Nathan Fox- Dangerous Times

  This edition published 2016 by Iris Books,

  an imprint of Write Publications Ltd., London, United Kingdom. www.irisbooks.com

  Second Edition 2016

  ISBN 978-1-907147-39-5

  Copyright L.Brittney 2005

  The right of L.Brittney to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover design by Tim Heap of Logomotion UK www.logomotion.co.uk

  Interior design by Kate Lowe www.creative-mix.co.uk

  eBook conversion by Bluewave Publishing

  Contents

  Introduction: England, March 1587

  Prologue: The Boy is Marked Out

  Chapter One: The Recruitment

  Chapter Two: At The Feet Of The Master

  Chapter Three: What You Learn May Save Your Life

  Chapter Four: The Meaning Of Messages

  Chapter Five: A Dishonourable Weapon

  Chapter Six: Sharp Wits Are More Important Than A Sharp Sword

  Chapter Seven: A Hero Is Not Always What He Seems

  Chapter Eight:The Secret

  Chapter Nine: So Much Deception

  Chapter Ten: The Mission Begins

  Chapter Eleven: The Mission Begins

  Chapter Twelve: A City Of Double Standards

  Chapter Thirteen: Tis The Curse Of Service – Preferment Goes By Letter And Affection

  Chapter Fourteen: She . . . Is Stolen . . . By Spells And Medicines . . .

  Chapter Fifteen:Pride, Pomp And Circumstance Of Glorious War!

  Chapter Sixteen: . . . In The Trade Of War I Have Slain Men . . .

  Chapter Seventeen: That Cassio Loves Her, I Do Well Believe’t . . .

  Chapter Eighteen: Men’s Natures Wrangle With Inferior Things . . .

  Chapter Nineteen: Beware, My Lord, Of Jealousy. It Is The Green-Eyed Monster . . .

  Chapter Twenty: . . . I Am Black And Have Not Those Soft Parts Of Conversation . . .

  Chapter Twenty-One: The Evil Pact

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Have You Prayed Tonight, Desdemona?

  Epilogue: This Heavy Act With Heavy Heart Relate

  *

  This book is dedicated to Iris Bradshaw, who made all things possible.

  *

  * ENGLAND, MARCH 1587 *

  England is on the brink of war. Queen Elizabeth I has refused to marry and produce an heir, and her country is beset on all sides by enemies. Since she became queen she has turned England into a largely Protestant country, and the Pope has made it known that anyone who assassinates her would gain ‘merit in the eyes of God’. Philip of Spain, head of the mighty Spanish Empire, has taken it upon himself to restore the Catholic faith to every country he conquers and he constantly has his sights set on England.

  In February 1587, Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded on Elizabeth’s order. Mary, a staunch Catholic and a claimant to the English throne, had been kept prisoner by Elizabeth for years and had been found guilty of plotting to assassinate the English queen and take her throne. Worse still, Mary had also conspired with Philip of Spain to pass the English throne to the Spanish Empire when she died.

  Sir Francis Walsingham, England’s Spymaster General, had tricked Mary into the conspiracy, to prove to Elizabeth that the Scottish queen would always be a major threat if she were not executed. So, reluctantly, Elizabeth signed Mary’s death warrant, knowing that the Spanish Empire would now redouble its efforts to conquer England. And she was right.

  Walsingham’s large network of spies, scattered all over Europe, has now told him that Philip is amassing his troops and ships to invade England. It is only a matter of time . . . Can Walsingham’s spies save England from disaster?

  * THE BOY IS MARKED OUT *

  The boy was suspended above the stage by a rope and the tall, dark man watched him with some amusement as he twisted and turned with great agility. The boy grasped the rope with one hand and with his other hand he scattered red rose petals over the actors beneath him.

  He’s strong, thought the man and he nodded with approval. His next thought was echoed by a whisper from a younger man standing next to him in the shadows. ‘He is the finest boy actor I’ve ever witnessed, my lord. I have heard him do many foreign accents – he’s played his age and older – female and male. I’ve seen him do spirits and hunchbacks, fairies and monsters. He is a marvel.’

  The tall, dark man turned slightly and permitted himself a wry smile. ‘I think you spend too much time at the playhouses, Master Pearce, when you should be working for me,’ he murmured.

  John Pearce looked at his employer and returned his smile. ‘Can I help it, Sir Francis, if, occasionally, I hanker to return to my old profession?’

  ‘What is his age?’ asked Sir Francis. ‘Just thirteen, my lord.’

  Sir Francis Walsingham turned back to his observation of the boy actor, who was now shinning up the rope towards the opening in the roof-space above the stage. With the ease and agility of a practised acrobat, he swung his legs over his head to the wooden platform and then disappeared into the darkness. The play was over and the audience burst into a roar of approval, accompanied by much feet- stamping and catcalls. As the noise swelled until it threatened to lift the thatching off the roof of the theatre, Sir Francis turned and raised his voice to a near-shout. ‘Come, John, we will talk with this boy – but not here; at his lodgings.’

  The two men made their way towards the back of the theatre, dodging the feverish jostling of the actors as they rushed for the stage to take their due praise from the audience. Sir Francis and his companion pressed themselves against the wall to wait for the tide of men to pass. Suddenly, as nimbly as a squirrel, the boy actor dropped down a rope ladder that swung from a hole in the roof and joined the back of the throng. He was flushed and happy, his dark curls stuck to his face with sweat. He barely glanced at the two men as he pushed past them – but long enough for Walsingham to register the boy’s arresting ice-blue eyes.

  ‘He is much taller than he looked up a rope,’ murmured Walsingham. ‘I do not think he will be playing young maids for much longer, my friend.’ John Pearce smiled and nodded his agreement but Sir Francis had already moved out of the darkness of the playhouse into the bright sun of the alleyway behind the theatre.

  In the daylight, Walsingham looked old and careworn but he still carried himself with a quiet authority and strength. His eyes, which were almost black and seemed to see everything, made anyone tremble who came before him with a secret in their hearts. He was, after all, England’s Spymaster General. There was no plot, no conspiracy, no deviousness that escaped Sir Francis. No one could enter or leave England without the permission of his office. His formidable intelligence-gathering networks had been built up over a number of years. Many people served England by working for him
– actors, poets, pirates, mystics and noblemen; no one was too low or too high. He spent his own money in maintaining these networks, and much of what he did was without the knowledge of the Queen – but he did it all for her. To Walsingham, Elizabeth was the greatest and wisest monarch that had ever ruled England – and he believed that, without her, all would fall into chaos.

  The two men walked on in silence. They made a strange pair – the tall, sombre old man and the handsome, energetic, younger man by his side. Walsingham was aware that his companion kept his hand firmly on his sword and was ever alert to any threat that might arise. Sir Francis reflected that, of all his agents, Pearce was the most loyal and intelligent.

  It was John Pearce’s intelligence that had first brought him to Walsingham’s notice. Pearce had arrived at court, the son of a poor but aristocratic family, and made a good impression. He had once been a boy actor in a company, the Children of the Chapel Royal, so he knew how to play to an audience. At the time his widowed mother sent him to Elizabeth’s court to revive the family fortunes, he was eighteen years old.

  He came to Walsingham’s attention one evening after dinner. The Queen was bored and circulating around the room looking for distractions. She was attempting to flirt with the young men, as usual. Such attentions were a trial and most newcomers to Court were terrified that her eye would alight on them. When Her Majesty chose to speak to John Pearce, he acquitted himself well. She asked him questions in Latin and smiled when he was able to reply smoothly. Then she asked him, in English, if he could speak Greek.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he replied in English, ‘I did study Greek, but although Homer taught me much about heroism, it taught me little about how to converse with a beautiful woman.’ The Queen was delighted and raised her voice. ‘It is an intelligent man who knows his limitations. He will go far.’ Everyone applauded. What she really meant, thought Walsingham, recalling the incident, was that she was pleased to be called beautiful. Vanity was her greatest vice.

  Later that year, John Pearce had sought out Walsingham in private, to tell him of a conversation he had overheard in a tavern, which he thought might present a danger to the queen. Walsingham was impressed. The plot was investigated and the guilty men disposed of. From that moment, Pearce became one of Walsingham’s agents. The young man had many talents – he could speak several languages, he had an actor’s talent for disguising his face and voice and he was an excellent swordsman. After he had been trained, John Pearce became skilled in many other arts not known by ordinary men. By the age of twenty-two he was the most accomplished operative in the espionage network and Walsingham had him marked for great tasks in the year ahead.

  The two men stopped by a door in an alleyway not far from the theatre.

  ‘This is the lodging place?’ enquired Walsingham. ‘Yes, my lord.’ ‘And you say he lodges with his sister?’ Pearce’s smile told

  Walsingham that the sister was, most likely, a beauty.

  ‘Four other actors lodge here, and the house is owned by a Mistress Fast.’

  ‘Then let us go in and wait for the boy,’ said Walsingham. The two men entered into the gloom of the doorway to await the arrival of young Nathan Fox, who would shortly learn that the Spymaster General wished to recruit him to work for queen and country.

  * THE RECRUITMENT *

  The actors tumbled out of the theatre into the spring sunshine, laughing and joking.

  ‘Was I not superb today?’ shouted Richard Burbage.

  ‘As usual, you were the great hero,’ answered Will Shakespeare. ‘It’s a shame you were not a little less of a hero.’ This sly reference to Burbage’s growing waistline sent the others into hoots of laughter and Will merited a cuff around the ear from the object of his wit.

  ‘Enough, Will Shakestongue! You have been an actor in this company but five minutes, whereas I . . .’

  ‘HAVE ACTING IN MY BLOOD!’ chorused the other three actors, well used to this speech.

  ‘It’s my father who pays your wages!’ roared Burbage in mock anger, but a smile played around his lips. The audience had cheered long and hard for him today and nothing was going to destroy his good humour.

  At that moment, Nathan Fox came hurtling round the corner and into the group, with the force of a crossbow bolt. Burbage was taken off balance and fell on to the path, sending up a cloud of dust around him. ‘God’s blood!’ he roared. ‘What in the name of all that is holy did you do that for, boy?’

  Nathan blushed and struggled to help the heavy actor to his feet. ‘Sorry, sir. I was rushing to catch up with you all,’ he said, brushing the street dust from Burbage’s rather fine clothes.

  ‘And why were you in such a hurry, Nathan?’ asked Will Kempe, who always looked depressed and worried despite being the comic actor of the company.

  ‘I . . . I found Will’s book on the floor. I wanted to return it to him.’ Nathan held up a battered, leather-bound notebook.

  ‘Thank God, Nathan!’ cried Shakespeare as he took the book and feverishly fanned through it, as if to check that everything was still there. ‘Oh, the famous book,’ Burbage said contemptuously. ‘Just when are we going to get some benefit from all these scribblings?’

  ‘When I am ready, Richard,’ said Shakespeare in a tone that defied any argument.

  The group carried on walking in the direction of the nearest tavern. As they turned to go inside, Shakespeare stopped.

  ‘I shall leave you now, gentlemen.’ The others turned in amazement. ‘What, no food and drink tonight, Will?’ enquired Samuel Crosse,

  the last member of their little group.

  ‘No, I shall eat in my rooms. I have work to do.’ Shakespeare turned on his heel and set off towards his lodgings.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ called out Nathan, running after his friend.

  The actors stood at the tavern door and watched the pair turn the corner.

  ‘I wish he would just concentrate on being an actor,’ muttered Burbage.

  ‘Ah but there is a depth there, you know,’ Will Kempe reflected. ‘Perhaps we shall be grateful for his words one day. Good plays are hard to find.’

  Burbage snorted contemptuously at the thought that a great actor should be thankful to a mere playwright and stepped into the tavern to find food for his growling stomach.

  Nathan trotted beside his friend, in an effort to keep up with him. ‘When are you going to write your first play, Will?’ he asked.

  Shakespeare stopped in his tracks and looked intently at the boy. ‘When I have enough good stories. A good story is the most important thing. Now, tell me . . .’ he continued, ‘this play we have done today ... what did you think of it?’

  They began to walk again and Nathan thought seriously before answering. ‘The audience liked it well enough,’ he began ‘but—’

  ‘Ah yes . . . but,’ Will interrupted. ‘What story was there? None at all. There were some star-crossed lovers – but why did they have problems? This was not explained. There was a comic scene, so that our friend Kempe could clown about and make the audience laugh

  – but why? There were some effects – your famous acrobatics, Nathan . . .’ and he tousled the boy’s curls affectionately – ‘but none of it meshed together! There was no progression from A to B to C. It was just a collection of set pieces, guaranteed to make an audience react. That is not a play, Nathan. Not my kind of play.’

  ‘Then what is your kind of play, Will?’

  Shakespeare looked frustrated for a moment, as if struggling with something that he could not quite understand. He took a deep breath. ‘I want . . . I want to tell a story that will so enrapture an audience that they will forget that they are in a theatre. I want them to be totally silent—’

  Nathan snorted, remembering today’s audience and their constant chatter, as well as the comments and abuse they sometimes hurled at the actors on the stage.

&nb
sp; Will became more insistent. ‘Yes, silent! As if they were spying at the unfolding of someone’s life through a window and they dare not breathe in case they are discovered. I want the audience to care about each character – to care if they live or die. I don’t want them to just care about the actors. To applaud their favourites and to talk all the way through the performances of those they do not care for.’

  Nathan grinned. ‘Richard Burbage would be outraged if he did not receive his usual plaudits from the audience.’

  Shakespeare smiled wryly, ‘Richard does not understand. He is a great actor but he is too concerned with being a famous actor to realize that he is capable of more. But I will cure him of that in time.’

  Nathan looked at his friend with amusement. ‘You seem very sure of yourself, Will.’

  Shakespeare shook his head sorrowfully. ‘No, what writer is ever sure of himself? Except –’ he turned and a light appeared in his eyes as he spoke – ‘when he knows that the story he is writing is so good that he cannot fail. Believe me, Nathan, the story is the thing.’

  The pair had reached their lodging house and were surprised to see their landlady, Mistress Fast, waiting on the step for them. She looked worried.

  ‘Thank goodness you’ve come home!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was about to send someone to find you!’

  Shakespeare looked alarmed. ‘Why, mistress? Is it the law?’ Nathan shot a sideways glance at his friend. He had heard rumours that Will had come to London to escape some trouble with local magistrates.

  ‘No, no, Master Shakespeare. Young Nathan has two important visitors. Marie is talking to them now. I shouldn’t have left her alone with them. I don’t like the look of the older man. He gives me chills...’ Nathan and Will did not wait to hear more and pushed past Mistress Fast, taking the steps two at a time. They burst into the room, only to be met with a rather tranquil scene. Nathan’s sister, Marie, was pouring ale for an older man, who was seated at the table.