, with the names of the assassins. And then we round them up and allow the courts and the headsmen to deal with the rest. God speed your efforts. You have done well.’
And so saying, he swept from the room, with Scudamore in his wake, leaving Shakespeare no time to beg for a decision on a warrant to enter Giltspur House.
‘I think a night with the Smith sisters is called for, Mr Gilbert, to celebrate your remarkable success in bringing this episode to a satisfactory conclusion.’
‘Thank you, Mr Shakespeare. My loins cry out for their tender ministrations.’
‘Then I shall see you at the Holborn house at seven o’clock.’
Shakespeare gripped Gifford’s pink hand and noted that it was sweating. It occurred to him that it would be well to stay with the man.
‘I have had another thought, Mr Gifford. Come to Westminster with me. We will seek out the sisters together.’
‘You led me to believe that such a thing was impossible.’
‘Times change.’
‘You think me most wondrous gullible! I know you, Shakespeare – and I know Mr Secretary. No, no, I will not come with you. Let us stay with the system we have used thus far. It has worked well, has it not? I will prepare myself for the delight of their company. You go to them alone, and I will see you at the Holborn house at seven.’
Shakespeare was still clutching the sweaty pink hand, as though by holding it he would keep Gilbert Gifford from fleeing. Of a sudden, he let it go and it flopped like a falling bird. ‘Until later, Mr Gifford.’
‘Indeed. Farewell, sir.’
Shakespeare knew that he had lost him and there was nothing he could do. The gallows on the letter had sealed his decision. Yes, he could use one of Mr Mills’s hired men to follow him, but what was the point? If Gifford had to be stopped from fleeing forcibly then he would not cooperate anyway. Nor did Shakespeare altogether blame the man. He had done good service, but he was afraid. He knew that the culmination of this enterprise was going to be a storm of blood, and that no one could tell who would be washed away in the cataract.
Chapter 39
Anthony Babington was at The Garden, the London home of his good friend Robin Poley, just by Bishopsgate. They had dined at the Castle tavern, by the Royal Exchange, with Ballard and others. There had been arguments; none of them was clear what to do, what step to take next.
The letter from Mary had been delivered to Babington at his Hern’s Rents lodgings by a blue-coated serving man. When questioned as to who he was and who had sent him, he made no reply. He merely bowed his head and departed.
What were they to do about the letter? The first thing after it was deciphered and read was to burn it. The flames had leapt and they seemed to see their hopes fade and die in its black smoke. Now what? How were they to proceed? How do you set a date for an assassination?
The Queen of Scots had asked for the names of the assassins. It was a strange, worrying request.
Babington had conveyed the contents of her letter to Ballard, Savage and the others. He had hoped for a decision from Ballard; he, after all, was the priest, the prime mover in their great endeavour. But Ballard had merely suggested that he say a mass and that they seek divine guidance.
And so the men at the Castle all looked to Babington for leadership. In its absence, the arguments raged: to kill the Queen or abduct her? To support the foreign invaders or to resist? None could agree on anything.
Dominic de Warre was most vocal and fervent. He raged against the tyranny and demanded they all lay their lives on the line to do for ‘the wicked few who bring our land to pain and ruin’.
Babington had tried to bring order to the motley band. He said it was quite clear what was required – and what was promised. The case for the killing of Elizabeth was made; the greatest doctors in the Church had agreed to its legality. And now, most important of all, Mary had given her seal of approval. She was their true Queen; they must obey her. As for the planned invasion by France and Spain, he could understand why some men had doubts, yet without such assistance their uprising was doomed.
Now here he was at Robin Poley’s beautiful house. The Garden. It was well named; the walled garden was large and rich with the scents of thyme and lavender. Apricots and apples made their slow journey towards ripeness. Bees and butterflies sucked the nectar from the flowers.
Here, for a while at least, he could find peace and comfort.
Babington would be happy to stay here for ever with this man, his boon friend. He was more of a companion than Margaret, his wife of six years, had ever been or could ever be. If only sweet Robin had been a woman, how happy they would have been.
The blue-coated serving man had come again last night. Here, to Robin Poley’s home, without explanation of how he knew where Babington might be.
‘I am instructed to ask whether you have a reply, Mr Babington?’
‘Who has sent you?’
‘Those are my instructions, sir.’ He had bowed.
Babington had hesitated. This was certainly the same man who had brought the letter from Mary. It must follow that he was equipped to deliver a letter to her.
‘I . . . I have not finished writing my reply.’
‘Shall I return in the morning?’
‘No . . . yes. Yes, I have something for you.’ He had written a reply. Not finished, perha
ps, but the salient points were there. ‘But I must date and sign it.’
‘Very good, sir. Then I shall wait.’
Babington had left the bluecoat at the door and disappeared into the house. Poley had looked at him questioningly, but he said nothing. He took the incomplete letter from its hiding place and scrawled the date upon it. London this third of August 1586.
The letter told of Maude’s treachery while in the company of Ballard, it spoke of the grave danger the conspirators now faced, but then it mellowed into soft, reassuring words that all would, indeed, be well, for God was on their side.
We have vowed and we will perform or die. There, it was said. He had made a vow, just as Goodfellow Savage had made a vow. Vows that could not be undone.
Did he believe any of these words? He folded the paper and sealed it, then returned to the front door. The bluecoat stood, impassive, and took the proffered letter. Without another word, he bowed again and departed into the night.
It was morning now. A glorious summer’s morning; soon the August winds would come. How fleeting brief were these golden days.
He reclined in Poley’s feather bed. Robin had already thrown open the shutters so that sunlight spread across the linen sheets.
Perhaps he and Robin could still leave the country. Slip aboard a fisher’s boat for a sovereign or two. They would be able to take little money, but they could seek out a monastery and live out their days together in the chapel and the gardens. This place of Robin’s had the feel of a monastery garden. Through the bedchamber window, he imbibed its scents and heard the song of the thrush and the blackbird. And then another sound – footsteps on the path, followed by voices, ones that he knew: John Ballard talking with Robin Poley.
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