‘I understand,’ Boltfoot said.
‘One little spark from a piece of metal on flint. One shod hoof sparking on stone, that’s all it takes and this place will go straight to the heavens and take good men with it. Now then, who are you?’
‘Boltfoot Cooper. My master is John Shakespeare, intelligence secretary to Sir Robert Cecil.’
‘This will be about the Dutch church.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, we are all a little more wary than usual here.’
‘Are you not always so wary, then?’
The sentry’s blood rose and he pushed forward his crossbow so it was less than a foot from Boltfoot’s heart. ‘Don’t come the cunning man with me, Mr Cooper.’
Boltfoot did not back off, but decided there was nothing to be gained from provoking the sentry further. ‘I have orders to see the mill-keeper, Jeremiah Quincesmith.’
‘Do you have papers?’
Boltfoot put his hand in his jerkin and brought out the letter-patent signed by Shakespeare and Bedwell, warranting him to be received by the keepers of the mills he was to visit and have his questions answered.
The first sentry studied it. ‘Wait here,’ he said, then walked off with the paper, leaving the other guard with Boltfoot. In a few minutes he returned. ‘Follow me.’
Boltfoot looked down at his caliver and cutlass.
‘Don’t worry about that. Mr Willis will look out for your horse and arms.’
‘If they are safe when I return, you will have a groat from me,’ Boltfoot told the second sentry. Reluctantly he turned away from his precious belongings and walked away, dragging his left foot through the dust.
He followed the first sentry to the nearest building, the most substantial of the five. It was constructed of brick and was attached to the great wheel that was turned day and night by the flow of water in a short canal spur carved across the land from the river Thames. The other mill houses were made of timber, daub and wattle with heavy thatching on the roof to keep the contents dry. He knew enough to realise that those buildings would be used for storing the raw ingredients – the grough or crude saltpetre, the charcoal produced by the burners outside the stockade, the sulfur imported from the lands of Italy and elsewhere. The process involved refining and mixing these three components in the correct ratio. The buildings were deliberately flimsy; they would be no loss if the place exploded – and the damage caused by flying twigs and staves would be considerably less than an explosion involving stone or brick.
Boltfoot was taken through to the mill room where he could see the great wheels turning and charcoal and sulfur being crushed by edge-runners of stone.
‘Mr Quincesmith,’ the sentry said. ‘This is Mr Cooper.’
‘Thank you, Mr Amos. You may go.’
Jeremiah Quincesmith was a bull of a man. His chest had the dimensions of a cask and threatened to burst from his drab worsted doublet. The muscles of his arms bulged in his sleeves. He had been talking to the men minding the crushing equipment, but now he looked Boltfoot up and down critically like a muster-master appraising a new soldier and finding him wanting. He brushed his hands together and a dusting of black powder sprinkled to the sawdust floor. He then perused the letter-patent from Shakespeare.
‘Well, Mr Cooper,’ he said. ‘I can understand why your master has sent you here, but you can assure him that we have no leaks. You saw the stockade. Day and night, we have six guardsmen on duty with fighting mastiffs. And all the powder is transported direct to the storehouse in the White Tower by barge under red flag. The powder is weighed out and weighed in. It is a short trip and none has gone missing. This is a well-run establishment, inspected twice a year by officers of the Ordnance Storekeeper. On one occasion last year Mr Bedwell came here himself and complimented us. Does that answer all your questions? I am a busy man. And Mr Sarjent here knows us well.’
Boltfoot suddenly realised there was another man in the room. He was tall and martial, like the guards, with a bristling black beard and eyes that seemed no more than slits. So this was the man who was to accompany him. The man nodded to him in acknowledgement, but Boltfoot did not reciprocate. He turned back to Quincesmith. ‘Where is the vault?’
‘I’ll show you. It’s through here.’ He led Boltfoot out to a thick-walled outhouse, followed by Sarjent. A sentry with a wooden pike and leashed mastiff stood guard. The vault had a heavy oaken door and a series of black-painted bolts, all of which were on the outside so that no metal was on the inside, close to the powder.
‘If not from here, Mr Quincesmith, whence did the Dutch church powder come?’ Boltfoot asked after looking inside the room at the pile of black powder awaiting casking.
Quincesmith smiled as he relocked the door. ‘Have you been a soldier, Mr Cooper? You are a poor sort of man with your crippled foot, but you look strong enough otherwise. And at least you stand as straight as you can, not scratching your balls like the levies of thieves and rogues that captains must accept as foot soldiers in these wars. I like the look of you.’
‘I was at sea.’
‘Against the Armada? Are you a cooper, as your name implies? We need good coopers here. You’d have to learn to hoop the kegs with osier, like water butts, not steel. Copper’s safe, too. Do you work with copper? The pay is good.’
‘No, Mr Quincesmith. I ask again. How did these men get their gunpowder?’
Quincesmith shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Does your Mr Shakespeare think we are all fools here? We know the threat from Spain. Their agents would dearly love to put a spark in the powder store. That is why we are so tight. That is why our guards – men like Mr Amos and Mr Willis, whom you have met – are all veterans of the Low Countries campaign under Norris. Hard, disciplined men. And nor are we complacent, Mr Cooper. Our guards are out with the trainbands every week to hone their fighting skills. They will not hesitate to kill.’
‘You have not answered my question.’
‘Where did the powder come from? I might guess a carrack’s hold. Once the powder is aboard ship, no one will notice a portion vanishing.’
Boltfoot said nothing. Of course, that was possible – but improbable. Before a merchantman set sail, the vessel would be full of men and the powder would be secured in the hold. It would be no easy matter spiriting it away unseen.
‘Or,’ Quincesmith continued, ‘it might be another powdermill. There are those that say Three Mills at Bromley-by-Bow is not kept as well as it should be.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I hear things, Mr Cooper. The lads at the Royal Armoury …’
‘But who? Give me a name.’
Quincesmith smiled and tilted his chin towards the third man in the room. ‘Mr Sarjent here for one. He knows Three Mills well and will not say a good word for it. Go and look at the place yourself if you want to know more.’
‘I need more than that. You have made accusations against another powdermill. Tell me the detail.’
Quincesmith stepped forward and took Boltfoot’s hand. ‘Let me shake you by the hand, Mr Cooper, for you are a stubborn stump of man and I want to help you. Others might wish to shake you by the throat, but, in truth, I think I would have been pleased to have had you as a soldier. Here, look at this before you go seeking out warrants.’ He produced a paper. ‘I received this not an hour since from Mr Bedwell at the Tower, brought with Mr William Sarjent here. It says I am to do all in my power to assist you with what knowledge I have – and that I am to show you the inner workings of my fine mill. It says, too, that Mr Sarjent is to accompany you during your investigations.’
‘I know that,’ Boltfoot said, declining to look at the paper.
Quincesmith grinned and revealed his teeth, a few of which were missing. He put the paper aside. ‘Now then, Mr Cooper, what more can I tell you? Allow me to explain the making and storing of gunpowder to you in small detail, as if I was talking to a simpleton or a child. Then Mr Sarjent will take you on your way. You will find him a stern companion, I
have no doubt, but he is a brave fighting man and knows as much about the safekeeping of gunpowder as any man in the realm. I pray you find the source of this powder without delay, for it does none of us any good to have such things happening …’
Chapter 7
AS JOHN SHAKESPEARE approached the ancient nunnery of St Mary at Clerkenwell, the birdsong was suddenly silenced by the crack of a gunshot. Shakespeare reined in his grey mare. A pair of boys in ragged clothes wrestled furiously on the dusty path in front of him, oblivious to everything but their fight.
He looked about. It seemed the firing had come from within the former convent. Kicking on again, he stepped the mare around the boys and walked on past the well where the parish clerks once performed mystery plays. Ahead of him was the great entrance door to St Mary’s. The spring sun streaming through the leaves of a pair of silver birches dappled the grassy verge with light.
Shakespeare tethered the mare to a post, then strode on foot to the convent entrance. The great arched gateway was open and untended. He called out, but no one came. He walked in towards the central courtyard, from where he heard voices, then another volley of gunfire and cackling laughter.
Through clouds of powder smoke, he saw that the courtyard was a wide open, arid place, uncared for and thick with weeds. Had the Benedictine sisters still been here, they would surely have been aghast at the vision they beheld. Or perhaps they wouldn’t, he thought wryly; it depended whose version you accepted of what went on in the Catholic monasteries.
Three women were at one end of the yard. Two of them sat against the wall, flagons of some liquor or ale in their hands. The third one, a fair-haired woman in her forties who must once have been pretty, was on her feet, a smoking wheel-lock pistol hanging loosely from her fingers. Her top was bare, her breasts pendulous over a belly of loose skin and fat. The two sitting women were scarcely more decent, sitting with their legs apart and their cheap kirtles hitched up to reveal their thighs and more. Their hair was awry and their chemises open. One scratched at a pustule on her haggard face. The other, a dark-haired girl no older than seventeen, would have been comely if she had combed her hair – and if she had looked less hard and villainous. She had unmarked skin, like a milkmaid, and puffed at a clay pipe.
At the far end of the yard, tied by a cord to a hook in the wall, was a small dog, lying in a pool of its own blood. It was moving, but slowly, close to death from the pistol balls that had pierced it.
The women turned as Shakespeare entered. The bare-breasted woman raised the pistol and pointed it at him. Her friends burst out laughing once again.
Without hesitation, Shakespeare walked forward and wrenched the spent firearm from the woman’s grasp. She seemed unconcerned. ‘A sovereign and I’ll fire your pistol, dove. I know how to fire a man’s pistol …’
Shakespeare ignored her and went to the listless dog. He removed his dagger and cut its throat as an act of mercy, then returned to the women.
‘I am looking for Black Lucy. I believe she has premises here. Do you work for her?’
‘Work for Luce? The maggoty Moor wouldn’t look at us. And nor would we work for such a greasy drab.’
‘But you know where she is?’
‘What’s it to you – and what’s it worth?’ She grasped hold of one of her breasts and tried to push it into Shakespeare’s face. But she was unsteady from the drink and her knees buckled, sending her toppling forward. Shakespeare could have reached out and held her up, but he stepped back and let her fall to the cobble-stone ground. Her friends laughed. Shakespeare turned to them.
‘Do either of you know where she is? I’ll give you threepence.’
‘You done for our dog, mister,’ the young one said, blowing out smoke. ‘That little bitch was worth a lot to us. We saved her from the plague men and loved her like she was our kin.’ The woman began coughing.
Shakespeare knelt down and took the flagons from them. They were both about half full of strong ale. He started pouring one away. The women bridled and reached out their hands as if they were birds’ talons, but he easily evaded their grasp. ‘Well?’ he demanded as the last drop fell to the ground.
‘Sixpence,’ the young, hard-faced one said.
Shakespeare took out three pennies and held them up. ‘One each and you can have the rest of the ale back.’
‘Give them to us, then we’ll tell you.’
‘Tell me first.’
She threw back her knotted hair and gestured vaguely to a small passageway leading from the courtyard to the northern precinct of the old nunnery. ‘Back there. But you’d do better with us. Swive the three of us for a crown and we’ll use alum to make us virgins. She’ll charge you three sovereigns for just one of her loose-cunnied whores.’ The girl pulled her kirtle up past her bare belly and thighs and displayed herself to him.
Shakespeare put the flagon down, tossed them the three pennies and walked away.
‘Here,’ one of them called. ‘That’s our pistol you got there.’
‘It’s safer with me.’
A sign hung over the doorway of the old dorter where once the nuns had their plain beds and sparse living quarters. The sign was painted in gold on a black background and said simply Vespers.
Unlike the dust-strewn courtyard, the area here was well kept; the ground swept, the mortar and woodwork maintained in good repair. The door beneath the sign was newly crafted from oak and inviting.
Shakespeare saw that it was ajar and pushed it open. It gave on to an open hall with wood panelling. On the far wall, beneath a gallery, hung a long, brightly coloured tapestry. Shakespeare glanced at it, expecting its subject to be religious, perhaps the Virgin Mary, or some hunting scene. But then he saw that it was an exquisite needlework respresentation of a naked woman, dark-skinned, with chains of gold about her throat, her slender waist, her wrists and her ankles.
‘Good day to you, sir.’
Shakespeare turned. He frowned. She was a fair-faced woman in her early thirties, with a warm smile. The voice and face were vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place them. She seemed to have a clearer idea, for she stiffened, as if she recognised him.
‘I am seeking Lucy, whom I believe to be the mistress of this establishment.’
The woman, who wore good clothes, though bordering on the immodest with a low-cut bodice, regained her composure and bowed to him. ‘Please wait here, sir. There is a settle in the hall. Would you like the maid to bring you beer or wine?’
‘Beer would suit me well.’
‘It will be with you straightway.’ She began to walk off.
‘Do you not wish to know my name?’
The woman looked back and smiled conspiratorially. ‘We do not often deal with names at Vespers, sir, though you may invent one if you desire.’
Shakespeare laughed; it seemed he was taken for a client. The woman disappeared and he looked around the hall. It was beautifully furnished with cushion-laden settles, a polished table and coffers, and drapes about the high windows. He sat down and waited. After a minute a maid appeared, bowed and handed him a pewter pot of beer. He took a deep quaff, enjoying the tang of hops on his parched throat. He noticed some books on the table and picked one up, quickly looking through the pages. He smiled again; they were amatory sonnets. It occurred to him that the fine nature of the room might have led the casual visitor to believe this was a respectable house, but the book gave the lie to that. This was a whorehouse, however it might present itself. He sipped again at the beer and waited.
At the soft whisper of footsteps he looked towards the staircase that curved down from the gallery. A tall and elegant woman was gliding down. Her skin was of the darkest hue that Shakespeare had ever seen, her features exquisite and her bearing regal. As she approached him, with the woman from the door trailing in her wake, she seemed to curtsy, but it wasn’t really that, nothing more in truth than a gracious acknowledgement of his presence.
‘Good day, Mr Shakespeare. It is a great pleasure to meet you. I am
Lucy.’
‘How do you know my name?’ He could not take his eyes from her skin, exposed at her neck and face and wrists, vanishing into a gown of gold.
She glanced at the woman at her side. ‘Beth knows you. Think back, Mr Shakespeare. Do you not remember your first love, Beth Evans?’
His brow creased in puzzlement and wonder. Beth Evans? Here, in a whorehouse? Could this be true? He stared at her and his eyes widened in recognition.
‘Beth?’ he said quietly.
‘Yes, it is me, John.’ Her eyes smiled back at him. ‘You really didn’t know me, did you?’
He shook his head.
‘I think you always had your nose in a book when you should have been looking at me.’ Her dark brown eyes and full lips creased in good humour. ‘I have watched your progress from afar, John. You have come a great distance from the Warwickshire meadows where we ran together.’
They had been but sixteen, sweethearts for one summer, or so it seemed. Perhaps five weeks, hardly more, and then she had taken up with the smithy’s son and left Shakespeare heartbroken. He felt a pang at the memory of it; he had sworn to be hers forever and now, when he met her again, he had not known her. How their paths had diverged: he had gone to Gray’s Inn, entered the service of Sir Francis Walsingham and later that of Sir Robert Cecil, and was believed, by some, to be destined for great things. Beth had become a common whore. Well, not so common by the look of her and this sumptuous establishment.
Lucy touched his arm. ‘I am sure there will be time aplenty for you to talk of times past. Come, Mr Shakespeare, how can I help you? I am sure it is not swiving you are after, for Beth assures me you are above the lewd sportings we habitually offer our clients.’
It was true enough, but somehow, in this place, it made him sound a very dull man.
‘I think I know you, John,’ Beth said, ‘even after all these years.’
Prince - John Shakespeare 03 - Page 6