‘I will take you to him,’ Beth Evans said.
Shakespeare looked at her, then back to Lucy. Lucy said nothing, but the glimmer of a smile played around her full lips.
‘Will that do?’
‘You know where he is?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, he likes me, too. Return here at seven of the clock and I will take you. I know where he will be at that time, for I have been summoned to him.’
Chapter 8
‘ Mariner were you, Mr Cooper?’ William Sarjent said, his voice booming across the riverbank as they awaited the ferry. ‘A sea battle don’t compare to the stench of powder and the clash of steel on land. When two regiments of foot meet on the field there is no hold to escape to; a captain of infantry cannot just turn with the wind and sail away, Mr Cooper. At the Maas river, in the mud and rain with every man’s powder wet and useless, I was at Norris’s side fighting pike to pike when he received a bloody wound to his chest that brought blood to his mouth, yet still we won the day.’
Boltfoot stood beside his horse in silence. In his ear there was the drum of a man’s voice, but he did not hear the words.
‘I was at Sidney’s side, too, when he received his fatal wound in the Low Countries. Place called Zutphen. We had two hundred foot and three hundred horse. Suddenly the fog lifted and three thousand Spaniards appeared. But we did not turn. No man under Norris’s command ever turned from a fight without express order. Never did you see a more gallant gentleman than Sir Philip Sidney. And Norris is the boldest of them all. You can keep your Drakes and Frobishers, Mr Cooper. They are ducks upon the water, not true fighting men. Norris — there’s a man’s man. Mr Quincesmith was his powder-master and took me as his prentice.’
At last the Woolwich ferry arrived and they walked their horses carefully aboard, amidst a packed group of wagons and a host of foot passengers. The rocking of the tide as the low barge pulled away from its moorings spooked one of the harnessed horses and it had to be restrained from pulling its wagon and several men into the dark grey flood.
On the north side of the Thames, deep in the dockyards that brought the wealth of the world to London, they disembarked from the ferry and mounted up once more. Turning westwards, they quickly joined the river Lea at its mouth and rode inland along its course. The landscape was low and fertile either side of the slow, winding stream. Water meadows and copses bounded the banks. Boltfoot reined in to get his bearings. Three Mills should be close now.
At his left side, Sarjent was running his hand through his black hair and saying something about the thunder of cannon and the taste of hot blood, words that every farm boy and villager for a mile about must have heard, so loud was the man. Boltfoot dug his heels sharply into the side of his long-suffering steed and rode ahead, wishing himself rid of this infernal braggart with his hunting-horn voice. He was not certain he could stand another day of this ceaseless roaring in his ear.
As he rode back towards the city, Shakespeare knew he was being watched. He knew well enough how to lose a following horseman, but instead he slowed down.
The day was dull and windless. He thought again about Henbird; had he misunderstood him or had he, indeed, been suggesting that Topcliffe was linked to Robert Poley and to the death of Marlowe? Do not underestimate Queen’s servants.
But why would Topcliffe and Poley have conspired to kill Marlowe? Topcliffe said he shared the playwright’s antipathy towards London’s population of foreigners — so why kill him? And why tell Shakespeare he believed Marlowe was murdered? Shakespeare rode his grey mare across the busy six acres of Smith Field, then into the broad sweep of Little Britain, cutting in towards the city. He casually reined the horse to the right and into the labyrinth of narrow streets close by City Ditch. He walked on down a lane of overhanging houses, then turned left. Seeing that no one was about, he quickly dismounted and waited. He heard the follower before he saw him; the soft clip-clop of hooves on cobbles.
As his pursuer rode into the street, Shakespeare reached up and grasped at his arm and leg, wrenching him clean from the saddle. The man grunted in shock as he flew sideways and fell heavily to the ground. As he landed, he let out a cry of pain, his elbow and the side of his head cracking against the flagstones. Shakespeare was on him in an instant. In his hand he had the wheel-lock pistol he had taken from the three trugs close to Black Lucy’s bawdy-house. He sat astride the man and held the muzzle of the unloaded gun to his face.
‘One wrong move and you die here.’
‘Please — wait.’
‘Who are you?’
‘You know me.’
Shakespeare did, indeed, know him. He knew that soft, oily voice. He knew that slender, serpentine frame with the shoulders that were almost as one with the neck and he knew that contemptible, self-satisfied expression. It did not seem so smug now.
‘Morley…’
‘Mr Shakespeare, I must talk with you.’
Shakespeare held the gun back a few inches but it was still trained on Morley’s face. ‘If you want to talk to me, come to my door. Follow me like an assassin and you are like to die.’
‘I could not approach you at your house. I might have been seen.’
‘Well, you are seen now, and will pay for it.’
‘Please, Mr Shakespeare. I have followed you to Clerkenwell and now here. Had I wished to harm you, I could have done so before now. Will you not hear my story?’
Morley. Christopher Morley. One-time tutor to the Lady Arbella Stuart, claimant to the throne of England, in the household of Bess of Hardwick; one-time spy for Walsingham, but not to be trusted by any man; one-time confederate of the Earl of Essex in a high treason that had nearly cost both men — and others — their heads. Morley had crossed Shakespeare’s path once before — and that had been one time too many. He had hoped never to see the man again.
‘I should kill you here, in this street, like a plague dog.’
‘Then you would never hear the intelligence I have for you.’
‘Five seconds, Morley. Five, four-’
‘I know the name of the powderman…’
He was still in the scarlet velvet doublet and breeches he had worn when last they met, little more than half a year ago. Now the once fine velvet was dirt-stained, torn and threadbare, as if he had been living wild. His hair was uncombed and had grown longer; his wispy, dark moustache and the few strands of hair that constituted his beard had not been trimmed in weeks. He looked like a vagrant.
‘Indeed. Then tell me before I fire.’
‘I cannot — yet. But I will tell you.’
Shakespeare looked into his eyes, then withdrew the gun and stood up. Roughly, he pulled Morley up by the front of his filthy doublet. From his own saddlepack he took a length of cord, then thrust the wheel-lock under his arm, seized Morley’s arms and lashed his wrists together in front of him, knotting them tightly. He left a lead of about six feet, which he secured to the stirrup of the mare. It all happened so fast, Morley scarce had time to protest. Shakespeare clambered aboard the grey mare, leant across to take the reins of Morley’s horse and prepared to ride, dragging Morley behind.
‘Wait, there is more,’ his captive managed to say at last. ‘This is to do with Marlowe. They meant to kill me, not Kit. They are after me, Mr Shakespeare.’
Shakespeare looked down at him with disdain. ‘This street is not the place to discuss such things. We are going to Newgate. You will be very comfortable there, I am sure.’
‘Not Newgate…’
Shakespeare ignored him and slapped the grey mare’s flank.
Morley pulled back on the cord, his heels trying to dig into the ground. ‘No, not Newgate — your home — anywhere but Newgate. I will be known there and killed.’
‘Look at the place, Mr Cooper. It is a disgrace.’
Boltfoot surveyed the Three Mills. The palisade was too low and, in places, the stakes had fallen. A man could get in there with ease. No, he thought, a squadron of men could enter undetected.
> In the distance he saw a group of idlers leaning against the side of the main mill building. They were dressed in jerkins and hose like workmen, but they were drinking, not working, and seemed engaged in chatter like denizens of the taproom.
Boltfoot shook his head in dismay. Sarjent’s verdict was true enough. It was easy to imagine powder disappearing from this place; from this distance, on a bridge over the Lea some six hundred yards away, it looked as watertight as a malkin’s colander.
‘They should have stayed with flour milling,’ Sarjent said.
Boltfoot looked at his companion curiously. ‘What do you know of this place, Mr Sarjent?’
‘It was a flour mill. There were three of them here, hence the name. Then two. Now one of those two is a gunpowder mill, founded five years since at the time of the Spanish Armada. See how she straddles the Lea? The river is tidal here, and it is the ebb that drives the wheels.’
‘Have you been here before?’
‘Aye,’ Sarjent said, his voice quieter now. ‘I was deputed here in ’88 when it was converted by the Knaggs. That’s Thomas Knagg and his father, who is now dead. But we fell out. I did not like their methods. They were not military men and seemed unaware — uncaring — about the dangers of powder.’
Boltfoot said nothing. He shook the reins of his mount.
Sarjent kicked on after him. ‘Come, Mr Cooper, let us go and pummel a few skulls.’
The keeper of the Counter prison in Wood Street was pleased to accept two shillings in his hand from Shakespeare. ‘Don’t you worry, sir,’ he said. ‘Mr Morley will not escape from here.’
‘Leave us now, master keeper. Send a turnkey with ale.’
The keeper, a bony-handed ancient with a long, ash-grey beard, bowed and backed out of the small cell. Morley sat hunched on a pile of clean straw, his back to the damp wall. He had the cell to himself, but there were no comforts other than this straw and the weak light that slanted in through a barred window high up in the thick stone.
Shakespeare stood by the door and eyed his miserable captive. He was surprised to see real fear in his face; he was used to the curled lip of sneering contempt from this man. ‘Well, Mr Morley,’ he said at last. ‘You are a shambles of a human being. Not one of the creator’s finest works, that is certain.’
‘I am brought to penury, Mr Shakespeare. I cannot work as a tutor without a recommendation from the Countess of Shrewsbury, and she will not give me one. Nor can I sell my odes, for no one has coin in these straitened times.’
‘What do you bring me? If you wish to stay out of Newgate, you had best tell the whole truth, and soon.’
‘I will tell you nothing without assurances of freedom — and silver. You have to protect me.’
Shakespeare cupped his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Protect you, Morley? All you will get is iron, fire and the Tyburn halter if you do not tell me everything I wish to know.’
‘Tyburn!’ the prisoner attempted to laugh at the dread word, but it came out as a sour bark. ‘Tyburn holds no terrors. It would be a blessed release from my woes. Nothing you threaten can make me more afraid than I am already, Mr Shakespeare. The men I talk of have forgot more about inflicting pain than the Spanish Inquisition ever learned.’
‘Why have you come to me?’
‘I told you: I need your protection. There is no one I can trust and I took you for an honourable man. You must give me the means to get to a place of sanctuary, as far from this rotten town as a man may go. Give me that and you shall have all the information you require.’
‘How much do you think you need?’
‘A hundred sovereigns. No less than that. I must have money to leave here and start life anew.’
‘I could not find such a sum and you know it, Mr Morley.’
‘Cecil could.’
‘Then give me something worth taking him. He would laugh and order in Topcliffe if I brought what you have told me thus far.’
The turnkey returned with ale. He was a gnat of a man, no more than four and a half foot tall, but square built. His keys rattled at his belt. In one hand he carried two beakers of musty ale. He picked a large lump of something unpleasant from his nose and scraped it into one of the beakers, which he handed to Morley before exiting with a smirk.
Morley hurled the defiled beaker of ale to the ground.
‘This is your life now, Morley, or what is left of it,’ Shakespeare said, handing him his own stale liquor. ‘If you do not cooperate with me you will live with rats and taste London’s prison holes until the hurdle draws you to your death.’
‘I will tell you what I know. But you will have no names from me until you return with one hundred sovereigns.’
‘Speak, then.’
Morley supped from Shakespeare’s ale and immediately spat it out with a retching noise.
‘Start with Marlowe. You said you were the intended victim, but that cannot be — Poley knew Marlowe well. There could have been no error there.’
‘This is poison, not ale!’
‘Marlowe…’
Morley wiped his grubby, threadbare velvet sleeve across his mouth and tangled beard. ‘I have oftentimes being confused with Marlowe. Our names can sometimes sound the same and we were both university wits and poets from Cambridge. But that is by the by. The one who ordered the killing was befuddled. He believed Marlowe wrote the placards by the Dutch church. An easy mistake to make — why, even the Council was deceived, so I am told.’
‘But it was you?’
He shook his head. ‘Not me alone. A group of us. But the one who paid for Marlowe’s death believed I was a threat to him, for I recognised him and realised he was not what he seemed. He will know soon enough, though, that he has had the wrong man killed.’
‘Was he one of your confederates?’
‘I cannot tell you. But I do now believe they want me dead, for they are convinced that I have betrayed them.’
‘But who are they?’
‘Bring me the sovereigns.’
‘Tell me — without names, if you must — what manner of people are they?’
Morley hesitated, as if wondering how much information he could afford to divulge.
‘I must have at least this, Morley.’ Shakespeare’s voice was less harsh. ‘The ones who wrote the placards must be the powdermen, yes?
‘Do not ask too much, or we will both die.’
‘Well?’
‘Mr Shakespeare, I will help you all I can. But I beg you to be circumspect. We — this group and I — wish to see the strangers sent home from our midst. There are many others. More than the Council could ever imagine: apprentices, merchants, even noblemen… men who do not like the strangers’ ways. They take our business. Why, I do believe the Countess of Shrewsbury herself has replaced me with a German or some such. They are like leeches or some canker on the body of England.’
‘But among these many opponents of the strangers, there is this smaller group? A core of men prepared to use force of arms and powder to achieve their ends?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many?’
‘Six… ten sometimes. They used me for the poster-writing, for I have some small skill with words, but I think they never intended I should live. Not once he had seen me and realised I recognised him…’
‘He?’
Morley said nothing.
‘Was Glebe among them? Walstan Glebe?’
Morley seemed to think a moment, then shook his head slowly. ‘I know no one of that name.’
‘And Poley — Robert Poley — how was he connected to this band of malcontents?’
‘He was not. Poley is nothing but a hireling. A killer for money, a mercenary. Had he been one of these men, there would have been no confusion.’
Shakespeare was silent a moment; that was just how he saw Poley. But he also knew that Poley had connections. He in sinuated himself with those on whom he would prey. ‘This core group — they are the ones who wrote the libels and placed the powder?’
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Morley sighed heavily, his narrow shoulders rising and falling as his mouth opened and fell closed. ‘We all did write the words — though I confess it was I who put it into verse — but there was but one powderman, I believe.’
Shakespeare moved forward, drawing his dagger seamlessly and putting its point to Morley’s naked throat. ‘Give me his name, Morley.’ His voice now was a rasp. ‘Give me the name, for you have already told me enough to order you racked till every bone in your body crack asunder. And I will do it, for the Council would demand it of me.’
Morley recoiled from the sharp tip. A spot of blood dripped from his Adam’s apple on to the stained falling band about his neck. Shakespeare saw that he was shaking.
‘Fifty, Mr Shakespeare. I beg you. Find me fifty sovereigns and you shall have it all.’
‘The name!’
‘I will not. It is the one thing that can save me. I will give it to no man without having the silver and freedom that I must have. Elsewise I am dead, whether racked or no.’
Chapter 9
Sir Robert Cecil sat in a straight-backed chair and remained perfectly still as a barber shaved his whiskers from his cheeks, leaving moustaches and a neat beard, which he trimmed into a point. As Shakespeare entered the room, the privy councillor snatched a towel and dabbed at his face. ‘John, I am glad you have come to me. I was about to send for you. There is a change of plan.’
The barber did not wait to be dismissed, but immediately bowed and left the room, carrying his razor, strop and basin.
Shakespeare had been shown straight through to Cecil’s coolly efficient rooms at Greenwich Palace. There were dark, polished shelves here, a plain walnut table, two straight-backed chairs, an inkpot and quills; nothing superfluous to his needs as privy councillor with responsibility for the day-to-day management and security of the realm. He was not a man to clutter his desk with books and scrolls. Business was attended to, then filed away. The room was a reflection of Cecil’s own unflustered demeanour, yet today he seemed strangely agitated.
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