State and the man who brought the signed warrant before the Privy Council to act on, had been taken to the Tower and was being threatened with the rope. Her Lord Treasurer, Lord Burghley, meanwhile, looked likely never to be spoken to again. Of her senior councillors, only Walsingham had somehow escaped the worst of the censure, because he was away ill at the time of the decision to proceed with the execution. “And yet it was his hand behind this deed,” said Mills, laughing. “Walsingham was the one who brought this thing to pass with his machinations. Signor Machiavelli would have been proud.”
The room descended once more into silence. Tension was palpable. Each man here at the table was racked by the demands made on him in these difficult days, for they were at the heart of Walsingham’s intelligence operation.
Mills was a tall man, slender, of middle years with small, sharp eyes and a short white beard. He was of equal rank to Shakespeare, though unlike Shakespeare he was not active in the field. His talent was interrogation, particularly of the many priests sent over from Europe and captured.
Gregory had brown hair and a pinkish tinge to his skin and eyes. He spoke slowly and deliberately and sometimes stammered his words. He had been brought to Walsingham’s attention because of his remarkable ability to reveal invisible writing on a supposedly blank paper and to open a sealed letter and reseal it without anyone being the wiser. This had enabled Walsingham to monitor letters going in and out of the French embassy, which had been the conduit for all Mary Stuart’s intimate correspondence.
Phelippes was, in many ways, the most important member of the team. Proficient in at least six languages, he was short and ill-favored physically. He wore thick-glassed spectacles on his pox-holed nose, and his lank hair hung yellow and wispy about his sallow face. But whatever the deficiencies of his features, the inner workings of his mind were a thing to dazzle. He was the cipher expert who had broken the Spanish codes and the coded letters between Mary, Queen of Scots and the Babington plotters. Phelippes was methodical and dedicated to his work. He would spend hours and days poring over a new cipher, analyzing the frequency of symbols to discover which were “nulls”-meaningless additions to fool the code-breaker-and which were likely to be the most common words and letters used by those involved in the correspondence. So far, no code had eluded the alchemy of his extraordinary mind. He had another skill, too: the ability to forge any writing style. It was this ability that eventually won Walsingham the names of Anthony Babington’s fellow plotters; for it was Phelippes who had forged Mary Stuart’s writing to ask Babington for those names. The result had been bloody retribution meted out at Tyburn for Babington and thirteen other young men in front of a cheering crowd.
The door opened. Walsingham stood a moment looking at his assembled officials, then walked unsteadily to the head of the table. He was pale and Shakespeare thought he looked less well than when he had last seen him at Barn Elms. Mr. Secretary smiled little at the best of times, but now his face was grim. His dark eyes were fixed ahead of him as he took his seat. He was not going to engage in small talk.
“I have brought you all here today on matters which concern the very future of our Queen and the realm of England.” He held up a letter. “Mr. Phelippes already knows the contents of this missive. It contains powerful and incontrovertible evidence that the Spanish fleet will sail on England by summer. Our information is that sixteen new galleys of more than one hundred tons are being readied in Santander. Fourteen more of similar tonnage in the Passage of Gibraltar. In Laredo, there are eight new pataches, which I believe are what we call pinnaces; in San Sebastian, six galleons of three hundred tons and four of two hundred. In Bilbao, six more pataches; in Figuera, four new barks of a hundred tons. More being built in the river at Fuenterrabia; in the estuary at Seville, eight great galleons of three hundred tons and four pataches; in St. Mary Port, two more galleys and four pataches. Add it up, gentlemen, then add the total to possibly two hundred ships already at the Spaniard’s disposal: carracks, galleons, galleasses, galleys, hulks, pinnaces, zabras, armed merchant vessels. I do not wish to weary you with naval detail, but the picture is clear. Philip is amassing the greatest fleet the world has seen. And its intent is plain: invasion of England and the death of Her Majesty.”
The room remained silent. No one doubted the stark figures. All present knew the extent of Walsingham’s network throughout Europe and Asia Minor. He had at least four permanent spy bases in Spain itself. Nor was Mr. Secretary one to exaggerate or become excitable; if Walsingham was worried, so should they all be.
“What this means is we must get Vice Admiral Drake afloat and sinking Spanish shipping as soon as possible. We must delay Philip for as long as we can while we strengthen our own fleets and land defenses.” He looked pointedly at Shakespeare. “I trust I make myself clear.”
Shakespeare nodded. “Yes, Mr. Secretary. Abundantly clear.”
“So Drake’s safety is paramount. But it is no longer enough simply to protect him, although I am sure Mr. Boltfoot Cooper will do a workmanlike job in that wise. You all know there is an assassin sent by Ambassador Mendoza to kill Sir Francis. It is now vital that this man be hunted down like a rabid fox and disposed of before he can do harm. This assassin must not be allowed to get close to the Vice Admiral. And if he has associates, they too must be rendered harmless.”
Shakespeare ran a hand through his hair. Easier said than done, Mr. Secretary, was his immediate thought. Easier said than done. London churned with gossip and intrigue, but one man sent alone, with no known connections, was every intelligencer’s worst nightmare.
“I know what you are thinking, Mr. Shakespeare, but if you have any doubts about the serious nature of the threat we face, there is more.” Walsingham turned to the man to the left of Shakespeare. “Mr. Mills, your report on the Dutch connection.”
All eyes looked to Mills. He bowed softly like a player taking center stage, then cleared his throat. “For this,” he said, “we must go back almost three years, to July the tenth in the year 1584, when William, Prince of Orange, was murdered in Delft. His death was the most outrageous act of political violence of our age. As I am sure everyone in this room knows, he was killed with three shots from a pistol fired by a Roman Catholic named Balthasar Gerard, a traitor in the pay of Philip of Spain. Gerard was captured almost immediately and put to death in a manner which makes hanging, drawing, and quartering seem a pleasant morning’s outing by comparison. He was hung from a pole, the strappado, suspended by his hands which were tied behind his back. He was whipped until his body was an open wound. Salt was rubbed into these wounds. Gerard was rolled into a ball, his limbs lashed together so he could not move, and he was left like that for a night. After this, he was again hung at the strappado. Weights of two hundredweight or more were attached to his feet, almost ripping the joints of his arms from their sockets. The pits of his arms were branded with hot irons and a cloth soaked in alcohol was slapped on his body wounds. Pieces of his flesh were torn, to the bone, from six parts of his body with pincers; boiling fat was poured over his back; carpenters’ nails were driven under the nails of his fingers. His right hand-the hand that fired the shots-was burned off with a red-hot iron. He was then boweled alive; his heart was cut from his body and thrown in his face. For good measure, he was quartered and beheaded. His death must have been blessed release to him. Four days this torment took, gentlemen. Four days.”
Mills paused for the effects of his unrelenting description of Balthasar Gerard’s punishment to sink in with his audience. Then he continued. “I would ask you to excuse the gory facts of this story. You may well think all this is by the by and certainly no less than he deserved for so horrible a crime. And I would agree with you. But there is a reason for all this; I am trying to have you imagine the state of mind of this wretched man. Curiously, Balthasar Gerard was extraordinarily brave in his own way. He did not cry out or beg mercy. We know from the authorities in Delft that even in the worst of his agonies, he seemed quite calm and was not given to screaming much. But we also know that at times he became delirious and spoke as if talking in his sleep. He would not have been aware of saying anything. But what he did say in his delirium is revealing and could be of crucial importance to our own investigations. He said repeatedly, ‘We have slain Goliath, praise God. Oh my friend, we have slain Goliath of Gath.’” Mills paused for a sip of ale.
“The common belief is that Gerard acted alone, but I can tell you now that he most certainly had an accomplice. The Delft civil militia do not even rule out the possibility that there was a second gunman, out of sight, perhaps, or missed in the confusion. Did all three balls really come from the one wheel-lock pistol? Why did Gerard say ‘ We have slain Goliath’? Why not ‘I have slain Goliath’?”
Walsingham broke in, his voice at once powerful and frail. “This is where it becomes tenuous. If there was a second gunman, and I happen to believe there probably was, how does that help us? What clues could there be to his identity? And why have I come to the conclusion that this may well be the same man sent here by Mendoza to kill Drake? Mr. Mills…”
Mills took another sip of small ale to wet his throat. “There was in Delft at that time another murder committed, of a whore whose name is of no concern. You might well think that there could be no possible
