Holy Spy (15 page)

‘Your imagination knows no bounds, Gifford.’

‘We shall see. Now go and find the sisters for I have a hunger that must be sated.’

‘I will send for you when I have them at the house in Holborn. Wear your hood and cape. I want none to see your face as you leave this house.’

The ward watch was waiting for Boltfoot at the Postern Gate to

the north of the Tower.

‘Mr Cooper . . .’

He stopped and nodded by way of reply.

‘If you will just follow me, you may learn something about Will Cane.’

‘Where is the woman . . . the whore named Em?’

‘All will be revealed. There is someone else who wishes to see you.’

‘Who? Speak.’

‘I cannot say.’

Boltfoot noticed that the man, whose name he recalled as Potken, seemed timid. But afraid of what – or whom?

‘If you cannot say who I am to see, then why should I come with you? For all I know you have a gang of cutpurses waiting for me. But if that is your plan, it is ill founded for I have brought no money and nothing of value. Any attempt to rob me will bear no fruit.’

‘There is no trap, Mr Cooper. But I warn you now that you will be required to wear a blindfold about your eyes for the last part of our journey.’

The Smith sisters lived in a small stone-built house by the river, not far south of Westminster Hall. The door was answered by a manservant who bowed low and showed Shakespeare through to a comfortable parlour, which was deliciously cool. He was offered refreshment by the brightly accoutred lackey, but declined.

‘Then if it please you to wait, sir, I shall see if the misses Smith are able to receive you.’

The room was rich but not gaudy, nothing to suggest that this was the home of the two most celebrated whores in the proximity of London. It could as well have been the town abode of a sober merchant. The two young women arrived within a few minutes. They were dressed in fine clothes as though they were about to venture forth to the concerts with the goodwives of the guilds. Neither of them would be taken for a harlot, for their attire was neither garish nor unduly revealing. Both of them smiled airily at Shakespeare and curtsied with the merest hint of mockery.

‘Mr Shakespeare, what a pleasure, sir.’

It was the elder of the two who spoke, the one called Eliza. She was about the same height as her younger sister, Beth, and a little fuller of figure, but there really was very little to distinguish them, for they were both slender, smooth-skinned and with eyes that invited men in. They were fair of face and light of manner, both remarkable specimens. He estimated their ages as early to mid twenties, but it was difficult to be sure. Perhaps their tender-seeming age was mere artifice and the lack of physical work beyond the bedroom. That and the absence of child-bearing, the event that wore so many women into old age and early death.

‘Forgive me for coming to you at such short notice, but I have urgent need of your services this night. Mr Gifford has returned and I fear we will lose him if you do not go to him.’

‘Ah, the little pink pigling,’ Beth said, laughing. ‘He is magnificent, is he not, sir?’

‘We love our little Gilbert pigling, Mr Shakespeare.’

Shakespeare almost sighed with relief. He had been ready to do battle with them, preparing his arguments both wheedling and threatening. ‘Then you will come?’

‘Is this at Mr Secretary’s behest?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then if we have any appointments we shall most certainly cancel them. Mr Secretary is our most valued client. Not that he uses our special services for his
own
gratification, you understand. I believe him to be a man of great austerity and delicacy in matters of the flesh and I know he employs us only for the good of England and Her Majesty. Yes, I believe we shall most certainly accommodate you. Are we agreed on this, Beth?’

‘We are, sister dear.’

Shakespeare looked from one to the other and was pleased to see that they were in earnest. ‘That is exceeding good news. You will be handsomely rewarded, as always.’

‘Mr Shakespeare, it is monstrous vulgar to talk of such things before the service is provided. Time enough, sir, time enough. You do not need to concern yourself about such matters.’

‘Then how long do you need to prepare yourselves? I would have you at the Holborn house as soon as possible, for I am fearful that our pigling will fly without your company.’

‘We will come at once, though it would be a fine thing to see a pigling fly.’

‘Never be careless of your pigling, Mr Shakespeare. Foxes like piglings for dinner and crows do love to pluck out their eyes.’

‘And when their mother sows try to protect them they do oft-times crush them to death beneath their great weight.’

‘Take care of our little pigling, Mr Shakespeare.’

They had curious sing-song voices, tinkling like water over rocks. It occurred to Shakespeare that it was probably an affectation, as, indeed, was their affectionate talk of the pink pigling. They might be costly, but they were whores. Nothing more. That was no concern of his, however, so he played their game. ‘That is what I am trying to do. Now then, let us be moving. Will you change your attire?’

‘Does our appearance displease you?’

‘Indeed not, but—’

‘But you thought we would travel in undergarments of silk with silver ties. No, we shall carry our bag of toys with us and come as we are. Beth, perhaps you would order the carriage prepared.’

‘I shall, sister dear.’ She gave another little curtsy and left the room.

Eliza touched Shakespeare’s arm as though to reassure him. It was only the lightest of touches, but it sent a burning surge of lust straight to his loins so that he gasped. She smiled at him knowingly. Oh, she understood well enough the desire she could inflict with a movement of the lips or eyes or the tiniest butterfly fluttering of her fingers.

‘Will it be the whole night through?’

‘Yes. And I beg you, keep him hungry. Keep him so hungry that he will needs come to you again and again the whole summer long.’

‘No man has wearied of us yet, Mr Shakespeare.’

Shakespeare rode behind their carriage. All he knew about the Smith sisters was that their mother had been in the same line of work as her daughters and that she had been favoured by men of high rank and privilege. Phelippes had told him that Eliza was the daughter of an earl and that Beth’s father had been a baron, but he had said it with a sly grin that meant it could as well be invention as truth.

Within a quarter of an hour, the carriage stopped outside a wood-frame of shops, alehouses and tenements, a little way south and east of Gray’s Inn.

The front of the house had exposed timbers of lightly coloured oak. The housekeeper, a woman of middle years who never asked any questions and provided food and clean laundry for anyone using the house, answered the door and admitted Shakespeare and the two young women with a generous smile.

Inside, the house was pleasantly appointed without being sumptuous. It was a house of many secrets but within the office of Sir Francis Walsingham it was known simply as the Holborn house. The building was rented by Phelippes on behalf of his master and over the years had been used for all manner of purposes: confidential meetings, the concealment of exiles from foreign lands whose lives were threatened, the covert delivery of letters and, from time to time, the night work of the Smith sisters.

Shakespeare accompanied them up to the first floor where they had their chamber, decked in gold and red like an Ottoman’s seraglio, with a large four-poster that Phelippes insisted was as big and grand as the Queen’s own bed. Shakespeare’s eye could not but stray to the small hole in the wall through which he had spied on Eliza and Beth when they were last here with Gifford. The sisters caught his gaze and smiled. Hurriedly, he looked away, but it was clear to him that they must have known they were being watched.

‘I shall leave you now. The pigling will be here within the hour. Will that be time enough?’

‘Enough, indeed. The housekeeper will lay us a fire and bring sweet wine.’

‘You may wish to stay and watch our preparations . . .’

Shakespeare ignored the offer. He was about to take his leave, but then stopped. ‘I hope I am not intruding, but I must ask you a question which has troubled me since I met you. I would say that you both have wit and great beauty. From the appearance of your attire and your fine house, I would venture that you have wealth enough. You could marry well and have families. Why then do you choose to remain . . .’ His voice trailed off.

‘Why do we remain whores?’ Eliza laughed. ‘Because it is what we are good at. Why do you do what
you
do?’

‘It needs to be done.’ And God knew, there were times when it was foul, discomfiting work.

‘And this needs to be done, too, Mr Shakespeare. We have a heaven-sent talent and work that pleases us. Why should we be at one man’s beck and call with all the swaddling clothes and dull nights, when we can do this?’

‘We have met such men, sir,’ Beth put in. ‘French envoys, Dutch merchants, even a Portingall prince of the blood. Many of them have fine manners and good conversation and know how best to please a lady. What goodwife with a dozen brats at her feet can say the same of her life, all drudgery and routine? And when we are not at work, we can choose fine fabrics, eat fine food and idle away the hours in our house by the river.’

‘But the risks . . .’

Beth smoothed her hands down her bosom and purred. ‘We know all about the risks. We know how to avoid the pox and how not to come with child. When necessary, we have the strength and wit to calm the ferocious beast that resides in some men’s hearts. And above all, we have the secret of giving pleasures unknown, learnt at our mother’s knee. We choose our clients with great care. You, sir, would most certainly fit our requirements and as a Walsingham man, we would wink at the reckoning.’

‘It is a most gracious offer, but one that I must decline.’ If, for one single moment he was tempted, he did not wish to let them know. But they knew.

Chapter 14

No one could have told what was inside the building. From the outside it looked exactly what it once must have been – a tithe barn. He and the watchman, Potken, had walked along farm tracks into the countryside north of Whitechapel. For the last half-hour Boltfoot had walked blindfold.

He had been reluctant to do so, for no man likes to be so vulnerable and at the mercy of a stranger. But he had finally conceded when Potken told him that without it they could proceed no further.

The going was slow, each step tentative and reliant on Potken’s assurance that the ground was flat and nothing was in their way. Boltfoot tried to count the steps and remember the turns and the sensation of the sun on his head and brow; anything to discern their direction.

Now Potken removed the scarf from his eyes and Boltfoot blinked up at the enormous brick and oak construction that confronted him. He looked around. There was no sign of the highway, nor any sound of life save for birdsong and the lowing of cattle. With woodlands on three sides, there was no recognisable landmark for him to gauge his position. This place was well hidden despite its immense size.

Livestock grazed in the fields. In the air, crows and gulls savoured the warm summer breeze. Then, from inside the barn, they heard the deep ringing of men laughing. Potken waited, seemingly afraid to go in. He whispered in Boltfoot’s ear.

‘Ask no questions.’

Almost immediately two men in working clothes – guards who looked like farmhands – emerged from the great double doorway. Without a word, they nodded their acknowledgement to Potken and allowed the two newcomers to go in. Boltfoot followed in the wake of the watchman. He expected to see hay and sacks and farm equipment. But his assumption was immediately proved false. This building might once have been a barn, but its purpose had been changed. It was now a great hall with tables that would seat a hundred people if so required. There were no more than a dozen here now, which only served to emphasise its great size.

As he stepped onto the stone floor, complete with rush matting like a comfortable house, he tried to take in what he could see by the light from the door and the dozen or so candles that burned on the tables. His eyes quickly adjusted to the echoing gloom. The only people apart from themselves and the two guards were a group of men and women, who did not look up from whatever it was they were doing at the head of the main table. He heard a man curse and throw down a playing card. Another man laughed. Then one of the women pointed at Boltfoot and he was suddenly aware that she was Em, the bawd from the Burning Prow, the woman who had sent Potken after him. The eyes of the other players followed her finger and stared at Boltfoot.