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Authors: Rory Clements
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enough.’
They were at a modest wood-frame house not far from the Tower, a hundred yards from the river. It seemed to Shakespeare that Arthur Gregory had grown a little leaner in the two years since last they had met, but his face beamed as pink and jolly as ever.
‘Forgive me for disturbing your peace on Christmas Eve, Mr Gregory, but I wished to delve into the recesses of your memory. It will not take more than a minute or two of your time.’
‘Tether your horses and come in.’
The house had a small hall that was aflame with candles and richly hung with holly and ivy. A fragrant log fire raged in the hearth. Arthur Gregory’s coy, plump wife bustled in and greeted the visitors, but then scuttled out as quickly. A young serving girl brought in hot spiced wine.
‘S-s-so tell me,’ Gregory stammered. ‘What is this about?’
They had worked together back in the 1580s when both men toiled for Principal Secretary Sir Francis Walsingham. After Walsingham’s death, Gregory had gone to work for the Earl of Essex’s intelligence office, but had recently left his service. He had a subtle mind and careful hands; skilled in the opening of seals and closing them again so no one could tell.
‘Did a man named Giovanni Jesu ever cross your path?’
Gregory frowned, trying to recall.
‘A black man, in the retinue of Oxford?’
Gregory nodded and smiled. ‘Indeed. Yes, I remember. Walsingham took a great interest in him at one time in the early eighties. You must have been new to his s-service.’
‘Giovanni would have been very young in the early eighties.’
‘He was already s-s-spying, however. Mendoza had got hold of him.’
Bernardino de Mendoza was a schemer on a grand scale. He had been Spain’s ambassador to England until he was deported from the country in 1584 for his involvement in the Throckmorton plot against the Queen. As Shakespeare knew from intelligence reports, he was still alive, still conspiring to bring about England’s downfall, even though he was ailing and blind and retired to his house in Madrid.
‘What happened?’
‘Well, of course, Mr S-s-secretary threatened the boy and made him his own. He s-s-spied on his own s-spymasters.’
‘But what sort of information could a boy of sixteen or so have given to either Mendoza or Walsingham? That is what puzzles me, Mr Gregory.’
‘You must remember that Oxford was close to Her Majesty in those days, her most favoured pet. And the earl has – and had – a notoriously loose tongue. Giovanni listened to bed talk and brought letters, which I opened. In truth, I think there was nothing that we didn’t know, but it helped us confirm certain aspects of Oxford’s own persuasions, both in bed and church.’
‘He is a Catholic, is he not?’
‘That is a hard question. He c-certainly affected Papism to irritate old Burghley, whose ward he had been. You must know that he has always liked to outrage s-s-sensibilities. Anything to cause a stir. But was there more to it than that? I knew him before he went to Italy and when he returned I believe I detected a change in him. The earl might s-seem to treat life and religion as a great jest, but I rather think he could be a devout Catholic.’
It was what Shakespeare had thought – and the reason he had wondered whether Mr Stickley, the steward, might be a priest. But how was Topcliffe involved? Shakespeare put the question to his host.
‘Ah, Mr Sh-shakespeare, that is one of the great joys of retirement: never having to have dealings with Topcliffe again. Oxford is one of those noblemen who drive Topcliffe to distraction, for they are untouchable. Men like the earls of Oxford and Southampton may harbour all the priests they wish and Topcliffe can never send in his pursuivants to arrest them, for they have too much power and influence. He believes both of them to be sh-shielding Jesuits for religion and to be keeping boys for
They were at a modest wood-frame house not far from the Tower, a hundred yards from the river. It seemed to Shakespeare that Arthur Gregory had grown a little leaner in the two years since last they had met, but his face beamed as pink and jolly as ever.
‘Forgive me for disturbing your peace on Christmas Eve, Mr Gregory, but I wished to delve into the recesses of your memory. It will not take more than a minute or two of your time.’
‘Tether your horses and come in.’
The house had a small hall that was aflame with candles and richly hung with holly and ivy. A fragrant log fire raged in the hearth. Arthur Gregory’s coy, plump wife bustled in and greeted the visitors, but then scuttled out as quickly. A young serving girl brought in hot spiced wine.
‘S-s-so tell me,’ Gregory stammered. ‘What is this about?’
They had worked together back in the 1580s when both men toiled for Principal Secretary Sir Francis Walsingham. After Walsingham’s death, Gregory had gone to work for the Earl of Essex’s intelligence office, but had recently left his service. He had a subtle mind and careful hands; skilled in the opening of seals and closing them again so no one could tell.
‘Did a man named Giovanni Jesu ever cross your path?’
Gregory frowned, trying to recall.
‘A black man, in the retinue of Oxford?’
Gregory nodded and smiled. ‘Indeed. Yes, I remember. Walsingham took a great interest in him at one time in the early eighties. You must have been new to his s-service.’
‘Giovanni would have been very young in the early eighties.’
‘He was already s-s-spying, however. Mendoza had got hold of him.’
Bernardino de Mendoza was a schemer on a grand scale. He had been Spain’s ambassador to England until he was deported from the country in 1584 for his involvement in the Throckmorton plot against the Queen. As Shakespeare knew from intelligence reports, he was still alive, still conspiring to bring about England’s downfall, even though he was ailing and blind and retired to his house in Madrid.
‘What happened?’
‘Well, of course, Mr S-s-secretary threatened the boy and made him his own. He s-s-spied on his own s-spymasters.’
‘But what sort of information could a boy of sixteen or so have given to either Mendoza or Walsingham? That is what puzzles me, Mr Gregory.’
‘You must remember that Oxford was close to Her Majesty in those days, her most favoured pet. And the earl has – and had – a notoriously loose tongue. Giovanni listened to bed talk and brought letters, which I opened. In truth, I think there was nothing that we didn’t know, but it helped us confirm certain aspects of Oxford’s own persuasions, both in bed and church.’
‘He is a Catholic, is he not?’
‘That is a hard question. He c-certainly affected Papism to irritate old Burghley, whose ward he had been. You must know that he has always liked to outrage s-s-sensibilities. Anything to cause a stir. But was there more to it than that? I knew him before he went to Italy and when he returned I believe I detected a change in him. The earl might s-seem to treat life and religion as a great jest, but I rather think he could be a devout Catholic.’
It was what Shakespeare had thought – and the reason he had wondered whether Mr Stickley, the steward, might be a priest. But how was Topcliffe involved? Shakespeare put the question to his host.
‘Ah, Mr Sh-shakespeare, that is one of the great joys of retirement: never having to have dealings with Topcliffe again. Oxford is one of those noblemen who drive Topcliffe to distraction, for they are untouchable. Men like the earls of Oxford and Southampton may harbour all the priests they wish and Topcliffe can never send in his pursuivants to arrest them, for they have too much power and influence. He believes both of them to be sh-shielding Jesuits for religion and to be keeping boys for
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