‘Why, it is the Instrument himself,’ Babington said with delight. ‘Welcome, Goodfellow. And you have brought young Mr de Warre. The picture is almost complete. I think the painter will have to ink in a space and add Mr Salisbury at a later date.’
Shakespeare was relieved to have Babington’s attentions turned elsewhere. He had found their exchange uncomfortable. Now he hung back while Babington greeted Goodfellow Savage and his companion, but Savage did not linger. He blinked in the gloom of the shop, squinted, then raised a hand in greeting to Shakespeare. He strode through the mass of young men, his powerful hand – so used to wielding weapons of war – outstretched in greeting. His grip was firm and strong
and there was warmth in it.
‘Well met, John Shakespeare.’
‘Good day, Mr Savage. I had hoped to see you last night at the Plough.’
‘My purse is empty. Having once captained a company of soldiers, I am now reduced to the lowest of the low at Barnard’s Inn and so I must live on commons in the hall with my fellows.’
‘Well, next time we dine, I shall be happy to stand your expense.’
Despite himself, Shakespeare always enjoyed the company of Goodfellow Savage. He recalled their first meeting the previous August, at an auberge in Calais as they both awaited the morning packet-boat home. Shakespeare was with Gilbert Gifford, who was heading in the other direction, towards Paris. Gifford and Shakespeare had known Savage would be there, for his movements had been tracked by Walsingham’s man Henbird, and so it was easy to arrange an encounter.
At first Savage had been discomfited by the seemingly unplanned meeting with Gilbert Gifford. But Gifford’s own feigned surprise and innocent manner had soon won him over. His looks were so boyish that men could not believe that one who seemed so young could have learnt to deceive. Men did not doubt Gilbert Gifford, to their cost.
Shakespeare and Savage had taken an instant liking to each other. With Gifford, they had spent a pleasant evening in the Calais inn, drinking wine and discussing the hoped-for end to the persecution of Catholics in England. It seemed they were all agreed that the sooner Mary Stuart ascended the throne and brought about the downfall of Walsingham, Leicester and Burghley, the better it would be for England and for Catholicism. The matter of Savage’s vow to assassinate Queen Elizabeth to facilitate this transfer of power was never mentioned. Nor, at that first meeting, was Shakespeare’s association with Walsingham. That would come later and needed to be subtly introduced.
The chance came aboard the packet-boat to Dover. Gifford had stayed in France, so Shakespeare and Savage travelled together. The sky was blue but the crossing took many hours; the seas were pond-still and the sails barely filled so light was the wind.
‘I must tell you, Mr Savage,’ he had said, ‘that I am employed in the service of Sir Francis Walsingham.’
The words cut the air like lightning. At first it seemed Savage had not heard them; then his hand stiffened as though it might reach for his dagger. ‘Walsingham?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you are my enemy.’
‘No, sir, that is not so. I would be your friend, for we share religion. Nor am I alone in that regard among Mr Secretary’s men. We work against the regime from within. He likes to keep us close, thinking to control us. In truth it enables us to keep him close. I know much of what he knows and I know his thoughts.’
Savage had pondered a few moments. Suddenly a breeze came up and caught his hat so that he had to clamp it to his head with his soldierly hand. ‘Then that is enough,’ he said at last. ‘In battle, I have to make decisions in an instant and I will do so now, to trust you. My gut tells me you are a good man, and so I would value your friendship.’
‘And I yours, Mr Savage.’
They had been hard words to utter, for he liked Goodfellow Savage and he knew that one day, perhaps very soon, he would most certainly be responsible for his death.
Now, in this crowded and noisy barber’s shop, he felt that same stab of betrayal once more. But it had to be done; Savage had sworn himself to his own doom.
‘And who is this?’ Shakespeare demanded as Savage’s young companion joined them.
‘This is Dominic de Warre, who has recently joined me in my lodgings at Barnard’s.’ He lowered his voice and spoke close to Shakespeare’s ear. ‘He is of the faith, a Pope’s White Son.’
‘Then he, too, is well met.’ Shakespeare shook the young man’s hand and studied his face. He looked no more than seventeen – certainly a fair deal younger than Babington’s usual cronies, who were mostly in their twenties or a little older.
‘You are Mr Shakespeare, are you not? I saw you once at Barnard’s Inn.’ The youth bowed respectfully as though Shakespeare were his tutor, a thing which might have been possible had Shakespeare not been taken from the law into the employment of Sir Francis Walsingham.
‘I studied there a year before going up to Gray’s. It is always a pleasure to return to Barnard’s of an evening and help relieve Mr Savage’s tedious hours of scholarship by forcing him to take wine with me. In truth, he does not usually take much persuading. Now tell me, Mr de Warre, do you consider following the law as a profession?’
‘No, my stepfather says it is a precarious existence and that I would do better to return to our Lincolnshire estates, when they pass to me from my grandfather. He says I will need the law when I am raised to the magistracy and that such studies will sharpen any young man’s mind and help with the drawing of contracts regarding my lands. Normally I would not listen to a word my stepfather says, for he is a cringing piece of work, but he does know the law.’
‘Indeed.’ And what, Shakespeare wondered, is one as young as you doing here among these knaves and mischief-makers? Why in God’s name has Savage brought you here? You are like a lamb in the company of wolves.
‘And are you here because you wish to kill the so-called Queen of England, Mr Shakespeare? The tyrant of England as I should call her.’
Had he truly just said that? Openly in front of a man he had just met? Shakespeare began to reconsider his initial impression. Perhaps the lamb had wolf ’s teeth . . .
Savage seemed as appalled as Shakespeare and put a hand over the youth’s mouth. ‘Hush, Dominic, or we will wake up one morning and see your head decorating London Bridge.’ He turned to Shakespeare. ‘Forgive the boy, he is but a babe.’
Dominic de Warre broke free of the restraining hand, looked at Savage curiously, then walked away.
Savage managed an awkward smile. ‘Well, I need my beard trimmed and I need brandy. Feel free to buy me one, John Shakespeare, for Walsingham’s silver is much like another man’s.’
Had it not been for his height and military bearing, Savage could almost have passed for an ill-nourished vagrant; his clothes were plain, old and ragged and his body was lean. Not for the first time, Shakespeare wondered how such a man, seemingly so good of cheer and kind of heart, could be a sworn assassin.
Babington was standing on one of the barber’s chairs. He hammered the haft of his dagger on an upturned copper basin. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ he called as the hubbub died down and eyes turned his way, ‘our painter awaits us. Let us make a fine show for God, the Pope and England.’
‘God! The Pope! Freedom!’ The words came from the tender mouth of Dominic de Warre.
Shakespeare shuddered. Surely this cry must have been heard in the street. He grasped Goodfellow Savage by his arms. ‘Come away, Mr Savage. Do not partake in this madness. I have warned Mr Babington that this notion of a portrait is poison.’
Savage hovered, then nodded brusquely. ‘Yes, you are right. Let us find refreshment elsewhere.’ He looked around for his young companion, but he had disappeared into the crowd. ‘No, I must stay. I cannot go without young Dominic.’