‘I crave no food but I will drink with you. It may ease my passing. Will you be at St Giles Fields in the morning?’
‘Do you want me there?’
‘No.’ He shook his head firmly. ‘Remember me as a man, not meat. And grant me one boon if it is in your power: do not allow any of your pseudo-ministers near me – either here or at the scaffold. Their babbling offends me more than the rack or butcher’s knife.’
‘I will do what I can.’
‘And now, the aqua vitae, if you will . . . let us see if we can get roaring drunk together one last time.’
Chapter 48
The mud-covered boys poked their fingers into the eye sockets, made faces of disgust and laughed. One of them caught Shakespeare’s gaze, stuck out his tongue, then graced him with a toothless grin. ‘Here, mister, want to know what happened to their bollocks and glazers? Give us a penny and I’ll tell you.’
Shakespeare ignored the boys, who were eight or nine years old. Joshua Peace stepped forward to examine the two bodies, which were naked and bound back to back against a tall fence-pole that had been hammered deep into the mud at the water’s edge.
‘Come on, mister. Only a penny. Nothing to a gent like you. They’ve both had their balls and their glazers cut away. You must want to know what happened to them.’ They giggled, then one of the boys threw a fistful of the dark clay mud at the other one and got the same returned to him.
Peace, meanwhile, was examining the dead face of Sir Robert Huckerbee.
‘As you will, mister, a halfpenny.’ The taller of the two boys took a breather from his mudfight, determined to make some profit from the corpses. ‘Tell you what, I’ll give you what I know, then you, being a gent, will give me the money. So here goes: their bollocks were shoved down each other’s throats and their glazers were poked up each other’s arses.’
Peace turned away from his examination. ‘How do you know?’ he asked.
‘Because the men as put them here told us. And they told us to stay with them.’
‘When was this?’
‘Last night, an hour before high tide. We was told to watch until the water covered their heads and drowned them, and so we did. Gave us these for our trouble.’ The boys both drew bollock-daggers from their belts. ‘Said we could join their crew when we’re growed.’
‘Why did you not fetch help?’
‘Help? What help? Can’t sew back glazers and bollocks, mister.’
‘They might have been saved nonetheless.’
‘Saved? Why would they want to be saved without eyes or balls? Can’t see, can’t swive. What’s left?’
Peace turned away from the boys. ‘Are you certain of their identities, John?’
‘Yes. This one’s Huckerbee. The other is Arthur Giltspur.’ He gazed on their disfigured torsos and faces. So alike; conspirators in death, as in life.
‘I fear I have disturbed your day bringing you here, but I needed someone with legal authority. The coroner, sheriff, justice – all are gone to St Giles in the Fields.’
Shakespeare managed a smile. ‘It is nothing. To tell you the truth, Joshua, I would rather be here looking upon this obscenity than at St Giles. If I am the one man in London not there, then I am glad of my absence.’ Seven men were to die this day: Savage, Babington, Ballard, Barnwell, Dunn, Salisbury, Tichbourne.
Seven more would follow tomorrow: Abingdon, Tilney, Bellamy, Charnock, Jones, Gage, Travers. Some had been prime movers, some had played little part in the plot. The penalty was the same for all.
Walsingham had confided in Shakespeare that the Queen had ordered that some extra torment should be added to the punishment ‘for more terror’ so as to deter other would-be assassins and plotters.
For more terror. As if the prospect of hanging, drawing and quartering were not terror enough for any man. Yet Shakespeare knew exactly what those three cruel words meant. They meant that the men would be cut down almost immediately from the noose so that they were still alive and fully conscious for the godly butchery. The execution would be deliberately prolonged.
First the prick and balls would be sliced off, then held before the victim’s eyes and tossed into the cauldron. Next the belly would be opened and the bowels drawn forth. Again, these would be shown to the condemned man before being dispatched to the pot. Finally the ripping out of the heart and merciful death. And in the aftermath, the quartering and decapitation, the head held up to the cheering crowd, the proper end of a traitor.
For more terror.
Which was worse, the punishment meted out by a criminal to two men who had stolen from him or the punishment ordered by the state for those deemed traitors?
Shakespeare took one last look at the corpses of Huckerbee and Giltspur. ‘I will leave this matter to you, Joshua. I will send Boltfoot to assist you in removing the bodies. Deal with them as you wish. The sheriff may have other thoughts, but I doubt he will wish to take the matter further.’ He was turning away when one of the mudlarks thrust his hand in his face, holding his new bollock-dagger menacingly with the other hand. ‘Come on, mister, a penny – or we’ll pelt you with sludge.’
Shakespeare pulled a penny from his purse and spun it in the air so that it fell to the muddy ground near the boys’ feet. They fell to fighting over it. Then the smaller one stood up, bit the
coin, held it in the air to goad his friend, and began to run.
‘Come on, I’ll race you to Giles Fields!’
‘Hey, half that’s mine.’
‘Only if you get it off me. But I’ll buy you a beer. Come on
– I want a place by the scaffold!’
The streets from the Tower to St Giles in the Fields were thronged. If you couldn’t get a place near the scaffold, the next best thing was a position along the route watching the first seven Babington plotters being drawn to their death. They wanted to see the priest Ballard, said to be a Jesuit with a heart as black as his robe; they wanted to see the proud young gentleman Anthony Babington brought low by overweening ambition and arrogance; they wanted to see John Savage, the soldier who had sworn to kill the Queen.
Shakespeare threaded his way through the crowd back to Seething Lane and called for Boltfoot. Jane came scurrying from the kitchen.
‘Where is Boltfoot, Jane?’
‘He has gone out, master.’
Shakespeare frowned. ‘The executions?’ Surely Boltfoot did not wish to join the bloodthirsty throng at St Giles in the Fields.
She shook her head with vigour. ‘No, master. Not that.’
‘Where then?’
‘I believe . . . sir, must I say?’
‘Jane, you cannot keep secrets from me. I need Boltfoot – and I need him now.’
‘Oh, master, I believe he has gone east of London again.’
Shakespeare rolled his eyes to the heavens. ‘In God’s name, why?’
Jane hesitated, then said, ‘I am not certain.’
‘Jane?’
‘Then I must say it. He has gone to see Mistress Cane.’
Bathsheba Cane? The widow of the murderer? At first, Shakespeare was dumbfounded. ‘What? Why would he do that?’ Yet even as he asked the question he realised how foolish it must sound. There was only one reason Boltfoot would go there.
‘I believe he wished to thank her for returning his weapons.’
‘Indeed? His weapons . . .’ Shakespeare shook his head slowly. ‘And you believe that, do you, Jane?’
She flushed, as though caught out in something shameful. ‘It did occur to me there might be another reason for his visit, sir.’
‘Well done, Jane.’ He noticed the distress in her eyes. ‘Forgive me, Jane – I did not wish to make jest at your expense.’
She performed a little curtsy. ‘It is nothing, master.’
‘I had better find one of the stablehands to help me.’
‘They have gone to Giles Fields.’
‘And Mr Maywether?’
‘Gone this morning, not an hour since, up to the
east coast, his purse bulging, as he insisted on telling me. He bade me wish you a farewell and thanks.’
Shakespeare cursed inwardly. He drank a cup of ale then went to the stableyard. A small handcart was standing on the flagstones close to the stalls. It would just about carry two bodies but, with his damaged ribs, he was not sure that he was strong enough to push it. Well, it seemed he had no option but to try. Without ado, he lifted up the long handles and began trundling south and west towards the bridge, close to where the bodies had been staked out. The wheels ran true and he found the going easy enough.
As he approached the crowds on Tower Street he realised that the procession was under way. His heart told him to turn away, walk home until the cavalcade of death had passed. But something within him kept him moving forward. Using the handcart to part the onlookers, he pushed himself to the front of the line, right at the edge of the dusty road. A grey mare was approaching, dragging an osier hurdle, which was bumping along the ground. Shakespeare saw instantly that the man on the hurdle was Anthony Babington.
His fine-cut hair, the pride of Mane’s of Bishopsgate, was tangled and thick with dirt as it trailed along the road. His eyes were wide open, staring up at the blue sky as though he would somehow take the image with him to the life eternal.
‘God go with you.’ The words came from Shakespeare’s mouth unbidden. Babington’s head, juddering from its proximity to the roadway, turned slightly and his upside-down eyes met Shakespeare’s. He must have known him, but recognition did not register. And then the procession moved on.
Shakespeare had seen perdition in the eyes. They were no longer the eyes of a human being, but of a wild animal caught in a trap from which there was no escape and only one end.
He would never forget those eyes.
Boltfoot tapped lightly at the door. From within he heard footsteps. He took a deep breath and tried to fix a smile to his face.
The door opened. Boltfoot started to say, ‘Mistre—’ but immediately stopped, for a man stood in front of him. Not just any man, but the water-bearer Tom Pearson.
‘Mr Pearson.’
‘Ah, Mr Cooper. It is a fine thing to see you alive and well.’
‘I – I wanted to see . . . is Mistress Cane at home?’
‘Indeed she is and I am certain she would be pleased to receive you. Come in, sir.’
This was not what Boltfoot had expected, nor what he had hoped for. As he recalled, he owed a debt to the timid little water-bearer for passing on his cutlass and caliver to Mistress Cane and for telling her how he had been taken by Cutting Ball’s men. ‘I believe I must thank you, Mr Pearson.’
Pearson smiled. ‘You must think nothing of it. We are all God’s creatures and therefore we are as one under heaven.’
‘Mr Cooper!’ Bathsheba Cane had appeared behind Pearson with one of her three small children attached to her skirts. She was rubbing flour dust from her hands.
He nodded awkwardly. ‘Mistress Cane.’
‘It is a wondrous thing to see you well and restored to your home. There was word put about that you had been pressed into service.’
‘That is so. I came to thank you, and Mr Pearson here. My cutlass and caliver . . .’
‘We were pleased to help. And has Mr Pearson told you our news? We are to be wed.’
The words hit like a blow to the heart. Bathsheba to wed the water-bearer? for a moment, Boltfoot did not know what to say. Feeling foolish, he summoned up an insincere smile and finally some words came. ‘Allow me to compliment you.’
Bathsheba clutched Boltfoot’s hands. ‘Mr Cooper? Are you well? You seem a little pale.’
‘I am well.’
‘Come, let me pour you some beer.’
He gently removed his gnarled seaman’s hands from her light and feminine fingers. ‘No,’ he said abruptly. ‘No, thank you. I have done all I came for. Just my thanks.’ He nodded. ‘Good day to you both. I wish you all happpiness.’ He turned away, for he could not bear to see the joy on their faces, nor have them see the disappointment on his.
‘Have you heard aught from your boy, Mr Tort?’ Shakespeare’s voice was quiet; even in the confines of Severin Tort’s home there was always the risk of a servant-spy overhearing what was said.
‘Indeed. And I do believe he is beginning to feel himself fortunate to have avoided the fate of the plotters. He is resigned to staying in the country. God willing, the experience will have made a man of him.’
‘It may be for the best. I have myself been berated by Justice Young, who demands word of him.’
‘As have I, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘I told him plain that Dominic was never a conspirator, that I had seen him eat and drink with men he considered friends, but he was never taken into their confidence. He was but a roaring boy, like many other innocents associated – foolishly perhaps – with the Pope’s White Sons. It is important he remembers that line, for it is misprision of treason not to reveal such a plot once known.’
‘He understands that.’
Shakespeare looked around Tort’s parlour. From somewhere in the fine house, he heard a rustling. ‘And where, pray, is Kat?’
‘She has something to show you, Mr Shakespeare. It seems she is to go to court next week. Her Majesty has sent word that she wishes to meet the heiress to the Giltspur fortunes.’
‘Indeed?’ So the ambitious Mistress Katherine Whetstone, innkeeper’s daughter, was achieving her heart’s desire. To dally and converse with nobles and royals. Doubtless her story would keep the court entertained for weeks.
‘Do I detect a note of disapproval, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘No, sir. It is none of my concern. The prize is yours, Mr Tort.’ But did he disapprove? He had believed she was eschewing wealth and luxury, that Giltspur House would become an almshouse for distressed mariners, widows and orphans, all funded by the remaining gold and silver in the strongroom. It would be named the Abraham Sorbus Home, in his memory.
Ambition had died on the gibbet, she had told him. Now, it seemed, she was to become just another glittering butterfly, fluttering around the court of Queen Elizabeth. Was that the life she wanted? How long would Severin Tort, attorney-atlaw, survive as the man in her life if Kat’s beauty were to be spotted by the likes of Leicester or Ralegh? They were men not given to allowing a comely woman’s skirts to remain unlifted.
Even without such distractions, would a wild spirit like Kat really be able to abide life with this man Tort, with his damnable precision and painstaking orderliness?
Shakespeare sipped at his crystal goblet of sweetened Gascon wine. Perhaps he was doing her an injustice. Perhaps she and Tort might yet make a match.
‘I do believe I hear her coming, Mr Shakespeare. Prepare yourself for the grand entrance.’
Her gown was French satin. The body was russet-coloured, flourished with silver bows and silk golden suns. The whole was lined with orange taffeta and the russet hanging sleeves were slashed with white taffeta. She looked every inch the court lady.
When Shakespeare had first set eyes on her early one grey morning in Yorkshire four years earlier, her hair had been tousled and her attire – a plain linen smock – unkempt and lived-in. Yet he had thought her the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Now, in this finery, she was still exquisite and yet she had lost something. He could not tell her so, but he preferred her as she was before.
‘My lady,’ he said with an extravagant bow.
‘You are mocking me, John. Will I pass muster before Her Majesty?’
‘You are perfect, Kat.’
‘It is not too much? I know she does not like to be outshone.’
‘No, it is not too much. It is a fine gown that will, I believe, draw admiring glances but not envy, which is as you would wish, I am sure.’ His eyes went to her throat and suddenly he felt a chill. The unmistakeable bruising of the hemp rope had been covered up by a necklet with a large gemstone at its centre.
Her eyes followed his, questioningly. ‘Do
you like it? It is the Giltspur Diamond. Grandame gave it to me on the day I married Nicholas.’
Shakespeare could not conceal his bewilderment. The stone was larger than any diamond he had ever seen, but that was not the issue here. If Grandame had indeed given the jewel to her daughter-in-law, why had she told Arthur that it was missing? Her wit might have been fading when under the influence of the laudanum, but had seemed sharp enough at other times. And Arthur seemed to have no idea what had become of it; there had been much at fault with him, but why dissemble over a matter such as this? And why would the family keep such a generous gift secret?
‘I had thought it her most treasured possession . . .’
‘Which, I suppose, is why she made a gift of it to me. Is it then too much, John? Is that what you are saying? Will it not be well received?’
No, it was not what he was saying. He could not say what he was thinking. A cloud passed and the light of the sun suddenly lit up the room, catching the dazzling brilliance of the stone so that he had to turn his eyes away from its glare. He felt a deep sadness sucking him down. Whatever the truth was, he no longer wished to know it. Oswald Redd, dead, Nicholas Giltspur, dead, Abraham Sorbus, dead. Like one of Drake’s galleons, she left a trail of wreckage in her wake. He no longer wished to be part of her detritus.
He shook his head. Kat lose her ambition? A lioness might as well lose its taste for meat. ‘You must decide about the diamond. I cannot say.’
Her eyes narrowed, sensing his disapproval, and he suddenly regretted his censorious reaction. Whatever the truth about the diamond, it was not the full story. She had almost sacrificed her life in an attempt to save her friend Sorbus. The human heart was a strange thing; did God Himself understand His creation? He moved forward under the benign gaze of Severin Tort and embraced the woman he had once loved. He kissed her. Farewell.
John Shakespeare 07 - Holy Spy Page 39