‘He is the main reason we need to go. He is a danger to all who congregate near him.’
‘He is young. I have a responsibility . . .’
‘Stay then. But I implore you, do not have your likeness painted. Walsingham will not need to hear from my lips what has occurred here this day; every maggot and kennel rat in Bishopsgate will be scurrying to him with tales of sedition . . . and if he finds the painting, he will have evidence a plenty with names and faces to match.’
Chapter 13
Shakespeare pushed open the front door and was met by the new maidservant, who appeared to be flustered and a little fearful. ‘What is it, Jane?’
‘You have a visitor, master. He is in your solar.’
‘Jane, you must put visitors in the anteroom. My solar is my own room. I keep private papers there.’
She nodded hurriedly, like a fowl at its feed. ‘Sir, I know that, but I could not stop him. He pushed past me and climbed up through the house. Mr Cooper was not here to help me, so I knew not what to do.’
‘Well, who is this man?’
‘He said he had many names, but that I might call him Mr Gifford or Gilbert if I preferred.’
Many names. Yes, Gilbert Gifford liked to go by a host of different names: in written correspondence, Walsingham and his men referred to him as Number Four or the Secret Party. When abroad in France or the Low Countries, he liked to use the names Pietro or Cornelys. To the French embassy, he was simply Colderin. It was enough to confuse friends, let alone enemies. So he was back from Chartley; surely that could mean but one thing. ‘Very well, I will go to him presently, but first tell me: has there been word from Boltfoot?’
‘No, master.’
‘When he arrives home, tell him not to venture out without first consulting me. I have new information for him. Oh, and Jane, bring small ale to the solar.’
‘Yes, master.’
Gilbert Gifford was lounging on the settle by the window. He had a book on his lap and looked for all the world like a boy at his studies. He did not raise his eyes as Shakespeare entered the room.
‘Mr Gifford, what in the name of God are you doing here?’
Gifford dragged his smooth face away from the printed page. ‘Why, reading this volume while I waited for you to appear, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘You are insane to have come. What if my house is being watched? Are you utterly without wit? You could blow all our plans to dust.’
Gifford laughed, totally unconcerned by the onslaught. ‘I took great care, Mr Shakespeare. No one is watching your house. Perhaps you are not as important to them as you think you are. I believe you are quite safe.’
‘I wish I shared your confidence. You will never come here again. You know how to contact me: send messages via Mr Mills’s office and we will meet at an appointed place.’
Gifford waved a hand in the air. ‘I do not have time for such stuff. I dared to hope my appearance here would be a most pleasant surprise, for I come as the bearer of good news. The fish has taken the bait. It seemed to me that you should be among the first to know.’
‘Indeed?’ His voice retained its sharpness, but he could not fail to be interested.
‘Yes, indeed. Letters from the Scots Queen came out of Chartley in the beer keg two days ago and were then handed to me by the Honest Man. I gave them to Mr Paulet and he passed them to Mr Phelippes who is presently deciphering them. Tomorrow they will be brought up here to London where they will be returned to me, resealed by Mr Gregory, and when Mr Secretary gives the word I will convey them to the French embassy intact.’
‘That is most excellent news. Do we know anything about the letters?’
‘We know that one is addressed to Anthony Babington.’
Shakespeare did not smile but his heart lurched. So the bait was not only taken, but the fish was on the hook. It was exactly as Walsingham had hoped and planned. Perhaps things were moving at last.
‘And so, Mr Shakespeare, I have a night in London with nothing to do . . .’
‘Then we shall dine together here at my expense. I will have food sent in. Fine roasts and good wine.’
Gifford sucked in air through his small white teeth. ‘I had rather hoped to reacquaint myself with the Smith sisters, whose company I find most pleasurable. If you would just tell me where I may find them.’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
‘But you can bring them to me?’
‘It is possible.’
‘Then do it, I entreat you, Mr Shakespeare. It is only the pleasure of their company that keeps me in England at all. Without them, I shall feel compelled to take myself away from these dangerous tasks that I perform on Mr Secretary’s behalf. I know from experience that the young ladies of Paris have much to commend them.’
What was it Walsingham had said? I do not care what Gifford needs or wants, he will have it. For without him, our carefully constructed house collapses. And so he must have the Smith sisters. Thus far, their trysts with Gifford had been arranged by Tom Phelippes, but now it was Shakespeare’s task.
‘Then I shall do my best on your behalf. Allow me a little time, if you would, and I shall secure their services before dark. Will that suffice?’
‘Indeed it will, Mr Shakespeare. Indeed it will. And in the meantime, I should like to become better acquainted with your maidservant, who is a most comely wench.’
Shakespeare shook his head decisively. ‘No, Mr Gifford, that will not do. If I hear that you have interfered with my maid in any way, or even attempted to molest her, then I promise that you will never see the Smith sisters again. I will also see that you are pilloried for lewd dealings – and that your ears are left nailed to the crossbar.’
‘Sir, you drive a very hard bargain. Very well, I shall sit here, as quiet as a mole, and read your Montaigne which, I must say, contains most cunning and forthright guidance on the ways of the world. Here, listen to this if you will.’ He opened the book and quickly found the spot, then marked the passage with his index finger. ‘Quand je joue avec mon chat, qui sait s’il ne s’amuse pas plus de moi que je le fais de lui.’ He spoke with the fluency of a Frenchman, then translated unnecessarily for Shakespeare’s benefit. ‘When I play with my cat, who knows whether the cat is in truth playing with me.’ He smiled. ‘That is a rough translation, but do you not think it sums up our own Mr Secretary and his devices? Always be wary of your master, Mr Shakespeare, for he plays with us all. Even as he lauds my services and dispenses gold and gratitude, I know very well that he is planning my execution.’
‘Your imagination knows no bounds, Gifford.’
‘We shall see. Now go and find the sisters for I have a hunger that must be sated.’
‘I will send for you when I have them at the house in Holborn. Wear your hood and cape. I want none to see your face as you leave this house.’
The ward watch was waiting for Boltfoot at the Postern Gate to
the north of the Tower.
‘Mr Cooper . . .’
He stopped and nodded by way of reply.
‘If you will just follow me, you may learn something about Will Cane.’
‘Where is the woman . . . the whore named Em?’
‘All will be revealed. There is someone else who wishes to see you.’
‘Who? Speak.’
‘I cannot say.’
Boltfoot noticed that the man, whose name he recalled as Potken, seemed timid. But afraid of what – or whom?
‘If you cannot say who I am to see, then why should I come with you? For all I know you have a gang of cutpurses waiting for me. But if that is your plan, it is ill founded for I have brought no money and nothing of value. Any attempt to rob me will bear no fruit.’
‘There is no trap, Mr Cooper. But I warn you now that you will be required to wear a blindfold about your eyes for the last part of our journey.’