there would have been no confusion.’
Shakespeare was silent a moment; that was just how he saw Poley. But he also knew that Poley had connections. He in sinuated himself with those on whom he would prey. ‘This core group — they are the ones who wrote the libels and placed the powder?’
Morley sighed heavily, his narrow shoulders rising and falling as his mouth opened and fell closed. ‘We all did write the words — though I confess it was I who put it into verse — but there was but one powderman, I believe.’
Shakespeare moved forward, drawing his dagger seamlessly and putting its point to Morley’s naked throat. ‘Give me his name, Morley.’ His voice now was a rasp. ‘Give me the name, for you have already told me enough to order you racked till every bone in your body crack asunder. And I will do it, for the Council would demand it of me.’
Morley recoiled from the sharp tip. A spot of blood dripped from his Adam’s apple on to the stained falling band about his neck. Shakespeare saw that he was shaking.
‘Fifty, Mr Shakespeare. I beg you. Find me fifty sovereigns and you shall have it all.’
‘The name!’
‘I will not. It is the one thing that can save me. I will give it to no man without having the silver and freedom that I must have. Elsewise I am dead, whether racked or no.’
Chapter 9
Sir Robert Cecil sat in a straight-backed chair and remained perfectly still as a barber shaved his whiskers from his cheeks, leaving moustaches and a neat beard, which he trimmed into a point. As Shakespeare entered the room, the privy councillor snatched a towel and dabbed at his face. ‘John, I am glad you have come to me. I was about to send for you. There is a change of plan.’
The barber did not wait to be dismissed, but immediately bowed and left the room, carrying his razor, strop and basin.
Shakespeare had been shown straight through to Cecil’s coolly efficient rooms at Greenwich Palace. There were dark, polished shelves here, a plain walnut table, two straight-backed chairs, an inkpot and quills; nothing superfluous to his needs as privy councillor with responsibility for the day-to-day management and security of the realm. He was not a man to clutter his desk with books and scrolls. Business was attended to, then filed away. The room was a reflection of Cecil’s own unflustered demeanour, yet today he seemed strangely agitated.
‘Sir Robert, I have an important development to report,’ Shakespeare said, bowing lightly in deference to his master.
Cecil did not meet Shakespeare’s gaze. Rising to his feet, he put down the towel and reached across to his shelves and took a paper from a file of records. ‘I am removing you from the powder inquiry, John. You are to travel to Gaynes Park Hall in Essex without delay.’ He did not wait for Shakespeare to register his surprise, but ploughed on. ‘You will there meet Antonio Perez and work your charm to secure certain intelligence from him. You will be gone from here within the hour and will ride overnight so that you arrive by dawn at the latest. Mr Mills, in the meantime, will take charge of the Dutch church inquiries. Pass on all your information to him. Here — ’ he handed Shakespeare the sheet ‘- everything you need is in that paper. Clarkson has already drawn up letters-patent for you to present to Perez. He will organise a messenger to inform your wife that you will not be home tonight and perhaps not for days to come, until your work is completed.’
Shakespeare took the paper from Cecil’s taut little hand. For a moment he had no words; this change of mission was sudden, unexpected and disturbing. He had to speak. ‘Sir Robert, if you would give me a hearing before you take this further. Can no one else go to Perez?’
‘No.’
‘My inquiries are at a critical stage. I have a man in custody who says he has the name of the powderman. He is scared for his life and is begging fifty sovereigns to effect his escape. In return he will give us the name. Can there be anything more important than this?’
‘Get Topcliffe on to him. That will loosen his tongue.’
‘The man came to me because he trusted me. He deserves better.’
‘Frank Mills then.’
‘He will bring in Topcliffe. They have interrogated prisoners together in the past.’
‘I will talk to Mills. There will be no torture. But nor will there be fifty sovereigns. Mills will give the man ten marks if his intelligence is sound. Does that satisfy you, John? Well done in finding this man, but you must set him aside for others to deal with. I need you for this Perez assignment, for reasons that I shall explain.’
Shakespeare was stunned into silence. How could he bring up the other line of inquiry — Beth Evans was supposed to be taking him to Walstan Glebe this evening; he could not hand over Beth to the dubious care of Francis Mills.
‘You know a great deal about Perez, I believe, John?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’ He probably knew more about the Spaniard than any man in England, having followed his career — and downfall — closely over many years, both in his time with Walsingham and now with Cecil. In recent weeks he had read the intelligence reports assiduously since hearing Perez was coming to England. Calais swarmed with English spies and Spanish assassins, some of them intent on killing the Spaniard and claiming the reward of twenty thousand ducats offered by King Philip. Enough to make any man rich. Mentally, Shakespeare rehearsed all he knew about Perez. At one time he had been Philip’s most trusted minister; as powerful as a Wolsey or a Cromwell. More powerful, perhaps, for his master always followed his advice and was less capricious than Great Henry. Now Perez was a fugitive, having sought refuge in France to escape a death sentence for a lurid variety of alleged crimes, including the murder of Juan de Escobedo, another of Philip’s senior government officials.
As Shakespeare recalled it, Perez had installed Escobedo as secretary to King Philip’s half-brother, Don John of Austria, with orders to spy on him. Philip did not trust Don John and wanted him closely observed.
But Escobedo had not kept his side of the bargain — he had, in fact, fomented Don John’s subversive ambitions — so Perez had decided that Escobedo must die. Perez had tried to poison Escobedo. When that failed, he hired assassins to hack him to death with swords in a dark back street of Madrid. That was not the end of the matter, for there were those who said Philip had colluded in the murder.
Philip had never been averse to political assassination, but he did not like to have his name associated with a case such as this, so he determined to bring about the ruin and the death of Perez. The minister was arrested, but escaped and fled to Aragon where internal politics had stayed Philip’s hand. By the time Philip was eventually able to move against Perez, he had fled again, this time to France where, in recent months, he had been a guest of Henri IV, earning a precarious living selling Spanish secrets to the highest bidder.
Perez’s former partner in crime, the beautiful Princess of Eboli, had not been so fortunate. She had died in prison. Her relationship with Perez, and indeed King Philip, had never been clear. Some said she was the lover of both men, and that that had been the real argument between them, rather than the murder of Escobedo.
For the past few weeks Perez had been here in England, under the patronage of the Earl of Essex. Thus far the Queen had refused to receive him, fearing that to do so would unnerve her Dutch allies and provoke Philip unnecessarily. Anyway, it was not wise to show favour to traitors, even foreign traitors.
All this was known; what more could Cecil want?
As if hearing Shakespeare’s thoughts, Cecil said, ‘He has a secret to sell. You speak enough Spanish. You will negotiate a price, then bring him to me.’
Shakespeare felt distinctly uneasy; the word from intelligencers in France was that Perez’s secrets were rarely of any real value. He had been away from the Escorial court too long. And there was another problem here — Essex. ‘Sir Robert, you know my history with the earl. He is Don Antonio’s host — he will not allow me into his presence.’
‘Essex is here at court, attending on Her Majesty. You have the field to yourself. Perez is in the country clutching his confounded box of potions and amusing himself with his little group of friends. There will be no better time. It is a difficult mission, John, and it will require your most delicate touch. He will try to extort a high price. I must tell you, too, that you are unlikely to enjoy these people’s company. One of them is Pregent de la Fin, son of
