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  *

  That night, a storm rumbled for hours around the heights of Montmartre then broke over the city, flinging down sheets of hail and rain that turned the cobbled streets to rivers and sent people scurrying to their homes. In his lodgings, Lamotte lay on his bed listening to the hammering of the rain on the roof. The idea of a farewell visit to the little grisette who had entertained him the night before had lost its appeal. Old age, he sighed. It was a sorry state of affairs when the fear of a chill stifled a man’s desire. In his youth, before he met Amélie, he would have braved a torrent to reach a pretty girl’s bed. With a sigh, he turned over and closed his eyes. No doubt Amélie would have teased him for his old man’s ways. Perhaps he was a fool to hope he would ever find someone to take her place.

  Early the next morning, he rose and strolled in the streets. The storm had cleared the air and his spirits lifted. Paris was still the most beautiful city on earth and not all his memories were sad ones. He stowed what remained of Walsingham’s money in a concealed pocket in his doublet and set out for the address Manfredi had given him, doubling back once or twice to make sure he was not being followed.

  A bleary-eyed young woman answered the bell. ‘Signor Manfredi? I haven’t seen him this morning but after last night, I’m not surprised.’

  Lamotte frowned.

  ‘The storm,’ she went on. ‘If he was like me, he must hardly have slept a wink. It frightened the baby too. He made such a commotion with his squalling.’ A thin wail came from behind her and she sighed. ‘I must go and attend to him, monsieur. Will you find your own way up? It is the second floor, the door to the left of the stairs.’

  ‘Of course, I’m sorry to have disturbed you, madame.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  The stairs were steep and Lamotte’s hamstrings grumbled by the time he reached the second floor. Wheezing a little, he knocked and waited. There was no answer. Strange, he was sure he had the right day. He knocked harder and a slit of daylight appeared between the door and its frame. It was not locked. Cautiously, he pushed it a little wider.

  The room was plainly furnished with a table, two chairs and a cupboard against one wall. Dirty pewter plates and cups lay on the table with a dish of cherry pits, a half-empty carafe of wine, the remains of a camembert and a few morsels of bread. The smell of cheese and stale wine lingered in the air. A metallic tapping made him jump but it was only the window banging. He went over and fastened the latch. Outside, a crazy patchwork of tile and slate roofs glinted in the sun. At the sight of him, a black cat slunk away, swishing its tail.

  The door to the next room was ajar but its shutters were closed. The stuffy air had a rank, meaty smell. It took a few seconds for his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light but then he made out a shape on the bed. Going to the window, he undid the shutters and pushed them open. Then his gorge rose.

  Manfredi lay on his back, his eyes wide open. His fleshy lips were no longer pink but stained crimson and between them was stuffed his severed tongue. Blood soaked the front of his cambric shirt and a swarm of bluebottles fed at the gash in his throat. More swarmed over his pudgy hands. They were covered with slashes, dark with dried blood. He must have fought for his life. A brown stain spread from his breeches to the sheets.

  Bile rushed into Lamotte’s mouth. He blundered back to the first room, drained the carafe of wine and wiped his lips. His legs shook. Had Manfredi been tricked? Had the contact he was expecting murdered him? All Lamotte’s instincts told him to leave straight away but if there were any clues, he ought to look for them.

  He steadied his nerves and made a swift search of the lodgings but apart from a few clothes, he found nothing except bills from a tailor and a shoemaker in the city and a letter concerning the cargo of a merchant ship in which Manfredi appeared to have an interest.

  Lamotte put the papers in the grate and reached in his pocket for his tinder box, but then he hesitated. Even though it was unlikely they were of any importance, Walsingham liked thoroughness and he should see them. He tucked them in his jacket then went downstairs and let himself out into the street.

  19

  London

  August, 1587

  ‘Sluys has fallen,’ said Walsingham.

  Lamotte absorbed the news with dismay. Since Spain had seized the great port of Antwerp two years previously, the importance of Ostend and its neighbour Sluys, the two remaining Flemish ports under Protestant control, had soared. Sluys’s fall brought Spain within a hair’s breadth of complete mastery of the Southern Netherlands.

  ‘The Duke of Parma managed to smuggle his men across the marshes when the tide was low to take the island of Cadzand. That gave him the vantage point he needed to bring up his barges and blockade the deepwater channel leading to the city. Our forces tried to dislodge him before it was too late but they failed. After that, he was free to attack the city undisturbed.’

  Lamotte frowned. ‘What about our ships?’

  ‘The Earl of Leicester was with the Dutch fleet off the coast but as has so frequently been the case, Parma outflanked him. Leicester launched a fire ship but he acted too late and Parma’s men were ready for him. They simply uncoupled the barges in its path and let it through. If Leicester had been close behind it, he might have forced the channel, but he was not. Parma must have smiled when he saw the fire ship run aground on a sandbank and burn out harmlessly.’

  Walsingham’s low opinion of the military capabilities of the queen’s favourite, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, came as no surprise to Lamotte: many shared it. He was certainly no match for the Duke of Parma, who was universally hailed as the finest commander of his day.

  ‘Our ships stayed off the coast for three more days,’ Walsingham went on, ‘after which Leicester abandoned hope of saving the city. Eight days later the garrison surrendered. Most of them paid with their lives for their defiance. It is a sorry tale. I hope you have better news for me.’

  Lamotte braced himself. ‘I’m afraid not. Manfredi’s dead. After our first meeting, he asked me to wait a few days then meet him at his lodgings. He told me he had an informer in the Marquis of Santa Cruz’s household and was expecting news. I waited as he asked then set out to see him. When I arrived, I found him with his throat cut.’

  Only a tiny tic at the corner of Walsingham’s left eye betrayed his reaction to the news. ‘Do you have any idea who killed him?’

  ‘None. I had no reason to believe either of us was being followed and I did not meet anyone connected with him except the goldsmith who arranged our first meeting. Manfredi told him we were discussing a contraband shipment of Venetian glass. He appeared satisfied with the explanation.’

  ‘I’m sorry to lose Manfredi. He served me well and it will not be easy to replace him. You say you only had one meeting with him. Did you learn anything of substance?’

  ‘The Spanish are already rebuilding their ships after Drake’s attack on Cadiz, but Santa Cruz is struggling to pay his sailors. He’s also short of supplies. In particular, Drake seized and burnt large consignments of wooden staves and Santa Cruz has been obliged to use unseasoned wood to replace them.’

  Walsingham smiled. ‘That was good work. The old pirate is no fool. Were you able to talk to Manfredi about the map?’

  ‘I fear not, the time didn’t seem right and then it was too late.’

  ‘No matter. Are you sure no one saw you together apart from the goldsmith?’

  ‘The girl at the house where he lodged saw me. She let me in and we spoke briefly.’

  Walsingham scratched a few notes with a quill. ‘Did you find anything in his lodgings?’ he asked when he had finished.

  ‘Only these papers. They may be of no importance but I thought you might wish to see them.’

  Walsingham took the sheaf of papers and glanced at them, then he smiled. ‘I am glad you escaped unharmed, Alexandre. I can ill afford to lose another good man. Will you have a glass of wine with me before you go?’

  Lamotte felt a su
rge of relief at such affability. It had not been beyond the bounds of possibility that Walsingham would blame him for the failure of the mission. Some of the credit for his escape should probably go to Drake’s bonfires.

  When a servant had poured the wine and withdrawn, Walsingham stared pensively into his glass. Still a little wary, Lamotte did not venture to disturb his train of thought.

  ‘Do you believe in omens, Alexandre?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Omens? Why do you ask?’

  ‘I dismissed them once but now I confess I am not sure I was right. No doubt some of the tales are exaggerated – apparitions, storms and floods of biblical proportions – but I cannot recall so terrible a summer. Perhaps we should heed the astrologers.’

  ‘Certainly in Paris I found many pamphlets on sale predicting catastrophe.’

  Walsingham’s eyes narrowed. ‘For England in particular, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lamotte said quietly.

  To his surprise, Walsingham’s expression became animated. ‘Omens may be of use. I believe there have already been many desertions from the Spanish fleet. If fear breeds with hardship, there will be more, for sailors are superstitious men. I intend to have pamphlets of my own printed and distributed among my agents abroad. They will circulate them where they are likely to do the most damage. But that is for another day. Let us drink a health to Her Majesty.’

  Lamotte raised his glass. It was rare for Walsingham to be in an expansive mood. Perhaps it was an opportune moment to mention Tom again. He took a deep breath.

  ‘I hope I do not speak out of turn, my lord, but I wonder if you have had time to consider the case of my young friend, Tom Goodluck?’

  Walsingham frowned. ‘Tom Goodluck?’

  ‘He was accused of the murder of a lawyer named Kemp.’

  ‘Ah yes. I fear the press of business drove your request from my mind but now you have reminded me, I shall look into the matter.’

  Concealing his disappointment, Lamotte smiled. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  20

  London

  September, 1587

  Tom woke with a start to find the grey dawn light creeping through his cell’s high window. He had slept fitfully. He doubted he would ever grow accustomed to the nightly cries and groans of the other prisoners. With a shudder, he realised that what had woken him was the tolling of a bell somewhere deep in the prison. Some forsaken soul would swing before the day was old. Fleetingly, despair engulfed him but he fought to suppress it. That path led to madness.

  He relieved himself in the bucket in the corner. In the confined space, the smell of fresh urine and stale faeces made him gag. He would have liked to pay Barwis for the bucket to be emptied and swilled out, but he didn’t have much money left. If Lamotte did not return soon, he would need it for food.

  He frowned. It was easy to lose track of time in Newgate. How many weeks was it since Lamotte had last come? He had promised to visit before he left for the West Country but suppose something had prevented him? Tom quelled a rising sensation of panic. If Lamotte had already gone, he might be away a long time. Travelling was certain to be slow. West Country roads were poor at the best of times.

  Sat back down on the bed, he fell to thinking of Meg. Was she asleep now, her long dark hair loose over her shoulders as he remembered? He pictured the swell of her breasts, the curve of her cheek, the glow of her soft skin and groaned, almost wishing he had not asked Lamotte to enquire about her. Did he really want to know if she was happy without him?

  The gate at the end of the passageway clanged and footsteps shuffled along it. Barwis peered through the bars. ‘Someone t’see you,’ he said.

  Tom’s heart leapt. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Barwis hissed. ‘It’s your friend with the cash. I told him to come now while it’s quiet but there’s always ears flapping in this place.’

  Lamotte stepped out of the shadows and dropped a few coins into Barwis’s outstretched palm. The old turnkey examined them. ‘Don’t take too long,’ he muttered then turned and shuffled away.

  His joy at the sight of his friend brought tears to Tom’s eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. ‘Forgive me,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I should be apologising to you. My errand took longer than I expected.’ His voice lowered to an undertone and he crooked a finger for Tom to come close to the bars. ‘Listen, I have news.’

  Tom’s heartbeat quickened. ‘Of Meg?’

  ‘No, I haven’t been to Salisbury yet. I told you I would visit you again before I did. This is about you. Sir Francis has looked into your case. While you remain in Newgate, he cannot dismiss the charge against you – even he does not have the power to overrule the law.’

  ‘So there’s no remedy,’ Tom said bitterly.

  ‘Hear me out, there’s more. He didn’t say there is nothing he can do. Some prisoners are to be moved from Newgate to Wisbech, on the Isle of Ely. They are all Catholics imprisoned for their beliefs. You are to go with them. In effect, you will become a political prisoner under Walsingham’s control.’

  ‘How can that be?’

  ‘One of the Catholics is a young man called Gilbert Rowley. He is already sick and likely to die. Walsingham’s plan is for you to change places. Both of you will need to be moved to new parts of the prison of course, where the guards don’t know you and won’t ask questions. In your new cells, “Tom Goodluck’s” health will rapidly worsen. This won’t surprise the gaolers. It’s well known that gaol fever takes hold very quickly. Meanwhile, “Gilbert Rowley” will make a surprising recovery. It may be necessary to give you a draught that will make your illness more convincing until then, but don’t be afraid. The effects will not last long.’

  A thrill of hope went through Tom, swiftly replaced by doubt. ‘Do you think it’ll work?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes, as long as you play your part well. As far as Walsingham is aware, none of the men travelling with you know Rowley. Speak to them as little as possible on the journey. The fact you are recovering from a severe illness should be a good cloak for silence. If you have to answer questions, you are a London man, the youngest son of a Catholic family. The authorities have apprehended you on suspicion of treason.’

  Tom raised an eyebrow. ‘Have I committed treason?’

  ‘Only through youthful indiscretion, but imprisonment has served to make you more fervent in your faith.’

  ‘But when I reach Wisbech, surely my situation will be no better. Won’t my chances of freedom be even more slender?’

  Lamotte glanced over his shoulder. ‘Barwis may come back soon. I don’t want to have to speak of this in the yard where anyone might overhear us, so take heed. There is a price for Walsingham’s help. You have to spend a few years at Wisbech but he promises me you will eventually be free.’

  ‘A few years?’ Tom felt a stab of alarm. ‘What must I do?’

  ‘Watch and listen. Gather information.’

  ‘Walsingham wants me to spy for him?’

  ‘Is that such a great burden in exchange for your life?’

  Tom fell silent.

  ‘It troubles you? Would you prefer to remain here? Your trial cannot be delayed for ever. Do you really think you are likely to be acquitted?’

  Numbly, Tom shook his head.

  Footsteps approached. ‘That’s Barwis,’ Lamotte whispered. ‘Tell me quickly, will you do it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ He reached through the bars and squeezed Tom’s shoulder, ‘I’ll come to the yard tomorrow. Have courage.’

  *

  As he promised, Lamotte returned the following day but on his next visit, Tom was not in the yard. It seemed that the plan was on foot.

  Caution told Lamotte it was unwise to make enquiries. He waited for two more days to pass then at the appointed time he joined the small group of men and women asking permission to visit the prison burial ground.

  In the walled enclosure, he walked through the rows
of graves to where there was a freshly covered plot. Standing over it, he removed his hat.

  ‘Buried that one last night,’ a voice behind him said. He turned to see a guard watching him. ‘You a relative?’ the guard asked. ‘A sovereign’ll buy you a cross and another if you want the name on it.’

  ‘What was the name?’

  ‘Tom Goodluck. Odd, considering,’ he guffawed.

  Lamotte shook his head. ‘Then you won’t get anything out of me today.’

  ‘Who are you looking for then?’ The guard loitered, not giving up hope of a tip.

  ‘A man called Manfredi,’ Lamotte answered quickly. It was the first name that came to mind.

  ‘Never heard of him. Sure you’ve got the right one?’

  ‘It’s not important.’

  He replaced his hat and went back through the gate into the street. It was too early to be triumphant but at least the plan was underway. There was nothing to be done now except follow the company to the country and wait.

  21

  October, 1587

  A blustery wind filled the Curlew’s sails as the small ship left the estuary and tacked northwards, hugging the coast. Below decks, Tom felt the buck and toss of the choppy waves. The hold stank of the fish that must have been the cargo on some previous voyage. The taste of bile rushed into his mouth and he retched.

  ‘God help us if you’re going to puke all the way to Wisbech,’ the man beside him muttered, his voice thick with cold.

  ‘Let him be, Hugh,’ said a tall man with dark hair who sat on the other side of Tom.