the river, on the west side of Horsley Down. The house is old, from the time of John of Gaunt, I believe. It is not in good condition and should probably be razed to the ground, but it serves our purposes. At least it has done until now. It is apart from other buildings, within a copse on the edge of the common land. It will not be difficult for you to find.”
“Will anyone else be there?”
“No. And that is the last question I will answer, Mr. Shakespeare. I will, however, tell you one more thing. On the day I last saw this Herrick, as I then called him, he said something that made my blood turn to ice.”
“Yes?”
“He said, ‘Your weakness, Father, is that you are merely willing to die for God. You are not willing to kill for Him.’”
Chapter 33
The man stared at his reflection in the small looking glass. He liked what he saw. With practiced ease, he cupped his hand around his beard and brushed it down repeatedly until its point was sharp. If he had doubts about the course of action upon which he was set, his reflection did not reveal them. He looked as confident and potent as ever.
Adjusting his ruff, he turned the glass’s face to the wall-an old superstition of his-then picked up his belt with attached sword scabbard off the bed, fitted it around his waist, and stepped from his chamber.
He wrapped himself in a fur cloak, donned his favorite beaver hat, and walked out into the street. He had a meeting with Herrick and the prospect set his nerves on edge. Until now he had avoided all contact with the man, dealing always through intermediaries at the French embassy, but now that the attempt on Drake’s life had failed, he had no choice. Until now, he had been firmly in control of events; it was he who had organized the required weapon through Cogg and he who had sent messages to Herrick informing him where Drake would disembark and from which ship. They were unlikely to get such a chance again before the Vice Admiral sailed.
Drake had received orders from the Queen, and the English fleet was due to weigh anchor any day. The plan was for Drake and his young wife, Elizabeth Sydenham, to ride for Dover and then take the wind along the Channel to Plymouth. The ships now in the Thames-four royal galleons and a group of fighting merchantmen-would be taken westward by others. After that, who could tell? The best guess was that they would head west for Panama to plunder Spanish shipping. But whatever the plan, the Spanish King and his ministers wanted Drake stopped. They wanted him dead.
They must act, and soon. Both he and Herrick were equally set on their course of action, but their motives were very different. For him, it all came down to the filthy stink of tallow candles. His family had suffered intolerable insult and financial hardship through their disagreements with the Crown. At the lowest point, when his father had lost his head to the axe, they had been reduced to lighting their poor cottage with tallow made from sheep fat. He could recall the bitter tears of his mother as the tallow belched out its acrid smoke, where once she had lit her great hall with beeswax. If Drake died, he would get the seventy thousand ducats promised by King Philip, enough to restore his family’s fortune and standing.
He did not use his real name. He was a Percy, a younger forgotten cousin of the proud Catholic Percy family from the borders. The family that had once sired the great warrior Hotspur had suffered grievous hardship through the putting down of their abortive uprising in 1569: many had died by rope or axe, among them the head of the clan, Thomas Percy, who was attainted and executed. The loss of lands and wealth and reputation had been devastating. And it had not ended there; the family had been persecuted without mercy ever since. Henry, the eighth earl, had died in the Tower not two years since, accused of complicity in the Throckmorton plot to place Mary Queen of Scots on the throne of England. How could the family not harbor a grudge? And yet this Percy was not made of martyr stock. Enough Percys had died for the cause of Rome; he wanted others-their enemies-to die instead.
It had been hard keeping up this pretense all these years. The early years were the worst, learning to dissemble, to become a loyal servant of the Crown fighting the Spaniard, but the deception had been vital to his long-term goal. Eventually, through the offices of Mendoza-Spain’s former Spanish ambassador in London and now in Paris-he had persuaded King Philip that he could perform this task for the right price. Seventy thousand ducats was that price. All he needed was a professional killer to be sent and he, the forgotten Percy, would organize the where withal and the opportunity to put an end to Drake. His own hands had to be clean of blood, at least until the armada landed. That was where Herrick came in. Herrick was his weapon; the priest was the stuff of martyrdom and did not fear death. The first attempt had been a miserable failure thanks to that accursed coxswain putting his body between Drake and the musketball, but there would be other chances.
Now Percy and Herrick were meeting. It was high risk, for to be seen with such a man would be tantamount to treason, and Percy did not relish a traitor’s death.
As arranged, Herrick was waiting in a corner booth of The Bull, sitting alone, eating a platter of beef and pork with gusto, as though he had not supped for a week. Percy watched him for a time, to be sure he had the right man. When he was certain it was not a trap, he approached. Herrick was just raising a tankard to his lips, quaffing fresh water. The Jesuit never touched wine or any other alcoholic beverage except at Mass. But that was the Blood of Christ, not wine; just as the wafer became Christ’s body on entering the mouth of a communicant, so the wine became His blood; every Roman Catholic knew that to be true and every Protestant declared it false.
“You take your life into your hands drinking that stuff,” Percy said by way of greeting. “Get some beer down your gullet.”
Herrick looked at him sourly. “This is good spring water. Your countrymen take too much strong liquor. There is nothing wrong with the pure water which God provides.”
“Well, if you die before your day is run, blame no one but yourself, Herrick. Or whatever name you are using today…”
“Herrick will do.”
Percy raised his head in signal to a serving wench to come over. “How did you miss?” he asked Herrick.
“I think you know what happened.”
Percy shook his head in practiced dismay. “I do indeed. You have bungled, Herrick. And it must be put right.”
“I need more information. Where can I find Drake next? How can I get close to him? I no longer have the long-range weapon. I believed I had no further use for it.”
“Things will be more difficult from now on. The admiral has his commission. He will be heading west, to Plymouth, to gather his fleet within a day, no more. He will have four royal ships of war along with ten more at the least. With surprise on their side, they can do much harm.”
Suddenly Herrick became angry. He beat his hands on the oak table so that the trencher of food jumped in the air. The movement caused a sharp pain in his side where the ball had scored him, and he winced. At least the wound had not turned to gangrene, but it slowed him. “Then you must play your part. You will surely be with him. You must do that which you have avoided for so long.”
The wench had returned. She looked startled by their angry words, though she had no idea what concerned them. She was a comely girl, big breasts spilling out of the front of her dress in most generous measure. Percy smiled at her and preened his whiskers. “Ah, girl, I will have a pint of your strongest beer and a large trencher of meats. Spare no expense, for my friend here is paying.”
As she left, Herrick reached out and grasped Percy’s wrist. “Do you hear me?” he said in an urgent whisper. “You are in deep, sir, deeper than the raging western sea. I know how you have tried to work this. But that will no longer suffice. Will you be aboard ship with Drake on his way to Plymouth?”
Percy tried to wrench his wrist free, but he could not dislodge himself from Herrick’s iron grip. “Take your hand off me!”
“Do you hear me?”
“Yes! I hear you. And yes, I will be with Drake. But I am the whetstone, Herrick. I do not cut the barley: I sharpen the blade to do it.”
“God’s blood, that is not enough! You will be there. Throw him overboard. Or whatever it is you pirates do by way of expedient killings.”
