“She sent the money there and then?” Walsingham demands. “In cash?”
“Yes,” Van Treslong admits.
The writer of the letter goes on to explain, owing to the secret and sensitive manner in which the information as to Dee’s culpability was revealed, the matters herein contained are in no wise to be discussed, mentioned, or disclosed to any person, or persons, whatsoever, on pain of the direst consequences. The writer concludes by asking Van Treslong to burn the letter after reading.
“Oh, yes,” Van Treslong says vaguely, as if that were something he meant to do.
Dee is not listening. He is looking at the signature.
It is signed Elizabeth R.
It is his own death warrant, signed by Bess. His Bess.
He drops the letter. The seal lands with a clunk. His body is made of ice, and ash, and something very tender. The horror of his betrayal almost chokes him.
Van Treslong pushes his mug of beer his way. Dee drinks, hardly noticing the bitterness of the hops, hardly noticing the beer on his doublet. Seagulls wheel overhead, screaming like the souls of the damned.
“Well, that at least explains that,” Walsingham says. He takes the pistol from Dee and pinches the fuse between beer-wet fingers.
Dee puts down the empty mug.
“No, it doesn’t,” he says. “It doesn’t at all. Why would Bess wish me dead? She cannot believe I am some papist firebrand sent to kill her! By the blood of Christ, Walsingham, you have to help me.”
Dee is now suddenly unmanned and utterly desperate.
And there is something strange about all this, Walsingham thinks. He remembers Van Treslong’s appearance at the Privy Council meeting in Greenwich, after he had fired his gun from the river; and how the Queen had wept to hear of Dr. Dee’s death.
“One moment, Willem,” he says. “You told us Dr. Dee was dead.”
Van Treslong laughs awkwardly.
“Well,” he says. “We shot someone.”
“But not Dr. Dee.”
“Seems not.”
“Why?” Walsingham presses.
“Why did I tell you he was dead? Or why did I shoot someone? Why do you think, Francis? You see a plot? You are too long in your espial game, I think.”
“So it was just the money? Just the seventy ryals?”
Van Treslong shrugs. “There’s a reason we’re called Sea Beggars.”
He is right, of course, but there is not much money filling up the coffers of England, and the Queen is notoriously tight with it. It was a surprise, even, when she offered to foot the bill for repairs to the Swan. She would not, surely, give money away, the whole sum in advance?
“And why seventy ryals?” he wonders aloud.
“Ten more than bringing me home,” Dee supposes.
Van Treslong smiles in confirmation. He is missing only one tooth. That is good for a sailor. That money must explain those new breeches, Walsingham supposes.
And just then a boy appears from the cabin holding those selfsame breeches over his arm, with that same doublet. He holds them out to show they are clean, as requested, ready for Van Treslong’s night out in Southwark. The Dutchman collects the two letters for his logbook and stands to bring the meeting to a close.
“Verdammt!” he cries. Seagull shit lands with a splatch on the doublet. Van Treslong cuffs the boy and seizes the jacket and starts brushing at the cloth.
Walsingham notices Dee’s hand move like a snake. A moment later, the letters are gone, and they stand to go.
“Thank you, Willem,” Walsingham says. “God give you a good evening.”
“Sure you don’t want to come?” he asks. “They are going to set the dogs on an ape tied to the back of a horse!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
London, October 10, 1572
Robert Beale is summoned from his office just before curfew.
“Some bint with a funny accent,” the porter tells him. “After Master Walsingham and will not take no for answer.”
Beale sets aside his work on the accounts of their recent action with something like relief and follows the porter into the yard, where, standing behind the gates, is a road-weary Margaret Formby.
When she sees him, she starts to weep.
He summons bread, ale, an apple for the love of God, and with her mute permission he takes her elbow and guides her to the fireside in Master Walsingham’s outer office.
After a little while she gathers herself.
“I am sorry; I did not know who to come to.”
“What is it?” he asks.
“Is there… a woman I might talk to? I have much to say that I cannot…”
She trails off and Master Beale understands. He calls for Mistress Walsingham to the outer office and introduces the two women, then he leaves them to it, though only so far as the doorway, where he stands out of sight and listens to what is being said.
At first the girl is nervous, suspicious even of Mistress Walsingham, but Mistress Walsingham is a good listener, and the girl soon plucks up courage, and her tale pours out.
At first it is heartrending, and Mistress Walsingham clucks maternally, shocked at Queen Mary’s devilish treatment of the girl.
“You poor soul, no Christian should be made to practice such a thing!”
But then she starts on the ruse with the candlestick, and what was done while Francis Walsingham was looking elsewhere, and it becomes very alarming.
Queen Elizabeth sets out to Greenwich from Windsor. It is not yet cool enough for the blue cloak lined with marten fur, but she shivers uncontrollably tonight and starts at every sound—the barking of the dogs, the slop of the river against the pontoon, the distant laugh of the bargemaster’s boy. She has had more
