Over the next several months the leisurely correspondence continues. Sometimes it is the Portuguese carrack that brings it. Sometimes it arrives on another of the many foreign vessels that ply their trade in Irish waters: an argosy from Genoa, carrying almonds, aniseed and brimstone; a barque from Flanders, its hold crammed with pewter, cabbages and capers; even one from Scotland, carrying woven bed coverlets and fancy cushions for the comfort of the more successful Irish plantation owner and his lady.
The connection is clear to Spenser: every one of them could, at some recent time, have dropped anchor in a Spanish port.
It doesn’t take long for Father Persons to move from mere reminiscence to more political matters:
How sad and displeasing to God that Spain and England are such determined enemies… Would not our Lord be pleased if men of peace might prevail?
The most recent letters, reveals Spenser, have been more forthright. Father Persons – or whoever is standing in the shadows behind him – is certain that, with King Philip close to death and Queen Elizabeth halfway through her seventh decade, now is the time for men of character and godliness to look to the future:
And God be praised! Here in Spain, my dear and beloved friend, Edmund, there is one such fellow. I commend him to you most heartily. He is but one amongst several, a pious man of faith who wishes only that the bloodshed may cease, and that God’s peace may again comfort the peoples of Spain and England, whatever their religious differences.
His name: Don Rodriquez Calva de Sagrada.
In the cold world beyond the window the snow is falling heavily now. Inside, the air has become heavy with the heat from the fire and the implications of Spenser’s tale. Save for the crackling of the logs in the hearth and the poet’s voice, all is silent. Even Robert Cecil has lost the compulsion to interject.
‘Don Rodriquez was only one amongst several,’ Spenser says. ‘There are at least a dozen highly placed courtiers in the Escorial in Madrid who share his inspiration. They believe that as the crown of Spain passes from father to son, now is a propitious time to sound out the peace faction in England, to see if there is courage enough to bring this conflict to a close.’
Without waiting for Cecil’s approval, Nicholas says, ‘You speak of “was” – “Don Rodriquez was only one amongst several”.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are we to understand that Don Rodriquez was aboard that wrecked vessel?’ Cecil asks.
‘He was escorting his daughter Constanza to her marriage in the Spanish Netherlands. It was the perfect opportunity to deliver the names of those nobles prepared to extend to England the hand of peace.’
‘In person – to you?’ Cecil suggests.
‘Yes. Constanza was to act as translator. She would answer any questions I might have for Don Rodriquez. Apparently she speaks good English; Robert Persons was her tutor.’
‘And then what?’
‘Once the list was in my hands, I was to carry it, along with an assurance of good intent, to England.’
Robert Cecil asks, ‘Where was this meeting to happen, Master Spenser?’
‘At Kilcolman. Dr Shelby and Mistress Bianca have seen how remote it is. It was the perfect place.’
Nicholas says, ‘No wonder you were so cautious when we arrived.’
Spenser turns to him, his face twisted with self-justification. ‘I needed to assure myself that you really were Sir Robert’s intermediary, and not in the pay of someone else.’
‘By “someone else” I assume you mean the Earl of Essex.’
‘Exactly. If His Grace had learned I was in communication with the Spanish, I could have given up any expectation of his continuing patronage. He would probably have considered me a traitor.’ Spenser allows himself a grim smile. ‘Indeed, it is likely my four quarters would now be nailed up and rotting on the city gates of Dublin, Cork, Wexford and Drogheda.’
‘But there is someone you fear even more than Robert Devereux, isn’t there?’ Nicholas suggests.
Spenser lowers his eyes, the acknowledgement of a man who knows that courage is easier to find in verse than in real life. ‘Yes,’ he admits. ‘I was beginning to think I could confide in you – until, on that beach, I heard of Mistress Bianca’s former attachment to Sir Oliver Henshawe.’
‘There was no attachment,’ Bianca says indignantly.
‘I was not to know that, Mistress,’ Spenser replies, almost blushing.
Nicholas can hear in his head the words Spenser had spoken that day at the cove: You should know that whatever happens on this island, the Earl of Essex hears of it first from Henshawe before all others… Be very cautious in what you say when that man is present… He says to Spenser, ‘Your sudden change of mood, when we were drying ourselves before the fire – I understand it now.’
Spenser gives him a slow, sad nod. ‘You’ve witnessed for yourself what that man is capable of. How could I possibly have risked him learning why you had come to visit me at Kilcolman.’
Spenser is right, Nicholas thinks; Oliver Henshawe would rather burn in hell than see peace between Catholic Spain and Protestant England. ‘Then why did you take us to the wreck?’ he asks.
‘If you were who you claimed to be – Sir Robert’s man – you would at least be able to confirm that part of my story to him. I needed you to be a witness.’
‘Instead you’ve had me wondering if it was you who struck me from behind – up in that cabin.’
Spenser gives a grim laugh. ‘That was purely the result of your own temerity, Dr Shelby. I have not the robustness to climb up there as you did.’
Bianca scowls at Spenser with a venom that takes everyone by surprise. ‘All this talk of a Spanish peace faction: you only want peace because you’re afraid a Spanish invasion of Ireland would likely lay waste to your estates! That’s the real reason, isn’t it? It’s nothing to do with the safety of the realm. It’s all to do with your purse.’
For a moment Spenser just stares at her. Then he turns for succour to Robert Cecil.
‘Sir Robert, this is intolerable. I will not be spoken to in such a manner by a woman.’
For the first time in his life, Nicholas observes Sir Robert Cecil attempt to stifle a spontaneous outbreak of laughter. As sternly as he can manage, Cecil says, ‘Master Spenser, I have to tell you that if the queen’s principal Secretary of State can get used to it, so you can you.’
‘That body lying in the bluffs,’ Nicholas says. ‘The one with the ringlets and the severed fingers that you were looking at. Was that Don Rodriquez?’
‘In all probability, yes. Robert Persons had described him to me.’
‘I remember you looking at a casket lying beside the body. Did you think it might have contained the list? Because it was empty. Is it possible Henshawe has it?’
Spenser shakes his head. ‘There was to be no physical list – at least not until Don Rodriquez was in my company. He’s thought it too dangerous to commit the names to paper. They were in his head. I was looking into the chest for rings. I was to know him by a sapphire and two rubies. That would be his proof of identity. It was a forlorn hope, but I had to look.’
‘You told us a moment ago that Constanza spoke good English, so that she could translate,’ Nicholas says. ‘Perhaps then she also knew the names.’
‘That is possible. I was assured Don Rodriquez was a cautious man.’
‘But we saw no female corpses on the beach, or in the bluffs.’
In the instant that Nicholas and Bianca’s eyes meet in mutual understanding, Spenser says, ‘I suppose she must have drowned. Poor child.’