‘I believe you are sceptical, Mr Shakespeare, but hear me out. This is Philip’s great stain, the sin that will consign him to perdition.’
‘As you will.’
‘In 1570, Montigny is still alive, held in the castle of Simancas to the north of Madrid, about a hundred miles from Philip’s great monastic palace, the Escorial. This is the year that King Philip takes the last of his four brides, Anne of Austria, his niece.
‘By this time, King Philip has determined that Montigny must be executed. But then fate intervenes. While Anne of Austria is en route to Spain to become Philip’s queen, she stops at Antwerp and there meets Montigny’s mother, the dowager Countess of Hoorn. The countess has already lost her elder son to the Council of Blood and now she goes down on her knees as a supplicant, begging Anne to intercede on behalf of her imprisoned younger son. Anne is touched by the plea and promises that her first act on arrival at Philip’s court in Spain will be to solicit mercy for Montigny. She is certain that such a request will not be denied to his new queen for she knows she is a beautiful woman and has the wiles to gain whatever favour she wishes from a man.’
Shakespeare was about to interrupt, but Perez held up his soft, mottled hand.
‘Be patient, Mr Shakespeare. All will become clear. Now, before Anne departs on the long last leg of her journey, the Duke of Alba hears of her vow to the Countess of Hoorn and is alarmed. He knows the King’s will, which accords with his own; all such rebels must die, especially the Flemish noblemen such as Montigny, whom they see as ringleaders. Without delay, Alba sends a messenger ahead to the Escorial to warn Philip of the plea that his young bride intends to make.
‘Philip is horrified. He feels compromised. If he orders the execution now, it will be clear to Anne what has happened. That would not be a good start to a marriage. And so he determines that Montigny must die by other means. It must be quiet and secret and be made to look like some illness.’
‘So Philip determines to murder Montigny. I still do not understand…’
Perez was not to be stopped. ‘A letter signed by Philip is sent to the governor of Simancas castle, ordering the killing and giving details of how it is to be concealed. I have seen this letter. It specifies that word is to be put out that the prisoner is seriously ill. Every day for a week a physician is to be admitted to the castle with remedies for Montigny’s supposed ailments. The governor of the castle follows his instructions faithfully. The physician is brought in very publicly day by day so that his presence is noted. Then comes the day of death. Imagine, if you will, the dark-shadowed stone walls of this remote castle. At midnight the brutish executioner arrives with his garotte concealed beneath his black cape. He is welcomed with wine by the governor. They speak in whispers. No one must know what is happening.
‘Some time between two and three of the clock, when the castle sleeps, the governor and his squat, strong- armed guest walk silently through the dungeons to the cell where Montigny slumbers. He wakes in a panic to find the governor and a masked man staring down at him. The governor tells him that the King has granted him a special dispensation. He will not, after all, be executed publicly in the manner of commoners, but will die quietly here in his cell in a style befitting his noble status. He is telling Montigny that he is to be murdered, here and now, and that he should be thankful for the favour! But first he must write a last letter to his wife, as if composed on his sickbed, to prove that he has died naturally. It will bring her comfort, he is told, to believe that he has not suffered a violent death. He is left with no option; with a heavy heart he writes his last will and testament and sends his love and blessings to his family, revealing nothing about the true nature of his impending doom. There is no priest to administer the last rites but he is told he may pray. He falls to his knees and is about to commend his soul to God when the assassin strikes from behind, looping the garotte about his neck and twisting the rope and rod with his blacksmith’s muscles, choking the life from his victim in silence.
‘The executioner slips away into the night and the governor sends a letter to Philip to tell of the sad death of the prisoner from fever. The people of Simancas and the officers of the castle believe this, for they saw the physician day by day. They do not see the body, nor the purplish weal on the neck, for Montigny is already in his winding sheet, ready for interment. The king affects sorrow, and the world thinks no more of Floris van Montmorency, Baron of Montigny. If Anne of Austria and Montigny’s mother have suspicions, what can they say? What can they prove?’
At last, Perez paused for effect. He looked at Shakespeare and shrugged his shoulders lightly as if all should now be clear to him. ‘And there you have it. That is the kind of man we have as king of half the world. That is Philip the Second of Spain. A man who would kill without honour and hide behind the skirts of women. What do you say to that, Mr Shakespeare? Will this tale not bring me to court? Is it not worth Cecil’s gold?’
Shakespeare struggled for something to say. Yes, this was of great interest, but nothing more. The Queen would listen to it avidly and clap her hands with glee and horror. Yes, it would cause a sensation at court. It could be used against Philip. It would stiffen the resolve of Protestants and cause consternation among Catholics. In its way, it had value. But in the greater scheme of international politicking, it was a trifle. And at home, it was of no significance to the safety of the realm and no relevance to the succession. Compared to the story told by the old nun, it was as nothing.
‘It is a hideous story, Don Antonio. But what has this to do with Mary, Queen of Scots and the secret of her son by Bothwell?’
Perez, exhausted by the telling of his story, had opened the lid to his box and was sifting through the glass vials. At last he plucked one out, removed its little cork stopper and tipped the contents down his throat. He closed his eyes and reclined on the bench, the hazy sun full on his pallid, mottled face.
‘Don Antonio?’
‘I do not know what you are saying, Mr Shakespeare. There, you have the great secret. My life is worth nothing now. Philip has tried to kill me these many years for fear that I would disclose it. Now, he will divert every assassin in his armoury towards me.’
‘Don Antonio, we were led to believe you had information of the son born to Mary of Scots in the castle of Lochleven.’
Perez breathed deeply, luxuriating in the warmth of the opium spirit as it spread through his body. ‘You are talking in riddles, Mr Shakespeare… What we need is a coalition against this murderous Philip and his empire of death. We must bring in the Dutch, the French, the Portingales and the Mussalmans of Turkey…’
‘You sent a message to Sir Robert Cecil that you had a secret to sell, one pertaining to the royal succession. The tale of Montigny has no bearing on the English Crown. How could it?’
‘I said I had a great secret to sell. I said nothing of succession.’
Shakespeare looked at him hard. A cloud passed across the face of the sun. No. Of course he had said no such thing, for it was not Perez who had given the message to Cecil that there was a secret for sale. That task would have been given to his secretary, who would most certainly have listened to Ana Cabral. Perez was nothing to do with any of this. He was a bystander, a convenience. This was all about Ana Cabral and the old nun. Perez could propose his grand schemes for the overthrow of Philip, yet all the while his mistress was busy with the real plot. Perez had been no more than a ticket of passage to England. Without knowing it, every action he took was abetting the very regime he wished to destroy. Shakespeare stood up. He could not wait here a moment longer.
‘I remember such a tale, Mr Shakespeare,’ Perez said languidly, eyes now closed. ‘In the late sixties, it was whispered in court circles that a child had been brought from Scotland to Spain, but I paid such tittle-tattle no heed…’
Shakespeare was not listening. He had already bowed curtly to Don Antonio and was now running through the garden towards the water-stairs. He needed to bring in the Cabral woman without delay.
Chapter 28
The oarsman brought the tilt-boat smoothly alongside the little pier beside Essex’s private water-stairs. ‘Greenwich,’ Shakespeare said brusquely. The boat rocked and the water lapped at its bows as he settled into the seat at the back. ‘Why are there not two of you? I’m in a hurry.’
‘My copesmate ails, master. The bloody flux. But the tide is with us…’
‘Put muscle into it and you shall have an extra groat.’
