Prince - John Shakespeare 03 - (13 page)

Chapter 16

J
OHN
S
HAKESPEARE FOUND
the chief of guards, Edward Wilton, outside the main door of Gaynes Park Hall. ‘I must take my leave, Mr Wilton. Please fetch my horse and weapons.’

‘Leaving in the middle of the night, Mr Shakespeare? Only thieves and murderers sneak from houses at such a time …’

‘Watch your tongue, Mr Wilton, lest you be relieved of it.’

‘I know about you, Mr Shakespeare. Oh yes, sir, I know all about you and your spying for Robin Crookback.’

Shakespeare was tempted to strike the man. ‘I am in the service of Her Majesty. Who do
you
serve, Mr Wilton? Now fetch my mare, sword and dagger or expect to find yourself arraigned before court. This is Queen’s business and I will not be delayed.’

Wilton’s face was suffused with scorn. ‘I’ll get your bloody horse. Hope it goes lame on you.’

Soon after dawn, Shakespeare arrived at Cecil’s mansion near the Strand. The footman at the door looked at him with a strange mixture of horror and pity, as though he had some grotesque deformity, then hurried away into the house. He returned quickly and said Sir Robert would see him.

He followed the servant through the hallway to the meeting room. Cecil was already there, standing stiffly and unsmiling.

‘John …’

Shakespeare bowed. ‘Sir Robert, I believe I have what you require.’

‘John, there has been another gunpowder blast.’

‘I heard. The Dutch market. Rick Baines arrived at Gaynes Park with the news. I believe there were dead or wounded.’

‘You have not heard then?’

Something in Cecil’s normally unreadable face brought a rush of cold panic to Shakespeare’s chest. He could not draw breath, nor speak. He shook his head.

‘John, sit down. I have grave news. Your wife …’

No.

‘She took the full force of the blast, John. She could have known nothing of it. I am so sorry.’

Shakespeare felt that his knees should buckle and he should slump to the ground, but his joints were rigid, immovable. Like a drowning man, he gasped for air but could not breathe. His body was closing down with his mind, which could not take this in.

‘There was a young Dutch girl with her, who identified her. The girl is badly injured and is presently at St Bartholomew’s Hospital.’

Catherine dead?

Cecil stepped towards him. He was a head shorter than Shakespeare, yet he put his arm about him; perhaps for the first time in his life, he felt moved to open himself to another.

The mother of his child. His bedmate, soulmate.

The footman who had brought him to this room reappeared at the doorway with a flask of brandy and two small silver cups. Cecil nodded to him and he poured out two measures.

‘Drink this.’

Shakespeare obeyed. He downed the brandy in one gulp. Cecil did likewise.

‘Now sit.’ Cecil pushed him down into a chair. He signalled to the footman to refill the cups. ‘Now drink again.’

Shakespeare drank the second dram. The spirit burned down his throat to his belly.

‘
Catherine
…’ he managed to say, at last, his breathing long and deep. ‘Is this true, Sir Robert?’

‘It is true, John. There is no doubt.’

‘I should not have left her.’

‘It was cruel chance, nothing else. The Dutch girl says they were there purely on a whim. They were walking by and saw the market. Mistress Shakespeare was one of five that died. Many others are injured. Mr Bedwell from the Tower Ordnance estimates a quarter-ton of powder was used.’

‘Where is she?’

‘The Dutch girl?’

‘Catherine.’

‘Her remains are with Mr Peace at St Paul’s, with the other dead.’

‘I must go to her.’

‘Go then, John. But first, I beg you, steel yourself and tell me what you have discovered at Gaynes Park.’

In the St Paul’s crypt Joshua Peace was at his work as Searcher of the Dead. He was examining the corpse of one of the Dutch market victims. He heard the door open and turned to see John Shakespeare. His face drained.

‘John, I am so sorry.’

‘Where is she, Joshua?’

‘I do not want to show you the remains, John.’

‘I need to see her.’

Peace shook his head. ‘Please, do not ask me that.’

‘I must.’

‘I beg you, remember her as you last saw her. If you see her now that will always be your last memory. In all your dreams and in all your waking moments, it will be there. You will never wash it away.’

Shakespeare was silent a few moments, then his eyes drifted to the mutilated body on the slab. ‘Like that?’

‘Worse, John. Ripped apart. There is nothing recognisable. Without the Dutch girl we might never have identified her. One moment living, the next with God.’

‘You must help me, Joshua. All your skill. I want to find this powderman and do to him as he has done.’

‘There is something … a clue, perchance …’

‘What?’

‘How will you use this, John?’

‘Justice. I want justice, not vengeance. Let the law take its course.’

Peace stepped to the side of the crypt and took a copper bowl from a shelf. He showed its contents to Shakespeare. There were pieces of metal – a toothed wheel, brass or bronze, and shards of steel. They were twisted and mangled, but it was clear that they had been parts from an unusual instrument. ‘I believe these articles constituted some sort of timepiece. Even in this state, it is clear to me that they were fine-made. These parts were found …’

‘In the bodies of the dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘If I am correct, it means there was a time-delay mechanism. The powdermen set the clock, then made their escape. At the predetermined moment, the device released a flint against a steel plate, sending a shower of sparks into the powder.’

‘Like a wheel-lock pistol.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Have you heard of such a thing before?’

‘When I was in the Low Countries I heard of such a method being used at the siege of Antwerp. The town’s defenders used the services of a skilled clockmaker to devise such a machine, which was then used with deadly purpose against the Spanish.’

‘Then I must find this clockmaker.’ Shakespeare stood there, irresolute. Even in his numbness, he could see the truth in what Peace said about remembering Catherine as she had been in life, not in death. His eyes caught a patch of colour close to the old, cold walls of the crypt. There were strips and shreds of material there in hues of green, saffron and rusty-blood. ‘Her dress?’

Peace nodded helplessly.

‘Thank you, Joshua.’ Without another word, Shakespeare left the crypt; he had seen enough.

As he rode north-eastwards with lethal purpose, Shakespeare felt nothing. His heart was empty. He was hunting because it was his instinct so to do, nothing more. He could not examine himself thus, for that would open up the pain, and he had to keep it closed away. There was no time for grief.

The long-bearded keeper of the Counter gaol in Wood Street rubbed his bony old hands and looked at him with surprise. ‘I had not expected you, Mr Shakespeare. Indeed, I had not. I had heard – there was word …’ the ancient, tremulous voice trailed away.

‘Has Mr Mills been to see Morley?’

‘He came yesterday in the forenoon.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes, Mr Shakespeare. He did stay no more than an hour.’

‘Take me to Morley,’ Shakespeare said flatly. He scarcely noted his surroundings, the bleak walls, the stench of human ordure, the bold rats playing about his feet.

‘Of course, Mr Shakespeare, sir. Please, follow me.’

The gloomy entrails of the prison were lit by tallow sconces which threw out black smoke and burned in uneven flares, lighting the faces of prisoners in a hideous manner as they leered through their cage bars at the keeper and his visitor. They arrived at the cell where Shakespeare had left Morley. The keeper pushed open the door.

Shakespeare saw immediately that Morley was dead. He hung limply from a noose made of a thin cord tied to the bars of the room’s single high window. Both men looked at the body in stunned silence for several seconds. Shakespeare turned to the keeper, dark fury in his eyes.

‘Mr Shakespeare, sir, I did not know …’ the old man spluttered helplessly.

‘Cut him down.’

The keeper took a dagger from his belt and tried to reach up to cut the rope, but he was not tall enough. ‘Here, give it to me,’ Shakespeare ordered impatiently, snatching the blade from his hand. He sliced at the cord and the body fell to the ground. ‘Who has been in here, master keeper?’

‘No one … just the turnkey with victuals.’

Shakespeare recalled the small gnat-like creature who had brought foul ale when last he was here. ‘Bring him to me. Now.’

The keeper hurried away, clearly panicked and trying to weigh up the implications; these men – Shakespeare and Mills – were important personages. They could bring him trouble.

Shakespeare examined the body. At first sight, there was no reason to believe this was other than a self-killing. Certainly Morley had been frightened enough to take his own life. Mills might well have scared him yet more, with threats of Topcliffe and torture. Yet, from what Morley had said, there were also those who badly wished him dead. He examined the hands and wrists. The wrists had raised weals as if they had been tied tight, but that was not surprising, for he himself had bound the man and dragged him behind his horse. His tongue was engorged and thrust obscenely from his mouth in a way that Shakespeare had noted on other hanged men, so it seemed probable that was the cause of death. But was it a voluntary death?

There was also a dribble of blood from the dead man’s mouth, on his chin and throat. Had he bitten his tongue? Then Shakespeare noticed spots of blood on the stone floor on the other side of the cell, away from the body. They could not have come from the man while he was hanging. He kicked away the straw and saw more blood. Was it his imagining, or was the blood formed into letters? He looked closer. The blood was dried and difficult to discern, but he was almost certain there were two letters there, almost certainly described with a fingertip. They seemed to be initials. There was definitely an
R
, but what was the second letter? It could be a
B
or a
P
.
RP
,
RB.
Two names came to mind: Rob Poley and Rick Baines. There were also two straight lines, hooked at the end. Was this a message from the dying Morley? The name of the man who killed him – if, indeed, he had been murdered – or the name of the powderman? With the side of his foot, Shakespeare brushed the straw back over the bloody letters.

On its own it was worthless. Not evidence, not really a clue. If only he had got to Morley. If only he had never left London. But he had gone to Gaynes Park and he had left his wife and family. He punched his fist into the wall and gasped with pain. But even pain was better than nothing; it meant he could still feel.

The keeper returned with the turnkey. Shakespeare towered over the little square-set gaoler by a foot and a half. He looked strong, his arms rippling beneath his filthy jerkin and shirt, but could such a small man have hoisted Morley to his death?

‘What do you know about this, turnkey?’

The turnkey shrugged. ‘Don’t look well, does he, Mr Shakespeare. Nor does your hand, sir. Why, you have a nasty graze on your knuckles, I should say.’

‘Where did he get the cord?’

The turnkey turned his head away impudently. The keeper looked on nervously.

‘Has he had visitors other than Mr Mills?’

‘Ask him yourself,’ the turnkey said. ‘I’m paid to feed prisoners and keep them locked away, not answer questions. If he wanted to top himself, that’s his look-out. There’s always ways to do it for those who are desperate, but who cares. Saves the hangman a task and leaves more victuals for the rest of us.’

Shakespeare turned to the keeper. ‘I do not have time for this. Have this man put in fetters. Send me word when he wishes to answer my questions. He is to stay incarcerated until I say otherwise. And remove the corpse to the Searcher of the Dead at St Paul’s.’

Shakespeare strode from the Counter prison into the air of London, and found it no more clean or wholesome than that of the gaol. There was a foulness in the city, a miasma of death and decay. He had to go home. He had a small daughter and two adopted children to look after. They would need him. And he needed time to himself, to think and to mourn.

Chapter 17

I
N THE LAST
light of evening, Boltfoot looked across the water meadows of the Lea towards the Three Mills site. He saw the place with new and questioning eyes. What secret did this powdermill hold if the man named Holy Trinity Curl had worked here? Why had the proprietor Knagg not mentioned him?

There had been no further information to glean from the poachers in the woods at Godstone, but the older man had agreed to bring his son-in-law, Tom Jackson, to meet Boltfoot and tell him what he knew of Curl. Jackson was suspicious and evasive; he was clearly scared of being involved in any way with officers of the state, even one as unimposing as Boltfoot. The meeting had achieved little beyond a vague comment about Curl being a small man with yellow-red hair and eyes of a similar hue. If Jackson knew more, he wasn’t saying. ‘Talk to them at Three Mills,’ he said shortly. ‘Thomas Knagg knows all about him. I never paid the man much heed.’

After that, Boltfoot went to the Godstone mill and met the miller, Mr Evelyn, who was open with his replies. Yes, there had been an attempt to breach the stockade and, yes, there had been attempts at bribery. The constable had been informed, and he had been to the county sheriff. There had been a full inquiry but the man they now knew as Curl (he had used an alias when insinuating himself with the powder-millers in the tavern) had disappeared and no one knew where he was. The inquiry had been dealt with in a thorough manner and there had been no repeat of the episode; there was nothing more to be done. As Boltfoot listened, he itched to be gone, certain that the answer to this investigation did not lie here. Though tired from a night with no more than one hour of sleep, he rode hard for Bromley-by-Bow, where this rabble-rousing hedge-priest had once been employed. They must know where he lived and more about him. So far, he had a description of him, nothing more.

Now he sat astride his horse, looking across at Three Mills, planning his next move. He shook the reins and rode up to the stockade gateway, where he dismounted.

The swag-belly guard recognised him and looked anxious. Boltfoot stood square in front of him and stared steadily up into his eyes.

‘Where is Mr Knagg? Is he here or taken by Sarjent?’

‘He has gone, Mr Cooper. No one knows where. The pursuivants came with Mr Sarjent but Mr Knagg had already departed with his family. Mr Sarjent and the pursuivants are in charge now.’

‘How long have you worked here, guard?’

‘Five years, sir, since Armada time when first it was changed from wheat flour to powder milling.’

‘Do you remember a man called Curl – Holy Trinity Curl?’

The blood drained from the guard’s face.

‘Answer me.’

‘Aye. I recall the man,’ he replied, nodding slowly as he spoke. Boltfoot could see that he was frightened.

‘Where can I find him?’

The guard glanced around nervously to see who might be listening.

Boltfoot’s hand went to the hilt of his cutlass. ‘Will you answer me?’

‘Mr Cooper, please. There are pursuivants here. We have been told to talk to no man.’

‘Shall I relieve you of your sweetbreads?’

The guard’s eyes were wide, like those of a tethered goat that has caught the scent of a predator and has no escape. His shoulders slumped and his chest sagged to his belly. ‘All I know is that he did sometimes preach at the churchyard at St Botolph without the wall at Aldgate.’

‘You have seen him there?’

His great girth could do nothing for him here. ‘No, but he did ask me to go there and hear him. Said I would find many like-minded men there.’

‘What did he mean by that?’

‘I do not know, Mr Cooper.’

‘What do you
think
he meant?’

‘Will this come back to me, Mr Cooper?’

‘It will if you do not talk plain. Be certain of that. Better to talk to me now than be racked by others.’

‘Please, sir, I have a wife. And I have nine children, all of them aged under ten years.’

‘Then if you wish to remain with them, you will give me all the information I require.’

The guard was quivering. Boltfoot waited and watched him, absolutely still.

‘Very well,’ the guard said at last. ‘I do believe he meant those who do not like the strangers coming to England, sir, for he knew those were my feelings. We had talked of it, as some others here do. He told me …’

‘He told you what?’

‘He told me there were many who thought like me, sir. That many men were organising themselves against the Low Country foreigners who come here and take our trade. Why should we fight and beat the Spanish, he said, and then be invaded by Netherlanders and Frenchies? He said God would visit a terrible retribution upon the strangers and any who welcomed them.’

‘And
did
you go to hear him?’

The guard was built like a plough-ox, twice the size of Boltfoot, yet he seemed like a schoolboy standing before his teacher awaiting the birch rod across his palm. His slowness to reply gave Boltfoot all the answer he needed.

‘Who was there? How many? What did this Curl say?’

‘I went but once, Mr Cooper.’

‘Did you know that the Privy Council has authorised torture for those suspected of defaming strangers?’

‘I would say there were fifty there. Apprentices and journeymen mostly, a few masterless men, too. Mr Curl did speak and sermonise. He told us that breaking and burning the Antichrist’s idols and relics was but the start. He said Christ had decreed that all men were the same in the eyes of the Lord, that it were harder for a rich man to go to heaven than for a beast to pass through the eye of a needle. While we was listening, one man whispered in my ear that Curl was Jack Cade, the captain of Kent, come back from the dead. That scared me, because I know what became of Cade and his followers. I am no rebel nor traitor, Mr Cooper.’

‘What then? What happened?’

‘Fighting, Mr Cooper. The constable came with the watch by order of the St Botolph parson. They beat us with sticks, but many of Mr Curl’s men did fight back. I would not say it was a riot, but it was a bloody affray. Curl’s lot made the best of their way out of there with their bruises and cuts. I scarpered the other way and never went back.’

Over the shoulder of the guard, Boltfoot noticed the approaching figure of William Sarjent, his face contorted with rage. He was accompanied by a pursuivant in hide jerkin, carrying a halberd. The guard shrank back at their approach.

‘Where in God’s name have you been, Cooper? You were supposed to stay here and keep watch on the traitor Knagg. Now he has run like a hare from greyhounds. Captain-General Norris would have struck off your head for going absent so.’

‘But you are not my captain-general, Mr Sarjent. I am answerable to Mr Shakespeare, Sir Robert Cecil and my sovereign.’

‘There is treason here, Cooper. Much powder is missing. I have brought in an auditor. All night long his candle has burned as he delved through the ledgers, and they don’t add up. There are two to three tons that cannot be accounted for.
Tons
, Mr Cooper, not hundredweight – two or more tons! Five thousand pounds of powder – enough to provision a royal galleon. No one knows where it has gone.’

‘Then you have a great deal to contend with here. And I am certain there is no better man to deal with it. For were you not a cavalryman at Sir Philip Sidney’s side, a foot soldier beside Norris and a powderman under Mr Quincesmith? I reckon there can be no greater martial man in the land than yourself, Mr Sarjent.’ Rarely had Boltfoot spoken so many words at one turn, but he had bile to vent at this braggart and was pleased to have done so.

‘Damn you, Cooper. You are a noxious insect of a man and you have no idea what you are getting into.’

‘I have business elsewhere.’ Boltfoot turned sharply and limped towards his horse. He was about to pull himself up into the saddle when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Sarjent was coming at him, dagger wrenched from his belt and clasped in his fist. Boltfoot thrust out with his right foot – his good foot – and caught the man in the belly. But he unbalanced himself in the process and fell to the ground, hard. Sarjent stumbled back from the force of the kick, but recovered his composure in moments.

Sarjent lunged forward and fell on the scrabbling figure of Boltfoot. He raised the blade in his right hand. It seemed he would plunge it down into the grizzled face of the old seafarer.

Boltfoot threw a punch. The blow missed, but as he did so he swivelled his head out of the way and the dagger came down away from his face, nicking his right ear, then stabbing harmlessly into the hard earth. Boltfoot wrenched his body the other way, this time throwing Sarjent to the side so that he lost his grip of the dagger’s hilt as he tried to maintain his balance.

As he turned, Boltfoot clasped his hands to Sarjent’s shoulders and jabbed his head forward with all the force he could muster. His solid forehead smacked hard into the bridge of the other man’s nose.

Sarjent squealed in pain. Blood spat from his broken nose. Boltfoot pushed him aside, then staggered to his feet. Blood dripped from his ear where the knife had cut it. Sarjent was sitting on the ground, his hands clutching at his bloody broken nose. Boltfoot pushed his right foot into his chest, knocking him once more to the ground, then walked back towards his horse, dragging his club foot.

This time he made it into the saddle. He glared down at Sarjent, then across to the guard, who was cowering by the entrance to the stockade. The grinning pursuivant leant nonchalantly on his halberd staff. Irritably, Boltfoot kicked his horse into a trot.

Shakespeare sat with Mary, Andrew and Grace, all huddled together on the floor of his solar. He stroked the children’s brows and hugged them and tried to soothe their tears. His own would not come.

At last Mary went to sleep and Jane took her away to bed. Grace was ten and Andrew was twelve, both old enough to comprehend death. Shakespeare talked to them quietly, trying to make sense of an event that made no sense to him. He could not bring himself to say that it was God’s will, for that would have been a lie. This was man’s doing. All he could say to comfort them was that she was with God now and that she looked over them still and would do so always. He had to let them believe that, even if he was less than certain himself.

By midnight, he had taken them to their beds, said the Lord’s Prayer with them and another prayer for Catherine. As he kissed them goodnight, Andrew recoiled from him. He looked in the boy’s eyes and saw his own rage reflected. He could find no words of comfort, so left the children, returned to his solar and sat alone. He had a flask of brandy, yet he drank nothing. He did not sleep. In his cold chamber he had found her comb, the teeth entwined with a few strands of her dark hair. He held it and closed his eyes and tried to remember her face. All he could see was bloody remains, severed limbs and disgorged entrails. Joshua Peace had lied to him; there was no escaping this vision. No words, no closing of the eyes, no Bible readings, nothing could wash away the blood and the horror.

At dawn, he left the solar and spoke briefly with Jane, who could not hide the tears that had flowed all day and night and flowed still. He held her hands in his. ‘Keep the children busy, Jane,’ he said. ‘Give them chores, make them do their reading. Tell them they must be strong in honour and remembrance of their mother.’

He strode to the stables and was leading out his grey mare when he caught sight of Jan Sluyterman.

‘Mr Shakespeare, I do not have words …’

‘There are no words, Mr Sluyterman. Do not look for them. How is the girl, Susanna?’

‘I believe she was standing behind Mistress Shakespeare, who caught the full force of the blast. She fell to the ground and was knocked insensible. Her arm and leg are broken. She has many cuts.’

‘Has there been any more trouble from Topcliffe?’

Sluyterman shook his head.

‘What of the servant, Kettle?’

‘He has disappeared, thank the Lord.’

Shakespeare was disappointed. He had been certain the man could lead him into dark corners.

‘Well, if he returns, let me know straightway, Mr Sluyterman. In the meantime, I would ask you to meet me at the hospital at ten of the clock, for I must talk with the girl and would ask you to interpret for me.’

‘Of course. I will be there.’

Shakespeare shook the Dutchman’s hand, then clambered into the saddle and rode the mare slowly eastwards through the teeming streets towards the Strand.

Cecil was still eating his morning repast when Shakespeare arrived, but he was immediately ushered in.

‘John, I would give you time away to mourn, but I need you.’

‘I do not want time away, Sir Robert.’

‘Leave the powder inquiry to Francis Mills.’

‘Mills, Sir Robert? Forgive me for speaking plain, but he was supposed to be looking after the Morley connection. Now Morley is dead and silenced.’

‘I received your message about that, John.’

‘Did Mills get the name of the powderman from him?’

‘He got nowhere with him. He had returned to me to request authority for the use of other methods of interrogation …’

‘Torture.’

‘I did not permit it.’

‘But Morley was scared enough that he took his own life. Or did someone else take it for him?’

‘John, that is enough on the subject. There is movement in the powder inquiry. The miller at Bromley-by-Bow has disappeared. A great deal of powder has been misappropriated. I think you can leave this to Francis Mills, your man Cooper and the men from the Royal Armoury. I understand your personal involvement, but there is more vital work for you.’

‘Is Boltfoot returned then?’

‘No, but Mr Sarjent has reported. I am told he and Boltfoot had a disagreement. Sarjent sports a broken nose.’

‘Well, why is Boltfoot not here?’

Cecil gave a brief shrug of the shoulders. ‘He will turn up in his own time, as always.’

Shakespeare said nothing. He did not like the sound of this.

Cecil changed the subject. ‘Let us talk of Perez and the supposed son of Mary of Scots. Do you believe this Doña Ana?’