Rory Clements - Holy Spy

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 think 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.

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.