She shook her head once again.
“Thank you, Jane. You may go.”
She ran from his chamber. He heard her howling like a wounded animal as she ran down the stairs. He crumpled the letter into a tight ball and threw it to the floor. Moments later, he slipped tentatively from between the sheets. He felt unsteady, but he was able to walk across the room and pick up the crushed paper. He took it to the window, where he smoothed it out and read it once more.
Chapter 47
What word from Drake?” Walsingham demanded. “None. There is nothing as yet, neither good nor bad,” John Hawkins replied. “That is how we would wish it.”
Walsingham looked unconvinced. “That is not how I would wish it, Mr. Hawkins. I would wish to hear that Drake has sailed your ships into Lisbon and set fire to this Spanish armada before it can leave port, for assuredly we are not ready to repel it.”
The room was silent. All those sitting around the long table in the library of his house in Seething Lane knew the truth of what he said. England’s defenses were woefully inadequate. Should Spain’s battle-hardened troops ever land in Sussex or Kent or Essex, they would sweep past the Queen’s new-formed militias and descend on London like lions. There would be bloodletting in the fields and towns of England on a scale not known in five hundred years.
Around the table sat Hawkins, architect of the new Navy, Walsingham himself, his secretaries Arthur Gregory and Francis Mills, codebreaker Thomas Phelippes, and John Shakespeare.
“Well, at least we have got him to sea,” Walsingham said at last, breaking the silence. “For which we must thank Mr. Shakespeare.”
All those at the table nodded in Shakespeare’s direction. Mills put his hands together, as if applauding at the playhouse.
“But Mr. Mills, I worry more than somewhat about your intelligence gathering…”
Mills reddened. “You do, Mr. Secretary?”
“Indeed, I do. When last this group was convened- sans Mr. Hawkins-you gave a report on the events surrounding the murder of William the Silent at Delft. In the main, it was helpful and accurate, but there was one detail which I now know to be dangerously inaccurate. In truth, I would go so far as to call it false and misleading; I sincerely hope not deliberately so. You said that the assassin Balthasar Gerard had an associate and you gave intelligence, purportedly from Holland, that this unnamed man was known for his beating of whores and that he had battered one to death, mutilating her body with religious symbols. Pray, where did you get this information?”
Mills spluttered, seemingly lost for words. His sharp little eyes widened in something like panic as the eyes of all the others in the room lighted on him. “Why, my contacts in the Dutch network, Mr. Secretary.”
Walsingham shook his head grimly. “I have taken the liberty of contacting the authorities in Delft and Rotterdam. They do not support your information. Yes, they were certain Balthasar Gerard had a confederate, but there was no suggestion of a link with the murdered woman. What they did find was that this confederate of Gerard was a flagellant and that he employed prostitutes to scourge him. At no time was he known to return the favor. Nor were there religious symbols carved into the body of the woman who died.”
“I… I do not understand. That was my information.”
“Are you certain, Mr. Mills, that you did not receive that information closer to home? From Mr. Topcliffe or his associates, perchance?”
Mills was cornered. Shakespeare watched him. The encounter held the same brutal fascination as a bear- baiting when one of the great bears, Sackerbuts or Hunks, had a dog in its grip, breaking its back between the immense power of its paws. Mills conceded defeat. The Secretary nodded. “He told me he had contacts in Holland that had told him this, master. I confess I should have made certain.”
“You should, Mr. Mills, also have wondered why Mr. Topcliffe sought you out to bring you this information. It is scarce within his remit.” Walsingham turned to Shakespeare. “Do you not agree, John? I think your job might have been a little easier without this false trail laid.”
“My apologies,” Mills said. He pushed back his chair and stood. “Mr. Topcliffe told me he had certain information on this matter from a priest he had interrogated, but he said I must not divulge that he was the source. It was unforgivable of me to pass on this information without checking or at least explaining its provenance. Please accept my resignation, Mr. Secretary. I have failed you and must accept your derision.”
“No, Mr. Mills, I will not accept your resignation. But I will accept your apologies. And I trust Mr. Shakespeare will, too. Let us all learn from this. The accuracy of our intelligence is paramount. We must question every scrap of information that comes to us and examine the motives of those from whom it comes. And you must always divulge your sources to me. The fate of our nation depends on it. I leave it to all of you to make your own deductions as to Mr. Topcliffe’s motives in this case. Now then, let us consider other related matters. Firstly, the question of John Doughty, the brother of Thomas Doughty who was executed by Drake on that far-off shore all those years ago. We know John Doughty had his own plot against Drake, that he wanted revenge for his brother’s death, not to mention a twenty-thousand-ducats reward from Philip of Spain. John Doughty was caught and ended up in the Marshalsea. But no one seemed to know what happened to him next, and I believe Mr. Shakespeare wondered whether he might somehow be at large and involved in this most recent plot. Well, I think we can now put everyone’s mind to rest on this matter. Mr. Gregory, if you will…”
Arthur Gregory stood just as Francis Mills slowly sat down, glad to have the eyes of those present focused elsewhere. Gregory smiled and spoke slowly, trying to cover his stammer as best he could. “I made further inquiries. It s-s-seems John Doughty was taken from the Mar-sh-sh-shalsea to Newgate to await execution s-s- some four years past. This sh-should, of course, have been registered in the Marshalsea’s Black Book, but wasn’t. Doughty then cheated the hangman by dying of the bloody flux. A mundane end to a sm-sm-small, resentful man. It s-seems fitting that no one knew, nor cared, what had happened to him. Anyway, the one thing we do know is that he played no part in this most recent affair.”
Walsingham took over. “So we are left with two men: a Fleming going by a variety of names, including Herrick, and a treacherous sea captain named Harper Stanley. The first of these, Herrick, certainly fits the description of Balthasar Gerard’s associate from Delft. I am convinced he was the ‘dragon slayer’ sent here by Mendoza and Philip to assassinate the Vice Admiral, and he came mighty close to succeeding on at least two occasions. I suspect that we will never know more about him, but that does not worry me. I do not wish to make a martyr of Herrick, which is why I believe Mr. Shakespeare was correct to leave him in Plymouth for trial and execution. As far as I am concerned, the fewer people who ever learn of this attempt on Drake’s life, the better. We want our Vice Admiral to be invincible and heroic in the minds of our people. His strength gives us all strength.”
“What of Captain Stanley?” Shakespeare put in. “Do we know aught of him?”
Walsingham looked to his codebreaker. “I took the liberty of asking Mr. Phelippes to make a few inquiries while you were recovering, Mr. Shakespeare.”
Phelippes breathed on the lenses of his glasses, then wiped them clean on the sleeve of his shirt. The glass was scratched and almost opaque from endless buffings. He did not stand to speak. “Indeed I did. He changed his name to Stanley from Percy. We should have spotted him a long time ago. I talked to some of his brother officers and discovered he was an habitue of the French embassy. Stanley told friends that there was a French gentlewoman there with whom he was intimately acquainted. He came and went at will. I then recalled some intercepted letters from the embassy to Mendoza detailing ship movements. We could never work out who sent them. Those letters were exceeding damaging to England, betraying positions and strengths of our fleet. When Drake or Mr. Hawkins was at sea, Mendoza would know of it within days. I have now compared the hand used in these missives with Captain Stanley’s hand, in his papers. They are identical. We believe he sold these secrets for the money and out of resentment for the punishments and disgrace inflicted on his family after the Northern Rebellion eighteen years past. I also believe there is a probability he was linked to the man we are calling Herrick. My theory-and it is no more than such, I am afraid-is that Stanley told Mendoza four or five months ago that if he sent a hired killer, he would provide the assassin with assistance in weapons and access to the Vice Admiral. In the
