The Course of All Treasons Read online

  THE COURSE OF ALL TREASONS

  AN ELIZABETHAN SPY MYSTERY

  Suzanne M. Wolfe

  In Memory of John McEntee, my beloved grandfather

  And as in the common course

  of all treasons, we still see them reveal

  themselves, till they attain to their abhorred ends,

  so he that in this action contrives against his own

  nobility, in his proper stream o’erflows himself.

  —All’s Well That Ends Well

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  Simon Winchelsea: Agent working for Sir Francis Walsingham.

  The Honorable Nicholas Holt: Spy, adventurer, owner of The Black Sheep Tavern, Bankside.

  Robert, Earl of Blackwell: Nick’s older brother.

  Francesco del Toro: Spanish diplomat.

  Edmund Lovett: Acquaintance of Nick’s from undergraduate days at the University of Oxford; currently an agent in the employ of the Earl of Essex.

  Sir Robert Cecil, aka the Spider: Nick’s immediate boss under Sir Francis Walsingham.

  Elizabeth I: Queen of England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, etc.

  Robert Devereaux, Earl of Essex: The Queen’s favorite, stepson to the Earl of Leicester and former ward of Baron Burghley.

  Codpiece the Fool: The Queen’s personal spy at court.

  Hector: Nick’s Irish Wolfhound.

  John Stockton: Nick’s childhood friend; runs The Black Sheep.

  Maggie Stockton: John’s wife.

  Bess: A parrot formerly owned by the playwright Christopher Marlowe.

  Henry and Jane Stockton: Maggie and John’s children.

  Matty: A former cinders from Whitehall Palace who now lives at The Black Sheep.

  Will Shakespeare: A young, aspiring playwright.

  Kat: Madam of a Bankside brothel; Nick’s friend and occasional lover.

  Joseph: Kat’s business partner; formerly The Terror of Lambeth, a retired wrestler.

  Harold: An unsuccessful rat-catcher.

  Sir Francis Walsingham, Secretary of State: Head of the Queen’s spy network in England.

  Lady Annie O’Neill: Daughter of the exiled Hugh O’Neill, Ireland’s future Earl of Tyrone.

  Henry Gavell and Richard Stace: Agents working for Essex.

  Sir Thomas Brighton: Agent working for Walsingham.

  Eli: Jewish doctor who lives in Bankside.

  Rivkah: Twin sister of Eli, doctor in all but name.

  Sir John Staffington: Gentleman who lives in the same lodging house as Sir Thomas Brighton.

  Mistress Shrewsbury: Landlady of Sir John Staffington and Sir Thomas Brighton.

  Sundry other minor players.

  PROLOGUE

  Wood Wharf, London

  “Satan’s pizzle!”

  Simon Winchelsea cursed as he sank ankle-deep in the revolting effluent running like a river down the center of the street. A cold rain had been steadily falling since late afternoon; he was wet as a witch on a ducking stool, and now he was literally wading through shit. And all because Sir Francis Walsingham had tasked him to shadow a mark to a nighttime meet.

  Not for the first time, Simon thought with nostalgia of his poaching days on the great estates near his childhood home in Windsor. How he longed for the great spreading canopies of leaves that sheltered him from the worst of the rain instead of the filthy torrents that cascaded onto his head from overflowing gutters. What he wouldn’t give for the musky tang of fox and badger in his nostrils instead of the reek of raw sewage; for the merry trilling of a stream in his ears instead of obscene curses.

  The two-legged animals he now hunted were not only far more stupid than the four-legged variety but infinitely more dangerous. He hated London for its noise and filth and rapacious venality. Query the dubious contents of a pie, and the beefy matron who sold it to you would likely knee you in the bollocks; challenge a tavern owner over the outrageous price of the piss he called ale, and you could find yourself flat on your back while a crowd of inebriates did a Morris dance on your head. The only good thing about London, in Simon’s opinion, was the abundance of whores who lounged in doorways, hung out of windows, flashed a leg at street corners, and generally advertised their wares with a lewdness that Simon—still a country lad at heart—found thrilling. And unlike the solitary drab in his home village, a long-in-the-tooth widow with six children to feed, the London whores were willing, nay eager, to do anything for a shilling.

  Simon knew he shouldn’t complain. Walsingham had intervened when Simon would have been hanged for taking a brace of pheasants from a royal park despite being a mere ten yards inside the boundary when he loosed his arrows. Since when was Mother Nature the exclusive right of kings and queens? he had asked the magistrate. Since when was it a crime for the landless poor to eat? The magistrate, whose ponderous belly proclaimed him to be a man of substance, both literally and figuratively, had given a mighty yawn before sentencing him to death.

  Simon had been crouched on the floor of a dark and airless cellar underneath the magistrate’s manor, miserably contemplating his fate, when there was a rattle of keys, the door creaked open, and he was unceremoniously hauled into the presence of a dour man dressed in black. The man, Simon later learned, was Sir Francis Walsingham, Secretary of State and head of Queen Elizabeth’s spy network.

  Thinking his time on earth was up, Simon had not been able to take in what the man was telling him. But when the man courteously bade him take a seat and offered him a cup of ale, Simon realized that a proposition was being put to him: work for Walsingham’s spy network in London or swing from the gallows. It was the easiest choice Simon had ever made. Ever since, he had been Walsingham’s best tracker, the difference being that now he hunted in the city and not in the verdant woods of his youth.

  The man Simon Winchelsea had been tasked to follow on this night was a fast walker, and Simon had to concentrate. His difficulty did not lie in his comparatively shorter legs but rather in the foul weather. Not only did the pelting rain reduce visibility, but it had turned the roads into a noisome torrent, ankle-deep in some parts, and Simon was hard-pressed to keep his quarry in sight while watching where he put his feet.

  One advantage to the miserable weather was that the mark took no precautions to elude a possible shadow and did not once glance back over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. Admittedly, it was late and the streets were deserted, all decent folk safely tucked up in their beds. Aside from the taverns, still rowdy with late drinkers, the buildings Simon passed were shuttered and silent, dark shapes looming at the edge of his vision. The night watchmen had forsaken the streets and were no doubt keeping dry in the same taverns they habitually patrolled. A mercy on a night such as this, Simon knew his unsuspecting quarry must be thinking. And one that allowed him to pass seemingly unseen through the streets of a foreign city.

  But the man Simon was following was mistaken if he thought he was alone, that his nefarious purpose remained undetected.

  Simon grinned to himself as he flitted silently and invisibly through the streets. What matter a bit of mud? He could always clean his boots. Despite the weather, this was turning out to be an easy night’s work, and Simon was looking forward to getting paid handsomely when he reported in.

  Only once did Simon think he was going to lose his mark. Just as the man turned onto Fleet Street, a whore appeared out of a dark doorway and beckoned to him. The man stopped, and Simon saw the whore draw him into the dark overhang of the doorway. Simon prayed fervently that his quarry would not disappear into the whore’s rooms and leave him standing for hours outside in the cold and rain. Much to his relief, the man stepped back out of the doorway and continued on his way. Simon
waited a moment to give the whore time to leave, then followed. When Simon glanced into the doorway as he passed, it was empty.

  The man turned west on Fleet Street and now turned south toward the river and Wood Wharf. He stopped at the wharf and leaned against a piling, clearly waiting, his shoulders hunched miserably in his cloak. The lantern fixed to the piling to guide wherrymen in the dark swung crazily in the wind as if someone were signaling the alarm. Simon crouched down behind an abandoned shed and waited, praying it would not be for long. He had promised Joan, one of the whores who plied her trade in Smithfield, where Simon lived, that he would see her tonight. If he didn’t get back by midnight, she would ditch him for another punter.

  Simon pictured Joan naked in his bed, the youthful perfection of her body more than making up for the sourness of her breath and the front teeth lost in a fight with a rival who had trespassed on her patch. If he closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth, he could almost imagine he was fucking Venus herself.

  Then he tensed. Someone was approaching.

  “It’s me,” the newcomer called out.

  “About time. Your wretched English weather will be the death of me.”

  Simon could hear not only impatience in the man’s voice but contempt. Although valuable and assiduously recruited by foreign powers, traitors were despised the world over. And the newcomer was certainly a traitor. Not only was he an Englishman, but Simon had recognized his voice, had seen him drinking in The Angel earlier that night with a man who was built like the side of a privy. He was straining to hear their conversation over the sound of the rain when a sudden gust of wind sweeping off the river made the shed door swing back on its hinges with a bang.

  “What’s that?” Simon heard the foreigner say.

  “Probably nothing. I made sure I wasn’t followed.”

  “What do you have for me?” the foreigner asked.

  “What about payment?”

  “Later.”

  “I need the money now.”

  Simon could hear the note of desperation in the traitor’s voice.

  “You think I carry such a sum at night in this God-forsaken hole? You think I want to have my throat cut? Besides, you have yet to give me anything of value.”

  The door banged again.

  Chancing a quick glance along the side of the shed, he saw the dark outlines of the two men standing stock-still on the jetty, the traitor with his head raised like a dog snuffing the air. Silently, Simon shrank back against the wall, looking down so the pale oval of his face would not give him away. Then he heard footsteps approaching the hut, and for the first time that night, fear clutched at his chest.

  “Who’s there?”

  The door of the shed creaked and Simon heard someone step inside, threads of light from the lantern showing feebly through the rotted planks. Now was Simon’s chance to escape. But no sooner had his mind registered that fact than he felt a searing pain in his thigh. For a moment, he thought he had pierced his flesh on a nail; then he realized he had been run through with a sword. Gasping, he tried to rise, but his left leg gave way and he stumbled and fell. Clawing at the mud, he began to pull himself into the chest-high weeds behind the shed, his injured leg trailing uselessly behind like a leveret with a broken back.

  This is what it felt like to be hunted, he thought, and felt a sudden stab of pity for all the creatures he had slain. Then he heard the sound of wood splintering, and hands gripped his legs and began pulling him into the shed. Simon twisted onto his back and clawed at his attacker, trying to reach his throat, his fingers snagging on something but not enough to do any damage. Kicking with his uninjured leg, he again tried to claw at the shape above him. Then everything went black.

  * * *

  When he came to, Simon thought he was back in the woods at home. What he’d first thought were branches slowly came into focus and revealed themselves to be the wooden planks of a roof. He was lying on his back in the shed, his arms bound to his sides by something cinched so tightly around his chest he had difficulty breathing. A belt, he thought.

  A dark mass loomed over him.

  “I know you,” a voice said. “You are Walsingham’s bloodhound.”

  Simon tried to control the fear coursing through his body, turning his bowels to water. Whatever happened, he vowed, he would not disgrace himself but die like a man. And die he would, he realized. For his attacker could not afford to let him live now he knew he had been discovered. For a brief moment, Simon had a vision of Joan waiting for him in his rooms, wondering why he did not come. Then he smiled mirthlessly to himself. No, she would not be missing him; she would be missing the money he gave her. When he did not return, she would curse him and go back to the streets. In less time than it took for a couple of pennies to change hands, he would be forgotten. Suddenly he wished with all his heart that he had married the girl in the village his parents had picked for him, that he had sired children. And he was overcome with a terrible sadness that no one would grieve for him, no one would remember him in their prayers when he was gone.

  “Tell me what you know. Whom have you told?”

  “Go to hell.”

  Simon saw the tip of a blade hover over his left eye, then heard an animal screaming. It sounded like the high-pitched cry of a vixen or perhaps a stoat caught in a trap.

  “Sweet Jesus!”

  Simon heard himself calling for his mother, something he had not done since he was five years old.

  Then the world, and all he loved in it, shrank to a point and winked out.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Spotted Cow, Oxford

  Nicholas Holt, younger brother of Robert, Earl of Blackwell, was sprawled on a bench, booted feet up on a table, in a hole-in-the-wall tavern tucked behind New College, Oxford. Although Oxford was his hometown, he was there that day on business. Spy business.

  His immediate master, Sir Robert Cecil, aka the Spider, had ordered Nick to see if he recognized an agent. Cecil’s source at the port of Dover had informed him that a man looking suspiciously like a Spaniard but speaking flawless English had stayed one night in a Dover inn and then set out the following day for London. This would not have provoked much interest if not for the fact that England and Spain were on an unofficial war footing and Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador, had been expelled for complicity in an assassination plot on the Queen. Sir Francis Walsingham, the head of Queen Elizabeth’s spy network and Cecil’s superior, had ordered that any Spaniard entering England was to be closely watched.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the man’s name was an alias. Under half-closed lids, Nick thought that if the black-haired, brown-eyed man was John Smith, then he, Nick Holt, spy, adventurer, and owner of The Black Sheep Tavern in Bankside, London, was the Man in the Moon. He had recognized the man immediately as Francesco del Toro, a member of the Spanish ambassador’s retinue in Paris. Nick had picked up his trail in London, then followed him to Oxford. What should have taken a day of hard galloping on a fast horse had instead taken a wearisome four days to cover the fifty-one miles. Del Toro’s sorry nag had thrown a shoe outside Henley-on-Thames, and it had taken him a day to find a blacksmith. On the third day, a rainstorm that turned to blinding sleet at dusk forced del Toro to seek shelter in an inn at Abingdon. Wet, cold, and miserable, Nick had slipped a boy a farthing so that he could bed down in the stables.

  Now, sitting in The Spotted Cow, his arse sore from days in the saddle, his head aching with what he suspected was a fatal dose of influenza (his friend Sir Thomas Brighton had come down with it just before Nick left London) and filthy despite his icy ablutions in the horse trough of the inn the previous night, Nick heartily wished del Toro’s soul to the devil.

  In reality, del Toro was probably feeling closer to heaven at that very moment. His hands were full—literally—of a surprisingly delectable trollop with flowing blond hair who straddled his lap while he nuzzled the large white breasts barely contained by her low-cut, flame-colored bodice. A group of unde
rgraduates who should have been discussing the finer points of Cicero with their tutors were boisterously cheering him on. Just another reason, Nick concluded morosely, why he had grown to hate the man, enemy agent or not.

  And he was undeniably an agent, of that Nick had no doubt. Unfortunately, he had not seen him meet with anyone suspicious either on the journey or during his two-day stay in the city. In fact, the man had behaved like a tourist, wandering aimlessly around the city gawping at the colleges and interiors of the chapels. He looked more like a man who was killing time than a man on a mission. But whoever the man was supposed to meet had not shown up, and now del Toro was getting ready to leave, if the packed saddlebags by his feet were any indication.

  “Nick.”

  Nick’s heart sank at the familiar voice, but he quickly plastered a delighted smile on his face as his older brother, Robert, shouldered his way through the throng of inebriated students. “What are you doing here?” Robert said, sitting down on the bench beside Nick. “Why didn’t you tell us you were in town?”

  By us, Robert meant Elise, his wife, and Agnes, their widowed mother, who lived with them at Binsey House. Robert did not know Nick was a spy, that Nick had, in fact, been coerced into working for Cecil because of Robert’s own actions. A letter Robert had written to an old Oxford friend, a Jesuit, had been intercepted by Cecil. He had threatened to investigate Robert for communicating with a Catholic order that had vowed to unseat Elizabeth from the throne and return England to the one true faith.

  As Nick and Robert were from a prominent recusant Catholic family, this threat had been very real and hung like the sword of Damocles perpetually over their heads. Essentially, Nick was at Cecil’s mercy, especially since he knew Robert had deep sympathies with those who would like to see England return to the old faith.

  “How long have you been here?” Robert asked. Then, before Nick could reply, he bawled, “Ho, there, Alan. Ale, if you please.”