‘So I understand. Have you any idea what he has in mind?’
‘Only that it involves the perspective glass and Brittany. The war there gathers pace. If we cannot secure Brest from the Spanish, the outlook for England is bleak.’
‘Is there word from Boltfoot?’
‘He is safe, but I know no more than that.’
Well, that was some comfort. If only the same were true of Andrew.
They were all in the withdrawing room of Digges’s manor, taking refreshment. Ursula had been sent to the kitchens with Oxx and Godwit to be fed and found lodgings within the house.
‘I am told by Jonas Shoe that there is some ragged vagabond girl with you,’ Mills said.
‘I am indebted to her, yet do not know what to do with her. For the present, she must stay here.’
And yet he could see the difficulties. The girl was an inveterate thief. On the ride here, she had filched a tankard from an inn and he had caught her trying to remove coins from his own purse. He had promised to protect her, but he feared no good would come of it. She would likely make off with the family silver.
‘But I promise I will return for her.’
Shakespeare told his story over supper. Digges, a large man who looked older than Dee, although he must have been at least ten years the younger, listened attentively. He hammered his fist on the table.
‘It is what I have been telling Her Royal Majesty for years. We need to model a new army – a professional standing army. With respect to your lad, Mr Shakespeare, what use is a terrified boy of thirteen? Or an ancient drunken vagrant? Pressed men are the dregs of our land, gentlemen – and a hindrance to military endeavours.’
Shakespeare knew a little of Digges’s history. Though not a fighting man, he was acknowledged a master of the art and science of war. He had written on the great siege guns, the proper building of fortifications, military formations and mining. As a follower of the late Earl of Leicester, he had been both muster-master general and trench-master in the Low Countries campaign of ’85.
‘How is Captain-General Norreys to protect the port of Brest with such men sent to him? And if the Spaniard snares Brest, we shall all be saying Hail Marys before the year is out. A professional army of well-trained English soldiers is what we need. They would be a match for any army Spain could muster and, I believe, would save money, too.’
‘Save money, Mr Digges?’ Mills demanded, heavy scepticism in his tone.
Digges eyed Mills with distaste. ‘You have never been to war, sir, or you would understand the way things are. Fraud, sir, fraud! It is a greater menace than enemy fire or God-given flux. And always it is the bawdy-house captains who are to blame. My lord of Leicester knew it – and Black John Norreys knows it but connives at it. Too many captains go to war to fill their purses, not fight for Queen and country. They are petty princes, more concerned with swiving the camp followers than campaigning. I tell you, many of them withhold their men’s pay until the clamour becomes too great – and then they send them out to skirmish with little hope of survival. Dead men’s pay, gentlemen. Dead men’s pay! With my army, we would have live soldiers and dead Spaniards.’
Shakespeare’s jaw tightened. The conversation threw the bloody horror of what Andrew faced into stark relief. Shakespeare could not be concerned about reorganising the army. Leave that to another day; he had to deal with matters as they were. He had to find Andrew and haul him out of the line of fire before some Spanish sword or ball cut him down.
The talk turned to old times and alchemy. Shakespeare took the opportunity to speak quietly again with Francis Mills.
‘Give me the truth about the war, Frank.’
‘Bad. The Spanish have completed their fort at the spit of land known as Crozon, on cliffs overlooking Brest roads. It is clear they have the cannon-power to control all shipping in and out of the harbour. It cannot be long before they take the town of Brest itself.’
‘How strong is this fortress?’
‘Exceptionally so. The walls are built of stone up to thirty-seven feet thick, above two-hundred-foot cliffs. It was designed by the engineer Don Cristobal de Rojas who, I am told by Mr Digges, knows as much about military fortifications as any man living. He was responsible for the fortification of Cadiz and Lisbon and Águila’s main Brittany fort at the mouth of the Blavet river.’
‘Then the news is all bad.’
‘Well, at least Her Majesty now sees the danger. She has recalled Black John to court and has assured him that he will have everything he needs. He returns to the war with new levies any day. There are three thousand men being recruited from eighteen counties.’
‘Not Lancashire?’
‘No. Only southern counties. They are being removed to Brittany with great speed. Norreys is supported by a fleet under Frobisher. The new levies are to be embarked at ports all along the south coast, as far as Plymouth. The fear is that this will all be too late.’
Shakespeare listened intently. Andrew would be in one of those levies – but at which port would they embark? From Oxfordshire, Provost Pinkney would likely take the recruits directly south towards Portsmouth, or perhaps further west towards Poole, Weymouth or Plymouth. Certainly not to the naval dockyards east of London on the Thames. There was nothing for it: Shakespeare would have to trawl through them. He just prayed he was in time to find the boy before he crossed the narrow sea to war.
Men and equipment thronged the muddy banks of the Thames. A tangle of humanity, iron, steel, tar and rope, wrought for killing.
Four great royal ships, their sails furled, were anchored in midstream along with three armed merchantmen. Three more merchantmen and a fifth royal ship, the Vanguard, were moored against the long quayside. Loading of barrels of powder and biscuit was constant. The river teemed with traffic – cockboats and wherries, taking men and supplies in all directions. Cries of salute, the stench of fresh-applied pitch, the creak of cables, the splash of oars – the sounds and smells of the river.
Treadwheel cranes of oak swung out their jibs, hoisting the great siege guns inch by inch towards the decks of the merchantmen. One crane was set aside for embarking the beasts: warhorses suspended in cradles, pigs in netting, chickens in closed woven baskets.
The panoply of war was immense, from the might of cannon to the commonplace: thousands of bricks to build ovens, hundreds of frying pans, lanterns, mortars and pestles, funnels, taps and tap-borers, great bundles of firewood, tallow for light, bells to summon the men to meals, weighing scales and fishing nets. The men carried their weapons and packs, with all they would need on the march: powder, lead, knives, porringers and cups.
Among this brutal bustle of a war machine preparing to depart, few would have noticed the three men disembarking from a wherry. Clarkson walked beside Ivory, with Boltfoot limping behind as they made their way from the water-stairs towards the Treasurer’s House beside the Royal Docks.
Boltfoot cradled his primed caliver. His grip was tight, his finger on the trigger. His eyes moved constantly, looking for the face in the crowd that stared too long, or the man who was out of step. His eyes were sharp and had been trained for this by his years in service with John Shakespeare. Ivory might have the best eye in the realm, but Boltfoot could not think himself far behind.
Frobisher was in the Treasurer’s House. He glanced at the newcomers without interest, then turned back to his conversation with one of his lieutenants.
‘All powder is accounted for, Mr Millwater? Two hundred thousand pounds for cannon, fifty thousand for hagbuts and calivers. All dry and tight?’
‘Yes, Sir Martin.’
‘None skimmed?’
‘No, Sir Martin.’
‘How many desertions?’
The lieutenant looked uneasy.
‘Speak, man, before I remove your brains from their housing!’
‘Three hundred and fifteen. Twenty of those recaptured and thrown into gaol. Morale is low … the delays.’
‘God’s blood, what sort of
men am I dealing with here? Does Norreys have no control?’
‘He has been drilling them relentlessly, but they are mostly poor soldiers. He is as unhappy as you, Sir Martin. This lack of wind—’
‘We will have a fair breeze in the morning. What of my marines?’
‘All accounted for. Two thousand fighting men.’
‘Real fighting men.’
Clarkson approached him. ‘Sir Martin, if I may interrupt. I have Mr Ivory, and his companion, Mr Cooper.’
Frobisher nodded to his lieutenant. ‘Be so good as to leave us now, Mr Millwater, and mark all I have said. You will assume command of the Quittance with immediate effect, then return here as ship’s master at Morlaix.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Millwater bowed in salute and marched out.
Frobisher turned to the newcomers and studied Ivory from head to toe. ‘I know that rogue. Still not been blinded for your cheating, insolent ways, Mr Eye?’
‘Still not been hanged for piracy, Sir Martin?’
‘No, but I’ll hang you as soon as I no longer need you. And I am happy to see from your bandaged head that someone else has been knocking you about.’ He turned to Boltfoot. ‘And what is this woodlouse? Why is he armed with Spanish shot and steel?’
Boltfoot lowered his ornate caliver, which had, indeed, been captured from a Spaniard, and bowed his head in deference. ‘Cooper, Sir Martin. Boltfoot Cooper.’
‘Formerly of Drake’s service,’ Ivory put in.
Frobisher raised an eyebrow in scorn. He was powerfully built with a chest that filled out his slashed gold and damson doublet. An eyeglass dangled from a cord about his neck and his large hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword. His hair was cut short and curled back from his forehead, and his red-brown beard descended into a fine starched ruff.
‘Drake, eh? Well, you’ll have learnt nothing of seafaring from that worthless dog. Are you a fighting man?’
‘Aye.’
‘Good, because we’ll need all we can muster.’
‘His mission is to afford constant protection to Mr Ivory and the instrument in his possession,’ Clarkson said. ‘He has succeeded in keeping him alive thus far. I know my master has told you all this, so I will leave them in your hands to use to best advantage. God speed you.’
‘Thank you, Mr Clarkson. Always a pleasure. And send my compliments to Sir Robert, if you will. Now then,’ he said to Ivory and Boltfoot. ‘You two weevils will both be on the Vanguard with me. Go aboard now and find berths. The master is expecting you. Have you been told aught about this mission?’
‘No,’ Ivory said. ‘But I was hoping for a game of cards and a woman before sailing.’
‘There’ll be none of that. I have been delayed too long. We sail for Brittany on the morning tide. I will give you full details of what is required in due course. Now be gone. I have work to do.’
Not far from the Treasurer’s House, Janus Trayne lounged against the doorway of a tavern, a tankard of beer in his hand. He had seen Ivory, Clarkson and Boltfoot while they were still in the boat, hoving towards shore. Even with his head bandaged, Ivory was unmistakable. That whiskery grey beard, those sharp, questing eyes.
Trayne allowed himself a smile and carried on drinking as, now, they emerged from the Treasurer’s House and walked towards the Vanguard. So, he had found his quarry again. And now he knew that Ivory would be aboard Frobisher’s ship. He knew because he had been told by Weld. It could not have worked out better. He could almost feel the perspective glass in his grasp, almost smell its hide casing. Ivory’s companion was hobbling; was that Cooper, the man who had stabbed him at Portsmouth? Well, he’d do for him, too. Make him pay for the injury to his wrist and for the humiliation in the woods near Sudbury.
In the morning, before leaving Chevening, Shakespeare told Mills of the events at Lathom House in Lancashire, culminating in the Earl of Derby’s death.
‘Very convenient,’ Mills said.
‘Indeed, there are many who might have wished my lord of Derby dead. But that is not my concern now. It is in the hands of a commission of inquiry – Sir George Carey and Sir Thomas Egerton.’
Mills raised an eyebrow. ‘Not your concern, John?’ he said doubtfully.
‘You are right. It still preys on my soul.’
‘What is your instinct?’
‘Poison. But how and by whom? So many had motives, so many had the opportunity.’
‘Well, I should be careful if I were you. Leave it to Carey and Egerton.’
Shakespeare fished into his doublet. ‘Here, Frank, something to occupy your mind while you wait in this house, keeping company with these mathematical men.’
He handed the missive found in the lining of Father Lamb’s doublet to Frank Mills, who read it quickly, along with the secret writing that had been revealed.
‘Well, one is a straightforward letter from a seminary priest to Rome or Rheims. But what is this other gibberish? “The killing birds wait in line. The hawks edge nearer, even as golden eagles under soaring eyries dive. Malevolent dove, evil nightjar, baleful ibis and twisted hoodcrow toss overhead, preying on insects, shrews or newts. Let dogs fester, orphans rot, ere rooks lay down and die.”’
‘You tell me, Frank. You are a man who loves to unveil the secret of a cipher. I sent a copy of the original to Cecil, but at that time I had not discovered the hidden writing.’
‘Are you sure you wish to know what it means?’
‘I will take the risk.’
‘Will you now ride to court and Cecil?’
‘I cannot. Tell him I will come to him as soon as I have found the boy. But if I discover he has already crossed to Brittany, then I must follow him there.’
Mills closed his eyes and stretched his tall thin frame as though wondering how to say something, and how much to reveal.
‘Frank?’
‘There is more, John. Let me just say this …’ He chose his words with care. ‘Cecil will not be unhappy if you make your way to Brittany.’
‘Is that so?’
‘I don’t know any more, just that. Whatever the mission he proposes for you, it is over there.’
‘Are you suggesting Cecil is somehow behind all my troubles?’ Shakespeare felt a sudden chill of fear.
‘Indeed not. No, no. The fact that you are likely to go to Brittany anyway is merely fortuitous. But we both know how the Cecils like to seize on fortuitous events and use them to advantage.’
Shakespeare relaxed a little. It seemed that whatever diversion he took, his road would always ultimately converge with Cecil’s planned path. Well, if Cecil wished him to go to Brittany, he had every intention of obliging him on his own account. Cecil could reveal his hand there.
He thanked Mills. He was almost warming to the man. Their relationship over the years since first they worked together for Mr Secretary Walsingham had always been difficult and tempestuous. Perhaps they were learning to live together, like a couple forced to marry who discover after ten years together that they quite like each other after all.
‘Thank you for dealing straight with me,’ Shakespeare said. ‘And do what I suggested to you long ago: be done with that wife. You are looking less melancholy than I have seen you in months now that you are away from her.’
Mills uttered a small, sad laugh. ‘In truth I find myself remarkably cheered by my absence from the adulterous slattern. I no longer dream of slitting her throat. Well, not so frequently, leastwise. But no, I fear I will not leave her. Death will us part.’
Chapter 37
IN THE STABLES of Thomas Digges’s manor house, Shakespeare appraised Ursula in her new clothes. Her tatters had been replaced with a plain worsted gown belonging to Digges’s wife, Agnes. She looked respectable.
‘How does that feel?’
‘Like nettles and hedgehogs. It’s going to be hot today. I’ll die in this.’
‘Well, you’ll have to deal with that as it happens. I can tell you that you look a great deal more comely than you did.
No one would take you for a thief dressed like that.’
‘They’d be pigging wrong then, wouldn’t they.’
‘There is to be no more stealing. You are staying here in this manor and you will be in the charge of Mr Mills. He will ensure you are fed properly and I have told him I want you to have some education. He will arrange that.’
‘I don’t want no learning. I want to come with you. You’re going to pigging France.’
Shakespeare ignored her plea. ‘If you are caught stealing again, then you will be sent away from this place and your chance of a decent life will be gone. Stay here, try to learn your alphabet and some writing, and I pledge that, when I return, I will find a position for you in some household. I believe you to be good. This is your one chance to prove it.’
‘You’re worse than Andrew pigging Woode.’
The groom brought out Shakespeare’s bay gelding, saddled up.
‘And if you are permitted to do any riding while you are here – and that is down to Mr Mills and Mr Digges – you will use a saddle. For if you do not, you will be marked down as a vagabond wherever you go. Try it – you might grow to prefer it. You might also find that townsfolk treat you with a great deal more respect.’
Ursula turned her face away. For a moment, Shakespeare wondered whether she was about to cry, but then realised it was a preposterous thought. This girl had lived through harshness that a seasoned soldier might never see. What was left in life to bring tears to her eyes?
Shakespeare mounted his charge. Without another word, he patted the horse’s neck, then shook the reins and rode out.
Marching. Endless marching. Andrew had always had strong legs and a good heart. He had been the fastest runner of all his friends. But nothing could have prepared him for this daily, gruelling slog, through the summer heat as the ever-changing band of recruits threaded its way down through southern England. Along the way, they picked up new pressed men and lost others to desertion and, in the case of one persistent offender, the sting of Provost Pinkney’s summary justice.
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