A Fine Madness by Alan Judd (best classic books TXT) 📕

I stood at a respectful distance from the group but after a while Lord Burghley beckoned me closer. ‘Mr Phelippes, you like Sir Thomas here are acquainted with one of the prisoners, I understand?’

‘With Mr Marlowe, please, your Lordship.’

‘He associates with players. You follow the players?’

‘Little, your Lordship, but I know of his work. He has loyally helped us with our own work—’

‘I know what he has done for the Queen. But he sails close to the wind in the playhouses. Do you think he sees one as giving him licence for the other?’

The thought had not occurred to me. ‘I have never heard him express such—’

‘Do you believe him guilty or innocent in the matter before us?’

‘Neither, my Lord.’ It was an unconsidered response but happily apt, as it turned out. Lord Burghley’s eyes levelled upon mine, awaiting elaboration. ‘I do not believe he intended to be a coiner but can believe he might have thought counterfeiting foreign coin a harmless game to play at.’

‘And you consider him loyal? You do not suspect him of planning to desert us for Rome?’

‘He is loyal to the Queen and has no Catholic beliefs, my Lord, I am certain of that.’ Nor any other, I might have added, but that would have caused trouble of a different order.

Lord Burghley turned to William Davison. ‘Fetch the prisoners.’

He seated himself at the head of the long table, signifying to Thomas Walsingham to join him. The two whispered together. Frizer and I were not invited to sit and remained standing to one side. William returned with three soldiers wearing swords and carrying cudgels, leading Christopher and the man Gifford Gilbert on a rope. The prisoners’ hands were tied before them and they were tied to each other. The soldier holding the rope led them through the door and then jerked them to a halt at the far end of the table, causing them to stumble against each other. Gifford, a small, older man with a grey beard and little hair, wore dirty grey worsted and looked like a man pulled from a shipwreck. Christopher wore a black tunic of good quality but it was torn and stained, his stockings were holed and one of his shoes was losing its sole, slapping on the floorboards as he walked. His hair was matted and untidy, his beard unkempt. He looked tired, resentful, defiant.

William Davison had returned with more papers than before and now hurried to Lord Burghley’s side, whispering in his ear. These new papers evidently did not concern the prisoners because there was a protracted pause while he and Lord Burghley shuffled through them, William taking instructions. Recalling Robert Cecil’s urging me to ensure that Christopher spoke respectfully, I walked over to him. I half expected the soldiers to obstruct me but they stepped aside. His brown eyes met mine as I approached and he smiled, sardonically I thought. He had lost a tooth since we last met. Both men stank of gaol.

‘Thomas, I am honoured. How is Mrs Phelippes?’

‘She is well, I thank you. I have a—’

‘I am heartily glad to hear it.’ There was something aggressive in his tone, as if he were trying to keep me at bay. ‘But truly I am, And you too, I trust,’ he added, more softly.

‘I have a message from Sir Robert.’ All the others were listening but there was nothing for it but to go on. ‘His Lordship is inclined to be understanding, provided you are contrite.’

The man Gifford, who was staring pleadingly at me, nodded with unexpected vigour. ‘We are, sir, we are. Truly.’ His voice was hoarsened to a croak.

‘Contrition?’ Christopher’s sardonic smile returned. ‘That is the coin of our payment?’

‘That or your lives.’

‘So?’ His glance was challenging. ‘Or, as God wills, as you might put it?’

At that moment we were joined by Thomas Walsingham and Frizer. ‘Speak sweetly and all shall be well,’ Thomas whispered to Christopher.

‘Humble pie, Kit,’ said Frizer. ‘Time you learned the taste of it.’ He spoke in a joshing manner, grinning.

Christopher looked as if he were about to respond in some other way but swallowed it and turned to Thomas. ‘Is Baines here?’

‘He is. His Lordship will hear him first.’

William Davison collected his papers and, at a nod from Lord Burghley, marched down beside the table past us and towards the door. ‘About to start,’ he whispered.

The prisoners and soldiers remained where they were, Thomas resumed his seat and Frizer and I stood to the side. While we waited Lord Burghley conversed quietly again with Thomas until the door opened and William reappeared with Richard Baines.

I had not seen him before but I knew much about him. He was a plump man with a fair beard, well dressed and well fed by that stage of his life, though he had not always been. He was quick in speech and wrote as copiously and fluently in Latin as in English. My work had made me more familiar with his hand than he could have guessed. Like Christopher, he was another Cambridge man once suspected by the authorities there of having gone to Rheims to become a priest in order to return England and further the Catholic cause. Unlike Christopher, who had been working for us, he really had gone to Rheims and really had become a priest. But while there he had secretly resolved to work against the Pope and the English Catholic exiles. He raised discontent among other young recruits and even plotted to poison their water, like the Jew in Christopher’s play. He wrote descriptions of his fellows and their plans which he contrived by indirect means to have delivered into the hands of Mr Secretary, who sent him money for them. He thus became, in his own opinion, one of our agents.

But he never was, in Mr Secretary’s eyes. We had a number of such volunteers, freelancers of the intelligence world who offered their services. Some were useful but often they were not,