Holy Spy (42 page)

‘Well, as you say, it is indeed a puzzle. Grandame and I would be most grateful if you could solve it. The Giltspurs are a wealthy family, but that will not last long if our gold and silver disappears in such quantities. Did she tell you, too, that the Giltspur Diamond is missing?’

The small hairs on the back of Shakespeare’s neck stood up. ‘No. She refused to even discuss the jewel.’

Arthur Giltspur all but laughed. ‘I think she is ashamed as much as she is distressed at its loss.’

‘Ashamed?’

‘Such a valuable piece. One hundred carats. It is the size of a small egg. I had always thought she kept it separate from the other treasures. Now I am not so sure. She is extremely secretive about such matters.’

Shakespeare tried to make sense of this news. Why would the old woman call him in to investigate the disappearance of the gold and silver but not mention the Giltspur Diamond?

‘I believe Grandame has promised to reward you handsomely if you can bring the culprit to the noose.’

Shakespeare met Giltspur’s eyes. ‘I think you must know that money is not the reason I have agreed to help with the inquiry, sir.’ Shakespeare finished his beer and stood.

‘Off so soon, Mr Shakespeare? Perhaps I could teach you some strokes.’

‘Your sporting prowess is remarkable. I can imagine you must be an exceedingly fast runner.’

‘I suppose I am. Yes, I skip about the tennis court quickly enough. But what a strange thing to say, Mr Shakespeare.’

Shakespeare smiled again and handed his empty blackjack to a passing footman. ‘Think nothing of it, Mr Giltspur. My mind sometimes travels in curious directions, that is all. One more thing: did Sir Robert perhaps mention the Smith sisters?’

Giltspur frowned in curious bewilderment. ‘Smith sisters? What are they?’

‘Whores, Mr Giltspur.’

‘Well, well, the Smith sisters, eh? Has Robert been up to some mischief ? I shall make a fine jest of it at his expense.’

‘Indeed.’ Shakespeare nodded his farewell and began to walk away. He could not get the picture of Huckerbee and Giltspur out of his mind. Somehow seeing them here in the different context of court, with thoughts of gold in his head, changed everything.

Shakespeare found Goodfellow Savage in the King’s Head, by St Giles in the Fields. He was drinking with Dominic de Warre, at the younger man’s expense. De Warre looked at Shakespeare through bleary eyes and offered no word of welcome, merely continued to sup unsteadily.

‘We are all to meet at the Three Tuns in Newgate Street,’ Savage said when Shakespeare had ordered himself wine. ‘Will you come with us, John?’

‘I will.’

Dominic de Warre grunted and announced to no one in particular that he needed a piss. With glazed eye and teetering step, he stumbled outside into the night.

‘He is as drunk as a seasick dog.’

‘Don’t blame me, John. He has been boozing all day. He called on me this evening and begged me to go out with him. I only agreed to accompany him so that I might keep an eye on him, for I feared he would be easy meat for footpads.’

‘But why do you have anything to do with him? If you need a few shillings, I can help you.’ He poured a few coins from his purse into his left hand and held them out to Savage. ‘Here, take this.’

‘I have no way of repaying you, nor any prospect of ever being able to do so.’

‘It would please me, Goodfellow. Take it.’

Savage hesitated, then nodded. ‘Thank you, John. You are a good friend.’ He looked at the coins and counted them out. Two pounds and an angel. ‘This is too much.’

‘No, it is not, and nor am I a good friend. I wish to God that you had never entrusted your secrets to me. If you want to repay me the loan, keep young Dominic de Warre away from Babington.
We
all know the dangers, but to him it is a fine game. He should be at his studies, not talking sedition.’

‘Then let us convey him back to Barnard’s Inn and put him to bed. He will sleep like a babe while we head for the Three Tuns. I am told that Anthony has tidings of great moment to impart to us.’

De Warre came back into the taproom and stood in front of Shakespeare, his face so close that Shakespeare could smell his beer-drenched breath.

‘You are Walsingham’s man. You work for the tyrant.’

Shakespeare stood back and threw a look at Savage. ‘I think it is time to go.’

‘Mr Shakespeare is one of us, Dominic.’ Savage’s voice was quiet. ‘You would do well to listen to him.’

‘You look a good man, Mr Shakespeare. Are you a good man, or are you a tool of the tyranny? Do you stretch men on the rack and press women to death for the crime of being a Catholic?’

‘You are drunk, Mr de Warre.’

‘And so I speak false because I have taken beer?’

‘This is a public place. Walsingham’s spies are everywhere.’

‘One day, Mr Shakespeare, men and women will worship free in this land. All will be as one. And none shall have their bellies ripped open to spill their bowels for their faith. Would you say that were a good world to hope for?’

Shakespeare did not reply.

‘I drink to the Pope and the death of tyrants.’ De Warre said the words without lowering his voice. Though his speech was slurred, the words were all too easily heard. Two men drinking nearby turned and looked upon him as though he were mad.

Savage was behind de Warre. He had his upper arms in an iron grip and was pulling the young man towards the door.

‘All tyrants,’ Dominic bellowed. ‘Topcliffe, Torquemada, Protestant and Catholic. I curse the torturers—’

But before he could say any more, he was out in the street and Shakespeare was wrapping a kerchief about his mouth to shut him up.

They left a subdued de Warre at his lodgings in Barnard’s. He stood unsteadily, glaring through half-closed eyes. ‘I am coming with you, Goodfellow,’ he said.

‘No, Dominic, you are cup-shotten. Bed is the place for you. I think you will need a seven-night to sleep it off.’

The youth stood in the doorway to his small chamber, gazing blankly at Shakespeare and Savage as they took their leave.

‘He is confused,’ Savage said after the door was closed.

‘Is he, Goodfellow?’ It seemed to Shakespeare that Dominic de Warre had spoken much sense for one so young and intoxicated. He, too, loathed the torturers, be they Catholic or Protestant. He despised Richard Topcliffe, chief torturer and persecutor of priests, and he was certain he would have felt the same way about Tomás de Torquemada, the founding Grand Inquisitor and the cause of so much death and misery in Spain and beyond.

Perhaps there was more to Dominic de Warre than met the eye. His idealistic fervour reminded Shakespeare of himself at that same age, though a great deal less restrained.

They walked slowly westwards in the direction of Newgate Street. Gusts of wind blew dust and debris into the air. Shakespeare felt uneasy; high winds were harbingers of change and they unsettled him. As they came to Holborn Bridge, a band of horsemen came towards them at a hard trot. Savage and Shakespeare both saw what they were: pursuivants, all dressed in black leather quilted doublets. There was no room for pedestrians on the bridge while the horses were coming, but instead of making way, Savage deliberately placed himself in the centre of the bridge, as though a man alone could bar the way of a dozen steeds. Shakespeare tried to drag him away, but Savage shook him off.

The horses came to a halt. Shakespeare noted with revulsion that four people – two women, a girl and a boy of about twelve, all bound by the wrists – were being dragged behind the rear horses. They were probably being taken to the Fleet prison or Bridewell. Their crime? Most likely the sin of having a priest in the house or being in possession of forbidden Catholic books.

Shakespeare whispered urgently in his companion’s ear. ‘Don’t do this, Goodfellow. Don’t draw attention to yourself.’

‘They are the devil’s riders. I’ll take them on. One at a time or all at once.’

‘You will be of no use to anyone if you are trampled underfoot. We can do nothing here. Come, Goodfellow, our feasting awaits us. Let us hear what Mr Babington has to say.’

‘First these.’

The lead rider walked his horse forward. He was a man in his sixties with no cap, his white hair hung about his ears. Shakespeare recognised him instantly as Richard Topcliffe, and shuddered with loathing. Their paths had crossed before, and no good had come of it.

The rider looked down with disdain at the two men blocking his men’s way. ‘What is this? Do you wish us to beat you from our path?’ He raised his crop and was about to crack Savage about the head when he noticed Shakespeare and his hand faltered.

‘Satan’s turd, it is Shakespeare . . .’

‘We are going about our business, Topcliffe. My friend has had a drink or two. I will move him from your path.’ He wrenched at Savage’s arm and growled, ‘Come away, Goodfellow. I know this man. He will kill you if you cross him.’

Savage did not seem at all perturbed. He narrowed his eyes as though to imprint a portrait of the infamous pursuivant into his brain. ‘So
you
are Topcliffe,’ he said, not moving an inch. ‘The man who torments women and children. And I see you are such a brave man that you have friends to help you.’ He raised his fists like a pugilist. ‘Dismount and try me man-to-man. If you dare.’

Topcliffe glared at Savage with such seething hatred that Shakespeare feared he would draw his sword and cut him to death there and then, but something held him back. He raised his hand to signal his men to move forward, then leant low in the saddle and spat words into Shakespeare’s ear. ‘Take this man in hand, Shakespeare for if I see him again, I swear I will do for him.’

He shook the reins and urged his horse forward, brushing past Savage and knocking him away. The other pursuivants followed, finding a path through the two men. And then they were past. Topcliffe kicked on into a trot, and the others followed suit, making their captives stumble and run just to keep up. They disappeared into a cloud of dust.

‘The devil damn you, John. Do you not know about that man? Did you not see those poor women and children he held? I wanted to kill him.’

‘I know him better than you, Goodfellow, and I despise him as much. But there were a dozen of them. You would have died

– and your vow to God would have died with you.’

Savage would never know it, but Shakespeare was certain that the only thing that had saved his life was his own presence there. Walsingham’s command that the Pope’s White Sons were to be allowed to go unmolested must have been forcefully made. Even Topcliffe had noted it.

‘Perhaps it would have been better that way,’ Savage said. ‘If I had but killed Topcliffe, my own death would have at least served some purpose. Death has never held terrors for me, John. It would have been an end to all my troubles.’

Shakespeare gripped his friend by the arm. ‘You have said enough.’ In the pit of his stomach, he felt sick with apprehension. Darkness was enveloping his world. A great deal of blood would spill forth before the light of hope returned.

Chapter 36

Salisbury and Abingdon were at the door to the upper room at the tavern in Newgate. They looked at Shakespeare and Savage with cold eyes. ‘Come in,’ Salisbury said, pulling Savage by the sleeve and dragging him through into the noisy interior.

Shakespeare attempted to follow him but Salisbury held up the flat of his hand against his chest. ‘Not you.’

‘Mr Salisbury, what is this?’ Through the door he could see a crowd of perhaps twenty young men. Robin Poley was there, laughing at some jest made by Babington and touching his arm with affection. Ballard was there, too, dressed in all his soldierly finery, in the guise of Captain Fortescue. Tichbourne, Tilney, Dunn, Gage, Charnock, Edward Windsor, Travers and others that Shakespeare could not put a name to. And then he spotted Dominic de Warre. How had he found his way here? He must have run along side alleys. He should be in bed asleep.

‘You are not wanted,’ Salisbury told Shakespeare, his face as hard as his words.

He tried to catch sight of Savage in the throng, but he had already disappeared into the crowd of young men. Had he seen him being barred?