Holy Spy (14 page)

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.’

Many names. Yes, Gilbert Gifford liked to go by a host of different names: in written correspondence, Walsingham and his men referred to him as Number Four or the Secret Party. When abroad in France or the Low Countries, he liked to use the names Pietro or Cornelys. To the French embassy, he was simply Colderin. It was enough to confuse friends, let alone enemies. So he was back from Chartley; surely that could mean but one thing. ‘Very well, I will go to him presently, but first tell me: has there been word from Boltfoot?’

‘No, master.’

‘When he arrives home, tell him not to venture out without first consulting me. I have new information for him. Oh, and Jane, bring small ale to the solar.’

‘Yes, master.’

Gilbert Gifford was lounging on the settle by the window. He had a book on his lap and looked for all the world like a boy at his studies. He did not raise his eyes as Shakespeare entered the room.

‘Mr Gifford, what in the name of God are you doing here?’

Gifford dragged his smooth face away from the printed page. ‘Why, reading this volume while I waited for you to appear, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘You are insane to have come. What if my house is being watched? Are you utterly without wit? You could blow all our plans to dust.’

Gifford laughed, totally unconcerned by the onslaught. ‘I took great care, Mr Shakespeare. No one is watching your house. Perhaps you are not as important to them as you think you are. I believe you are quite safe.’

‘I wish I shared your confidence. You will never come here again. You know how to contact me: send messages via Mr Mills’s office and we will meet at an appointed place.’

Gifford waved a hand in the air. ‘I do not have time for such stuff. I dared to hope my appearance here would be a most pleasant surprise, for I come as the bearer of good news. The fish has taken the bait. It seemed to me that you should be among the first to know.’

‘Indeed?’ His voice retained its sharpness, but he could not fail to be interested.

‘Yes, indeed. Letters from the Scots Queen came out of Chartley in the beer keg two days ago and were then handed to me by the Honest Man. I gave them to Mr Paulet and he passed them to Mr Phelippes who is presently deciphering them. Tomorrow they will be brought up here to London where they will be returned to me, resealed by Mr Gregory, and when Mr Secretary gives the word I will convey them to the French embassy intact.’

‘That is most excellent news. Do we know anything about the letters?’

‘We know that one is addressed to Anthony Babington.’

Shakespeare did not smile but his heart lurched. So the bait was not only taken, but the fish was on the hook. It was exactly as Walsingham had hoped and planned. Perhaps things were moving at last.

‘And so, Mr Shakespeare, I have a night in London with nothing to do . . .’

‘Then we shall dine together here at my expense. I will have food sent in. Fine roasts and good wine.’

Gifford sucked in air through his small white teeth. ‘I had rather hoped to reacquaint myself with the Smith sisters, whose company I find most pleasurable. If you would just tell me where I may find them.’

‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘But you can bring them to me?’

‘It is possible.’

‘Then do it, I entreat you, Mr Shakespeare. It is only the pleasure of their company that keeps me in England at all. Without them, I shall feel compelled to take myself away from these dangerous tasks that I perform on Mr Secretary’s behalf. I know from experience that the young ladies of Paris have much to commend them.’

What was it Walsingham had said?
I do not care what Gifford needs or wants, he will have it. For without him, our carefully constructed house collapses.
And so he must have the Smith
sisters. Thus far, their trysts with Gifford had been arranged by Tom Phelippes, but now it was Shakespeare’s task.

‘Then I shall do my best on your behalf. Allow me a little time, if you would, and I shall secure their services before dark. Will that suffice?’

‘Indeed it will, Mr Shakespeare. Indeed it will. And in the meantime, I should like to become better acquainted with your maidservant, who is a most comely wench.’

Shakespeare shook his head decisively. ‘No, Mr Gifford, that will
not
do. If I hear that you have interfered with my maid in any way, or even attempted to molest her, then I promise that you will never see the Smith sisters again. I will also see that you are pilloried for lewd dealings – and that your ears are left nailed to the crossbar.’

‘Sir, you drive a very hard bargain. Very well, I shall sit here, as quiet as a mole, and read your Montaigne which, I must say, contains most cunning and forthright guidance on the ways of the world. Here, listen to this if you will.’ He opened the book and quickly found the spot, then marked the passage with his index finger. ‘
Quand je joue avec mon chat, qui sait s’il ne s’amuse pas plus de moi que je le fais de lui
.’ He spoke with the fluency of a Frenchman, then translated unnecessarily for Shakespeare’s benefit. ‘When I play with my cat, who knows whether the cat is in truth playing with me.’ He smiled. ‘That is a rough translation, but do you not think it sums up our own Mr Secretary and his devices? Always be wary of your master, Mr Shakespeare, for he plays with us all. Even as he lauds my services and dispenses gold and gratitude, I know very well that he is planning my execution.’