Her Last Assassin (2 page)

‘I will show Spain the loyalty she deserves, sir. Your king at least has supported me this past year. My family’s estates in England are all now forfeit to the crown. What loyalty has this Queen shown me?’

‘Forgive me, Señor Stanley, I did not mean to question your allegiance.’ Adroitly, the guest turned the subject. ‘My officers were pleased to hear there would be a play tonight. It is a long journey from Spain, and a little wine and entertainment are most welcome. Your own troupe?’

‘Travellers.’ Stanley offered the Spaniard a dish of sweetmeats. ‘They sail for France tonight. No, do not look alarmed. Even if they speak of your presence, it may work to our advantage. I do not want any interference from the French, and I’m sure news of a great fleet here will keep our Froggy neighbours quiet.’

Someone knocked at the door and both men fell silent. Stanley threw his cloak across the map and called, ‘Come in,’ in English.

Out of sight the door creaked open and someone came in. Goodluck recognized the sweaty porter’s voice. ‘More wine, sir, my lord. Forgive the delay, I could not find the cellarman.’

‘Set it there on the sideboard, light the candles, then leave us. But remain within call. I will need you to escort our guest to bed when we are finished here.’

Once the two men were alone again in the book-lined study flickering with candlelight, Stanley pulled the cloak off the map. ‘You have me doubting my own men, my lord, with your stories of treachery.’

‘Let us hope I am wrong.’

Stanley poured them both a glass of wine. ‘You will find my men loyal. I can vouch for every one of them.’

‘In my experience, the ones deemed most loyal are those most likely to betray their masters. And we know someone within your camp is passing back information to that great whoremonger Walsingham.’

Goodluck lay very still at this. Who could have betrayed him? It had to be someone in England, perhaps one of Walsingham’s own men. His disguise as a Dutch cook was too good for anyone here to have penetrated it.

‘I will investigate your accusations, trust me. And if I do find a traitor within our midst, I will open him with my own sword.’

‘I am glad to see the rumours of your bloodthirsty nature have not been exaggerated. You make a good friend for Spain.’

‘
Gracias, señor
.’

Sipping his wine, Stanley wandered back to study the map, which even upside down Goodluck could see showed the coast of the Low Countries and France. The southern coast of England had been marked with several large black crosses.

Proposed invasion points?

‘The south is very well for His Majesty’s magnificent Armada,’ he murmured, pointing to the southern coast, ‘but coming from the east, we must concentrate on attaining the mouth of the Thames.’

The Spaniard sounded impressed. ‘You intend to put London to the sword yourself, then?’

‘
De verdad
.’ Stanley was poring over the map, his body between the table and Goodluck’s view. ‘To take London will be the hardest and yet most vital point of our campaign. When they see their own countrymen sailing up the Thames, doughty soldiers led by exiled Englishmen, the men of London will soon surrender. I can hardly wait to witness our day of triumph.’

‘Your wait is almost over,’ the Spaniard told him softly. ‘The fleet is under way. It will reach the English coast in a few weeks.’

‘My men will be ready.’ Stanley sounded like an excited schoolboy at the prospect of attacking his own country. ‘And the signal to embark?’

‘The arrival of our fleet. Post lookouts along the shore, señor. As soon as the admiral’s ship is sighted, give your people the signal to embark. Your men must remain ready at all times, both day and night, for I cannot say for sure when the fleet will arrive.’

‘But it will be soon?’

‘Patience, señor. Your day will come.’

Goodluck studied the map keenly, committing to memory every enemy position he could make out. It had taken months, but at last he had some useful news for his master. The Spanish Armada was already at sea and would soon be joined by other forces sailing from the Low Countries. No doubt they would meet in the straits between France and England, or at the mouth of the Thames.

This was the news he must carry home. And at once.

On the next tide, if possible.

The Spanish lord spoke again. ‘But what of your other plan? His Majesty asked me to enquire after the letter he sent to support a domestic plot against the Queen. In case our invasion force is not able to reach the Queen before she flees for safety, is your man in position?’

‘I am gratified His Majesty takes such interest in my humble plans. Yes, a letter has been sent by courier, with a small incentive. The courier is a most trusted spy. He works for Spain under the guise of being a true Englishman.’ He hesitated. ‘I needed someone skilled in diplomacy, for there have been problems with our assassin. Though nothing that cannot be resolved with a little persuasion.’

‘I trust you will not disappoint His Majesty again?’

Stanley seemed on edge. ‘We were close at Kenilworth, I know. You do not need to remind me of our failure there.’

Watching from above, Goodluck cursed silently. Was this man the unknown plotter behind the assassination attempt at Kenilworth Castle, which he and his ward, Lucy, had helped thwart?

This betrayal was too vile. Stanley had been a knight of the realm, lauded for his brilliant service in Ireland. Yet as soon as Leicester had left the Low Countries, he had surrendered his garrison and troops at Deventer to the Spanish without hesitation. Now he was plotting his queen’s death. And not for the first time, it seemed.

Stanley poured himself more wine and drank heavily, then wiped his mouth carelessly on his sleeve. ‘It was not my fault we did not succeed. I was busy in Ireland that year, and could not make sure of her death myself. We came closer to success with young Babington’s plot. But some at court who might have supported us turned cold after Babington’s execution, and the illegal beheading of the Scots Queen, God rest her martyred soul. It seems the English Catholics wish to bring England back to the Church of Rome, but not at the risk of their own necks.’

Would these Catholics never give up their attempts on her life? Goodluck felt sick, and wished he could kill the man. But there was more to learn here, and further traitors to uncover. He must be patient.

‘So the appointed assassin is one of us?’ The Spaniard sounded sceptical. ‘Not another hired mercenary like the female you used at Kenilworth? No, do not give me his name. Names are dangerous. Just assure me that your man will kill England’s most infamous whore with his own hands, and draw your country back into the Roman fold.’

‘Amen to that,’ Stanley muttered, also drinking a toast. ‘It is well past time this queen was stripped of her fine jewels and made to burn naked, which is how she would die if I had my way.’

Even the Spaniard sounded uncomfortable at this extreme display of vindictiveness. ‘You forget yourself, señor. Once the country is ours, it will be up to His Majesty to decide her fate, not the English. He will be your master then. Let us not forget, heretic or not, Queen Elizabeth is still of royal blood.’

‘Only if King Henry was her true father,’ Stanley spat out, ‘and few Catholics believe that. Her mother Anne Boleyn was a proven whore and died on the scaffold for her adultery, leaving her bastard child rightfully disinherited. Why, Elizabeth could be any man’s child.’

‘I had forgotten her mother was a whore. His Holiness the Pope has declared as much himself.’

‘That a common bastard has ruled unchallenged for so many years is a travesty of English justice.’ Stanley paused. ‘I will accept His Majesty King Philip’s ruling on her fate, of course. But I cannot hide that I shall be
overjoyed
to tread her bones into the dirt where they belong.’

‘Hey, you!’

A shout from the yard below made Goodluck lift his head in alarm, realizing that he had been spotted. He slithered to the edge of the roof and looked down at the drop, wondering how to lie his way out of this one.

‘What do you think you’re doing? Come down!’

The man spoke English, but with a strong Irish accent. It was dusk and he could not make out the figure clearly, but guessed by his pike that he was a soldier. No doubt one of Stanley’s men from the garrison sent to guard the back gate on to the marshy fields.

Acting dumb, Goodluck nodded. He jumped down, but kicked the man hard in the head as he dropped.

The luckless soldier staggered backwards, his pike clattering to the ground. At once Goodluck was on him, dragging the dagger from his belt and pressing the blade against his throat, between the helmet chinstrap and his jacket collar.

‘Another word and you’re dead,’ he promised the soldier in English.

The man struggled.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ Goodluck said warningly into his ear. He had no wish to kill the man. ‘Keep quiet, and we’ll both live to see another day. Now, what is it to be?’

But the man
was
a fool. He stared at Goodluck through the gloom as though trying to judge how serious he was. Then, seeing one of his compatriots patrolling in the darkness a few hundred feet away, he struggled hard to escape and opened his mouth to yell for help.

The cry was choked off in a gush of blood as Goodluck thrust home the dagger in his throat. The man twisted against him for a few horrific moments, arms flailing, his face contorted with pain. Then he sagged back, a dead weight.

As quietly as he could, Goodluck let the man’s lifeless body drop to the ground. He dragged the knife free from his throat – he might need it later – then turned and sped silently to the now unguarded entrance to the yard.

Keeping flat against the wall, he reached the gate without being spotted again, glad of the shadowy cover of darkness, though he could hear the other soldier’s footsteps a short way behind him in the yard.

He felt sick at what he had been forced to do, though this was not the first man he had killed in the Queen’s service. But he had certainly been one of the youngest, and his stomach rebelled at such a duty.

Goodluck stopped to listen to the sounds of revelry from the hall. It gave him a moment to think. He bent to wipe the knife and his sticky hands on the grass verge outside the gate. The play must have finished long since. Yet the men inside the hall were still dancing and singing. Straightening, he could still smell blood and knew some of it had stained his jacket as he wrestled with the dying soldier.

‘Silas, are you there, man?’ Someone had come wandering out of the hall. He sounded drunk. ‘I heard a shout just then. What is it?’

There was a startled exclamation in the dusk as the man stumbled over the body of his fallen comrade.

He raised his voice, shouting to his friends inside the hall. ‘St Patrick, there’s a foul murderer among us! Come out here, in God’s name, all of you! Silas is dead!’

Goodluck did not wait to hear more. His brief comedy as Dutch cook to the Stanley household was done. It was time for Master Goodluck, English spy, to take his place.

He ran, heading for the narrow marsh-flanked path which he knew would lead him through quiet backways to the town of Nieuwpoort, and the ship-filled harbour beyond it.

Before he even reached Nieuwpoort, he saw his salvation. The departing players, still hooded like monks and shuffling, were following their carts on foot as it rumbled back to the harbour. Stanley had said this was their last stop before sailing for France, that he had given them permission to leave port after their performance. If Goodluck could somehow insinuate himself into their number, or perhaps squeeze aboard a covered cart, he could reach France, and from there buy his passage home.

He kept his distance, not wishing to be seen. Back at the garrison he could see torches flaring in the gathering dusk, and heard shouts echoing across the low fields.

Occasionally one of the players slowed his pace and looked round, his face hidden under his cowl, and Goodluck had to crouch suddenly in the tall grasses, keeping out of sight until they moved on again.

They had played in English tonight, for the sake of the exiled soldiers under Stanley’s command, but could be any nationality – French, Italian, perhaps even Spanish. Italians and Spaniards would promptly hand him over to the authorities if they discovered a stowaway. But if they were French, he might have a chance …

There would be a moon tonight. They might even sail on this evening’s tide if it was bright enough.

Down on the docks, Goodluck waited in the shadow of a wagon being loaded with ale barrels from one of the merchant ships. Luckily, nobody seemed inclined to pay any attention to the stout man who knelt to adjust first one uncomfortable shoe, then another, and who later bought an apple from a passing tradesman on his way home for the night. Goodluck stood munching on the apple in the dark mouth of an alley, waiting patiently for the players’ carts to move.

Out to sea, he watched the assembled warships bob slowly up and down, chafing at their anchors.

He had almost given up hope when the carter came back at last, and with the help of the other players unloaded the long wooden theatrical chests. These were hoisted on their shoulders and carried aboard a small sailing ship, its narrow mast insignificant beside the vast forest of masts all around it, their warships’ pennants slapping gently in the sea breeze. While the cargo was brought aboard and the players stood arguing the fee with the captain, the crew began their preparations to cast off, loosening the ropes and giving Goodluck hope they would indeed be sailing with tonight’s tide.

He wondered why the players were in such a hurry to quit the country, but then reflected that a night’s lodging might have cost them any fee from their performance at the garrison. No doubt they were keen to move on to the next town instead, perhaps in France, which was only a short voyage along the coast for a quick, light vessel like this.

Finally the crew disappeared below, leaving the deck empty but for one man huddled in a cloak, smoking a pipe as he gazed out across the harbour.