‘Show me.’
Wicklow was unconscious. An old serving woman was applying bandages and herbs to his wound. A physician had been sent for. There was nothing Shakespeare could do to help, besides which he had other matters to deal with.
Not for the first time in recent days, he felt utter helplessness. With the flight of Arthur Giltspur all hope had gone. Given time, he might be able to make a case that his shooting of Wicklow was the act of a man with a great deal to hide, but he didn’t have time. He might, too, unravel the secrets of the black books which he now clutched. Dawn was approaching. To halt an execution would require nothing less than a confession of guilt by the true murderer or, at the very least, some material evidence, of which there was none.
He returned to Giltspur’s bedchamber. The Smith sisters were dressing with nonchalance. They displayed no fear of Boltfoot and his caliver, nor any interest in him, but smiled lewdly at Shakespeare.
‘How much do you know?’ He was having none of their wiles.
Eliza feigned a puzzled expression. ‘We know our trade, Mr Shakespeare, that is all. And we have been plying it.’
‘About the murder, the missing money, God damn you.’
‘And we know the price of good French brandy,’ Beth said.
‘Where is he? Where has Giltspur gone?’
‘We have no notion. We are night-workers, Mr Shakespeare. We do what is required of us and more and we take our money. We neither ask questions nor wish to know any man’s business. If you want to know more, ask his friend.’
‘What friend?’
‘Why, your paymaster, sir.’
‘You mean Walsingham?’
‘No, indeed not. We like Mr Secretary. He is an honest villain. It is the other one we dislike. To the world, he has the air of a noble but in private he has the evil-smelling ways of a shitshovelling gong farmer.’
‘What other one? Explain. I beg you, help me with this. Lives are at stake.’
‘Huckerbee, of course. He is the man to ask. They are as close as fish salted in a barrel.’
Sir Robert Huckerbee. The paymaster, the man who dispensed gold on behalf of Burghley. He collected it, too. Of course. He was the conduit for Cutting Ball’s ship tax. Burghley would always keep his own hands clean in such a matter.
That would have placed immense power into the hands of the unpleasant Huckerbee. Enough power for him and Arthur Giltspur to skim money together. Yes, he was in this with Giltspur. So, where was Huckerbee? Perhaps that was where Giltspur had ridden.
The chances were that Huckerbee was at court. He could never be far from his master, Burghley. But the court was now at Richmond in Surrey, a distance of some eleven or twelve miles. If Shakespeare left now . . .
No, it was impossible. He would still have to get powerful evidence and lay it before a senior judge or Privy Councillor and then return to London before the hangman did his dread work. There was nowhere near enough time for that. No man could ride or row that far and be back by dawn.
‘This is no help to me,’ he muttered angrily.
‘We are doing our very best, Mr Shakespeare, but you seem unwilling or unable to listen,’ Eliza said.
‘Sir Robert Huckerbee is here,’ her sister said. ‘In this house.’
Chapter 46
Shakespeare pushed open the door. The chamber was in darkness, but the smoke of snuffed candles hung in the air like a poor man’s incense.
He held the lantern aloft and looked around. A large four-poster bed dominated the room and its curtains were drawn. The soft breathing of sleep came from within. Shakespeare gestured to Boltfoot to relight the candles, of which there were ten or more spread around the chamber on table, sill and coffers.
When the chamber was fully lit, he pulled back the bed curtains. A woman lay there alone, beneath the covers, seemingly asleep. She wore no nightcap and her long hair was splayed across the pillows. He could not see her face, for she was on her side, facing away from him. Yet there was something familiar about her.
He touched her shoulder. ‘Wake up.’
She groaned groggily and pulled the blankets up to cover herself more. But Shakespeare had already worked out where he had seen her before and knew from the hastily extinguished candles that her sleep was but play-acting.
‘Get up, Abigail.’
She moaned again, but Shakespeare ripped back the blankets and sheets. Her body was naked, her pregnant belly swollen. She grasped at the bedclothes to cover herself and Shakespeare did not try to stop her. She huddled back against the head of the bed, her eyes aflame, staring at him with loathing.
‘I have come for Huckerbee.’
‘He’s not here. He went when the shooting started.’
‘No, he’s here.’
Boltfoot was already searching the room. He opened a coffer and poked around inside amongst the linen, then he looked under the bed but there was nothing save a truckle there. At last he came to a closed cabinet. He looked back at the woman in the bed and saw from her eyes that he had found his quarry. He aimed his caliver at the door and stood back.
‘Come out, Sir Robert, you have been discovered.’
For a few moments nothing happened but then the door began to open. The elegant figure of Sir Robert Huckerbee stood there, half clothed, wearing no shirt but only breeches. He had his back to the panelling at the rear of the cabinet. He was a wretched sight.
‘With your hands up, step out slowly. No sudden movements. Mr Cooper is a very good shot.’
Huckerbee raised his hands above his head and stepped down from his meagre hiding place. He began to protest in his courtly, languid tones. ‘I don’t know what any of this is about, Shakespeare. We heard shooting. I hid to protect myself. May I put my hands down now? Your man is frightening me.’
‘See if he is armed, Boltfoot.’
Boltfoot moved forward, the caliver still pointing at Huckerbee. With one hand, he patted the man’s breeches, then looked at his master and shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Good. Now you may lower your arms, Sir Robert.’
‘You realise of course that this will all be reported to Lord Burghley and Mr Secretary. Do you really think you can treat me this way? Your career is over, Shakespeare.’
‘Speak when spoken to if you hope to live. I know what you and Arthur Giltspur have been doing so do not insult me by denying it. Now, you will write everything you know about the involvement of Arthur Giltspur and this woman in the murder of Mr Nicholas Giltspur, and the reasons for it. You will then come with me to Recorder Fleetwood’s house.’
‘I will do nothing of the sort.’
Shakespeare found himself laughing, though there was little enough to amuse him with the minutes vanishing like sand through his fingers. ‘Or, Sir Robert, I will take you from here to the presence of Mr Cutting Ball and you can face his brand of justice, for he does not like to be robbed. You may think you were skimming Treasury money, but I doubt Cutting Ball will see it that way. Nor will he like to hear that his man Wicklow has been shot and may die. The choice is yours – Fleetwood’s justice or Ball’s.’
Fleetwood’s house lay a little west of Aldermanbury at the junction of Foster Lane and Noble Street. The sun was not up but the sky was lightening across the rooftops to the east of town and the early risers were already going about their business, trudging to work, setting up market stalls, preparing for the day ahead. Many others were making their way east – and Shakespeare realised with a shudder that they were seeking a prime spot at a double hanging.
William Fleetwood, Serjeant-at-Law and Recorder of London, was still in a deep sleep when his four visitors arrived. With age, he found it ever harder to shift his grey head from his soft feather bed in the morning and today was no different.
As they waited at the door, Shakespeare could not take his eyes off the sky. It seemed that any moment dawn would break upon them and it would all be over. He knew the way things worked at Newgate; Kat and Sorbus would have eaten their final meal if they had
the stomach for it, and would now be bound, standing in the courtyard ready to mount the cart that would haul them to the scaffold.
Here, at the door to the house, Sir Robert Huckerbee, gagged and with hands bound behind his back, stood beside him. Then came Abigail Colton, also bound and gagged. Behind them was Boltfoot, his caliver covering them in case they tried to run.
The maidservant returned to the front door. ‘Forgive me, master, we are having difficulty rousing Mr Fleetwood this morning.’
‘We’re coming in.’ He nodded to Boltfoot. ‘Take them to the parlour and remove their gags but not their bindings. I will go to Fleetwood.’
He pushed past the flustered maidservant who tried in vain to bar his way into the hall. ‘Where is his chamber?’
‘Please, master, Mr Fleetwood will brook no disturbance. I will lose my position if I allow you—’
Shakespeare was already moving away. He could hear snoring. Thunderous snoring. Like a hog in a storm. Without hesitation he ascended the wooden stairway and pushed open the chamber door. Fleetwood was lying on his back, his head and the top half of his face swathed in a linen nightcap. His mouth was open and his body rose and roared with a great drawing-in of breath. Shakespeare clapped his hands, then leant across the bed and shook the judge by both his shoulders. ‘Wake up, sir, wake up. I must talk with you.’
Fleetwood sat upright, scrabbling with his hand to remove the nightcap from his eyes. His mouth, which had closed, fell open again. ‘Mr Shakespeare.’
‘Your honour, Mr Fleetwood, I beg your forgiveness for this intrusion, but I crave a most urgent favour of you: an immediate stay of execution for Katherine Giltspur and Abraham Sorbus. They are due to die within minutes.’
The old judge shook his head so violently that his nightcap fell off. ‘Impossible. They are guilty. The maid’s evidence was conclusive.’
Shakespeare pulled a sheet of paper from his doublet. ‘I can prove otherwise. I entreat you, sir, read this: there is no time to lose.’
‘Find my spectacles. Where are they? I cannot read a word without them.’
‘I have them here, master.’ The maidservant had followed Shakespeare to the chamber and now held out the round-framed glasses to Fleetwood. ‘They are cleaned and polished, sir.’
Fleetwood pushed the spectacles onto his nose, then flattened the paper and moved his nose to within four inches of it. His head moved from side to side quickly as he scanned the words.
I Robert Huckerbee, knight, do hereby testify that I have information pertaining to the murder of Nicholas Giltspur, gentleman, lately killed by stabbing in Thames Street. It is my certain knowledge that the crime was committed by one Wm Cane at the behest of Arthur Giltspur, gentleman, and that no blame can be attached to the deceased’s widow, Katherine Giltspur, nor his steward, Mr Abraham Sorbus. The aforesaid written this day with my right hand, my left upon the Holy Bible.
It was dated and signed. The hand was scratchy and unsteady and there were several blottings. ‘Where is Huckerbee now?’ ‘In your parlour.’
Fleetwood rose from his bed, assisted by Shakespeare with a hand beneath his elbow. ‘My quill and ink,’ he barked at the maidservant. ‘Quickly, girl, quickly. Have them ready in the parlour. And my seal and wax.’ He turned to Shakespeare. ‘First, I will talk with Sir Robert. Take me to him.’
‘Remove his bindings, Mr Shakespeare. And Mistress Colton’s. This is most irregular.’ He sighed. You make a sorry sight, Sir Robert.’
‘Indeed, your honour, but it is none of my doing. I beg you take no notice of that paper in your hand. It was written under duress, at the point of this brute’s gun.’ He thrust out his chin at Boltfoot and creased his mouth as though indicating something putrid and pleasant.
Neither Shakespeare nor Boltfoot made any move to remove the prisoners’ bindings.
‘With your hand on the Holy Book?’ Fleetwood peered above his spectacles at Huckerbee.
‘No, sir, I would not write lies with my hand on the Bible. I wrote that because I was ordered to and would have had my head blown off had I not. This man Shakespeare and his assistant are felons. They should be removed to Newgate forthwith.’
Shakespeare clenched his hands into fists. ‘You have seen the paper, Mr Fleetwood. I entreat you – on bended knee if you wish – to sign the stay of execution. If later you have doubts, then it can all be argued before you in your court of law and you can reverse your decision. But for the present, two innocent lives are at stake. If you do not sign the stay now, then your decision is irrevocable.’
Huckerbee gave the judge an unctuous smile. ‘Mr Fleetwood, you and I are men of standing. Surely you would not take the word of this common felon above mine. He is the lowest of the low in the service of Mr Secretary.’
Fleetwood did not reply. Instead he turned his gaze to Abigail Colton. ‘And you, mistress, what do you have to say?’
‘They are liars.’ Her countenance, which Shakespeare had once thought comely, was set hard and hostile. She turned her head to one side, refusing to meet the judge’s eyes.
‘You were most convincing in the courtroom, Mistress Colton.’
‘Because I was telling the truth.’
‘Did she tell you that she is the paramour of this man Huckerbee, who is himself engaged in a criminal enterprise with Arthur Giltspur – the man who will inherit his family’s fortunes now that his uncle is dead and the widow is to hang?’ The words ran from Shakespeare’s mouth like quicksilver; there was no time for subtle dealing. ‘Tell me, Abigail, did your other lover, William Cane, know that you were bedding this man?’
She jerked her face towards him, hatred in her blazing eyes. ‘Will Cane? I cared not a jot for him . . .’ She stopped, realising she had already said too much. Simply admitting the thing she had denied in court, that she knew Cane, was enough.
Without another word, Fleetwood sat down at the table, his ears deaf to the protestations of Huckerbee and the sobs and howls of Abigail, and scrawled out two notes – one addressed to the keeper of Newgate, the other to the officer in charge of the execution. He then sealed them and handed them to Shakespeare.
‘Thank you, Mr Fleetwood.’
‘Go. And I will keep these two here under my servants’ watchful eyes. God speed, Mr Shakespeare. I fear the sun is up.’
The crowd was dense. They had come out in their thousands, relishing the prospect of the hanging of the dirty, murderous Giltspur witch and her sordid partner in lust and crime. They had heard she was beautiful and they wanted to see her face. How could a face be both beautiful and evil? Was that the likeness of a succubus?
The execution was to be a grand affair. It would all be the most delightful appetiser for the greater spectacle that was to come: the godly butchery of the plotters who planned to kill the Queen and throw open the ports of England to Spanish men-at-arms.
Shakespeare and Boltfoot had remarkable difficulty driving their horses through the thronged streets. Every street for a quarter-mile was blocked by the press of people and the stalls selling ale and cake, the jugglers, the broadsheet sellers, the cutpurses and minstrels.
He urged his horse on, ruthlessly pushing aside men and women. In his urgency and frustration he lashed at shoulders and backs with his crop. Some men tried to pull him from the saddle, but Boltfoot, just behind his master, held them at bay with the muzzle of his caliver.
Being on horseback, they could see above the heads of the throng. In the distance the crossbar of the scaffold was visible. It was so close, yet still out of reach. From a hundred yards away, they heard a loud gasp from the front rows of the enormous crowd.
Shakespeare’s horse was bucking and jinking. It was going to kick someone to death if he carried on. He slid from the saddle and handed the reins to Boltfoot.
‘I’ll go ahead on foot. Tether them, then follow.’
Though he was tall, he could no longer see above the mass of people. Everyone wanted a better look and they all surged forward. Using elbows and ha
nds he propelled himself through gap after gap. Each gasp of the crowd, each shout sounded like a death knell.
‘You, get back.’ A thickset man whom he had jostled grabbed his arm and punched the side of his face with venom. Shakespeare took the blow and wrenched his arm free and thrust into a breach between two old women, moving ever onwards, a yard at a time, towards the platform of death.
The two black-hooded figures, both slender and of a size, twisted and turned in the early morning air. Their arms were bound behind their backs, their legs bound at the ankle. The hemp ropes suspending them creaked against the rough wood of the gallows. Was the wind moving them? Were they struggling? Were they alive or dead?
Shakespeare leapt up onto the scaffold. Justice Young stood in his way, his sword drawn and held two-handed, ready to deliver a thrust into the belly or throat of any man who tried to get past. Shakespeare threw the hastily written document at him. ‘There’s a stay!’ Then he brushed him aside as if swatting a fly.
His sword was already drawn. Two guards pounced forward with their halberds to bar his way, but he was too quick. With a mighty slash, he hacked at the rope above the first figure’s head. But the cut did not sever the hemp. The fibres were frayed but held the body still. He hacked again. And again. Arms tried to grapple him, but with the strength of a madman he fought them off, drew his dagger and sawed through the remaining fibres. As the figure fell, he tried to break its fall, but stumbled. He watched helpless as the knees cracked into the wood of the scaffold, then the body tumbled forward. No sound came from the lifeless form. He tore at the tight noose, to loosen it. He did not have time to see whether there was any sign of life.
Justice Young was holding his arms. Shakespeare tried to tear himself free. ‘God damn you, Young, read the order staying this execution. Help me . . .’
Before he could say more, the butt of a petronel smacked into his chest like a smithy’s hammer on the anvil and he was thrown backwards, falling awkwardly against the sharp edge of the scaffold, and then crashing down into the street, head first. Into oblivion.
John Shakespeare 07 - Holy Spy Page 37