Prince - John Shakespeare 03 -

by Rory Clements

  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

  DOZENS 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.