‘Indeed, Don Antonio,’ he said, removing his hand from Perez’s and reaching into his doublet for his letter-patent from Cecil. ‘Sir Robert has commanded me to negotiate with you for important information, some secret you possess.’
‘Let us not be maidenly, then, Mr Shakespeare. I have something to sell. You wish to buy it. What are you prepared to offer?’
‘Two hundred.’
Perez cupped his hand about his ear like a scallop shell. ‘I believe I misheard you. I thought for a moment you said two hundred. I am sure you meant twenty thousand, Mr Shakespeare. Sovereigns of gold. As a point at which to start …’
‘It seems we are a world apart.’
‘I call myself El Peregrino, for like a desert nomad, I am doomed to travel the world forever. I am sure your Robertus Diabolus can travel a long way, too. How far is it from two hundred to twenty thousand? Not such a great distance.’
‘To me, it seems like the distance from London to Peru,’ Shakespeare replied. ‘May I ask you, Don Antonio, why do you offer this information to Sir Robert rather than to my lord of Essex? He is your host; he would welcome such intelligence.’
Perez’s head was too large for his small body and when he put it to one side quizzically, as if considering the question, it almost seemed as if it might roll away. ‘I am sure you know why, Mr Shakespeare. You, better than anyone, must know who holds the purse strings in this country. The Cecils. The father is Lord Treasurer, the son is as good as Principal Secretary. I do not think for a moment that the Earl of Essex could secure the necessary funds. Do you?’
‘No, not the sums you talk of. So that means there is no other bidder. Which must weaken your position.’
Perez suddenly became agitated and rose, naked, from the bed. Shakespeare was surprised to see how short he was, perhaps five foot at the most. His head atop his distended and ageing body looked like a purple-brown watermelon thrust on a short-hafted hoe. Yet somewhere in that grotesque figure was the distant memory of a handsome young man who had made love to half the court of Spain, men as well as women, if spies like Standen were to be believed. The years of excess had wrought much damage.
The Spaniard scrabbled about on the floor then rose triumphantly, clutching a small golden box. He lifted the lid. Inside, Shakespeare could see little glass vials – potions and preparations of some sort. Perez took the stopper from one of the vials, threw back his head and poured the contents into his gaping mouth. Then he sighed and closed his eyes.
He sat back down on the edge of the bed, his balls and prick hanging heavy and loose between his thin legs. ‘I have much pain, Mr Shakespeare. My bones. My head. I had wanted food. Where is that food and ale Ana promised?’
‘I am sure it will be here soon.’
‘Do you know, Mr Shakespeare, I was once the most powerful man in the world. Do not sneer when you look at me now, for there was a time when I could make the King of Spain do my bidding. The King of Spain – emperor of half the world, an empire greater than that of Rome or Persia. The Pope himself had to treat with me if he wished anything of Spain. With a snap of my fingers I could have had you arrested by the Inquisition, or, if I liked you, I could have given you letters of introduction to my old friend Titian, who was the greatest painter that ever lived. So when you talk to me of money, do not offer me a carpenter’s wage, for I have a secret worth a king’s treasure chest.’
‘Forgive me, Don Antonio. I can assure you I do not sneer at you. I hold you in the highest esteem and have the greatest admiration for your remarkable career. But I am here to discover a price which is acceptable to you and to Sir Robert. It is a matter of finding some middle way.’
Perez, still naked, went to the door and shouted in Spanish for his food. ‘Do you want me to starve!’ He returned to the room and found a crumpled chemise and netherstocks and pulled them on. ‘Mr Shakespeare, if you want tittle-tattle about the Spanish court, I will give it you for nothing. I will tell you everything you wish about the mouselike king who whispers so quiet that his courtiers cannot hear him and who makes sure he takes the same number of mouthfuls of food at every meal and chews each morsel the exact same number of times – twelve. Yes, twelve chews for each bite; I have counted them a thousand times and thought I would go mad myself in doing so. I can spend all day with you and tell you ten times a hundred such titbits. Or I can tell you what you have come for: information that will rock this little realm to its foundations. And I promise you this, Mr Shakespeare, it were better you knew the secret now rather than later. For if you leave it much longer, it will be too late for you to act upon.’
Shakespeare believed him. He knew this man for a dissembling, cunning, murdering, degenerate poisoner. Yet he believed him on this. He had some information which Cecil had to know. And quickly. ‘A thousand pounds,’ he said, going way beyond his brief. ‘But I would have to confirm that. I am not authorised to pay such a sum.’
‘That is a long way from twenty thousand, Mr Shakespeare.’
There was a knock at the door. A serving man appeared with a silver tray of food and drink, followed by Ana Cabral. Perez waved them away, then turned to Shakespeare. ‘Go now. We will talk again later, when you have had time to reflect a little more. This talk has wearied me. I must sleep.’
Reluctantly, Shakespeare bowed and took his leave. There was a gulf here. He was not at all sure how he would build a bridge.
Outside the room, Ana was waiting for him. ‘Did he take some tincture, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘Yes, he drank from a vial.’
‘It is a spirit of opium. He has much pain, you know. They used him ill in prison.’
‘I understand.’
‘He will drift into sleep now. Come, sir, why do you not ride with the vidame and me? We have fine horses. Unless you have other pleasures in mind …’
Chapter 11
CATHERINE SHAKESPEARE BUSIED herself preparing Susanna for their short journey across London. Her adoptive daughter, Grace Woode, fished a good summer dress from her clothes coffer and held it up to the Sluytermans’ serving girl.
‘Would this suit, Mama?’ she asked Catherine. ‘Do you not think it would fit her?’
Catherine laughed. The gown was far too small. Grace was ten and small for her age; Susanna was twelve and tall. ‘I think one of my own would fit a little better, Grace. Let us see what we can find.’
They eventually found a serviceable outfit of light-brown linen that would not look out of place on a well-to-do townswoman’s daughter. Catherine stood back and looked at the girl admiringly. ‘Voelt dat goed aan, Susanna?’ She had learned a little Dutch from her friend, Berthe Haan.
Susanna smiled. ‘Het past goed, Vrouw Shakespeare. Dank U.’
Both carried baskets and wore respectable lawn pynners as they set off up Dowgate. Catherine wore her brightest summer dress, saffron and green. To avoid the suspicion of any watchers, they kept their eyes straight ahead or looked at each other and chatted as if they were merely a mother and daughter off to market on a fine summer’s morning. By the time they were halfway up the road they had the confidence to look about them. On their right they gazed at the Erber, the great mansion where Vice-Admiral Sir Francis Drake lived when he was in London. Susanna asked about it and Catherine tried to explain in her faltering Dutch. The words ‘Francis Drake’ had the required effect.
Susanna smiled. ‘Ah, Drake, de geweldige zee kapitein. De veroveraar van de Spaanse Armada.’
‘Well done, Susanna. Remember, the English people are your friends, as is the Queen. Men like Topcliffe twist the law to their own ends. You will be safe now.’
The girl nodded uncertainly. They continued on due north, taking in the sights, smells and noises of the city. Susanna seemed to lose her nerves and became increasingly exhilarated by all she saw. Instinctively, she put her hand in Catherine’s as they passed the stocks market. They then turned a little eastwards into the wide avenue of Threadneedle Street, before heading north again into Broad Street.
Catherine squeezed the girl’s hand. She always liked to visit Berthe Haan. She had sent Jane to her last night with a written message about Susanna. The reply had been instant: yes, of course, they would be happy to take Susanna in. They were entitled to have a Dutch servant girl, so she would be safe there and legal.
As they turned across the street to the Dutch market, the place was alive with colour and noise. Susanna’s eyes opened wide with pleasure at the sound of so many voices in her own language. Catherine decided there was enough time to look around; it was a good opportunity to buy some of the Dutch cheese that John enjoyed so much with his breakfast bread and ale.
‘Well, Mr Curl, where shall we park our wagon?’
‘We are spoilt for choice, Mr Laveroke. One cannot move for Dutch dogs in this market. I cannot abide their strange attire – the bonnets of lace, the clogs of wood. Let us see how many we can kill. It will be better than a show of fireworks organised by the Fire Master of England.’
‘Indeed, Mr Curl. I do believe it will be. And who knows what fire may fly to the heart of this foul regime and scorch the Queen’s treacherous pseudo-ministers. We need rioting. That is your task, Mr Curl. Rage from the pulpit and the street corner. Get the apprentices out; tell your followers to take to the streets. We need you to do your business, Mr Curl. England needs you.’
‘I shall speak from the heart, Mr Laveroke.’
‘Here, then, by this cheese stall. I shall set the clock now.’ Laveroke climbed down from the front of the wagon and went around to the back. Hidden between two of the six barrels was a curious bronze and steel mechanism of gears and balances. He released the brake and set it in motion. In two minutes’ time, if all went as planned, a shard of flint would fall against a plate of steel and send a shower of sparks into the pan of powder protruding from one of the kegs. ‘Let us now walk away at a brisk pace. If we stand well back, we can enjoy the spectacle.’
John Shakespeare joined Ana Cabral and the Vidame de Chartres outside the postern door, close to the stables. Grooms were there with three horses, ready saddled. They were well-conformed animals, with quarters built for speed. Shakespeare noticed a pair of guards in the shadows of nearby trees.
‘Mr Shakespeare, allow me to introduce you to Prégent de la Fin, Vidame de Chartres,’ Ana said. ‘Perhaps you know his father, Jean de la Fin, France’s ambassador here in England.’
‘Of course.’ Shakespeare bowed to the man and noted that he had extended a slender hand to be kissed. Shakespeare ignored it. ‘I have, indeed met your father, Monsieur le Vidame. It is an honour to meet you.’
‘Do you race horses, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘Not since boyhood.’
‘But you will race against me, yes?’
Why not? If that was what they wanted. Shakespeare knew himself to be a good enough rider. If the horse was up to the task, so was he. And there was nothing else to do while he waited for Perez to wake from his opium slumber.
The vidame was in his thirties. He was exceedingly slim but, perhaps, strong, too. His dark hair was long, hanging loose about his shoulders. He wore doublet and hose of brilliant yellow, green and gold, beneath a green velvet hat. Shakespeare would have called him pretty rather than handsome, and yet he was not effeminate; too much steeliness in him for that.
‘Let us ride, then. You see the church? It is two miles, Mr Shakespeare. The first to the large yew tree beside it. You choose: the black filly or the bay colt. Your best sword for mine – and mine has a hundred gemstones in its hilt. Ana, ride on ahead. You are the judge in this.’
Shakespeare examined the two animals. They both looked fine specimens, but the filly seemed to have a more intelligent eye. He gestured with a tilt of his chin. ‘I will have her.’
‘A fine choice. She is the better animal.’
With the help of a groom, Shakespeare mounted the black filly. She was nervy and had clearly never pulled a plough or wagon. Ana was trotting away into the distance.
‘I will race you for the honour, Monsieur le Vidame, not the sword,’ Shakespeare said. ‘For all that I know,’ he added disingenuously, ‘this is a farm nag.’
‘Does she look like a farm nag? You are sitting astride a pure-bred Barb, sir, bred in Rome and brought with me from the finest stables in France. A three-year-old Barbary colt. That is a racehorse, not a nag. You may keep your English hobbies and your Spanish jennets. The Barb wins every time. I believe the Queen has a fine hobby named Great Henry. At the summer races, we will take pleasure in beating her with our filly.’
‘In the meantime, we ride for honour.’
‘No, there must be a prize. If not a sword, let us race for a favour.’
Shakespeare was not happy. ‘A favour it is,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But a legal favour, and of small value. Doña Ana to be arbiter …’
‘Very well. Now ride. I give you a ten-yard start.’
The vidame clapped his hands, Shakespeare shook the reins, and the horse set off like a ball from an arquebus. This was, indeed, a racehorse. Catching his breath, he settled down and gripped his thighs against the muscled barrel of the filly.
As the horse thundered across the parkland he sensed she was going too fast. This was no half-mile dash; she would never stay two miles at such a speed. He turned and saw that the Frenchman was a hundred yards behind him and losing ground. The vidame’s pace was far more sensible. Gently, Shakespeare shortened the reins and brought her on the bit. The young filly fought the restraint, her head high and struggling to be let loose, but Shakespeare held her hard.
He crouched low in the saddle, as he had seen riders do at the royal races, almost lying along the horse’s withers, his face close to her flying mane. He could hear the sound of the vidame close behind now; that was where he wanted him.
Shakespeare reckoned they had gone the best part of a mile. Time to keep his nerve. Let the vidame pass, go on a few yards if he wished. Beyond some cottages and to the left of a copse, they came to an incline. The vidame was with him. He was still hardly moving a muscle on his bay colt. Yet Shakespeare could feel that his own mount had plenty left to give. The race was on.
They came to a dip. The filly faltered on the downhill, as if untrained for inclines, but quickly regained her legs. The church was out of sight now. With a kick of his spurs the vidame shot his mount ahead as they came to the rise. Shakespeare had been caught unawares. The vidame knew this territory; this was no time to lose position. Within seconds the bay colt was five yards ahead. They came to the crest of the rise. The church was a furlong away and they were riding a well-trodden path.
Up ahead, Shakespeare saw Ana reining in beside a tree. He gave his filly the bridle, cracked her flank with his whip-stock and kicked hard with his unspurred heels. The horse surged forwards. Shakespeare had never felt such power beneath him. In a few strides he was once more up to the tail of the bay colt and closing. But the colt wasn’t stopping. The filly inched closer and closer. Half a length now, a neck. Then they were past the tree.
The vidame had won, by no more than the length of his colt’s powerful neck. Shakespeare cursed himself. His horse could have won, should have won, given a more clever ride. Slowly, he pulled up, then wheeled his dripping mount and trotted back to the yew. Ana was grinning at him.
‘You rode a poor race, Mr Shakespeare. The filly is ten lengths better than the colt, a different class of animal. You should have slapped her earlier. What filly does not lengthen her stride when hit with a crop?’
‘I confess it – the colt had the better rider. On the day.’
‘Do not berate yourself. The vidame knows this path well. He knows both the horses. I think the filly can beat any horse in England in a fair race. We call her Conquistadora.’
‘I am surprised you entrusted her to me.’
‘Oh, I trust you, Mr Shakespeare. I know more about you than you might imagine.’
The vidame was now with them. ‘Well, well, Mr Shakespeare. I do believe you owe me a favo
ur. What shall it be?’
‘You tell me, Monsieur le Vidame.’
Boltfoot Cooper parted company with Sarjent at Three Mills. Sarjent had insisted on going to fetch pursuivants to take over the mill, but Boltfoot would have none of it.
‘I will stay here with Mr Knagg and ensure he does not leave. You can take him in when you return with your men.’
Sarjent seemed reluctant to go under such conditions but quickly realised he had no option. Boltfoot watched him ride off and felt only relief; he wished to move on alone.
‘Well, Mr Knagg,’ Boltfoot had said before leaving the powdermill. ‘It appears you are soon to have a visit from the pursuivants.’
‘This is an outrage,’ Knagg had spluttered. ‘You know there is no evidence of wrong-dealing here. No powder is missing and nor has any man brought in a tinderbox. Sarjent is a liar, a custrel, a bloody fabricator of evidence – and worse.’
Boltfoot had observed him closely. The man was distressed and afraid. But that did not make him guilty. ‘Do you have lawyers, Mr Knagg? I know nothing of such things, but I think it were to your benefit to consult them.’
‘You will speak for me in court, will you, Mr Cooper? You and Sir Robert Cecil? You will be gone like dust in the wind.’
Boltfoot had shifted uneasily. He must ride on. There was much to be done and little time.
‘A lawyer, Mr Knagg,’ he said. ‘Either bring a lawyer here to defend you – or make haste to disappear. And take your family with you.’
‘Are you suggesting I leave my post, Mr Cooper?’
‘That is for you to decide. Good day, Mr Knagg.’
Boltfoot had ridden away with a heavy heart, heading south and west towards the county of Surrey. Now, twenty hours later, he reined in his horse and gazed across the fields towards the village of Godstone and saw the familiar spirals of smoke from the charcoal pyres in the coppiced woods of alder and willow. He was glad to be rid of Sarjent and his infernal bragging. He had had enough of such vanity under Drake, and wanted no more. But what of Knagg? Boltfoot’s years of close-living with men in the confines of a square-rigger had taught him much, but in this case he felt distinctly uncertain. Sarjent insisted Knagg was guilty, but Boltfoot’s instinct suggested otherwise.
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