The Queen's Man (4 page)

‘If you delight in the company of wolves . . .’

‘He was there ten years ago on the day of infamy,’ Walsingham continued. ‘August the twenty-third in the year of our Lord fifteen seventy-two. The day the streets of Paris ran red and the cries of dying Protestants outsang the pealing bells. Leloup was at the side of Henri de Guise as they finished off the work begun by Maurevert and killed Admiral Coligny as he lay wounded. And yet I have reason to believe that he also saved Protestant lives when the royal mob ran riot and slaughtered women and children. The Catholics were killing, killing, killing, but Leloup saved my friend Jean d’Arpajon and his family from the sword. He took them to the Hôtel de Guise, where they were safe. I heard this from d’Arpajon’s own lips when he came to England seeking refuge, like so many Huguenots. And so when I have heard tell of the wickedness of Guise and Leloup, I have had pause for thought. Did they save d’Arpajon merely for money – for certainly he paid three thousand livres for his life – or out of pity?’

‘Guise show mercy!’ Leicester almost snorted with derision as he spoke. ‘He was at the very heart of the massacre. It is said his men were painted crimson, their hair tangled with gore, their hands sticky with blood.’

Walsingham spread his hands as though to show they, at least, were free of blood. ‘Guise had cause to kill Coligny. He believed the admiral had assassinated his father. Perhaps, too, he took the opportunity to kill others among his enemies. But I do not believe he murdered the wholly innocent. Did Leloup marshal the wolves? Was he one of them? He is a puzzle to me, as is his master.’

‘But it sounds as if you
liked
them, Mr Secretary? You liked Leloup . . .’ Leicester was aghast.

‘He was amusing. It was hard not to like him. I felt much the same about Guise himself. At that time, before the massacre and years before his leadership of the Catholic League, I did not even believe the duke was a man of particular faith. He was not insane like King Charles, nor wicked like the Medici devil, and yet somehow she shifted the blame for all that happened on to Guise. Catherine de Medici could learn nothing from Machiavelli . . .’

‘So who plotted the massacre?’

‘The whole royal council of France. They were all in it, up to their very eyes in gore. But that is all by the by. Blood in the gutters. What we must now divine is where Leloup is and
why
he is here. Your thoughts, John?’

‘It must involve the Queen of Scots.’

Walsingham looked towards Leicester. ‘You see, my lord, the young apprentice is already thinking like his master.’ He clapped his hands together lightly. ‘Yes, John, this most certainly involves the Scots witch. Guise wishes to secure her liberty and set her on the throne of England. He makes no secret of this. Why else is he building ships at the Normandy harbours if not as an invasion fleet?’

‘So Leloup is here to set her free?’

At his side, Walsingham had a small silver cup. He picked it up and sipped delicately. ‘This is part of a greater plan – to seize the crown of France, too. King Henri is vulnerable. Like a fool, he goes away on retreat just as Guise reaches the height of his power. The people of France love Guise. The Catholics would crown him in an instant. He believes that if he can seize the thrones of England and Scotland, Henri would be powerless to withstand him. This is what the Guise family have desired and conspired towards for many years.’

‘Then we must stop him,’ Leicester said, hammering his right fist into his left palm. ‘But surely Mary is safely guarded.’

Walsingham stroked his dark beard as though trying to lengthen his sombre face. ‘I pray it is so.’

‘Do you have reason to think otherwise?’

‘We have been receiving reports for eighteen months now of Guise’s intentions to secure her freedom. Every week, we hear more reports of greased priests in the region around Sheffield Castle where she is held. And nor can we trust the northern lords who inhabit –
infest
– those parts. Beware former enemies. Never trust a man whom once you have harmed.’

Never trust a man whom you have harmed
. It was a familiar refrain from Walsingham, one of the first things John Shakespeare had learnt from his master when he left his law studies at Gray’s Inn and entered the great man’s service four years since. What Walsingham meant was that though the noble families of the north had been punished and humiliated when their rebellion was quelled in the bloody year of sixty-nine, it would be dangerous to believe them chastened. And while that vicious event now seemed long gone, the northern lords still felt aggrieved and would do anything in their power, seize any opportunity, to take revenge on those who had brought them low.

‘Has the time come to move Mary Stuart south?’ Shakespeare suggested tentatively. ‘Away from such people.’

‘The Queen will not hear of it. She does not wish her cousin any closer to her than is absolutely necessary. But there are
other
possibilities. We need to prove to Her Majesty that Sheffield has become ill-equipped for the task. I want you to go there, John. Use your judgement carefully. Is Sheffield Castle a fit place to hold this Queen of Scots? Is it well-guarded? If there are holes, find them. Then bring me a full and detailed report.’

Shakespeare bowed. ‘Yes, Sir Francis.’

‘Look for Leloup while you are there. For I believe you are right in suggesting that is his motive for coming to England. And in Sheffield, you will have assistance. You will find one of my seasoned men there. His name is Richard Topcliffe. He is there on another matter, but I would like you to work together.’ Walsingham paused and pressed his fingers together. ‘Dick Topcliffe is a very different man to you, John, so you may not agree with him on every point. However, your opinions will both be of great interest to me. To that end, you will take letters from me ordering him to help you. I merely warn you of this: you will doubtless find Mr Topcliffe to be strong meat, but he has the Queen’s trust, and mine. You do not need to like him, but you
will
work with him.’

Shakespeare bowed.

‘Return with Mr Topcliffe by way of Tutbury where Mary was held before. It is far enough from the north and a good distance from the court. Sometimes, I wish we had never moved her from there. See what state of repair the castle is in. How soon could it be brought into service again? Mr Topcliffe’s help will be of great value, for he knows Tutbury of old. Do you understand this? And most importantly, set the search for Leloup. Return to Seething Lane this day and have Mr Phelippes send out word to all our intelligencers and agents to find him. He may have headed north, but we must not take that for granted. If he is in London, Tom Phelippes will find him soon enough.’

‘Very well, Sir Francis.’ Shakespeare bowed and moved towards the door.

‘Wait.’ Walsingham stayed him with a flick of his deeply veined hand. ‘I have not yet told you the true reason I wished to see you. The mission I mentioned.’

Shakespeare paused expectantly.

‘It involves your own county, John. My lord of Leicester tells me he touched on the subject when you became tangled up in the hunt. Robin, you know Warwickshire better than any man; explain your fears to Mr Shakespeare.’

Leicester was up now and pacing. ‘The peril is not merely in the north, you see. It is in my own lands in middle England. Sir Thomas Lucy, my chief man in the county, has a war on his hands trying to put down the papist vermin that run free like rats in a sewer. I do not exaggerate when I tell you that my county –
our
county, Mr Shakespeare – has become a Judas nest of conspirators.’

Walsingham turned his penetrating gaze on Shakespeare. ‘You begin to understand, John? We believe you may be the perfect man to help Sir Thomas Lucy counter this terror. Indeed, I am
certain
you are ready for this important task and that you will not let me down.’

‘Conspiracy abounds in Warwickshire like a high summer stink,’ Leicester said. ‘You could draw a ten-mile circle around the town of Stratford and within that roundel you would find half the papist traitors in England. First there was this Simon Hunt, a teacher at the grammar, who now licks the Antichrist’s arse in the Vatican. Then the traitor Cottam. Now the fugitives Dibdale and Angel.’ He locked eyes with Shakespeare. ‘Do you know these people?’

‘Yes.’ Shakespeare knew them all well. Hunt had taught him at school. Benedict Angel, the same age as Shakespeare, had been his classmate for a while. His sister, Florence Angel, a year or two older, had been his friend in their youth. Now Angel had been ordained a Catholic priest and was on the run. He knew the Cottams too. Thomas Cottam was brother of John Cottam, Hunt’s successor as schoolmaster. Thomas Cottam had been executed earlier in the year for treason, having entered the country secretly as a priest. Robert Dibdale was also a priest and, like Benedict Angel, was on the loose, his whereabouts unknown. They all had close links with Stratford-upon-Avon and they were all deemed enemies of the state.

‘There are others,’ Leicester continued, warming to his vehement harangue. ‘What of Catesby of Lapworth? Some say he harboured the deluded Campion. Nor do I trust the Throckmortons who live close by at Coughton Court. These people conspire against God and the Queen.’

‘This priest Angel,’ Walsingham said, taking up the earl’s thread. ‘I took pity on the man and ordered him released from the Gatehouse gaol and sent into exile. Well, he
has
been freed – but there is no record of him leaving the country. Find out where he is. Often such men make contact with their families. I am sure you will discover the truth soon enough. This so-called Angel should not be at large. Go home to Stratford after Tutbury. It cannot be far. Find Angel and the others. Root out treason, John. Root it out and destroy it. This is what I want from you. This is what I have been training you for. It is what I saw in you when I snatched you from the tedium of your law studies.’

Shakespeare bowed again, but said nothing. Beneath his linen shirt and plain doublet, his body was soaked with sweat. Angel and the others were the people he grew up with. Was Walsingham testing his loyalty – seeing whether he had the stomach to turn in his neighbours? Was that what this was all about? Was that why Leicester was here?

‘And there is Arden, too. Do not forget Arden,’ Leicester went on. ‘I raised Edward Arden up as county sheriff, but then I saw his true colours. The devil take him. Do you know this Catholic viper, Mr Shakespeare? Are the Ardens not kin to the Catesbys?’

‘I have met Edward Arden, my lord,’ Shakespeare said in what he hoped was an even voice. Oh yes, he knew Arden. How could he not know him when his own mother, Mary, was born an Arden? Their blood was his blood. He knew, too, that Edward Arden had insulted Leicester publicly and with utter contempt, calling him ‘whoremaster’ at a time when the earl was dealing lewdly with another man’s wife. The Earl of Leicester, a man ruled by pride, did not forgive such slurs.

It felt to Shakespeare as if he were manacled to a wall in the coldest Tower dungeon and that these two men, Walsingham and Leicester, had red-glowing irons in their gauntleted fists.
Bring your old friends and your family to the gallows or we will know that you are not one of us. Turn in the traitors
–
or we will consider
you
the traitor
. He had not foreseen this when he agreed to enter the service of Sir Francis Walsingham. This was torture of the soul.

Suddenly Leicester clapped him about the shoulder and growled a laugh. ‘I am told you are an honest man, Mr Shakespeare, an honest witness. Did you hear of the great hart in this day’s hunt? He escaped us! Now and for all time he is a royal hart. Tell me: do you have the heart of that hart? Can
you
earn such royal favour? Will you hazard your very life for England?’

S
HAKESPEARE REINED IN
to a slow walk, easing his mount after the long ride from Oatlands to London. He turned left and rode north along Seething Lane in the east of the city, stopping at last before the woodframe house, ancient and weathered, that he counted as home. It stood four storeys high and melded into the night sky. His hired man, Boltfoot Cooper, opened the door to him and bowed. ‘Boltfoot, we ride north tomorrow. We will go armed.’

‘Yes, master.’

‘Is there food in the house?’

‘Perhaps some old bread. A little ale . . .’

‘Did I not ask you to buy some food from the market?’

‘No, master.’

‘Well, in future you will think to do so, unasked.’

Boltfoot grumbled something inaudible.

Shakespeare shook his head and wondered, not for the first time, whether he had made a terrible error in hiring this lame seafarer. His tone hardened. ‘You must earn your keep.’

‘Yes, master.’

‘Take the horse to the stable and see it fed. And then go to the Blue Boy and get their kitchens to provide some pie or meats. Anything halfway edible.’ Could he not have at least brought some eggs and meat into the house? Shakespeare handed over the reins of his mount and watched Boltfoot limping along the road, dragging his club-foot through the dust. Neither servant nor intelligencer, he was a gnarled shipwreck of a man who looked as ill at ease on land as a fish and the truth was he had hired him because he liked him and trusted him – and because he had fighting skills. Shakespeare was all too aware of his own lack of experience in that regard. Though he was a great deal stronger than he looked to the Earl of Leicester, yet he was untested; he had never been in a fight, not even a taproom brawl.

This was where Boltfoot came in. He knew how to defend himself and would not flinch in the face of enemy fire and shot. He was skilled with cutlass and caliver, his weapons of choice. And what if he had no conversation, and had little in the way of background save his time as a mariner? On the rare occasions when he did open his mouth to speak it was usually to pour scorn upon his former captain, Drake. ‘Drake a hero? He would sell his own mother to the Spaniard for a groat.’ Shakespeare smiled at the thought. He hoped Boltfoot would speak in more flattering terms about him. He took a candle into the pantry, and found a crust of bread and examined it in the guttering light. It had an unpleasant coating of blue mould. He shook the keg of ale. Some liquid and lees sploshed around, so he drew it out into a tankard. Sniffing at it, he put the mug to his lips, then spat. It was undrinkable. He cursed. This would not do. He needed a maidservant. When Boltfoot returned with the unwelcome news that the Blue Boy had closed its doors, he took himself to bed for want of anything better to do.