John Shakespeare 07 - Holy Spy Read online

  Also by Rory Clements

  Martyr

  Revenger

  Prince

  Traitor

  The Heretics

  The Queen’s Man

  Holy Spy

  Rory Clements

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Rory Clements 2015

  The right of Rory Clements to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Maps drawn by Rodney Paull

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication other than the obvious historical

  figures are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or

  dead, is purely coincidental

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 848 54851 0

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For Jack, Max, Imogen and Phoebe with love

  Contents

  Map of England and France

  Map of Elizabethan London

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Acknowledgements

  Historical Notes

  Chapter 1

  Rheims, France, 1585

  Goodfellow Savage stood before the cross with his head bowed, his long, military beard flat against his chest. Once spoken, these words could never be undone. A vow made before God could not be broken.

  The air was heavy with the fragrance of incense. In the north transept of this magnificent cathedral, at the heart of the city, a young priest swung a thurible, his black-robed figure throwing shadows from the flickering glow of a dozen candles that decorated a nearby table.

  Goodfellow inhaled the holy smoke deeply through his long, hooked nose. He had been over the matter of the vow a hundred times or more. He had lain long nights without sleep in his narrow seminary cot debating whether assassination – killing in cold blood rather than in the heat of battle – could truly be lawful in the eyes of God. His mind said yes; his heart was not so easily won over. But in the end . . . well, here he was.

  One of his companions, a young man with pudgy pink hands, clasped his shoulder. ‘Say the words, Goodfellow. Say them.’

  Savage nodded, then took a deep breath. ‘In the sight of these witnesses, I swear by Almighty God that I shall not rest until I have slain the usurper Elizabeth Tudor, eternal enemy of the Holy Roman Church. I crave the benediction of the Church and the Lord’s blessing on this my poor sword and on this my solemn undertaking.’

  The words seemed to ring out so that the whole world must have heard them, but in truth they were little more than a whisper. Had he truly made the vow? He leant forward and placed the sword on the flagstones before him.

  ‘And so I give up my soul, wretched sinner that I am, to His mercy, in the certain knowledge that my own life is now forfeit.’ Yes, he knew that well enough. No man could kill the Queen of England and escape with his life. His own death would follow as sure as the sun follows the rain.

  He fell forward, prostrating himself, his arms outstretched so that his fingertips touched the honed blade. Somewhere in the distance, a bell clanged, summoning the young seminary men to their studies. Savage scarcely heard it. He was alone with Christ.

  In the pleasant garden of a small auberge, not a furlong from Notre-Dame de Rheims, John Shakespeare lay back and rested against the trunk of a sycamore tree, enjoying its cool shade. The air was hot and still; no one but a fool or an indentured man would venture into the sun on such a day. He heard a whistle and opened his eyes. Across the way, he spotted the boyish figure of Gilbert Gifford in his priestly robes.

  Shakespeare raised one finger, then closed his eyes again. Five minutes later he stretched his arms and yawned. He picked up his book and cup of wine, rose lazily to his feet and sauntered back towards his room in the inn, where he went to his chamber and shut the door behind him.

  Ten minutes later there were three raps at the door. Shakespeare opened it and admitted Gifford, glancing around to ensure they were not observed.

  ‘Well, Mr Gifford?’

  ‘He has vowed to kill Her Majesty.’ His voice was a whisper.

  ‘Do you believe he will truly attempt it?’

  ‘It is a vow made before God, not a promise to man. A vow is immutable. Once made, it must be fulfilled. He knows this and understands it. This is why he took so long to come to his decision. He is a soldier and has a soldier’s honour. I believe he would rather slit his own throat than repudiate this vow. He plans to return to England before autumn.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘That is up to you and Mr Secretary. Seize him on arrival at Rye or Dover if you wish, and I will testify against him. Or you can watch him and wait. I rather thought that was Walsingham’s plan.’

  Shakespeare did not reply. It was not his place to disclose Sir Francis Walsingham’s plans to any man, least of all to Gilbert Gifford. He looked at his angelic, smooth and beardless young face with a curious mixture of admiration and distaste and wondered, not for the first time, whose side he was really on. A man who did not know the truth about him might be taken in by his deacon’s robes, but Shakespeare knew better.

  ‘Or if you wish, we could merely put an end to him here. A bullet to the head, a blade to the throat . . .’

  Shakespeare ignored the suggestion. ‘How does he expect to carry out this mission?’

  ‘That is for you to discover.’

  ‘What do you know about John Savage, Mr Gifford?’

  ‘Lower your voice if you would, Mr Shakespeare. We are not the only spies in Rheims.’

  Shakespeare stifled his irritation, smiled and waited.

  ‘I know little more than I have told you,’ Gifford said at last. ‘Men call him Goodfellow for his sweetness of nature, which you might t
hink sits uneasily with his present intent and his known ferocity on the field of battle. He is tall – so tall that his feet extend a foot beyond his cot. Taller even than you, Mr Shakespeare, and muscled like a fighting dog. He is a soldier and poet who has fought with Parma against the Dutch rebels. And yet he is also full of charm and wit; no man could meet him in a tavern and not wish to buy him a gage of ale. He has no money but much good cheer.’

  ‘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.’