Divided Loyalties: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller Read online

  ‘Yes, madam. Please, take my horse – I’ll take another.’

  ‘You are coming?’

  ‘I am to see you safe to the continent.’

  ‘On whose orders?’ cut in a new voice. At Anne’s elbow had appeared her secretary, a sallow-faced man called Cottam. Anne looked down at him.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Who is your master, young sirrah?’

  Jack Cole glanced at his wife and both took on the evasive look Amy had worn earlier. ‘It is hard to explain, my lady. And not the time. Please, take my horse.’

  ‘Lady Northumberland shall sit on my horse,’ sniffed Cottam. ‘And her girl shall take the baby on yours. Madam, I do not trust this pair. They mean to stop you and hand you over to those heretics.’ The horn sounded again, louder. Anne thought she could hear hoofbeats echoing from somewhere to the south of the burgh. They seemed to be outpacing her heart.

  ‘Fight them later, Will. Help me and Kat mount and take us from here.’

  Within a few minutes all were mounted, including the disagreeable young couple, and Anne shouted across the heads of her remaining servants, ‘my good people – we are attacked by enemies who would stop our passage. For the love you bear God and myself, go out into the streets and hold them.’ Then, turning to her companions, she said in a lower voice, ‘let us be off!’ Riding alone, she led Cottam and Kat out of the courtyard, and, turning, saw Jack and Amy Cole bringing up the rear. A group of male servants, armed with knives, saws, and, in one case, a broom, marched out after them, turning in the opposite direction. A stable boy with a bucket on his head and a riding crop in his hand ran to join them.

  They rode pell-mell through the streets, passing wattle-and-daub houses, sending up clouds of dusty mud. A huddle of women scattered as they passed by the cathedral and into another maze of alleyway-like streets, buildings overhanging like curious old judges.

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘No – no!’

  Rounding a corner, Anne heard the cries behind her and reined in. She twisted her neck to see what was happening. A man in the austere black of the Protestants was grappling at the Coles’ horse with one hand. In the other, he held a club. ‘What is this?’ she shouted.

  ‘A ballie,’ said Cottam, drawing up alongside her. ‘Must think he has more to gain by selling us to the heretics. Probably one himself. Leave them, my lady, before we are all taken.’

  Anne remained, irresolute, watching the scene unfold. Amy, she saw, had taken hold of the end of the bat as the baillie had tried to swing it and would not let go. ‘Let us go, you fat turd!’ she screeched. ‘Let go!’ Her husband was kicking out with one leg. All of this seemed to frighten the horse, who reared up, nearly toppling them both. The hunting horn, definitely within the town walls now, bleated, and the baillie half-turned to it. Jack leant forward and seemed to whisper to the horse, calming it. When their attacker returned his attention to them, the pair were once again firmly seated, and their mount had swung around. Fear erupted on the baillie’s face, his triumphant expression wiped away by sudden realisation. The horse bounded over him, throwing him to the ground and trampling him underfoot. Not content, it kicked its back legs out, throwing the unfortunate man. Blood sprayed against the wall of the house he had come from. A hoof had caught the side of his head. Jack Cole’s eyes met hers, his grin fixed and nervous. Amy’s did too, but those were full of angry glee. She nodded at them and the whole party continued its flight.

  The smell of the sea, fresh and invigorating, rose towards them as they reached the shore. Thundering over clumps of beach grass, they made for the stone-built harbour. Once there, Seton’s party was not difficult to find. He stood on the docks, directing men and goods onto one of the ships that stood amongst the forest of masts. Before they could get within speaking distance, he had spotted them and apparently begun hurrying his orders.

  ‘We are surprised,’ Anne called, without preamble.

  ‘Board, my lady. You and your people. Now.’

  Immediately, Seton hopped away from the landing board and helped her dismount, the rest of the group tossing themselves to the ground. ‘Hellfire with the horses,’ snapped Seton. ‘Shift yourselves aboard and leave them.’ Needing no further encouragement, Kat, Cottam, and the Coles followed him and Anne up the planked ramp and onto the deck, crouching low to avoid the rigging and the half-furled sails. As soon as they were all safely aboard, he was barking orders down to a surly group of sailors still on dry land.

  As soon as she was on deck, Anne moved to the ropes that formed a low railing and looked back towards the burgh. Smoke had begun issuing from somewhere. Men’s cries carried on the wind. She stood transfixed, watching as a colourful cloud emerged from between the nearest houses. She recognised a standard – the arms of the house of Morton – and cursed under her breath. They were coming for her, just as the Cole girl had said. Behind them were visible the tiny figures of her own folk, their arms rising and falling as they appeared to be hurling rocks.

  ‘We are moving, my lady.’ She turned to face Cottam. ‘Your things, though, I think are lost. No doubt to be worn by some fat common heretics’ wives.’

  ‘I have lost more precious things,’ she said.

  ‘What was that?’

  She did not respond. Instead, she looked over his shoulder for her daughter, who was in Kat’s arms. One child would be coming with her at least, she thought, cuffing away a tear and hoping it would look only like the sting of saltwater had got to her. Goodbye sensible Elizabeth. Goodbye flighty Lucy. Goodbye darling Jane. And goodbye, Thomas – God be with you. One day, if He was good, little Maria might meet her sisters, who were safe with friends in England; would meet her father, who languished in the evil Morton’s custody.

  Farewell, old life.

  She had heard or read somewhere that every ending was a beginning, for as long as the world endured. As her eyes roved over the strange crew who were sailing with her, she prayed it were true. Amy Cole was offering the baby one of her fingers. Jack Cole was staring down at them both, a lopsided smile on his face. Neither seemed upset by the fact that they had almost certainly killed a man. ‘Who are they?’ Cottam asked, ‘who are they to be coming with us?’. Again, Anne ignored him. She returned her gaze to the shore. Morton’s men were drawing closer, mostly on foot as they crossed the sand-grass. Anne’s stomach lurched as The Port of Leith seemed to settle in the water. Looking down, she saw a group of sweating, shirtless men pushing at the hull with long planks. Then the ship seemed to detach itself from the dockside, as though cut loose by a knife. She felt her legs waver.

  ‘Will you come down?’ It was not Cottam this time, but Seton.

  ‘You have saved us all, my lord,’ Anne said, remembering to smile. ‘Bless you.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, looking down and shuffling his feet, a forty-year-old boy of sixteen. ‘Those soldiers will turn tail back to Lochleven, lest your … your husband … attempts escape. Westmorland’s friends will see that he follows us from the town in some days. The Low Countries will see the rebirth of the true faith on this benichted island. It’ll be a lang space before I see Scotland again.’ The things men do for love and loyalty, she thought.

  Anne nodded. The angry shrieking on the shore rose, as the dockyard workers threw themselves into a melee with the attackers. Then it began to fall, as the ship put out to sea. ‘A farewell to Scotland,’ she said. ‘And a good morrow to that strange pair.’

  2

  Jack stood with his hands behind his back and a nervous smile stretching his features. The countess did not invite him to sit, though there was a cushioned stool opposite the narrow cot on which she sat. A tall, handsome woman, with soft, refined features, somewhere in her thirties. It was a nonsense, he knew, that women’s faces betrayed their breeding – many noblewomen he had seen looked like decorated draymen – but this lady’s eyes reflected an educated and razor-sharp mind. She let silence spin out between them and he stood, content to be watched, hoping that simple honesty showed o
n his face.

  ‘What is your true name?’ she said at length, not taking her eyes from his face.

  ‘Jack Cole, my lady.’

  She continued to stare awhile, before blinking and speaking. ‘And for whom do you work, Jack Cole?’

  ‘I …’ she was not going to make things easy for him. He had had a speech prepared, but it had been for a stupid, grateful woman, not a sharp one. ‘I am paid by the ambassador to France. England’s ambassador, Sir Henry Norris.’

  ‘Then you are paid by Elizabeth,’ she said. The ship rolled a little and she sucked in her cheeks, her prominent cheekbones catching the light from a tiny window. ‘You are not my friend.’

  ‘Madam, I … it is true I’ve been employed by the English queen. I had no choice, nor my wife. We were constrained to it. We were made to flee England. Yet I am a true Catholic. I have betrayed my orders and …. In truth I’ve risked my life to see you out of Scotland. Because it was the right thing to do.’

  ‘Then,’ she said, her voice cold, ‘you are an ambidexter.’ Jack opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. To his shame, the countess half-smiled. ‘I mean that you play on both hands, sirrah. You are a man who will sell himself to any who care to pay and betray them afterwards. A man not to be trusted. A man without loyalty.’

  He balled his hands into fists. There it was. Loyalty. Everyone expected it, and condemned others for lacking it, even when their own was questionable. Had Lady Northumberland not betrayed her queen, heretic though Elizabeth was? Was loyalty not inferior to faith? A heavy, clunking word, loyalty, even the sound of it: an anvil wrapped in purple velvet. In the past he had had no loyalties to ideas or men, preferring instead to espouse whatever he thought others expected. No more. ‘I am no such thing. I mean, I do what I think right, not what pays.’

  ‘What are you,’ she said over him, ‘a young gentleman deprived of his fortune? Your voice speaks the north to me, yet you have been in league with the southern pretender and her minions. A knight, perhaps, selling his sword and secrets?’

  ‘I am,’ said Jack, raising his chin, ‘formerly a groom in the household of the duke of Norfolk. Son to a yeoman now dead.’

  ‘A yeoman’s son?’ For the first time, surprise registered on her face, and was quickly smoothed away. ‘You betrayed Norfolk to the she-wolf?’

  ‘No, madam. I …’ He faltered, shaking his head. ‘Can I tell you my story from the beginning?’

  Jack thought he detected interest from the countess at the mention of Norfolk’s name, and he tilted his head as he asked his question. She did not answer immediately, but again let silence fall between them. Outside, two sailors were hurling oaths and curses about each other’s mothers. Others were egging them on to deeper channels of vulgarity and cheering and sucking their teeth loudly at every insult. Eventually, she glanced towards the window. ‘I gather it will be some days before we reach our destination. Speak, then, if you will, Cole.’

  ‘Call me Jack, my lady, please. My masters have always done so,’ he said, before launching into the catalogue of dramas which had set him on the strange path he had followed since leaving Norfolk’s employ.

  ***

  Amy did not like being at sea. She liked it even less that her husband seemed to be unaffected by the interminable rolling and pitching. Most of the women aboard – she and a few other sour serving women – had been confined in a tiny, unlit cargo hold deep in the ship’s bowels, so small one could not even stand fully. Only the countess, her baby, and the young nurse, Kat, had been given the luxury of a small, velvet-lined cabin on a deck above.

  The Port of Leith pitched deeper in the water and rose like a cork, and Amy’s stomach went with it. She huddled her knees up to her chin and braced her back against the bulwark. No matter how often she sailed, she would never get used to it. It was like being buried alive, the weight of the upper decks pressing down on you. ‘I need air,’ she said to no one in particular, rising on wobbly legs and feeling her way along the bulwark to the patch of light that deigned to intrude from above. A short rope ladder hung down from it.

  Emerging from the darkness, she clutched her way out into daylight, timing her steps with the movements of the ship, and made her way to the upper deck, desiring only to have nothing hanging over her head. As she got closer to the more habitable areas, she felt eyes on her and, turning, saw a sailor staring. He did not break his gaze. Instead, he grinned, and deliberately looked her up and down. A drawn-faced devil with a neatly clipped moustache – but a cocky one. Of course she would be getting peeped at when she looked like a drab. Without a word, she raised her middle finger, turned her hand, and jabbed it at him, pulling a face and moving on. His booming laughter followed her.

  Without realising it, she had reached the deck on which the countess’ cabin lay. Curious to see the kind of luxury the little maid Kat was enjoying so that she might complain about the unfairness, she moved towards it. Outside the door, she saw the clerk, Cottam, standing with his ear to it.

  ‘Listening at doors, sir?’ she asked, a note of triumph in her voice. He started and turned, anger further darkening his features.

  ‘You … how dare you speak to me like that. I shall tell the countess to tell your husband what a sharp little creature you are.’

  ‘Tell her you were listening at her door, you mean?’ Discomfort always made her bold. Boldness, she knew, could sometimes make her behave stupidly.

  ‘Hold your tongue, wench. As it happens, I was on the point of seeking you. Your man’s in there now, and the countess would have you go in and corroborate the wild tales he tells. Without speaking to him first.’

  Amy looked him squarely in the eye. She had never heard the word ‘corroborate’ before, and suspected he knew it. ‘I’ll be glad to speak before her. If you’ll kindly get out of my way. Shall I keep my voice loud enough for you to hear?’ She made to shove past him, but he gripped her arm just as her fingers brushed the iron door handle.

  ‘I trust neither you nor the man you call husband,’ he hissed. ‘I shall be watching you both. Traitors never prosper.’

  ‘I’ve no need to care what you think,’ she snapped. ‘Only what the countess thinks.’ There, she thought. No friends won. It was a curious thing, but given what her life had become, she truly seldom cared what people thought. Only Jack mattered – if they could be safe somewhere together, they could overcome anything. He had proven it by coming back from the dead the previous year. ‘Now let go of my arm.’ He did. She opened the door without knocking or giving Cottam a second glance.

  Inside, the small chamber was a study in opulence compared to her own quarters. Dominating the room was a bunk on which the countess sat, an empty, blanketed coffer next to it. Beside a stool stood Lord Seton, his arms folded, and just in front of her was Jack. He turned and smiled. She was unsure whether it was nervous, habitual, or a sign that things were going well.

  ‘Amy Cole,’ said the countess. ‘The woman I wished to see.’ Amy inclined her head. The older woman had a Yorkshire edge to her speech. It was an accent she had always found straightforward and sensible, quite unlike the affected style of English spoken in the south. ‘Your husband has been telling us a strange tale. So strange I had to call his lordship in to hear it. Do you believe it, my lord, or should we have the wife verify it? I trust to your shrewd opinion as in all things.’

  ‘No harm having the lass speak,’ said Seton, deepening his voice.

  ‘I agree. Wise. Where were you living a year ago?’

  ‘In the Shrewsburys’ household, my lady.’

  ‘And whom did you serve?’

  ‘The Scotch queen. Queen Mary. And the Shrewsburys, of course.’

  Seton and the countess exchanged glances. ‘Describe her to me,’ he said.

  ‘Queen Mary … is a tall lady. Like yourself, madam.’ She frowned a little. ‘Pretty. Gracious. Liked to walk and embroider.’

  ‘Who visited her?’

  ‘Many. I recall a man from Scotland. B
og. Or Bock. Sandy was the first name, I think.’

  Seton nodded, satisfied. ‘They match.’

  ‘Now,’ said the countess, clapping her hands together, ‘we come to the stranger parts of the tale. Plots upon plots and Queen Elizabeth’s minions. Tell us what happened.’ Amy looked at Jack, who nodded encouragement. She inclined her head and spilled out the story.

  ‘And thereafter you came to live where?’

  ‘France,’ said Amy. ‘A strange land. We have lived there nearly this whole year. Until a few weeks ago, when Sir Henry Norris said we were to go to Scotland.’ She balked at saying the man’s name. As far as she was concerned, she and Jack had gone as paupers to Norris, begging for work and aid from England’s ambassador. Not that she would ever admit that publicly. It would mean admitting that Jack could not provide for them without resorting to spiery.

  ‘Why you? Why should two watching sort of servants living in France be sent to Scotland?’

  Amy shrugged. ‘We were told to ensure that you were returned to England, my lady. To be investigated for your … um … for your crimes.’ Seton bristled at the word, but the countess pressed on, her face stony.

  ‘But why you?’

  ‘I can’t say. Can’t speak for the men of power in England. Maybe … maybe, perhaps they knew we shouldn’t betray one another. A man sent as friend to the Scotch Protestant rebels and a woman sent into your service. I can’t say.’

  ‘And yet here I sit, on a ship bound for the Low Countries. Like your husband, you betray your masters. Tell me, which faith do you profess?’

  ‘I’m a Catholic, madam,’ said Amy. That was true. She had converted in France. She did not particularly care about the intricacies of theological debate and argument, but it made for a quiet life. Besides, it seemed a fair enough religion. It left God and Godly matters largely in the hands of priests, as one would leave matters of the law to lawyers and medical matters to physicians and apothecaries. Catholicism meant not having to concern yourself with deep and troubling things in which you were not expert.