‘You are circling the subject. Time presses.’
‘Money, Sir Francis – the money that comes from the felon Cutting Ball to the Treasury of England. It passes through the hands of the Giltspurs.’
‘Who told you this gibberish, this half-boiled kettle of lies?’
‘It is true, is it not?’
‘Who spake it?’
Shakespeare shook his head. ‘I discovered this for myself. You pay me for my ability to seek out such secrets. My method is mine to know, but not to say. But I can tell you this: a great sum has disappeared from the Giltspur coffers. I am not yet certain why, but I believe this to be the reason for Nicholas Giltspur’s death.’
‘You surpass yourself. Am I to believe you are saying that my lord Burghley conspired with Cutting Ball to murder Nick Giltspur? Next you will be writing comedies for the playhouse stage.’
‘Mr Secretary, that is not what I am saying. But nonetheless, I am certain the truth lies inside the heavily guarded fortress that is Giltspur House. And so if you wish to know who killed Nick Giltspur – a true friend of England – then I must crave your assistance.’
He wanted to ask about Sir Robert Huckerbee and his links with the Giltspurs, yet this seemed neither the time nor the place. He had clearly pushed his master as far as he would go this day.
Walsingham said nothing for a few moments. His long features were drained of the jubilation that had greeted Shakespeare on his arrival. His eyes moved from his intelligencer’s face to the open window through which the sound of birdsong intruded, then back to Shakespeare. ‘What I crave from you is your mind to be fixed to the purpose in hand: keep tight with the plotters who would kill our Queen and supplant her with another. I fear you are straying into dangerous waters.’
‘Again, it is what you pay me for.’
‘Be careful. Clever answers will not always save you. As to Giltspur House, it is not going away, so you have time. I must take advice, John. This matter you speak of concerns others. Come to me at Richmond and I will give you my answer.’
The walking was slow and becoming slower. At first, Boltfoot had kept up a reasonably steady pace, but his club foot made the going tough.
‘Shall we take a horse or two, Mr Cooper?’ Maywether suggested as they passed a fenced field with half a dozen of mares grazing, just west of Faversham.
‘I have no wish to be hanged, Mr Maywether.’
‘At this rate, we won’t be in London by Christmas. It would have been quicker to go by way of the Grand Banks.’
‘Go on ahead if you wish.’
‘And you are certain you have nothing of value to sell, whereby we might buy or hire a mount?’
‘You have seen the contents of my purse. Not enough to buy a horse’s leg.’
‘That’s England. The poor get poorer and the rich get richer. Tell me, do you like the cockfight, Mr Cooper?’
‘I’ll eat a fine capon; don’t need to see him get ripped apart.’
‘But the cockfight’s the place you’ll find rich and poor together, the nobleman and the peasant – but never the honest burgher. I went to a fine cockfight at the Isle of Dogs not a month ago. And Arthur Giltspur was there.’
‘Arthur Giltspur?’ Boltfoot was taken aback.
‘Indeed he was. Biggest night of the year it were, bigger than anything at the Smithfield cockpit. Five hundred or more of us, I reckon. Cost half-a-crown to get in if you wanted a pitch anywhere near the pit. Shiploads of beer and sotweed, scores of trulls and every outlaw within fifty miles of London Town. They were all there for the main event, A proud ten-fight battlecock against an eight-cock – England’s finest roosters, so they said. Oh, the thrill of it, the smell and the excitement. And Giltspur was there all right, weighed down with a bag of gold to stake on the ten-cock. Five thousand pounds he laid out on his feathered darling that night. Five thousand pounds
on a bird!’
‘What happened, Mr Maywether?’
‘What do you think happened? As soon as I heard the bet had been laid I knew to stake my sovereign on the eight-cock. Do you think the layers were going to pay out on a stake of five thousand pounds? Course they weren’t. They fixed it so the eighter won. The ten-cock’s spurs were blunted and loosened and he was fed grain to slow him down. Never stood a chance. Cut to pieces. Blood, flesh and feathers spread like straw across the pit.’
‘So Arthur Giltspur . . .’
‘Lost five thousand pounds in the blink of a chicken’s eye.’
Boltfoot listened grimly. The story was revealing. An ox-dray, unladen, drew to a halt at their side a little way along the dusty highway.
Boltfoot and Maywether approached the carter, an old man with thin grey hair and a long beard.
‘Good day to you, gentlemen,’ the carter said.
‘Are we on the right path to London town?’
‘You’re on the right path to Tenham, where I’m going. Do you want to hop aboard? I can drop you at Hinkley’s Mill.’
‘How far’s Tenham?’
‘Two miles.’
Boltfoot and Maywether looked at each other and nodded. An ox-drawn wagon would be scarce faster than their own feet, but it would give them a little respite from the endless miles of walking.
‘Trusty and well-beloved . . .’
So began the letter from Mary Queen of Scots to Anthony Babington. It was a deciphered copy of the original encrypted version. Thomas Phelippes, the codebreaker, had drawn a little gallows on the cover.
Walsingham ran his elegant finger along the lines, picking out the passages he wished to read aloud to those present.
‘Trusty and well-beloved . . . you must first examine deeply: what forces, as well on foot as on horse, you may raise amongst you all, and what captains you shall appoint for them in every shire . . .’ He looked up from the paper. ‘That alone must cost the devil her neck, gentlemen. It is proof of hostile intent. Listen carefully as I read on, for you will see that she presumes not merely to accept their plan of insurgency, but to tell them how it would best be organised. She raises herself up as their captain-general.’
So the letter Walsingham sought had indeed come. And with such little delay. How, Shakespeare wondered, had the Scots Queen been so foolish as to commit such words to paper, even in cipher?
Walsingham resumed reading. She demanded details of invasion plans, of munitions, troop numbers, and then came to the heart of the matter: ‘By what means do the six gentlemen deliberate to proceed?’
He allowed a smile to pass his brooding features. ‘The assassination. You see, she even asks – with no trace of shame or horror – how her cousin is to be killed.’ He stabbed the paper again. ‘She then demands that the assassins be accompanied by four men to ride with the news of its success to Chartley so that her own freedom may be effected before retaliation can be made. And here . . .’ He wagged his finger at the four men listening – Shakespeare, Scudamore, Gifford and Mills – ‘And here, gentlemen, she even designs her own escape by one of three means. The first, to sweep her to safety with a force of fifty men while she is out walking. The second, to start a fire in the barns and outbuildings at Chartley so that the guards will run to douse it, leaving her alone to be sprung away. The third, to send in a force hidden in wagons in the early morning like some Trojan horse, to overpower the sentries.’
Shakespeare was watching Gilbert Gifford. The pink pigling’s eyes were fixed on the gallows that Phelippes had drawn so triumphantly on the letter.
‘Her Majesty,’ Walsingham concluded, ‘has seen this letter and is deeply shocked. She had always known this Scots cousin to be ungrateful and scheming, but never had she expected to see written in her own words the devilish designs that she intends on her throne and life. She now fears there are courtiers about her willing to carry out this assassination and so has asked Mr Phelippes to add a postscript to the Scots Queen’s letter asking the names of the would-be murderers, which he is now engaged upon. The letter will be ready by noon tomorrow, at which time you, Mr Gifford, will take it personally to Babington.’