Rory Clements - Holy Spy

No one was better than Jonas Shoe at watching and waiting. He had been in the woods near Uxendon Hall for five days, observing the comings and goings of the household. And now it had paid off. He allowed himself a smile. A young man poorly disguised as a farmworker, with neither the strength of arm nor the gait of a labourer, had appeared at the back door to the old manor house. Now, an hour later, he had emerged and this time he had two of the young men of the house with him.

It was the easiest thing in the world to follow them, for it did not even seem to occur to them that they were being watched. So here they were at last, walking into the barn. Shoe moved closer and listened. Yes, there were other voices there. With the newcomers, he was certain there were at least six. He had found his quarry. All that remained now was to fetch the pursuivants.

Shoe slipped away into the woods and headed for the eastern highway.

The dark, brooding face of Sir Francis Walsingham peered closely into Shakespeare’s eyes. ‘Are you well again, John?’ ‘Well enough, Sir Francis.’

‘Your wounds are healed?’

‘I fear it will be some little time before my ribs are fully knitted together. Three of them were broken, as was my collarbone. I keep my chest braced with tight bandages, like a child in swaddling bands.’

‘And your head?’

‘The fall rendered me unconscious for a minute or two, but there seems to be no further complication, God be thanked.’ The physician had said he was fortunate to be alive, that the skull had broken behind the temple when he bounced off the sharp edge of the scaffold onto the hard ground. The blow would have killed many another man. But that was not to be dwelt on; not here, not now. He had already spent too many days and nights recuperating.

‘Good.’ Walsingham limped away from the object of his concerned inquiries and sat in a straight-backed chair at the end of the table. ‘And it is most gracious of you to make the journey here, for I am ailed by another damnable furuncle, and the gout never leaves me. Which is why I cannot travel to London.’

‘The trip upriver was a pleasant change from my own sickbed.’ Shakespeare smiled at the Principal Secretary, not believing for a moment that he was prevented from travelling to London by a common boil and his new-discovered gout; this was a political absence. He did not wish to be anywhere near the courts of law lest his own part in the Babington affair be suspected.

‘You will doubtless have heard of the arrest of Babington and others,’ the Principal Secretary continued, as though reading his intelligencer’s mind.

He nodded. Yes, he had heard the story of Babington’s arrest from Mills who called on him as soon the news came. ‘It was my man Shoe as found them,’ Mills had said with an unpleasant laugh, his pride all too evident. ‘A poacher of men, my Mr Shoe. They had walnut juice on their faces to look like ploughmen!’

Shakespeare had heard, too, of the arrest of the Queen of Scots, though no one seemed clear what would become of her.

And then came the trials of the Pope’s White Sons. The verdicts were a foregone conclusion and their executions were imminent. The streets were once again filled with Londoners rejoicing, lighting their bonfires, burning their effigies, drinking themselves insensible.

He put the thought aside. The prospect of all the blood and pain that had already been suffered in the torture chamber and the yet more gruesome spectacle to come seemed mercifully distant in the quiet of Walsingham’s dim office at Barn Elms. It had been good to leave London; the celebrations in the streets were hard to endure. The river journey had been a pleasant contrast, reclining in the back of a tilt-boat enjoying the late summer sun and the warm breeze.

A serving man entered and placed a tray with two silver goblets and a flask of French brandy at his master’s side, then bowed quickly and departed.

‘The events at Thames Street are a great sadness,’ Walsingham said, his sincerity evident. ‘It is tragical that they could not both be saved.’

Shakespeare said nothing. He did not know what to say. The word tragical hardly did justice to the terrible outcome of that grim morning when Kat and Sorbus swung from the gibbet.

‘I do believe the angels weep each time an innocent dies, especially in such circumstances,’ Walsingham continued.

‘Perhaps the punishment is at fault,’ Shakespeare said. ‘If a penalty cannot be undone when a verdict is reversed . . .’

Walsingham shook his head slowly. ‘I hear you well, John, but I cannot agree with you. What is the alternative to hanging? A sentence of life imprisonment? I do believe God would rage at such cruel treatment. Would you wish to sit in a cage for years without end? I would not treat a mad dog so. Death is quick. And if an error has been made, we can at least comfort ourselves with the certainty that the soul will fly straight to God’s bosom.’

Shakespeare wished he were convinced, but there was no more to say on the subject. What was done was done and the penalty for murder would never change. For the present, he was more concerned about the fate of Huckerbee and Abigail, and mentioned their names to Walsingham. ‘My man Boltfoot Cooper tells me they have both been freed. How can this be so?’

‘Ah, yes, Sir Robert Huckerbee. A corrupt and rotten man. He has been relieved of all his duties in the office of my lord Burghley and will retire to his country estate. He will also pay the crown ten thousand pounds in gold, in lieu of sums which he is believed to have embezzled.’

‘And no punishment other than that? He may lay the blame for Nick Giltspur’s death at the door of his confederate Arthur Giltspur, but I am not convinced. I believe they plotted the murder together, and Abigail found a killer for them. Cane was besotted by her and she made him believe the child was his . . .’

‘Perhaps it is, John.’

‘Yes, perhaps. I am told she still won’t say. Maybe she doesn’t know.’

‘Anyway, there is no proof of murder against them. The black books reveal a crime – but not who committed it. For all we can tell, poor Nick Giltspur embezzled the money and adjusted the entries himself. We have nothing that would satisfy a jury.’

‘But there is proof that Huckerbee stole from the monies he was supposed to convey to the Treasury. His own written confession. A repayment of ten thousand pounds? He may have taken twice that sum, or more.’

Walsingham handed Shakespeare his goblet of brandy. ‘John, drink. Your soul is sore troubled by these events.’

‘Brandy will not ease it!’

‘Nor will it harm you. I beg you, try to understand. If I have chosen you right, then one day you will wield power in this land – and there will be times when you will have to put a peg to your nose and sup with the devil. The arrangement between Lord Burghley and Nick Giltspur could never be admitted openly. If Huckerbee was arraigned, he would reveal everything to judge, jury and the wider world. And then what? Imagine the reaction in the guilds; if the merchants discovered that Burghley had dealings with a man such as Ball and was levying such a tax on them, there would be uproar. I dread to think of the consequences.’

‘And so you buy his silence. He walks free while others die.’

Sudden anger flashed across Walsingham’s brow but then, instead of the expected storm breaking, he controlled his rage. ‘Yes, he walks free. It is as galling for me as it is for you. But I would just say this on his behalf. The whole scheme with Giltspur and Ball was always Huckerbee’s idea and was administered by him. Her Majesty keeps me woefully short of monies. Without the funds channelled to me, I would have been unable to do the secret work I do. I would never have been able to bring Mary Stuart to justice.’