Rory Clements - Holy Spy

– but murder? ‘Mr Tort, what is your connection to the case?’

‘Though I am not versed in criminal law, she is my client, as was Nick. He would have expected no less of me than to help her. As to her whereabouts, it is possible I might have a way to get word to her. But before I say more, I must repeat my request: that this conversation is confidential and will not be repeated outside these walls.’

‘Very well, but speak.’ ‘I will take that as a pledge. Kat says I can trust you. I pray it is so, for yes, I can take you to her.’

Shakespeare stiffened. Assisting a murderer to evade justice was in itself a capital offence. ‘I am a very busy man,’ he said. He was Walsingham’s man night and day. There would be no respite in the days ahead now that Goodfellow Savage was in the country plotting to fulfil his treacherous vow. But he could not say no to Kat Whetstone. An image of her lying across his bed came to him. The early-morning light slipping in through the shutters and lighting her generous breasts. She was snoring softly, her lips parted to reveal the gap in her teeth. The memory stirred him and haunted him in equal measure.

Tort seemed to take his acquiescence as read. ‘But you will go to her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let us meet on the morrow. I will come for you and we will ride together. But first you might try to talk to the killer, Cane. He awaits death in Newgate. I believe his execution is to be at Smithfield, and soon. Perhaps you could persuade him to tell the truth. At least you might be able to form some judgement of him and try to discern the reason behind his foul lie.’

‘Have you spoken to him?’

‘I went to him, but he would not utter a word, nor even raise his eyes to meet mine. He remained slumped in his chains, unmoving. And so I left him to his fate.’

Shakespeare studied Tort, uncertain of him. ‘You believe her to be innocent?’

‘ Believe is a strong word. Let us say I hope she is not guilty. I confess the evidence stands against her.’ He thought about what he had said, then shook his head. ‘No, I cannot believe her guilty.’

‘I will go to the condemned man directly. As for meeting Kat, how far is she from here?’

‘Fifteen minutes’ ride, no more.’

‘Should we not go this evening?’

‘It is impossible. It must be tomorrow.’

‘Come to me at midday. I have a meeting in the morning, one that I cannot miss.’

Tort rose from the bench. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘You still have not fully explained what she is to you, Mr Tort.’

‘As I said, she is my client.’

Shakespeare took his hand again, wondering just how much this attorney-at-law was holding back. He was certainly concealing a great deal more than he revealed.

‘And I beg you, be circumspect, Mr Shakespeare, for she is being hunted most strenuously. And Justice Young is leading the pack.’

The Newgate keeper shook his grizzled head. ‘You’re too late, master. He’s gone to Smithfield to dance his jig.’

‘How long?’

‘Half an hour since.’

Shakespeare uttered a curse and ran to his horse. Within moments he was remounted and kicking the beast into a sharp canter northwards along the narrow confines and low overhangs towards Pie Corner. Within two minutes, he burst into the six-acre plain that made up Smithfield, a dusty expanse where men sometimes came for livestock dealing and flesh trading and at other times for the Bartholomew Fair. Today it served another purpose: a place of execution.

He urged on the animal past the ancient buildings of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Ahead of him a crowd packed the centre of the open land. Traders had set up stalls to sell cakes and ale and hot mead. Some executions brought out the dark humour in onlookers, but this day there was nothing but anger.

All eyes were on the black wooden scaffold, where a figure suspended from a length of rope jerked and struggled in its ugly death throes. The crowd was agitated, shouting and waving their fists, wanting him to suffer. Shakespeare drove his bay stallion onwards, pushing aside men, women and children. People uttered oaths and spat at him as he passed.

He slid from the horse and handed the reins to a bewildered onlooker. Shakespeare was aware that the eyes of the hangman, his assistant, the priest and the law officers were all on him.

The condemned man had ceased his dance. He hung limp, his bound body swaying in the summer breeze, but the noise of the crowd showed no sign of abating. The murderer’s death was not enough; they wanted yet more vengeance, more pain. The officers braced their halberds and pikes menacingly to deter the throng from surging forward: the ugly mood had been anticipated. Shakespeare strode up onto the platform.

‘Is he dead?’ he demanded of the hangman.

‘Aye, dead enough, but we’ll leave him hanging an hour.’

‘It was Will Cane, the murderer?’

‘Yes, master. If you have brought a reprieve, you are too late. And I thank the Lord for it, for this lot – ’ he nodded towards the crowd – ‘would have ripped him apart rather than see him pardoned.’

‘No, no reprieve. I wanted to talk with him before he died.’

‘Then you have had a wasted journey. Who are you?’

‘John Shakespeare. I am an assistant secretary in the office of Sir Francis Walsingham.’

‘What would Mr Secretary want of a common felon like Will Cane?’

‘Did he say anything – make any confession?’

The hangman laughed. ‘He did.’ He nodded towards the clergyman, who stood clasping a Bible at the edge of the scaffold. ‘Ask his confessor or any member of this crowd.’

‘I’ll ask you , hangman. What did he say?’

‘Told it all, about the lewd wife. Couldn’t stop him. Spoke so much he had a coughing fit, and so I cured his cough for ever. And you may now call me Good Doctor Hangman, if it please you.’ He laughed aloud at his own jest, and his sly assistant grinned like a fox.

Shakespeare turned away, revolted, and directed his attention to the cleric.

The well-fed vicar, who wore a black cassock and a black cap on his head, met Shakespeare’s eye.

‘Well? What is your version, reverend sir?’

‘He said he was a poor sinner and commended his soul to God, desiring that he might be forgiven his transgressions, a thing I consider highly unlikely given the monstrous nature of his crime.’

‘Is that all?’

‘By no means.’ The vicar raised his voice and indicated to the assembled onlookers, who roared and brandished fists. ‘As these good folk will all testify, he said he wished to go to his death with no lie on his lips and so he repeated the assertions made in court, that he was a hired killer, and that he had been offered a hundred pounds for the murder. Mr Cane was a wicked, wretched man, but at least in his final moments on earth he named the confederate in the heinous crime. Her turn here will come soon enough.’

‘Whom did he name?’

‘Why, the widow, Katherine Giltspur.’

At the name the crowd howled their loathing. This was a crime that struck at the very heart of all they understood and held dear: a wife murdering a husband. This was a knife to the sanctity of the family and the hearth, God-given things not to be besmirched.

‘You see, sir,’ the cleric continued. ‘The whole of London knows her to be a black-hearted whore, lower than the snakes of the field, more cruel than the scavenger birds of the air. There can be no more unnatural crime before God or man than the killing of a husband by the woman pledged to give him succour.’

Shakespeare looked down at the baying crowd. Half had their eyes fixed on the hanged felon and the other half were watching him, wondering, perhaps, which way to turn their ire. He cursed; a dying man’s confession was sacrosanct. No one would doubt it. Innocent or guilty, Kat’s cause was hopeless.