Boltfoot grunted. ‘What of the Royal Armoury itself, master? There is gunpowder aplenty there.’
‘I am assured from the highest level that it is not the source. If all else fails I will go there. But in the meantime I have other inquiries to make. Set forth at dawn — and go armed.’
In bed, Catherine was tender. She enticed him in with soft words and practised movements of her belly and thighs, but tonight Shakespeare was a different animal to her, frenzied and ungiving, hard and dispassionate.
They made love twice. Her yielding warmth soothed him and her fondling words and whispered kisses drew much of the anger out of him. Yet there was still tension there, and she sensed it.
He lay back, sated, on the downy cushions and gazed into the black night. Their breathing subsided.
‘I keep thinking of Poley,’ he said. ‘I know him too well. Marlowe’s death smells like six-day fish.’
‘Tell me of him, John.’
‘No. You need sleep.’
They lay there a minute. Neither of them would sleep soon.
‘Death and deceit follow him like a pair of hungry dogs,’ Shakespeare said quietly. ‘Walsingham used him to incriminate the Babington plotters in their conspiracy to murder the Queen and free Mary of Scots. But whose side was he really on? I never knew. I don’t think Mr Secretary was certain either. Even when Poley was imprisoned in the Tower, it is said he was employed to kill a bishop with poisoned cheese. But who was the paymaster?’
Catherine curled up against him, her dark hair across his chest. Shakespeare stroked her head.
‘Is he Catholic or Protestant, or neither?’ he went on, as much to himself as to her. ‘He was poor but now he lives in splendour, though he has no honest trade. I think he has won gold from all sides. What is his connection to Marlowe — a shared interest in intelligencing or the common bond of coining?’
‘Coining, John?’
‘Marlowe had already been implicated in forging coin in the Low Countries; is Poley in the same line? Is that what this is about? Was the widow Bull’s room a den of counterfeiters? Was the death nothing but a falling-out among thieves? A brabble and brawl about the proceeds of some crime? Or something yet more sinister…’
He knew Catherine was happy to hear him out. She would employ her wit and learning to make some sense of all he said. These were the times when they were at their closest, when they worked as confederates to solve a puzzle.
Yet not this night. A sudden noise shattered their peace. It came from the street outside their chamber. A splintering of wood, then shouting and hammering.
Shakespeare was up from the bed in a second and throwing open the shutters to look out of the window down on to the road. There were men there with pitch torches, storming through the broken front door of his neighbour’s house.
Catherine was up, too, at his side. ‘What is it, John?’
‘Pursuivants.’
Quickly, he threw on his doublet over his bare chest and pulled on breeches. ‘Stay here, Catherine.’
Barefoot, he ran down the oaken stairs, through the hall, into the courtyard and out into Dowgate. Two armed men with torches were now standing guard outside the neighbouring house. The building was older than the Shakespeares’ home and almost as large. It was a stone-built city home for merchants and dated back a hundred years or so. Most recently, it had come into the possession of a wool merchant from Antwerp. They seemed good people who doffed their hats in the street and said good day in strongly accented English, and yet he did not know their names nor anything about them, save that they seemed wealthy and respectable.
There was shouting from within the house. Shakespeare marched up to the front door and saw that it had been stove in by a battering log, for it was lying flat in the hallway.
‘What is this? What has happened here?’ he demanded of the guards as he tried to peer inside.
‘Hunting for rats,’ one of the men said, dourly. He held a drawn sword. ‘What’s it to you?’
Shakespeare noted the Queen’s escutcheon emblazoned on the man’s jerkin. ‘I am an officer to Sir Robert Cecil and these people are my neighbours, that is what it is to me. Now let me pass.’ He stepped forward. As he did so, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a figure a little way down the street, sheltering in the shadow cast by the wall of the house.
The two men moved across Shakespeare’s path to bar his way. He elbowed them aside and pushed on through the front door. They laughed, but did not try too hard to stop him. Inside, the hall was ablaze with the flickering light of pitch torches and candles. Richard Topcliffe was sitting in the centre of the room on a coffer of polished elm, one leg swinging, his pipe stuck in his mouth, belching out smoke.
To one side of the room, Shakespeare saw the family who lived here. Father, mother and six children aged from about five to fifteen. They were all in their nightclothes and stood rigidly to attention, frightened witless.
‘Well, well, Mr Shakespeare. What a pleasure to see you here,’ Topcliffe growled like an undomesticated cat. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘Come to help me flush out vermin, have you?’
On the other side of the room stood a line of serving men and women, half a dozen in all. Two were in livery, the others in nightclothes like their master’s family.
‘What are you talking about, Topcliffe?’
‘This is Mr Sluyterman, according to the Return of Strangers here.’ Topcliffe ran his finger down a list of names. ‘Mr Jan Sluyterman. Says he has a wife, Gertrude, which I take to be that ugly oyster-wench at his side, and six children — Cornelius, another Jan, Pieter, Willem, Marthe and Jacob. Says, too, that he has six servants, three of them English and three Dutch.’ Topcliffe turned to the master of the house. ‘Is that all correct, Mr Sluyterman?’
Topcliffe had two heavily armed pursuivants at his side. These agents of the state, with powers of search and arrest, brandished swords and wheel-lock pistols. From other rooms came the sound of stamping boots and smashing panels. Obviously, there was a cohort of other men spread around the house, searching for someone — or something.
‘ Ja — yes, sir. It is correct. But-’
‘Shut your filthy Dutch mouth, Mr Sluyterman. I will tell you when I wish you to speak.’
‘But I thought you asked-’
‘I don’t like your Dutch voice, I don’t like your Dutch whore of a wife and I don’t like you, Sluyterman, so stow you before I force my blackthorn down your miserable gullet. Are you Calvinists? Her Majesty the Queen does not like Calvinists and nor do I.’
Shakespeare could tell from Sluyterman’s eyes that he was concealing something. The Dutchman looked at Topcliffe with a steady, nervous gaze as if afraid that averting his eyes would confirm his guilt. He was a well-fed man in his forties. He looked as though he had never done anything more physical than lift a quill, write in a ledger and count coin. His wife was attractive in a homely, plump way, with a white lawn coif about her hair. Her children, all standing like statues with their arms at their sides, wore white linen nightcaps and long linen gowns.
‘You question the servants, Shakespeare. You see if they’re English or Dutch.’
‘Do your own dirty work, Topcliffe. These are human beings, not vermin.’
‘As you wish.’ Topcliffe jumped from the coffer with a nimbleness that belied his sixty years. Clenching his pipe in his teeth, he approached the line of servants, swinging his silver-tipped blackthorn. One by one, he prodded them in the belly and demanded, ‘Name, position, place of birth?’ One by one, in quivering voices, they told him their names, outlined their duties and told him where they came from. It seemed they all knew Topcliffe by repute, for they looked at him as a rabbit might view a fox that had it cornered. All but one, Shakespeare noted. One of the English servants, a man of about thirty in nightclothes, seemed not so afraid. He and two others spoke clear English devoid of any foreign accent. The other three spoke enough English, but were obviously from the Low Countries.
‘I will tell you what I like best, Shakespeare. I like to see the fear in their eyes, close up. When a man dare not look away from my eyes, though he cannot abide what he sees there, for it is his own pain and death reflected.’
‘And what do you see in the looking-glass?’
Topcliffe hesitated, as if pondering the question. Against one wall of the room was a tall glass, darkly mottled by age. He walked to it and smashed it with the heavy, cudgel head of his blackthorn. The glass splintered into countless shards. ‘Now then,’ he said, standing back from the glass and addressing the whole hall. ‘That all seems in order. Except that I have counted one servant missing.’ His humour darkened considerably and he hammered his blackthorn against the floor. ‘We have information that there is a Dutch serving girl here who was hidden from the Return. You know the law, Mr Sluyterman — for every stranger employed, you must employ one English servant. I tell you this, if you fail to tell me where she is hiding, you will all be considered accessories to treason, secretly harbouring an agent of a foreign power — and you will suffer the might of the law. Your children will be taken to Bridewell and broken like horses on the treadmill. You and your wife will be detained until such time as you are flung out of the country or worse. Do you have enough English to understand what that all means?’
Shakespeare had had enough. He strode forward. ‘Call off your pack, Topcliffe. You have clearly been misinformed. Let these people go back to bed. You will find no one here. Any more of this, and I will hand a full report on your egregious deeds to my lord Burghley.’
Topcliffe spat on the floor. ‘Burghley! Do you think I fear that gout-ridden shipwreck? There is a Dutch serving girl here, Shakespeare, brought in from Flushing not six weeks since. I know it. There is more — I know this Sluyterman to have a secret chamber for the making of fine leather stuffs, where none but prentices work. He cares not a sheep’s cut bollock that English journeymen do starve. He is a usurer and a deceit and I will have him in Bridewell.’
Shakespeare was standing directly in front of a pursuivant. In one swift movement, he stepped backwards hard on to his foot, turning and thrusting his left elbow high into the man’s face. As the pursuivant grunted and fell back, Shakespeare wrenched the pistol from his grasp and put it to Topcliffe’s head.
‘I do not know about this family’s understanding of the English language, Topcliffe, but it is you that does not seem to comprehend your mother tongue well. I said you have done enough here. Even if what you claim about the maid is true, it is a matter so trivial that Her Majesty would be enraged to hear of your actions. Does she not employ many strangers herself — including her personal physician? As for the leather work, it is a matter for the Worshipful Company of Cordwainers, not you. Now go, Mr Topcliffe and take your vile dogs with you, before I do England a favour and blow off your head.’
Topcliffe laughed out loud.
Shakespeare moved closer to him, so that his mouth was at his temple. All the anger of the day was ready to explode in one little press of his trigger finger. ‘Do you think I don’t know what this is about?’ he whispered harshly in the torturer’s wizened ear. ‘Now walk, or I will happily do for you, and trust in the rightness of my action and the protection of Sir Robert Cecil.’
Topcliffe laughed again. Five pursuivants had arrived in the hall from various parts of the house. Shakespeare was surrounded.
Sluyterman stepped forward. He had removed his nightcap and was clutching it in front of him. His head was bowed. He was shaking. He went down on his knees in supplication to both Topcliffe and Shakespeare. ‘Please, I beg of you, do not let there be bloodshed…’
‘Oh, there will be blood shed, Mr Sluyterman,’ Topcliffe snarled. ‘You can be certain of that. There will be Dutch blood aplenty.’
Shakespeare thrust his hand into Topcliffe’s thick white hair and pushed him down. He was stronger than Shakespeare expected and did not fall to his knees, but took a faltering step forward, then turned with a vicious wrench of his shoulders and pulled himself clear. But the primed gun was still trained on him, pointing full in his face.
‘Get up, sir,’ Shakespeare said to the Dutchman. ‘This is nothing to do with you. It is about me. I am afraid you and your family were simply in the wrong place, living so close to me.’
An explosion rent the air. Topcliffe’s men shied backwards like startled horses. One or two dropped flat to the floor and scrabbled for safety. Someone screamed.
As the smoke cleared, all eyes turned to the front doorway. Boltfoot Cooper stood there, a smoking wheel-lock pistol hanging from his hand. He dropped it to the floor, kicked it away and, with practised ease, unslung his ornate caliver from his back and cradled it in his arms, the octagonal muzzle pointing this way and that. He had another loaded wheel-lock thrust into his belt and his cutlass hung menacingly at his thigh.
‘Very good to see you, Boltfoot,’ Shakespeare said. ‘Very good, indeed.’
Chapter 5
Topcliffe might not have been certain whether John Shakespeare would blow his head apart, but he had no doubt that Boltfoot Cooper would. He was not going to put his life on the line for a matter as insignificant as this.
Reluctantly he ordered his pursuivants out and as he himself turned at the door, he tarried a few seconds, cursing Shakespeare and Cooper to hell and threatening to spill the last drop of Sluyterman’s blood, and that of his family. Boltfoot pushed the hoary old rackmaster in the chest with the muzzle of his primed caliver, until he had forced him out and away from the house. Topcliffe shook himself angrily and strode off towards his fellow pursuivants and their tethered mounts, spitting a vow of vengeance into the night.
Shakespeare made sure he had gone, then watched as the Sluyterman family fell into one another’s arms, sobbing and shaking. He wondered briefly what this family had endured in the Low Countries at the hands of the Spanish. Many souls had lost their lives there, and many more had been thrown out of their homes into exile by the Duke of Parma and his steel-clad horde. All that, and then to come to this.
He walked across to the line of servants. They still stood in line and some were trembling. He avoided the gaze of the one who had shown no fear, though his instinct was to grasp him by the nape of the neck, pull him to the door and kick him out after Topcliffe, with whom he was doubtless in league. No, better to observe him; he might be made use of yet.
Sluyterman thanked the servants and dismissed them to their quarters. He kissed his children and asked his wife to take them to their beds.
‘I must thank you, sir,’ he said to Shakespeare when they were alone.
‘I told you, Mr Sluyterman, this is about me. It can be no coincidence that he chose your home. I would say, however, that you have a treacherous servant in this house. The Englishman with black hair and a downturned mouth…’
‘His name is Oliver Kettle. I have not felt happy about him. We had some argument. He spoke to my daughter Marthe without respect. I think he had unhealthy interests in her. Also, my wife caught him most importunely with one of the serving girls, his hands on her… I do not like to say more.’ Sluyterman shook his head, his eyes drifting around the destruction wrought by the intruders on his comfortable home.
‘Well, do not dismiss him, but watch him. I may have a purpose for him. Be careful. If you have more problems, I will have him consigned to Newgate. As for the serving girl that Mr Topcliffe sought…’ Shakespeare paused to see the effect of his words and saw something akin to shame in the Dutchman’s eyes. ‘I believe she is safe. I saw a figure in the shadows outside.’
‘Thank you, sir. Thank you.’
Shakespeare shook his hand. ‘It is good to meet you properly, Mijnheer Sluyterman — even though these are not the happiest of circumstances. If I were you, I would adhere strictly to the law from now on and keep your head down. Mr Topcliffe is dangerous and relentless.’
Catherine found the servant girl shivering in a corner of their courtyard, half concealed behind an old wagon wheel awa
iting repair by Boltfoot. The girl was on her haunches, her arms tight around her tall, slender body, still in her thin nightdress. She hid her face from the light of Catherine’s lantern. Gently, Catherine put a comforting arm around her and whispered soft words. The girl, who looked no more than twelve and wore her hair in two shoulder-length plaits, had the height of an adult woman. She spoke no English, but quickly understood that this was a friend and said her name was Susanna.
‘She can stay with us tonight, Mr Sluyterman,’ Shakespeare said a short while later. ‘And on the morrow you must move her to a safer place. You surely have friends who could take her in.’
Sluyterman bowed his head in thanks and relief. ‘I will do that, Mr Shakespeare, sir. Thank you. You are a good neighbour.’
The Dutchman explained to Susanna what was happening and assured her she would be safe now. The girl nodded nervously but said nothing. Then the Shakespeares bade Sluyterman goodnight and brought her up to the room where their own five-year-old daughter, Mary, lay asleep. Catherine put down some blankets and cushions for the girl and left, quietly closing the door behind her.
Shakespeare and his wife were further from sleep than ever. As they sat together, he sipped at a beaker of rich milk, cool from the larder. ‘This was about me, Catherine,’ he said. ‘I know it. Topcliffe was trying to intimidate me. He wasn’t interested in that girl. It was a warning shot to me.’
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