‘Where are they, Mr Bedwell?’
‘The nearest to London is Rotherhithe. It is powered by a watermill on a small tributary of the Thames. A little further afield, in Essex, you will find the Three Mills site on the river Lea at Bromley-by-Bow, which has recently been converted to powder production. There are also established mills at Faversham in Kent and Godstone in Surrey, and we have lately licensed a saltpetre works east of London in Suffolk.’
Cecil approached the table. He had heard all he needed from the ordnance men. ‘Thank you, Mr Bedwell. I know you have brought papers with further details of the positioning of these mills, their keepers and production details. I would ask you to leave those with Mr Shakespeare. And Sir Henry, if you see Her Majesty before I do, please assure her of our most rigorous efforts in this matter.’
‘Quite so, Sir Robert.’ Sir Henry Lee rose from his seat, followed by Bedwell. ‘I bid you all good day, leaving you with this thought. All spring, the Queen has talked of nothing else but her racehorse, Great Henry. She is convinced he will win the Golden Spur for the third year; but this news has quite distracted her. She considers the attack a personal affront to her authority. I would have her talking horses again, gentlemen, not raging like a North Sea tempest about gunpowder. That way we may all sleep a little better. So I urge you to put an end to this nonsense in short order. Until you do so, Her Majesty is expecting regular reports.’
After Lee and Bedwell had departed, Cecil turned to Mills. ‘What are your thoughts, Frank?’
‘Well, it clearly wasn’t Marlowe.’
Cecil sighed. Wearily, he rubbed the hunch of his shoulder that had earned him the epithet Robin Crookback. He was a small man, neat and self-contained. Always in control – in control of himself, of others, of his surroundings. ‘Yes,’ he said impatiently. ‘I think that is clear enough. It wasn’t Marlowe. So who was it?’
Mills lowered his pinpoint eyes, chastened. He was a tall man, about Shakespeare’s height, but thinner and older. He was becoming more and more stooped, as if he had invisible weights pressing down on him. Perhaps it was the burden of his sins, or the adulteries of his wife, that pulled him down.
He and Shakespeare had worked together for years, first for Walsingham and now under Cecil. Though their relationship had been reasonably cordial in recent months, Shakespeare could never forget that Mills had once betrayed him. Yes, he would work with him, but he would never trust him.
Mills’s great talent was in drawing information from suspects. His presence alone could often produce results as quickly as Topcliffe’s rack. At times the two interrogators had worked together – Topcliffe applying the engines of despair, Mills coaxing the confession or required information with soft words. He understood that the anticipation of agony and mutilation could often be as bad, worse even, than the pain itself.
Shakespeare disliked this in Mills, this resort to fear. Yet he had to concede that there was more to the man than this. Mills had a sharp, political mind that understood better than anyone the significance of intercepted correspondence between the courts of Europe – what to dismiss as tittle-tattle or disinformation, and what needed acting upon.
‘A witness speaks of seeing two men rolling a barrel from a small cart,’ Shakespeare said. ‘One man was tall, the other not so tall. Other than that the witness could describe nothing remarkable about them and paid them no heed. Their features were concealed by caps or hoods.’
Silence descended on the room. Sir Robert Cecil, privy councillor, chief minister in all but name, did not expect Shakespeare and Mills to speak unless they had something noteworthy to say. In many ways he was like his predecessor, Walsingham; that fastidious attention to detail, that utter belief in the power of secret knowledge. Yet Cecil was not Walsingham. He was too worldly for that. Cecil’s father had brought him up to understand the mechanics of power – and how to acquire it – without ever asking himself why he should want it. It was power for duty’s sake and it was as natural as eating, breathing or pissing to Robert Cecil. Walsingham, on the other hand, had acquired power for a purpose. It was for his sovereign, his religion and his country. He had beggared himself getting it and holding it, and had died in penury because of it.
The seconds passed in the meeting room, hidden deep in the somewhat anonymous house. Cecil’s father, Lord Burghley, Elizabeth’s longest-serving and most faithful minister, had bought it for his second son so that he should have a town place of his own; his other, greater mansion on the Strand, would go to Robert’s older half-brother, Thomas, along with the title Burghley. Robert knew, however, that he was his father’s chosen son and that he would inherit the jewel of his father’s holdings, the great palace of Theobalds in Hertfordshire.
‘And yet we cannot ignore the Marlowe connection,’ Shakespeare said, breaking the silence at last, glancing towards Mills for support. ‘Anything that involves Rob Poley must always raise suspicion. And what is Topcliffe’s interest?’
Shakespeare noticed the tightening of Cecil’s little fist, the stretching of the short and slender neck away from the hunch; most would not. Was it the name Poley or Topcliffe that brought a chill to this room?
‘Frank?’ Cecil demanded, as if Shakespeare had not spoken.
Mills studiously avoided the question of Marlowe. ‘There are many in this city who would wish harm to our Dutch friends, Sir Robert—’
Shakespeare recoiled slightly as Mills spoke. The man had midden breath and it wafted across the table at him. Before Mills could expound further, he interrupted. ‘If Marlowe was in any way involved in the intimidating placards posted outside the Dutch church, then we must wonder about a possible connection to the men who laid powder in that very place. Their method was more extreme, yet their target was the same. The Council – and you Sir Robert – thought Marlowe a fit subject for investigation alive. Has so much changed now he is dead?’
Once more, Cecil ignored Shakespeare and addressed Mills. ‘Who, Frank? Who in this city – Marlowe apart – would harm those who have sought refuge here? You called these strangers “our friends” – and they are friends of England. They bring skills and wealth with them at a time of great need. They help us open new trade routes. They help fill the war chest. And, above all, they abhor the Pope.’
Mills consulted a paper on the table in front of him. He smoothed it flat with the palm of his hand. ‘The welcome offered by the Crown and Council is easily understood, but it is worth looking at this from the perspective of the merchants and the common man. Consider this,’ he said, indicating the paper. ‘It is a summary of the recent Return of Strangers, dated May the fourth – four weeks ago. The aldermen and constables of each of the twenty-six wards have been diligent in their searches and have noted the names of more than seven thousand refugees and their children. We must assume, however, that the true figure is considerably higher. Many strangers keep others illegally about their houses as servants and apprentices. They hide when the word gets about that searchers are in the area. It would not be unreasonable to suggest that a true figure of fifteen or even twenty thousand incomers now live here.’
‘Out of perhaps two hundred thousand … possibly one in ten.’
‘Indeed, Sir Robert. And they make their presence felt, for they have a wide variety of trades and crafts. They bring skills to produce fine lace, glass, shoes, starch, hats and many more items. Their produce is much admired and desired by the English – yet they resent them, too. It cannot be denied that in some cases they do take trade away from their English neighbours. And it is true that they often keep themselves aloof and do not learn to speak English. Many English merchants, shopkeepers and craftsmen hate them. They fear their livelihoods are threatened and feel that parts of the city – Blackfriars, Billingsgate, St Martin le Grand and, further afield, Southwark – are become strange lands where a very Babel of languages is spoken.’
Cecil stopped pacing. He drew up the chair at the head of the table where Lee had recently been positioned, and sat do
wn. He leaned forward purposefully. ‘Is there any evidence that Englishmen are joining together against the refugees?’ he demanded. ‘Have there been illegal gatherings? Will there be mobs in the street or insurrection?’ Cecil took a draught of ale and wiped a finger across his thin lip.
Mills hesitated.
‘Well?’
‘I cannot give assurances that there will be no riots; no man could. We know that the apprentices, when they are in drink, often cast stones at those they take to be refugees. But I would say this: there is no evidence that such events are organised.’
‘Somebody is organising gunpowder, however. It is a short step from there to insurrection.’
‘As yet we have no suspects,’ Mills said dolefully. ‘Nowhere to start.’
Shakespeare sat in irritated silence. Cecil turned to him.
‘John?’
‘You know my feelings, Sir Robert.’
‘Yes, I do. And I am mighty confused by them. You do not believe Marlowe wrote the outrage – and yet you think you should waste time and effort inquiring further into his death. I am surprised a man of your wit does not see the contradiction here. Furthermore, you talk of Poley: are you suggesting Robert Poley was somehow involved in this gunpowder incident? My understanding is that it occurred within a short time of Marlowe’s inquest. Poley was there as a witness, was he not? And Topcliffe was there to report back to Her Majesty. How could either man have been in two places at once?’
Cecil’s words were sharp, but Shakespeare would not roll over so easily. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘that is not it. I have not accused Poley or Topcliffe of complicity in the gunpowder intrigue. My point is that Marlowe’s death was not straightforward. For one thing, there was the time discrepancy …’
For a moment, he wondered whether he had gone too far to speak to a senior minister thus. The moment passed. Nothing he could say would ever shock or dismay Cecil; that was why he worked for him – because he could talk to him man to man, he could disagree with him where others in power would expect to be fawned upon by obsequious underlings.
Cecil sat back from the table. ‘Mr Shakespeare,’ he said, his voice quieter, more intense. ‘John … the discrepancy over the time of Christopher Marlowe’s death is irrelevant. He still died from a blow of a dagger struck by Ingram Frizer. Even Searcher Peace agrees with that. And who are Poley, Frizer and Skeres anyway? Just the sort of low company that Marlowe always kept. There is no mystery here. He is buried. That is the end of it.’ Cecil turned back to Mills. ‘Now then, Frank, let us talk of the other faction that might have ignited the powder, if you please.’
Mills affected a solemn countenance. ‘The Spanish, Sir Robert. They are the ones who stand to gain most from unrest in London. Even now they are building up the war fleet that God and the weather saved us from last year. Philip and his Romish toad-eater in the Vatican are the ones that would happily wreak bloodshed upon our Protestant refugee friends here in London …’
‘John, the intelligence from Spain, if you will.’
Shakespeare smiled grimly. Cecil would not be moved on this. Marlowe was dead and that was it. He unfurled the paper on the table. ‘This is from Anthony Standen, sent as he travelled back from Spain through France. He writes, “The fleets in Cadiz and Lisbon are fitted for a surprise attack given fair weather and an opportunity. They plan to have Brest soon. They will not wallow as in ’88.”’ Shakespeare did not mention the intended recipient of the message, the Earl of Essex – Cecil’s great rival. The message had been intercepted from Essex’s messenger by Cecil’s searchers at Dover.
‘Given an opportunity,’ Cecil echoed. ‘That is just what we must not give them. There are threats enough.’
Indeed, Cecil had rehearsed the perils recently for the House of Commons. There were, he declared in a speech of eloquence and drama, dangers on all fronts.
Shakespeare had heard the speech – and the plea for tax revenues – and had been impressed. The way Cecil spoke, he made it sound as if Spain was closing a net around England. His words, calm and precise, instilled in every member of the House both fury and fear, so that none should doubt the need to dig deep into their own coffers. He itemised the threats from west, east, north and south.
In the west, Sir John Norris’s expeditionary force to Brittany was hard-pressed against the Spanish army of General Don Juan d’Aguila. Money, men and supplies were needed if Norris was to prevent the enemy taking the deep-water port of Brest on the western tip of that nose of land. Brest was a harbour so large it could safely have concealed the whole armada of 1588. If it should fall, Cecil proclaimed ominously, the Channel would be exposed to a new Spanish fleet, complete with invasion barges. Striking from Brittany, the whole of southern England would be at Spain’s mercy. Such an armada would start with fresh supplies and could be resupplied with victuals and ammunition as it drove eastwards towards Kent and London. In two years of campaigning in Brittany, Norris’s situation had become increasingly parlous. His poor band of troops was heavily depleted by disease, desertions, the wounding defeat at Craon and a devastating ambush at Ambrières. Now there was hard and bloody fighting at Laval. Norris needed help, and that cost money.
In the east, the Catholic king of Poland, Sigismund, had done a deal with Spain to disrupt English trade. If this was carried through, there was a real risk that some vessels of the Navy Royal would have to be diverted from their crucial role of protecting the western approaches and the narrow seas.
In the north there was subversive action among the Scots: the Catholic noblemen Erroll and Angus had corresponded secretly with the Escorial Palace with the aim of bringing Spanish troops to Scotland against James VI, and from there to march on England.
In the south, the Spanish fleet harried England’s merchant ships in the Mediterranean; in France, the Catholic League promised towns and ports to Spain. Worse, the Protestant king, Henri IV, had announced he would receive instruction in the Catholic faith. It seemed he would convert to Catholicism to unite his country – but what would that mean for England? Elizabeth was grievously put out.
Cecil’s words had been concise and they had hit home, for he had had his way with a huge triple subsidy to raise a hoped-for three hundred thousand pounds for the Treasury.
Shakespeare recalled one other thing Cecil said that day: ‘Her Majesty, to her great renown, made this little land to be a sanctuary for all the persecuted saints of God.’
It was true. England had been a sanctuary for many thousands who had lost their homes and families to the Spanish onslaught on the mainland. Many Englishmen were unhappy, however; one member of parliament, Walter Ralegh, had gone so far as to protest that ‘the nature of the Dutchman is to fly to no man but for his profit’. So what sort of a sanctuary did it seem now, with such hostile words bandied about and with gunpowder exploding outside church doors?
This unrest at home was the last thing England needed as the net drew tighter from outside.
‘And so,’ Cecil concluded, rising once more from his chair at the end of the table in his quiet room, ‘we will find these gunpowder men without delay, and we must show them no mercy. The Queen is clear on that, and I echo her sentiments. John, this is your task. Nothing else. No Marlowe, no Poley – it is the powdermen I want. If you need manpower or funds, they are yours. Frank, you will summon every intelligencer in London and find out what they know. Report everything to Mr Shakespeare, however insignificant it might seem. Good day, gentlemen.’
As Shakespeare and Mills stood from their chairs, Cecil walked with businesslike little steps towards the door. Then he stopped and turned to Shakespeare. ‘But tread lightly, John. You can offend Coroner Danby all you want, but do not walk roughshod over English sensibilities in this matter. We must protect our foreign friends for they have brought great honour to our realm, yet our charity to them must not hinder or injure ourselves.’
Chapter 4
AFTER A SUPPER of pike fried in butter, the juices soaked up with f
resh bread, Shakespeare and his wife sat at the table drinking Gascon wine and picking at a piece of hard cheese.
‘I think I am getting old, Catherine.’
‘You are thirty-four, John. You are not old, you are angry.’
He poured them both more wine from the pitcher and he drank it quickly. It was true enough; he was angry. But he wasn’t sure why. He had been angry before the meeting with Cecil, even before he saw Topcliffe at the inquest.
‘Be wary with your loyalty, John.’
Shakespeare looked at his wife.
‘I mean a man can be too loyal. A man can offer loyalty to a captain-general and receive no loyalty in return. Many have died for their sovereign. How many sovereigns have died for their subjects?’
Shakespeare laughed and shook his head. ‘Your tongue, mistress. I thank the Lord these walls do not have ears …’
Catherine rose from the table. ‘Wait, I have something to make you yet more discomfited.’ She went through to the hall while he sat with his wine.
The Shakespeares lived in a great wood-frame house by the river Thames in Dowgate. They had turned the house into a school for the poor boys of London, but it was still closed as a result of the pestilence that had taken hold last summer. The city’s mort-bills for the year of 1592 recorded that more than ten thousand souls had been claimed by the plague; this year the city fathers feared it would be as bad or worse. Shakespeare took another sip of wine. Perhaps it was just this decline of England that was getting to him: the rising prices, the unrest, the endless war with Spain, the worry that the school would never reopen, his fears for the future of their daughter, Mary, and for their adopted children, Andrew and Grace.
Catherine returned with a tattered broadsheet for her husband. As she leant over him to place it on the table, he reached out and clasped her breast in his hand. She laughed lightly, let her long dark hair fall about her face and moved her slender body towards him to close her mouth on his.
Prince - John Shakespeare 03 - Page 3