Rory Clements - Holy Spy

William Fleetwood, Serjeant-at-Law and Recorder of London, was still in a deep sleep when his four visitors arrived. With age, he found it ever harder to shift his grey head from his soft feather bed in the morning and today was no different.

As they waited at the door, Shakespeare could not take his eyes off the sky. It seemed that any moment dawn would break upon them and it would all be over. He knew the way things worked at Newgate; Kat and Sorbus would have eaten their final meal if they had the stomach for it, and would now be bound, standing in the courtyard ready to mount the cart that would haul them to the scaffold.

Here, at the door to the house, Sir Robert Huckerbee, gagged and with hands bound behind his back, stood beside him. Then came Abigail Colton, also bound and gagged. Behind them was Boltfoot, his caliver covering them in case they tried to run.

The maidservant returned to the front door. ‘Forgive me, master, we are having difficulty rousing Mr Fleetwood this morning.’

‘We’re coming in.’ He nodded to Boltfoot. ‘Take them to the parlour and remove their gags but not their bindings. I will go to Fleetwood.’

He pushed past the flustered maidservant who tried in vain to bar his way into the hall. ‘Where is his chamber?’

‘Please, master, Mr Fleetwood will brook no disturbance. I will lose my position if I allow you-’

Shakespeare was already moving away. He could hear snoring. Thunderous snoring . Like a hog in a storm. Without hesitation he ascended the wooden stairway and pushed open the chamber door. Fleetwood was lying on his back, his head and the top half of his face swathed in a linen nightcap. His mouth was open and his body rose and roared with a great drawing-in of breath. Shakespeare clapped his hands, then leant across the bed and shook the judge by both his shoulders. ‘Wake up, sir, wake up. I must talk with you.’

Fleetwood sat upright, scrabbling with his hand to remove the nightcap from his eyes. His mouth, which had closed, fell open again. ‘Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Your honour, Mr Fleetwood, I beg your forgiveness for this intrusion, but I crave a most urgent favour of you: an immediate stay of execution for Katherine Giltspur and Abraham Sorbus. They are due to die within minutes.’

The old judge shook his head so violently that his nightcap fell off. ‘Impossible. They are guilty. The maid’s evidence was conclusive.’

Shakespeare pulled a sheet of paper from his doublet. ‘I can prove otherwise. I entreat you, sir, read this: there is no time to lose.’

‘Find my spectacles. Where are they? I cannot read a word without them.’

‘I have them here, master.’ The maidservant had followed Shakespeare to the chamber and now held out the round-framed glasses to Fleetwood. ‘They are cleaned and polished, sir.’

Fleetwood pushed the spectacles onto his nose, then flattened the paper and moved his nose to within four inches of it. His head moved from side to side quickly as he scanned the words.

I Robert Huckerbee, knight, do hereby testify that I have information pertaining to the murder of Nicholas Giltspur, gentleman, lately killed by stabbing in Thames Street. It is my certain knowledge that the crime was committed by one Wm Cane at the behest of Arthur Giltspur, gentleman, and that no blame can be attached to the deceased’s widow, Katherine Giltspur, nor his steward, Mr Abraham Sorbus. The aforesaid written this day with my right hand, my left upon the Holy Bible.

It was dated and signed. The hand was scratchy and unsteady and there were several blottings. ‘Where is Huckerbee now?’ ‘In your parlour.’

Fleetwood rose from his bed, assisted by Shakespeare with a hand beneath his elbow. ‘My quill and ink,’ he barked at the maidservant. ‘Quickly, girl, quickly. Have them ready in the parlour. And my seal and wax.’ He turned to Shakespeare. ‘First, I will talk with Sir Robert. Take me to him.’

‘Remove his bindings, Mr Shakespeare. And Mistress Colton’s. This is most irregular.’ He sighed. You make a sorry sight, Sir Robert.’

‘Indeed, your honour, but it is none of my doing. I beg you take no notice of that paper in your hand. It was written under duress, at the point of this brute’s gun.’ He thrust out his chin at Boltfoot and creased his mouth as though indicating something putrid and pleasant.

Neither Shakespeare nor Boltfoot made any move to remove the prisoners’ bindings.

‘With your hand on the Holy Book?’ Fleetwood peered above his spectacles at Huckerbee.

‘No, sir, I would not write lies with my hand on the Bible. I wrote that because I was ordered to and would have had my head blown off had I not. This man Shakespeare and his assistant are felons. They should be removed to Newgate forthwith.’

Shakespeare clenched his hands into fists. ‘You have seen the paper, Mr Fleetwood. I entreat you – on bended knee if you wish – to sign the stay of execution. If later you have doubts, then it can all be argued before you in your court of law and you can reverse your decision. But for the present, two innocent lives are at stake. If you do not sign the stay now, then your decision is irrevocable.’

Huckerbee gave the judge an unctuous smile. ‘Mr Fleetwood, you and I are men of standing. Surely you would not take the word of this common felon above mine. He is the lowest of the low in the service of Mr Secretary.’

Fleetwood did not reply. Instead he turned his gaze to Abigail Colton. ‘And you, mistress, what do you have to say?’

‘They are liars.’ Her countenance, which Shakespeare had once thought comely, was set hard and hostile. She turned her head to one side, refusing to meet the judge’s eyes.

‘You were most convincing in the courtroom, Mistress Colton.’

‘Because I was telling the truth.’

‘Did she tell you that she is the paramour of this man Huckerbee, who is himself engaged in a criminal enterprise with Arthur Giltspur – the man who will inherit his family’s fortunes now that his uncle is dead and the widow is to hang?’ The words ran from Shakespeare’s mouth like quicksilver; there was no time for subtle dealing. ‘Tell me, Abigail, did your other lover, William Cane, know that you were bedding this man?’

She jerked her face towards him, hatred in her blazing eyes. ‘Will Cane? I cared not a jot for him . . .’ She stopped, realising she had already said too much. Simply admitting the thing she had denied in court, that she knew Cane, was enough.

Without another word, Fleetwood sat down at the table, his ears deaf to the protestations of Huckerbee and the sobs and howls of Abigail, and scrawled out two notes – one addressed to the keeper of Newgate, the other to the officer in charge of the execution. He then sealed them and handed them to Shakespeare.

‘Thank you, Mr Fleetwood.’

‘Go. And I will keep these two here under my servants’ watchful eyes. God speed, Mr Shakespeare. I fear the sun is up.’

The crowd was dense. They had come out in their thousands, relishing the prospect of the hanging of the dirty, murderous Giltspur witch and her sordid partner in lust and crime. They had heard she was beautiful and they wanted to see her face. How could a face be both beautiful and evil? Was that the likeness of a succubus?

The execution was to be a grand affair. It would all be the most delightful appetiser for the greater spectacle that was to come: the godly butchery of the plotters who planned to kill the Queen and throw open the ports of England to Spanish men-at-arms.

Shakespeare and Boltfoot had remarkable difficulty driving their horses through the thronged streets. Every street for a quarter-mile was blocked by the press of people and the stalls selling ale and cake, the jugglers, the broadsheet sellers, the cutpurses and minstrels.