Holy Spy (13 page)

‘How dare you walk in like this? You have interrupted my work. I must mend this gown by the next performance. Please leave immediately, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘It is not you I wish to see, Mr Redd, but Kat.’ His voice was low but pressing.

‘She is not here. Now go!’

‘Mr Redd, I have no intention of leaving until I have seen her. Is she in the loft?’

‘No, she is not here. No one is here. Now please be gone, sir.’

‘Then where is she?’

Redd looked as though he would explode. He was shorter than Shakespeare and armed only with tailoring tools, but his furious eyes suggested he would happily take on an army in his present mood.

‘Mr Redd, I do not wish to hurt you, but I will have my way.’

‘God damn you, Shakespeare, we have a safer place. She came here only to meet you. Do you think she would entrust the knowledge of her whereabouts to a Walsingham man?’

Had she really said that? Had she really not trusted him? Why, after all this time, did Kat still have the power to make him feel betrayed? He fought to contain his feelings, instead concentrating on Oswald Redd’s raw emotions. Rivalry would do neither of them any good – and would certainly not help Kat. He forced a little smile, intended to mollify his host. ‘Mr Redd, I am here to help.’

‘I do not need your help.’

‘If you do not cooperate with me, then you will be harming what little chance Kat has of escaping the noose.’

‘Why do you want her?’

‘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 the 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.