Prince - John Shakespeare 03 - (14 page)

‘I would believe very little she said, but I did not hear it from her. Everything I told you yesterday came from the old nun’s own mouth. I have no doubt that she believed every word she spoke. She was sound of mind and knew exactly what she said.’

‘So James the Sixth of Scotland has a younger brother.’

‘Yes.’

‘A younger brother brought up as a Catholic, with the full weight of Spain and the Vatican behind him.’

‘Again, yes.’

‘And you believe he is here in England?’

‘That is what I am told.’

‘Then where is he?’

‘I think Perez must know. Or Cabral.’

‘Perez knew Cabral was taking you to hear this nun’s story. He obviously expects you to return with a large quantity of gold in return for the other half of the information we require: the man’s whereabouts. You must go back to them.’

‘Do you not think the time has come to bring Perez here to you?’

Cecil sipped at a small beaker of ale. ‘Yes, John, I think you are right. Bring him to me. Tell him his demands will be met and that he will be received at court as an honoured guest. I shall talk to Carey and Heneage to make the arrangements. In the meantime, no word is to get out concerning this lost son of the Scots devil. We must not give the story credence.’

Shakespeare understood. The government would never acknowledge such a prince, for if the story came to be heard outside these walls, there would be many Catholics, both in England and Scotland, who would seize on the young pretender as a figurehead for their cause. And there was one other thing …

‘Sir Robert, I believe that there must also be an implicit danger to King James. His marriage remains barren after more than three years. That means this prince, this brother, will be seen as undisputed heir to his throne – and the Spanish will do all in their power to make him king. Philip of Spain has stooped to assassination many times before. Will he not do so again?’

‘I have already sent a messenger to Edinburgh with word of this. The Scots embassy here in London is informed and will cooperate with us. James must be protected at all costs, for I believe him to be the future of England as well as Scotland. My father and I consider him to be the Queen’s heir apparent.’

Chapter 18

T
HE GIRL SLEPT
in a plain cot at the ancient Hospital of St Bartholomew. Shakespeare and Sluyterman stood at her bedside watching her. Her fair hair was no longer in plaits, but loose and crinkled, splayed across the pillow. Shakespeare noted the wooden splints strapped tight to her right arm and left leg and the bandages that swathed most of her tall, slender body. Her face had a few scratches but otherwise was mercifully unscathed. The nursing sister stood at the end of the bed in her crisp starched wimple, long apron and smock of white linen.

‘Wake her, please. I must talk with her briefly,’ Shakespeare said.

The nurse gently shook the girl’s shoulders. She stirred but did not wake.

‘You must wake her.’

She shook her again, more firmly, and the girl’s eyes opened. They were full of fear.

‘Explain what we need, Mr Sluyterman.’

Sluyterman nodded, then smiled at the girl reassuringly. He spoke to her in Dutch and she screwed up her eyes and said a few words in a loud voice. The Dutchman turned back to Shakespeare. ‘I told Susanna that we must ask her a few questions, but I fear it will be very difficult. The gunpowder blast has deafened her.’

‘Can she hear anything?’

‘A little. Let us try. What do you wish to know?’

‘What she saw before the gunpowder blast.’

Sluyterman said a few more words in Dutch, his voice even louder and deliberately precise. She looked at him as though trying to read the words from his lips. She nodded and spoke back to him.

‘She says she saw two men behind the cheese stall. She says she was watching them, for they had a most curious aspect. They had a small wagon or cart, which they parked. It had casks in it. They then did something at the back of the cart, before walking away, laughing.’

‘Can she describe these two men?’

‘She says they looked like working men, with caps close-fitted about their heads and brows. She was surprised, though, by their attire, for she thought the taller of the two had the aspect of a gentleman.’ The Dutch merchant questioned the girl again, then turned back to Shakespeare. ‘The other one was shorter with strange amber eyes that seemed to stare right through her. It was his unusual look that caught her attention and made her take note of the men. Both seemed good-humoured, she said. She watched them walk away as Mistress Shakespeare waited to buy some cheese. And then she recalls nothing.’

‘You said she thought the taller man a gentleman. How was he attired?’

‘She does not recall, except that they wore workmen’s clothes. She only remembers their faces and their caps.’

‘Very well. If she recalls anything else, please get word to me. And rest assured, I have the word of Sir Robert Cecil that she may return to your household when she is well – and remain there. I must away, Mr Sluyterman.’

The shutters were closed at Gaynes Park Hall as Shakespeare trotted up to the house on his grey mare. No guards came out to search him or take away his weapons. He dismounted and rapped his knuckles on the front door.

The retainer who had first opened the door to him two days earlier eventually answered him, a look of mild surprise on his face. The man was no longer dressed in Essex’s tangerine livery, nor did he look nervous as he had done before. ‘Mr Shakespeare?’

‘Has everyone departed?’

‘Indeed, sir. They left for Essex House in London before noon. I believe Mr Richard Baines took them on the express orders of my lord of Essex. It is my understanding that Don Antonio is to be received at court. Gaynes Park is now closed, sir.’

Shakespeare cursed silently. How was he to bring Perez to Cecil now? It would be easier for a fingerless man to prise an oyster from its shell than to extract the Spaniard from Essex House under the earl’s gaze.

The church of St Boltoph stood less than fifty yards outside the city wall near Aldgate. Boltfoot tethered his horse by a water trough, then walked into the church’s bleak confines, stripped of all semblance of joy and beauty by the Protestant destroyers. The church was new-built since the old one fell away into ruin, but only the stones themselves seemed to have any pride and bearing.

A young woman sat in prayer on a plain three-legged stool. He watched her for a while. As she stood to go, he approached her. She averted her gaze and scurried away as if he was a poisonous snake.

Boltfoot walked outside. An old man knelt near a gravestone, cutting the grass and tares with a sickle.

‘Good day. I am looking for Mr Curl,’ Boltfoot said.

The man looked up at him briefly, then returned to his work.

‘I would pay for information.’

The old man looked up again. ‘My wife is buried here.’

‘I am sorry.’ Boltfoot turned disconsolately and walked away. Across the road he saw the sign of a hostelry. The Empty Vessel. He went in and ordered himself a blackjack of ale, then tried to talk with the landlord. ‘Do you know anything about the church?’

‘What is there to know? It is a church.’ He nodded his head to another drinker and set about drawing more ale from a keg.

‘Fine kegs you have here,’ Boltfoot said.

‘Aye, fine kegs, but the beer and ale inside them is better. Kegs never quenched a man’s thirst nor took away his pain.’

‘Kegs certainly
cause
a man’s thirst. The making of them, leastwise. I know it – for I am a cooper by trade.’

‘Are you now?’ the landlord said, suddenly interested. ‘Looking for work, are you? There’s always work for a journeyman cooper.’

Boltfoot supped deep of the ale. It was good and refreshing. ‘Not work at present, but something else. A place where Englishmen may live among their own kind without the din of strange voices and tongues.’

The landlord looked at him long and hard.

‘Would you know of such a place, innkeeper? Of such folk that think like me?’

‘That depends how you think. Are you saying you do not like strangers?’

‘Do
you
?’

The landlord reached over the bar, removed Boltfoot’s half-emptied leather jug and replaced it with the two pennies he had paid. ‘Take your money and get out, journeyman cooper. There are too many of your ilk in these parts and I will have none of you on these premises, with or without your threats.’

‘How have I offended you?’

‘You have offended me because I have a keen sense of smell. You are a dog turd on my shoe. It might please you to know that my goodwife hails from France and you insult her and me with your dirty talk. I won’t have it. Begone, master cooper.’

Bolfoot shuffled out. He wished very much to tell the landlord that he was sorry, that he had never intended to insult him or his goodwife, for those were not his opinions, that he was merely searching for one who
did
think like that. But he could not say these things and had to leave feeling like a criminal.

He stood outside the Empty Vessel wondering about his next move. The inn door opened and a man appeared, wiping his dirty sleeve across his mouth. He grinned at Boltfoot. ‘Master taverner keeps fine ale and good wine but makes poor company.’

Boltfoot frowned and said nothing.

‘I think you might be wanting something altogether stronger, master cooper. I did hear you say you were a cooper, did I not?’

‘I am not looking for work.’

‘But you are looking for friends, if I am right.
English
friends.’

‘Aye, that’s true enough. And who are you?’

‘I am someone who may be able to help you in your quest. Why not walk with me a while.’

‘I wanted to meet Mr Curl. Holy Trinity Curl.’

‘Too hot for him around here these days, master cooper.’

Boltfoot looked at the man. He was a grubby weasel of a fellow, who wore a tight-fitting leather cap around his head, though this could not conceal the fact that his ears were both missing. What felony had he committed to warrant such punishment? His face had a single, circular scar that cut across his forehead just above his eyebrows and just below the rim of the cap, and which curved down both cheeks and disappeared into his beard, near his chin, where, Boltfoot imagined, the ends probably met. Someone must have carved that, for it was not a wound gotten in battle nor by order of the courts. Some enemy did that, slowly and with purpose; a former confederate in crime, perhaps – or someone who wanted repayment of loaned moneys.

‘First, what is your name?’ he demanded, not budging.

‘Call me … king – Mr King. For we are all kings in the hereafter, are we not?’

‘Very well, Mr King. I will follow you.’

Boltfoot left his horse and set off on foot, eastwards along Aldgate street and out into a dark, narrow maze of the poorest housing. These were shabby wood-frame tenements, often six storeys high and so close packed that they blotted out the daylight and seemed to thicken and pollute the very air itself. In every street and alleyway there seemed to be at least one, sometimes two, properties burnt to the ground. Here was a squalor that the wealthy never saw.

‘See that pile of dung over there at the corner of the street? That’s where they toss the babes no one wants,’ King said. ‘They are of no more value than the contents of a midden. God bless the Queen’s Majesty …’

Small, mud-crusted, barefoot children played with sticks and stones in the manure-strewn streets. They looked ill fed and wore tatters. Draggle-tailed women held out hands for alms, though all hope had gone from their eyes. This constantly stirring cauldron, where the meanest of God’s creation teemed and thirsted, stood in cruel contrast to the wealth of the nearby merchant city. Boltfoot, limping and weather-worn, and his ragged companion did not stand out. Only the rare nature of Boltfoot’s weapons – his ornate wheel-lock caliver and cutlass – might set him apart from the common horde in such a place and attract a curious glance.

They came to a door so low that even Boltfoot would have to stoop to enter. He hesitated. Was he about to be robbed or killed? His hand fingered the hilt of his dagger.

‘Afraid, master cooper?’

‘I know nothing about you.’

‘You are well armed. You can afford to trust me. Look at these dark houses. Floor built upon floor like anthills. Five families crowded into each floor. The landlord’s men come with clubs and bats to take their wages and bread in rent. Or a tallow candle is dropped and the whole place goes up in flames. This is the way English men and women live and die, while the Dutch strangers wrap their wives in New World furs, fuck their English maidservants and drink Gascon wines. You know this to be true, master cooper, for that is why you came to St Botolph.’

Boltfoot nodded. ‘Aye, I wished to see Mr Curl. I had heard his name.’

‘Then you have heard well. Enter now. Keep your blades and wheel-lock, though you will not need them as yet.’

The man who called himself King ducked through the doorway and Boltfoot followed him. It was surprisingly clean and well lit after the stink and gloom of the street outside. A series of tallow candles lined the walls and a small window added yet more light.

A thin man in a leather apron was standing at a workbench. He looked up and caught Boltfoot’s eye, then threw an inquiring glance in the direction of King.

‘I have a new friend.’ King took his cap from his head and scratched his hair as though it were a breeding ground for lice. ‘He is what you want, I am sure of it.’

‘Indeed. Well, that is for me to decide.’

Boltfoot noted that Mr King was nervous and ill at ease in the presence of the thin man, who was working on an arqeubus. It was a rusted weapon that looked so old it might have seen service among the pikes and longbows at Flodden Field.

‘He is a journeyman cooper, Mr Warboys. You offered me a groat for every man of skill who would support us.’ King picked his pock-marked nose and wiped his finger over his grubby jerkin.

‘And if he is one such, you shall have your groat,’ Warboys said evenly. Suddenly he struck out at King and caught him on the cheek with the blade of his chisel. ‘But for all I know, he may be a spy sent by the Cecils, and now you have told him my name …’

King clutched at his bleeding face and winced. ‘I am sorry, master. I did not think even the Cecils had come so low as to employ cripples—’

‘But he’s good enough for me, is that it? Begone, before I chisel your head from your mangy body.’ He put down his tool and stepped forward, pushing King towards the doorway. ‘Go, Sir Dog, back to your kennel. If this is a friend, you shall have a groat. If not, I shall have your nose and tail.’ He kicked his breeches and sent him sprawling out into the street, leaving a splattering of his blood on the ground. The thin man, Warboys, turned to Boltfoot. ‘You are well armed, cooper. Are you an assassin or do you chase moles and rats for a living?’

Boltfoot got a clearer look at Warboys. His brow was partly covered by a fringe of black hair, raggedly cut like a poorly finished curtain. His eyes were too wide and too high. His nose was long and dominated the thin face unnaturally. His mouth had a permanent scowl. From a lifetime of being despised because of his club foot, Boltfoot was reluctant to turn against a man for being repulsive to look on, yet he felt there was some malevolence in Warboys’s ugliness. His instinct was to turn away and leave, but instead he smiled and spoke equably. ‘Neither. I am a ship’s cooper and fighting man, now laid up in a land I do not recognise as England. I fought to save my country from invasion by Spain and now see it invaded by others who are no better.’

‘So you wish to do something about it? Well, you have come to the right place, cooper. If you are what you seem …’

‘I had heard of a man named Curl. He sounded like such a one as a man might follow.’

Warboys gave Boltfoot a yet harder look. ‘Now where, precisely, would you have heard that name, might I ask?’

‘In the dockyards.’

‘From whom?’

‘Men in the taverns. They spoke it quietly to my ear, for they knew my feelings. They said I might find Mr Curl at St Botolph, preaching. Are
you
Holy Trinity Curl?’

The man laughed. ‘No, not me. You may call me Warboys, as that blockhead has already given my name – Mr Warboys. But you shall meet HT. I will take you to him. Before then, master cooper, I would ask you to show me your skills. Help me get this old hagbut sound. The stock is rotted and decayed. If you’re a cooper, I am sure you could fashion me a new one. We might need it soon. Very soon. When we are done I shall drink a tankard or two of ale with you. And then I shall set you to work making barrels, for we have a great need of barrels – a great need.’