Holy Spy (2 page)

‘And yet here he is at Rheims, training for the priesthood and plotting the death of the Queen of England.’

‘He is devout. I think he saw much bloodshed in the wars and was moved towards the spiritual life. But my cousin, the good Dr Gifford, and the priest Hodgson had other plans for him. They have been working on him for three months now, persuading him that his true vocation lies in the qualities God gave him as a man-at-arms. It was explained to him that the Holy Vicar of Rome and Father Persons of the Society of Jesus consider it not only lawful but desirable to kill the Queen. He took much persuading . . .’

Yes, thought Shakespeare, and I am sure that you played the major part in moulding him to your will. Perhaps you were the main instigator, Mr Gifford.

‘I want to meet this Mr Savage.’

‘Not here. He would become suspicious. We will work out a scheme whereby you encounter him by chance. You will, of course, have to feign fervour in the cause of papism.’

‘Then do it. And do not commit any of these things that you have told me to paper, even in cipher. I will carry word to Mr Secretary.’ Shakespeare allowed himself a smile. He was aware that this day he had chanced upon the very thing his master had been seeking for many months: the first tentative steps towards the death of a queen.

Chapter 2

London, England, 1586

Three bodies coiled and writhed on the large tester bed. They looked to Shakespeare like adders dancing in a springtime frenzy. The man was on his back, his body arching as the two slender whores, sisters, ministered to him and to each other. Shakespeare watched them through a small hole in the wall and felt ashamed. No man should observe his fellow humans in their carnal ecstasy. He pulled back from the spyhole and Thomas Phelippes immediately took his place.

‘You see,’ he said in a whisper. ‘They are remarkable fine specimens of their sex, are they not? Such sisters are surely the desire of every man’s loins.’

Yes, they were comely. Shakespeare had been stirred, but he would not admit it to the slimy Phelippes. ‘I have seen enough. Let us go.’

Phelippes grinned, his thin, pitted face more repulsive than ever. Behind his grubby spectacles, there was a challenge in his watery eyes. ‘I can arrange them for you, if you wish. No silver need change hands. Just say the word.’

‘No. Let us repair to the tavern to discuss this.’ He pulled Phelippes away by his bony shoulders.

‘Very well.’ Phelippes slid the cover across the spyhole and ran a hand through his lank yellow hair, raising his eyebrows in mockery at Shakespeare’s distaste. Treading softly, they made their way out of the Holborn house and into a taproom in the next street where they ordered pints of ale. Shakespeare drank deeply, as though the draught might cleanse him.

‘Mr Shakespeare, it was important you should view Gifford thus. I think Mr Secretary will be more than satisfied with our report.’

‘Perhaps. But it was unseemly. And I am certain very costly.’

‘I could watch the Smith sisters all day. Have you ever seen such paps and such womanly bellies?’

‘They know their trade, I grant you, but I thought you had a new bride to look to, Mr Phelippes.’ God preserve her! How could any woman bear to look on his reptilian face each morning?

‘And Gifford! He is so small and hairless, so pink-skinned! He looks as though he should still be at his mother’s teat, not a whore’s.’

‘Do not be deceived, Mr Phelippes. Gilbert Gifford is twenty-five years of age and man enough for our needs. It is the very innocence of his appearance that gains him entry into men’s trust. Often to their detriment.’

‘But do
you
trust him? And what of Mr Secretary; does he trust the pink thing?’

Shakespeare smiled. He knew that his master, Walsingham, trusted Gilbert Gifford as much as he trusted any man, which was not at all. Shakespeare sometimes wondered whether he himself might be spied on by others in the employment of the Principal Secretary. Well if so, then so be it; the watchers would have a dull time of it. No whores, no salacious connections.

As for Gilbert Gifford, a man who went by many names, Walsingham’s fear was that he would vanish, his work unfinished. He was like a will-o’-the-wisp, one minute here, the next gone. And that was the point of these two fair sisters of the skin. Their task, for which they were being paid very well from Mr Secretary’s purse, was so to bewitch Gifford that he would stay and do his master’s bidding. It was a plan with obvious flaws, for there were whorehouses in every city of the world. These two would have to offer something that could not be found elsewhere. So far, they seemed to be doing all that could be hoped for, and more.

‘Do they have the pox, Mr Phelippes?’

‘Ah, so you
are
interested?’

‘Just answer my question.’

‘No, they do not have the pox. They save themselves for the best, which is why they are so highly prized – and
priced
– like spice of the Indies.’

‘Good. They will only make themselves available to Gifford at
our
behest. I would have them retain their mystery and freshness so that he does not tire of them, for without him we have nothing.’

Chapter 3

The afternoon sun fell across his face. He shifted his chair so that he was in shade. Alone in the parlour of his house in Seething Lane, he was sitting at the head of the oak table where he took his meals and did much of his work.

This day John Shakespeare had put aside his labours on intercepts and correspondence from the world’s embassies. All he had in front of him was a copy of the Holy Bible, a quill, an inkhorn and a sheet of paper with three names on it. One of them had a few words next to it:
agreeable disposition, respectable family, untried, a little young
.

There was a rap at the door from the anteroom.

‘Come in.’

Boltfoot Cooper pushed open the door and limped in. ‘The second woman is here, master.’

Shakespeare nodded to his assistant. ‘Bring her through, Boltfoot.’

Boltfoot shuffled off and reappeared a few moments later, in company with a woman of middle years, perhaps forty, with greying hair beneath a lawn coif. She had a brisk walk and a competent air. Boltfoot ushered her forward and she approached the head of the table, stopping four feet from Shakespeare.

‘Mistress Rymple?’

She gave a quick nod, not quite a bow. ‘Indeed, Mr Shakespeare, sir.’ She held out a paper with a broken seal. ‘This is a letter of commendation from my last employer.’

Shakespeare took it from her, unfolded it and read it. The letter said that Annis Rymple had performed her duties as lady’s maid to her employer’s satisfaction but that her services were no longer required as her mistress had gone to God. The letter was signed by the widower. Shakespeare handed the paper back to her. ‘How long had you worked in your last position?’

‘Twelve years, sir.’

‘You were a lady’s maid. You know there are no ladies in this house.’

‘But I would make a suitable housekeeper, I am certain.’

‘What were your duties?’

‘I dressed my lady and busked her hair. Her chamber was my world and when she went to the country, I was always her travelling companion.’

‘What of cooking, baking, brewing, shopping, laundry and sweeping? Those are the duties we must have performed here. We would have hens, too, for eggs, and I want a pig.’

‘There were other servants for those duties, but I am sure I will adapt well enough. It was made clear to me by the factor what was required. You are a single gentleman, I believe. It will just be you for whom I must do these things, will it not, sir?’

Shakespeare turned to Boltfoot, who was hovering like a hawk by the door. He did not look happy. ‘And Mr Cooper, of course.’

Annis Rymple looked slightly taken aback. ‘If that is what you wish of me, then I will obey your orders, Mr Shakespeare. I can cook pies and bake cakes and bread and I am sure a fine house such as this has a spit for roasting.’

‘How much did your last employment pay?’

‘Five pounds from Lady’s Day to Lady’s Day, with a week at Easter to visit my mother in Hertfordshire.’

Shakespeare scratched a few words against her name.
Experienced, good reference, most likely capable. A good age. Unlikely to come with child.
He smiled at her and nodded. ‘Mr Cooper, if you will take Mistress Rymple back to the anteroom, I believe we have one more candidate to see.’

‘She has not arrived, master. The choice is between Mistress Rymple here and young Miss Cawston, whom you have already met.’

‘Well, offer them both ale and I will make my decision presently.’

Boltfoot gave a perfunctory bow of the head and retreated with Annis Rymple.

Shakespeare watched them go. It seemed clear to him that the older woman must be the correct choice. The other one had no experience of service and he did not have the time or patience to indulge her fumbling efforts to run this household, modest though it was. He rose and walked across to the latticed window that looked out onto the sun-drenched yard. It was unkempt and unused. There should be chickens clucking there and, yes, a pig or two. He needed a mature, proficient woman. Mistress Rymple would do well enough.

He turned at the creak of the door. Boltfoot had returned.

‘Master . . .’

‘Tell Annis Rymple the job is hers if she can start without delay. Send the other one, the girl, away with a shilling for her trouble.’

‘Yes, master.’

It occurred to Shakespeare that Boltfoot seemed disappointed. Well, that was not his concern. ‘Go to it, Boltfoot.’

‘Master, you have another visitor. A fine-dressed gentleman, by name of Severin Tort.’

Shakespeare frowned. He knew the name, of course. Severin Tort was a lawyer renowned for his unparalleled knowledge of the laws governing contracts and covenants between merchants. It was said he would have been made a judge by now were it not for his quiet insistence on clinging to the old faith.

‘Well, bring him through, fetch brandy – and then deal with the maids.’

Severin Tort was lean and short with a lawyer’s clever eyes. Too clever to trust, perhaps. He wore black, broken only by the white lawn ruffs at his throat and cuffs and the silver sheen of his hair. He had a strangely modest and restrained air about him for one accustomed to arguing cases against the most learned men in the realm.

Shakespeare proffered his hand in greeting. ‘Mr Tort, it is a pleasure to welcome you to my home. Naturally, I have heard of you.’

‘Indeed, and I have heard much of you, Mr Shakespeare. I know you were a Gray’s Inn man, which is my own alma mater. I must thank you for receiving me unannounced.’

‘Will you sit down? Mr Cooper will bring us brandy presently.’

Tort took a chair halfway down the long table. He sat neatly, his hands loosely clasped on the tabletop. ‘You will be wondering why I am here, but before I reveal anything I must tell you that it is a confidential matter. I would ask that you say nothing outside these walls.’

‘Mr Tort, that will depend on what you say. I cannot give you such a pledge without knowing more.’

Boltfoot brought in a tray with a flask of brandy and two glass goblets. Shakespeare nodded to him to leave and indicated that he should close the door after him. He poured a brandy for his guest and one for himself.

‘What if I were to tell you that it concerns Katherine Giltspur?’

Shakespeare frowned. The name meant nothing to him.

‘You probably know her better as Katherine Whetstone.’

The name hung there. It sucked the air from Shakespeare’s body. Had he heard correctly?

Tort repeated the name. ‘Katherine Whetstone. You do know her, I think?’

Know her? He knew the name as well as his own. Kat Whetstone. He had loved her. They had been lovers for over two years. ‘Yes, I know her –
knew
her,’ he said.