Prince - John Shakespeare 03 - (20 page)

Chapter 25

B
OLTFOOT’S DORMITORY WAS
near the top of the house. Eight straw palliasses were laid out, taking up most of the floor space. At the end of each mattress was a hopharlot, rolled up to use as bedding.

He did not undress but lay down, his caliver and cutlass at his side. All the men had their arms with them. They did not talk much, but took to their beds. One or two smoked pipes as they lay in the dark, awaiting sleep.

Boltfoot was by the wall beneath the window. Ranged alongside him was the man with whom he had eaten his repast.

‘Well, Mr Cooper,’ the man said. ‘What did you make of Mr Curl?’

‘He was as I had thought he would be.’

‘A mighty impressive man, would you not say?’

Boltfoot did not reply. He was wondering how high the window was, whether there was any possibility of climbing out this night. He guessed he must be twenty to twenty-five feet above the level of the street outside. A fall from there would do for him.

‘Well, good night to you, Mr Cooper.’

Boltfoot said nothing. He was thinking of the face among the crowd of men. The more he thought of it the more he began to fancy that he had seen it before. But where? He needed to remove himself from this place without delay.

Jane was still in her daywear and waiting for Shakespeare at the door. ‘Not in bed, Jane? It is near midnight, I believe.’

‘You have a visitor, master.’

‘Who is it?’

‘His name is Mr Bruce. I believe him to be a Scotch gentleman. He invited himself in. He is in your library, sir … I could not prevent him.’

Shakespeare’s hand hovered by the hilt of his sword. ‘Bring us wine, Jane.’ Upstairs, he pushed open the library door. A man lay across the settle, his dusty boots crossed and resting on a red velvet cushion. He had his hands behind his head and was staring idly up at the plasterwork. He turned his head on hearing the door open, but made no effort to rise.

‘Ah, Shakespeare,’ he said. ‘You have kept me waiting.’

Shakespeare’s hand stayed close to the hilt of the sword. ‘Who are you?’

‘Bruce. Rabbie Bruce.’

‘That tells me nothing. Why are you here?’

Bruce swung his legs from the settle and rose languidly to his feet. He was wearing a clan tartan kilt, wound around his shoulder and down to his knees as a skirt. He had a belt about his waist with an animal-skin purse hanging from it. In his stocking there was the haft of a dagger. ‘Take your hand away from your wee sword, Shakespeare. We’re on the same side. Did little Cecil not tell you I would be here?’

‘I still have no idea who you are …’

Bruce raised an eyebrow and looked at Shakespeare as a university tutor might sneer at a doltish student. ‘From the Scots embassy. I am an envoy of King James. We are to work together. Do you English not communicate one with the other?’

Jane arrived with a tray of wine. She was clearly unsettled by Bruce and gave him a wide berth. She put the tray down on the table quickly before bowing to her master and hurriedly making her way out. Shakespeare eyed the man. He was an inch or two shorter than Shakespeare was, yet he looked stronger. He was lean and muscular and seemed to be about Shakespeare’s age – mid thirties – with an air of relaxed assurance. He was clean-shaven with short brown hair. His eyes were dark and seemed to smile, but closer inspection revealed that there was no smile, just a trick of the lines that had started to gather around his high cheekbones.

‘Work together on what, Mr Bruce? Knitting kilts?’

‘You are droll, Shakespeare. We are to find this man who claims himself as the King’s half-brother. The sooner he is rendered dead, the happier I shall be. For while he is at large, every Popish assassin from here to Rome and Madrid will make it his business to kill James and make their impostor king in his place.’

‘It is not my mission to kill any man, Mr Bruce.’

‘Is that so? Well,
you
do the boy’s work and I shall do the man’s. I shall see this princeling skewered, parboiled and spit-roasted.’

Shakespeare moved his hand from the sword. He poured two cups of French wine, sprinkling a little sugar into each measure. He handed the drink to Bruce, who put it down untried.

‘No time for wine. Work to be done. I am told you were seeking Glebe, the printer of the broadsheet. Have you found him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then let us go to him. Where is he?’

‘Under lock and key. But it is midnight, Mr Bruce, and I have already questioned him. We will not go to him now. I am going to kiss my children in their cots, get five hours of slumber, then return to my inquiries.’

‘I care not a turd for your sleep, Shakespeare. Tell me where the man is and I shall go to him alone.’

‘No, Mr Bruce. Return at dawn and we will discuss a strategy then.’

Bruce showed no sign of taking his leave, nor of letting the matter rest. ‘I am going nowhere. I was promised your cooperation, and I shall have it.’

‘Indeed you shall. On the morrow. I bid you goodnight. Sleep here on the settle if you wish.’ Shakespeare drank his wine and strode from the room, for if he had stayed any longer, he might well have run the Scotsman through.

Boltfoot lay tense beneath the hopharlot, waiting for those around him to drift into sleep. He thought of Jane at home, fearing for him, and he thought of the baby. Never before had he cared much whether he lived or died, for he knew the world would not notice either way. But now … now he needed to stay alive for his wife and for little, helpless John Cooper, just eight months old and beginning to crawl about the floor to his father’s delight.

Soon he heard the heavy snoring of exhausted men. He got up and stood silently for a few moments. If any challenged him, he would say he needed a piss.

No one stirred. A glimmer of moonlight came in through the unshuttered window. He picked up his cutlass and thrust it in his belt, then slung his caliver over his back. Despite his club foot, he could move with surprising agility and grace when required. He picked his way through the slumbering mass of bodies, step by step. At last he was at the doorway and looked out into the stairwell. It was darker there and he could see almost nothing. But he had memorised the number of steps. Nine between each floor, thirty-six in all. He remembered, too, that most of them creaked like an ungreased church door.

Slowly he lowered his weight from stair to stair. He could not eliminate all the sounds of the aged wood, yet he minimised them. The house was noisy even without his footfalls, for men snored and farted on every floor and the old building groaned as it settled into the night. These sounds muffled his own movements.

He reached the first floor. From behind a door he heard the soft voices of two men. He did not move, straining his ears to hear them. He could not make out the words, but fancied they were Scottish accents. Why would there be Scotsmen here? It was difficult to imagine that the men in this house, so zealous in their desire to rid England of strangers, would welcome the presence of those from north of the border. He pushed the thought to one side. There were more important matters at hand.

Boltfoot carried on down the stairs, even more slowly than before. Now he was on the ground floor, in a small hallway between the workshop at the front of the house and the refectory at the back, where they had taken their victuals and heard the address of Holy Trinity Curl. The doors to both rooms were closed. From beneath the door to the refectory, a thin light danced. Had some fool left a candle alight in there, or was the room still occupied? He had to remain silent. He lifted the latch to the door leading the other way, into the workshop. The latch clicked. It was only a little sound, but to Boltfoot it sounded like a clap of thunder.

He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, then pushed the door open. Immediately, he fell back a step, for he found that this room, too, was lit – and that he was confronted by three men. One lounged against the workbench, another stood with wheel-lock pistol in hand scarcely a yard in front of him. Another loitered in the shadows close to the door to the street.

‘Very good, Mr Cooper, very good indeed. If we had not been here waiting for you, I do reckon you might have slipped away into the night, for you were as quiet as a tiny mouse.’

It was Ellington Warboys who spoke. He was the man with the wheel-lock trained full on Boltfoot’s heart. The man lounging against the workbench was Curl. He was holding a small penny candle, which was all the light they had. The third, the one near the door now stepped out from the shadows. It was the man whose eyes he had met in the refectory, the man he couldn’t place.

‘I think he still does not recall me, Mr Curl,’ the man said. He looked towards Boltfoot and shook his head. ‘But I recall you well enough, Mr Cooper, for I was there when you saved your master, Mr Shakespeare, from Mr Topcliffe at the Sluyterman house, where I was a manservant. My name is Oliver Kettle. Do you not remember me now?’

‘If he does not remember you yet, Mr Kettle, we shall give him cause,’ Curl said. ‘For any friend of Sluyterman’s is an enemy of mine.’

‘How did you know of us?’ Warboys demanded.

‘All London knows of you.’

‘No, that’s not so. Who led you to St Botolph?’

Boltfoot said nothing.

‘And how much does Shakespeare know?’ Warboys demanded.

Again, Boltfoot said nothing.

‘Has he heard of us? Have you told him of us?’

Kettle stepped forward and lashed his forearm across Boltfoot’s face. Boltfoot stumbled but did not fall, nor did he cry out.

‘Talk!’

‘Aye,’ Boltfoot said. ‘He knows of you. He sent me here and has this place watched.’

‘I don’t believe him,’ Warboys said. ‘But we have to be sure.’

‘Kill him,’ Kettle said.

Warboys shook his head. ‘If we kill him, we won’t know. And we must know. Give him to me, Mr Curl. I’ll soften him so he has no strength left to dissemble.’

‘Cut his balls off,’ Kettle said. ‘That’ll make him talk. Then slit his throat.’

Curl pondered a moment. ‘I agree with Mr Warboys,’ he said finally. ‘We need to know this. Take him to Canvey, Mr Warboys. Give him to your fine Scottish friends and let them practise their necromancing on him. It will keep them amused, and they have worked hard. Can a man be dead and buried and talk? They do tell me such a thing can be done, for they have seen it in the churchyards of Tranent. If they be right, then we shall find all we need to know. They say a man who has seen his own death does not know what it is to lie …’

Shakespeare woke at dawn as the first of the grey light slipped in the gap between the shutters.

Instinctively, he reached out his hand for Catherine and recoiled at the touch of the cold sheet. He had not dreamed of her. His sleep had been short and empty. He sat up in bed gasping for breath. Another day to get through, another day without her. His eyes felt heavy and his throat was raw.

Rabbie Bruce was already at the table eating meats and yesterday’s bread when Shakespeare came through. The children were there, too, seemingly unnerved by this spectre in their midst. Only Andrew had the boldness to ask the stranger in the curious attire who he was.

‘Have you heard of Scotland, laddie?’

Andrew nodded.

‘Well that’s me. From the dark north where witches eat children.’ He laughed, then looked up to see Shakespeare standing there. ‘I was amusing your bairns, Shakespeare. And I rifled your larder.’

‘So I see.’ Shakespeare’s voice was sharp.

‘So you have done with sleeping at last. Good. Time to shift your mangy English arse.’

‘I have no intention of going to Glebe this day, and certainly not with you, Mr Bruce. I have more pressing business.’

Bruce glared at him a moment. ‘You know, Shakespeare,’ he said at last. ‘I think you might wish to remove your children from this room before I say what I have to say, lest their tender ears be offended by the lewdness of my language.’

Shakespeare touched Andrew’s shoulder lightly. ‘Take Grace and Mary to Jane. Tell her I am not to be disturbed for a little while.’

Andrew bridled, as if to say
I’m twelve now, not a small child. You should not dismiss me so.
But he said nothing and took the younger childen away. Shakespeare went to the keg and poured himself a beaker of ale. He drank half of the cup quickly, then wiped his sleeve across his mouth. ‘You had something to say, Mr Bruce? Make it sharp.’

‘Do you know who you talk to?’

He thought to say
A worm in a plague dog’s gut, a weevil, something scraped on to the sole of my shoe.
But he stayed his tongue.

‘You have no notion what is at stake here. One day, soon, King James the Sixth of Scotland will be King James the First of England. And I shall be one of his chiefest ministers for the services I do him. You and your little Cecil Crookback will run about like rats, doing
my
bidding. Now, Shakespeare, do you consider it wise to cross your future king and his principal secretary?’

Again, Shakespeare held his tongue, though there was much building up inside him. ‘Mr Bruce,’ he might have said, ‘if you were ever principal secretary of this land, I would be long gone to any other country on the earth, for I would rather live under the Ottomans of Turkey or the savages of the New World than abide a man of such graceless conceit.’ But instead of speaking he turned his face away.

‘Is that it? Is that the way you intend to go on with me? Do you have nothing to say to me, Shakespeare?’

‘I think it is time for you to leave my house. We will meet up at day’s end. This evening, at Sir Robert’s apartments in Greenwich Palace.’

Bruce ran a hand angrily across his close-cropped hair. He ground his sharp front teeth together like a stoat and his eyes no longer contained even the semblance of a smile. ‘Fear not, Shakespeare, I am going. I shall seek out an old friend who will be more obliging. One who will most certainly locate Walstan Glebe for me, and together we shall have much pleasure in making him talk.’

Chapter 26

D
OZENS OF ROYAL
and noble pennants fluttered in the warm breeze. Canopies of green and harvest gold shone in the sunlight.

John Shakespeare walked through the Greenwich Park crowds and stalls. Here, a pair of oxen roasted over an enormous open fire, their juices dripping and sizzling in the flames; there, a juggler throwing six burning batons of pitch into the air in a constant, circular stream, catching them and twirling them onwards with consummate skill. Everywhere, people and horses milled about, seeking food, drink and amusement from the many open-air cooks and entertainers. Gamesters threw down purses of silver and gold in bets on cards, dice, cockfights and courses. Minstrels plucked and sang for a few pennies. Wrestlers, bare to the waist and glistening with sweat, struggled to exhaust each other in a fight that could only end in surrender or death. A group of whores stood close by, doing all in their power to lure the men by thrusting out dimpled thighs and pulpy breasts. But the men weren’t buying today; they found the allure of gaming, of manly sports, of blackened meat and fresh-drawn tankards of beer even greater than the promise of soft female flesh.

He stopped momentarily as a pair of horses thundered past him with whooping riders aboard. It was, evidently, a small private race before the grand main events. They were poor, gypsy animals, with no saddles or stirrups but only cloths about their backs. Yet the riders were powerful and skilled.

Shakespeare looked on these innocent pleasures with unheeding eyes. He was a man apart from this seething mass of humanity, wrapped in a darkness from which there was no escape. All that drove him onwards, like a desperate, blinkered mule at the wheel, was the thought that he must find Catherine’s killer.

Before coming here, Shakespeare had spoken with Jane. She was concerned for the children, ‘Grace is acting like a little mother to Mary, but it does not feel right, Mr Shakespeare. They are like players, acting out some strange drama between themselves. Andrew is angry. He will scarce look at me nor reply when I ask some straightforward question. He says no more than yes or no. He is a big lad now, and I have no control over him. I had thought he would take a kitchen knife to the Scotch man.’

‘I had an inclination to do much the same,’ Shakespeare said wryly.

‘And yet I have seen him alone, in dark corners, raging and weeping his eyes out. I do not know what to do for the best, Mr Shakespeare, in God’s name I do not. How am I to talk to them? They need you.’

He had said nothing, though he knew she was right.

As he reached the main stands, a volley of cannon fire signalled that the royal party was about to depart from Greenwich Palace. Much of London seemed to have migrated downriver today for the pomp and pageantry of these summer races. Thousands of men, women and children lined the half-mile route from the palace to the royal viewing point, all of them hoping for a glimpse of their queen. A score of horsemen on white destriers, all in dazzling armour with sword blades raised in front of them, came first, followed by a series of carriages.

The third carriage carried the Queen herself, resplendent in an Italian dress in cloth of gold, stitched with hundreds of rare jewels. She wore a caul and bonnet after the Italian fashion and cooled herself with a gold-handled fan of white feathers. Every so often she waved to the cheering crowds, seeming to enjoy their enduring love. It was as if, for a day, all was well with her realm; there were no poor, no plague victims, no foreign wars, no threat from Spain.

The Queen was closely followed by ten members of her Privy Council, amongst whom was the Earl of Essex, newly appointed. Essex held his shoulders back and rode tall and proud, adorned in fine white silk and taffeta with buttons of pearl and silver. He sat astride a huge black war stallion caparisoned in the same silk and taffeta as his own attire, a line of pearls ranging down its nose. Beside Essex rode Sir Robert Cecil, small and insignificant, dressed in a modest ruff and black doublet, embroidered with discreet knots of gold. The men, so contrasting in their physique and dress, did not look at each other once.

‘A fine sight, is it not, Mr Shakespeare? Almost the equal of Paris or Madrid … but not quite.’

Shakespeare turned to find the smiling figure of Ana Cabral at his side. She wore a dazzling gown of black silk, with slashes of lustrous scarlet, sweeping out from her hips with the assistance of a Spanish bell farthingale. It was high-bodiced with a simple, lace ruff that did nothing to conceal but rather drew attention to the erotic smoothness of her throat. The effect of her dress, coupled with her fair and silver hair and black eye patch drew many glances. In her small, black-gloved hand she had a long thin pipe of ebony, which she sucked on now and then, blowing out thin wisps of smoke into the summer air.

‘Are you suggesting there is a court anywhere else in the world to match the majesty of Gloriana?’

‘Your words, Mr Shakespeare, not mine.’

Shakespeare did not laugh. ‘I am glad you have found me, Doña Ana, for I wish to talk with you – and enlist your aid. Sir Robert Cecil is exceedingly anxious to have Don Antonio brought to him. Now that word is out in the broadsheets, it appears all London talks of nothing else but your Scots prince. Sir Robert wishes to have the truth from Don Antonio and will pay exceeding well. Can you arrange it?’

‘Of course, if the price is right. For me
and
Don Antonio…’

‘The price will be as you wish, within reason, Doña Ana. All we need to do is arrange a time. Shall we say this evening, at six of the clock in Greenwich Palace?’

‘I am sure we can arrange something suitable.’

‘Is Don Antonio here now?’

Ana Cabral waved her fine-gloved hand and carved a stream of smoke with her elegant black pipe. ‘He is indisposed. You must know that he suffers from many ailments, which is why he always has his box of remedies at his side.’

Suddenly her smile transformed into an expression of sorrow. She touched his hand with her own gloved fingers. ‘I have not expressed my condolences for your great sadness, señor …’

Shakespeare stiffened. How free the world was with its sympathy and pity.

Ana sighed. ‘I know. There is nothing I can say. Come with me now. Please. Come and meet the vidame and inspect Conquistadora.’

Shakespeare suspected that Perez’s indisposition was more likely caused by an excess of opium than by any illness. Or perhaps it was simply a convenient excuse for not coming to the racing. He stayed Ana Cabral. ‘You have not given a firm response to my suggestion. Let us fix a time for you to bring Don Antonio to Cecil. Six of the clock, yes?’

She shrugged her narrow shoulders helplessly. ‘I am unable to be so definite. He is my master. I can ask him if that is a convenient time – but I certainly cannot hold him to it. You must understand this, sir. No more could you speak for Sir Robert Cecil. But come with me now …’

In the makeshift stables area, behind the canopied royal stands, a smell of cooking meat gave way to the aroma of new-dropped horse dung. Inside a large tented barnlike structure containing half a dozen animals, each in their own stall, the Vidame de Chartres was talking with a member of the Queen’s equerry. They were beside a black horse that Shakespeare recognised as the Barbary filly he had ridden at Gaynes Park.

Seeing the newcomers, the royal officer bowed and moved away.

The vidame made an extravagant gesture with his hand by way of greeting to Shakespeare. ‘Have you come to see Conquistadora, the Barb filly?’ He reached out and patted the beast’s noble black head.

‘Not exactly.’

‘Hazard all your worldly goods on her. I will race her against the Queen’s stallion Great Henry for the Golden Spur. The gamers offer three sovereigns to the one against the Barb. Take it.’

‘Mr Shakespeare does not wish to hear about horses,’ Ana said. ‘He is at his secret work this day. He wishes me to bring Don Antonio to Sir Robert Cecil.’

‘Ana, my dear, I am certain you will work your charms on Don Antonio. But you must also insist that Mr Shakespeare brings forth my prize from the race at Gaynes Park.’

Shakespeare had either forgotten about the favour he was supposed to owe the vidame, or he had deliberately put it out of mind. He took his sword from his belt, laid it across his hands and offered it to the vidame. ‘Take it, Monsieur le Vidame. It is all I have to offer, for I do not have the power or inclination to comply with your demand. Under English law, I believe the one you call Monique to be a free woman.’

‘But you agreed to the wager and its terms, Mr Shakespeare!’

‘Under a certain duress. I said the favour must be legal. How can it be legal to hand a woman into slavery in a land where such bondage is outlawed? Have the sword. It is a poor thing compared to yours, but I have been fond of it. Take it and let that be an end to the matter.’

The vidame did not take the sword. ‘No, sir, I will have what is mine. Nothing more, nothing less.’

‘I cannot help you.’ Shakespeare was curt in his dismissal. He had had enough of these lewd and corrupt hangers-on. While London crumbled before an enemy onslaught, and while a pretender waited to claim the thrones of England and Scotland for Popery and Spain, they twittered of horses and slave girls.

The vidame looked from Ana to Shakespeare and gave a gallic shrug. ‘Then nor, I fear, can we help you.’ He turned away with a last stroke for Conquistadora, and wandered off.

Shakespeare watched him go, then sheathed his sword and looked to Ana. ‘My business here is nothing to do with the vidame. You are the one close to Don Antonio. Bring him to Greenwich Palace this evening, for he must know that Cecil is not the man to cross if he wishes to advance his cause in England.’

Ana brushed a persistent wasp away from her hair. ‘Don Antonio’s interests do not lie only here. He enjoys the patronage of Henri of France and he is well aware that a word from the vidame or his father could imperil his position at the French court. The vidame is not one to be scorned.’

Shakespeare felt he would explode. ‘Then it is up to
you
, Doña Ana. You must come with me to Cecil this evening. He demands more information from you. If you hold anything back, I tell you that this will become a Council matter, and you will not have the immunity that your master enjoys.’

‘You do not need to threaten me, Mr Shakespeare. I brought you the secret, did I not? Of course I will be there. It will be my pleasure. I may be Spanish but I am no friend of King Philip.’

Shakespeare looked at her hard, wondering where the truth ended and the lies began. He liked her in a curious way, would find her attractive at a different time of his life, but he did not trust her. And there was another matter to be considered:
The London Informer
. ‘It is true that you brought me the secret, Doña Ana, yet if I had waited a few hours I might have read it in a penny broadsheet. How do you explain that – and what do you know of Walstan Glebe and a man known as Laveroke?’

Ana shook her head with a disarming smile. ‘I have never heard either name.’

‘So how did
The London Informer
hear of the Scots prince – a story, apparently, known only to you, Don Antonio and an old nurse?’

‘I was as surprised as you to see that broadsheet, sir. But the story was not had from my lips. I sold you the secret in good faith.’

‘I wonder why I do not believe you …’

Ana Cabral sighed. ‘Oh, my dear Mr Shakespeare, how can I convince you?’ She took him by the arm. ‘Come with me,’ she said soothingly, leading him towards the royal enclosure. Suddenly she stopped and turned, as if she had caught sight of something – or someone.

Shakespeare sensed the change in her; a sudden whisper of unease. He looked around sharply. There was no one there but a couple of grooms sharing a pipe of sotweed.

‘Here is your coffin, Mr Cooper,’ Warboys said, running a hand along the smooth wood. ‘Do you approve of its fine lines? I crafted it myself, for that is how I earn my daily bread when not doing my duty with the Free English Trainband.’

Boltfoot had no idea where he was. They had mentioned Canvey, but that meant nothing to him. He had been brought here, blindfold and gagged with rags, his arms bound behind his back with thin strips of rawhide. Tossed like a dead deer on the back of a horse-drawn wagon, his journey had been long and painful along potholed tracks. After a while, he had been transferred to some sort of boat and brought across a stretch of water, a journey which seemed to take some hours, then landed and dragged up to this higher ground. The blindfold and gag had been removed and he saw now that he was in a small thicket of stunted trees, surrounded by tangles of brambles and bracken-bushes. He could hear seabirds. Beyond the spinney, he could make out an endless bleak landscape of tufted grass, dried mud and dark, still pools of water. A few more low trees hugged the skyline. The coffin of good elm lay before him, close to a half-dug hole in the earth. There were four men. Warboys and three others garbed in black, with cowls, who were busy digging into the earth with spades.

‘And there,’ Warboys continued, pointing to the hole they were making, ‘will be your grave.’

There were no beaten tracks here, no way for a man to discover where he was. Why, he wondered incongruously, would they provide a coffin for his body? Why even bother digging a grave, rather than simply throwing his carcass into a creek or leaving it for the birds and wild animals to gnaw on?

Warboys put his mouth close to Boltfoot’s ear. ‘I wish to know what Cecil and your master know. These Scottish sorcerers wish to make merry, and we must keep them happy. Sadly for you, Mr Cooper,
you
are their entertainment. And as they go about their business, I am assured they will discover the secrets of your soul.’

Boltfoot noted that Warboys’s speech was slurred from drink, but he was not listening to the words. With the blindfold off, he was becoming accustomed to the drear, cloudy light, and was trying to take in all he might about this place and these men, his captors.