Rory Clements - Holy Spy

‘I did not know who else to turn to. Without Oswald’s help I would be dead.’

‘Why do you not go home to Sheffield? Your father would keep you safe.’

For the first time, tears filled her eyes. ‘My father died last year. The inn has been sold. Anyway, I could not go to Sheffield. I am sure that word has already been sent there. And so, it is true, I do need Oswald – and I need you, too. Who else but you could inquire into this matter?’

‘What of Severin Tort? Is he also part of your collection?’

‘He was attorney to my husband in his commercial dealings. That is how I met him.’

‘And?’

‘And that is all. Severin is a good man, a widower. God knows he has problems enough with an ungrateful son who causes him endless misery. He needs no entanglement with me. John, I know I do not deserve the help of any of you, but what am I to do? I have no one else to turn to.’

Shakespeare stood up and paced over to the window. Outside in the rain-swept street horsemen and carters passed by, huddled against the weather. A pair of women hastened along westward. Were they wives or whores? What did such judgements matter? Kat was a creation of God as much as any saint. If He had made her thus, then it ill behoved mortal man to disparage her. It was only the one matter that should concern him; the question of murder. Did she or did she not pay for the death of Nicholas Giltspur?

‘Tell me what you know of the killler, Will Cane.’ As he spoke, he kept his gaze fixed on the street below.

‘I never even heard his name until I learnt from Mr Sorbus that he had been arrested for Nicholas’s murder and was claiming he had been hired by me.’

‘What have you heard of him since?’

‘No more than Oswald has heard from tittle-tattle in the playhouses. That and the broadsheet he brought me.’

He felt her arms snake about his waist, but still he did not turn away from the window. She nestled her head into his shoulder. Lightning flashed and lit the distinctive roundel of the Curtain playhouse. Shakespeare shivered.

‘Do you recall the night we huddled together against the storm in your bed at Seething Lane?’ she whispered.

How could he forget such a night? He said nothing. For a few moments he imbibed her warmth and scent, but then the thunder rumbled and he turned and moved away from her.

‘John?’ Her eyes showed hurt.

‘You do not need to do this. You have my attention. Do you have the broadsheet still? I would like to see it.’

‘I will fetch it for you.’ She disappeared.

What in God’s name was he doing here? He had a vital role in the biggest and most important enterprise that Walsingham’s intelligence service had ever undertaken and here he was expending energy on behalf of a former lover who should have been long forgotten. Not only that, but he was involved with two other men in actively concealing a murder suspect’s whereabouts from the sheriff and justice of the peace. They were all accomplices after the fact of murder: Shakespeare, Tort and Redd. They would all hang if their crime became known. He began walking towards the door just as she reappeared.

‘Kat, I must go. I cannot help you. I should never have come.’

She held out a single sheet of paper. ‘This is what is said about me.’

He took the broadsheet. It was a scrap, badly printed on poor quality paper, the sort of rough publication that was sold in the streets around St Paul’s whenever there was a big trial or execution or news of foreign battles. He read it quickly, guessing the words where a letter hadn’t been inked properly or was too worn to print.

Lamentable tragedy of Mr Nicholas Giltspur, Esquire, most wickedly murdered by his disloyal and wanton wife.

With the malice, deceit and unnatural lewdness of a hag, Katherine Giltspur, newly married to the most honourable and Christian gentleman Mr Giltspur, stands accused of bribing the known felon Wm. Cane to murder her husband most foully and cruelly, to satisfy her filthy avarice for gold and to leave her free to indulge her unbridled desire for carnal pleasures with other men.

The Recorder of London Mr William Fleetwood has sentenced the abhorrent Cane to be hanged by the neck until dead at Smithfield. A hue and cry for his accomplice continues, though it is feared she has travelled north to Yorkshire, whence she came. It is as though she has vanished into the air like a sprite . Any man or woman with knowledge of her whereabouts must reveal it or be themselves damned as accomplices to murder.

He put the paper aside. ‘Kat. You have no idea what manner of undertaking I am now involved in – a work that will involve me night and day for as long as I can plan. Give me one good reason to think I should divert myself, even for an hour, from my own endeavours.’

She tried to smile, but it didn’t work. She shook her head instead. ‘I can’t, John,’ she said. ‘I can’t give you any reason why you should believe me or help me.’

Shakespeare rode back to London with Severin Tort. The storm had passed, leaving a bright, breezy afternoon with white clouds and a new freshness in the air. The two men talked of Oswald Redd.

‘He seems to me a man capable of anything,’ Shakespeare said. ‘He is at the edge of some precipice, unsure whether to cling on or plummet. Could Redd have been involved in the killing?’

‘I could imagine him wishing Giltspur dead and even compassing the act in a jealous rage, but what could he have had to gain from the blame being laid at Kat’s door? All his actions prove that he is desperate to keep her safe, yet now she faces arrest and execution.’

The two men fell silent. At Bishopsgate, Tort spoke again.

‘Can you do nothing for her?’

‘I wish I could, Mr Tort. I would dearly love to believe that she was innocent.’

‘I believe her, Mr Shakespeare. For what it’s worth.’

‘Yes, I know you do.’ She could make any man want to believe her. He knew her too well to doubt that, and yet not well enough to be sure of her guilt or innocence.

As Tort disappeared into the throng of tradesmen and carters, Shakespeare pulled on his reins and headed up between the fine houses of Foster Lane until he reached the junction with Noble Street. He brought his mount to a halt in front of a magnificent building. It was largely new-built and stood four storeys high, of brick and wood with a tiled roof topped by a dozen ornate chimney stacks.

The Recorder of London, William Fleetwood, welcomed Shakespeare into his comfortable withdrawing room. Despite the difference in social standing and ages – Shakespeare was twenty-seven while Fleetwood was grey and well into creaking old age – they had forged a friendship based on a shared desire for justice, a disliking for flummery and a loathing of treason. More than anything, they enjoyed each other’s company.

‘Look at this, Mr Shakespeare,’ Fleetwood said, removing his spectacles and laying a paper before him. He signalled to one of his many servants who brought over a selection of sweetmeats, while another poured two glasses of fine Burgundian wine ‘You must excuse my poor copy.’

Shakespeare read the words.

‘ No free man shall be taken or imprisoned or denied what is rightfully his, or made outlaw or sent to exile, nor will he be proceeded against with force except by the lawful judgement of his peers or by the law of the land .’

‘Well?’

‘It’s Magna Carta, Your Honour.’

‘Of course it is, chapter thirty-nine – and I will not be subjected to your honours in my own home.’

Shakespeare laughed. It was an old jest between them. ‘Then it will be my honour to address you as plain mister.’