‘You must find this prince, John. I do not trust that woman, nor her master, to bring us the information we need.’
‘Do you now believe this prince exists, Sir Robert?’
‘I would wish it were not so, but …’
‘But you fear it might be true.’
Cecil shook his head. ‘I do not know. But you believed the old nurse, did you not? What I do know is that he might exist – in which case we cannot rest until he is found and discredited. The world must be very clear that he is an impostor, part of a Spanish plot.’
‘And the gunpowder conspiracy?’
‘I told you, John, Mr Mills is—’
Shakespeare’s cold grief suddenly exploded into hot fury. ‘Yes, but what exactly has he done? What has he achieved except to drive Morley to take his own life, or worse? There are leads I must follow, Sir Robert.’
‘And have you told Mr Mills these leads of yours?’
Shakespeare glared at his chief.
‘You know I have my doubts about him.’
‘I sometimes wonder whether you doubt me, John.’
‘I do believe—’ He was about to say that he believed Cecil too often held back intelligence from him, to his detriment, but he stopped himself. ‘Sometimes I do not know what to believe, Sir Robert.’
‘Which is one of your great strengths.’ Cecil picked up the flask of wine and poured a small goblet for Shakespeare. ‘A man who knew exactly what to believe – a man who never asked questions – would be useless to me. As to the powderman, what of your man Cooper? Have you heard aught from him? I am told he has slipped away alone.’
How typical of Boltfoot to go his own way. But nonetheless, Shakespeare was concerned that he had not heard directly from him by now. If this Mr Sarjent had discovered the source of the powder, why had Boltfoot not stayed – or returned to Dowgate with news? He would trust Boltfoot’s judgement against any man’s. And yet, he was worried, for Boltfoot was not immortal. No man or woman was, as he knew too well.
Topcliffe was at Dowgate when Shakespeare returned home. He was alone, lounging against the door, smoking his pipe, leaning on his blackthorn and perusing a broadsheet.
Shakespeare drew his sword.
Topcliffe took the smoking pipe from his mouth and held it at arm’s length. ‘Hold fast, Shakespeare, I know of your loss. I am not here to gloat.’
‘Get out of my sight.’
‘I’m not here for you. I want your maggot of a brother.’
‘Go now or I swear by God that I will run you through where you stand.’
‘I mean him no harm, though he deserves it. Tell him I need him to help me resolve the Marlowe killing. A little cooperation with me could save him much misery.’
‘What do you care about Marlowe’s killer, Topcliffe?’
‘More than most. I told you – we were as one in our dislike for the filthy strangers corrupting this city.’ He tossed his white head in the direction of the Sluytermans’ house and beat his cane against his palm.
‘What has this to do with my brother?’
‘Did he not know Marlowe better than most? He must have some idea who was behind this foul deed. Would he not wish to help Uncle Richard send his friend’s killer to Paddington Green with a hempen neckerchief?’
‘I do not believe a word you say, Topcliffe. You care not a turd about any man’s death, unless you are drawing the blood yourself. Why would a man such as you inquire into Kit Marlowe’s murder?’
Topcliffe suddenly laughed. ‘Well, you are doing nothing to solve it, are you, Shakespeare?’
This was true and it still rankled, for Shakespeare was certain it was murder, not self-defence.
‘Where has your wet-arsed brother gone so suddenly? Taken his girl-boy players touring the towns of England, has he? Or perhaps he cowers and shivers in Warwickshire with his Papist father. When you see him, tell him I shall find him soon enough … and give him the reward he deserves.’
Shakespeare thrust his sword forward so that its point touched Topcliffe’s doublet at the heart. ‘If I knew the whereabouts of my brother – or any other honest man – do you think I would tell you?’
Topcliffe stood his ground and met Shakespeare’s gaze full on. Their eyes locked for two or three seconds, then Topcliffe turned aside and nonchalantly tossed the broadsheet on to the dust at his feet.
‘As you will, you Papist-grovelling milksop. You can put your little sword up. But think on this: stranger or player – one of them killed Marlowe. Nothing else makes sense.’ He kicked the sheet of printed paper towards Shakespeare. It blew up in the breeze, then floated down to the ground. ‘I had thought you might wish to see that.’ With another laugh, the grizzled rackmaster strolled off, pipe in his mouth, fumes billowing behind him.
Shakespeare watched him go, the hilt of his sword tight gripped in his hand. He looked down and noticed he was shaking with rage. He realised then that if Topcliffe had not walked away, he would have killed him. At the corner of the street, Topcliffe untethered his horse and climbed up into the saddle. He looked back and called out. ‘Whoever did for your grubby Romish dogwife saved me a job. One down … you next.’ He spat into the dust, dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks and rode away hard.
Shakespeare thrust his sword back into its scabbard and stepped forward towards his door. It was immediately opened by Jane, who must have been watching the exchange from a window. Something made him turn back and pick up the broadsheet that Topcliffe had brought. It was yet another edition of The London Informer. He glanced at it, and was about to throw it back down when the words writ across the top stopped him dead. Half in, half out the doorway, he stood and read it with horror and incomprehension. How could Walstan Glebe possibly have garnered this piece of intelligence?
He read it twice, three times. Under the heading ‘Pretender to the Thrones of England and Scotland’ the broadsheet proceeded to relate the story that the old nun had told him at Gaynes Park – in almost every detail. It ended:
Good readers, I am now in a position to tell you that this selfsame princeling is to be found here in the city of London, harboured and comforted by Popish traitors and conspirators, waiting to snatch the thrones of England and Scotland. We trust that he will be discovered and despatched without delay, for no Spanish pretender must ever be allowed to lay claim to the crown of England.
After the third reading, Shakespeare tucked the broadsheet into his doublet, strode from the house, threw a saddle across the back of the grey mare without waiting for the groom’s assistance, then wheeled her out from the stable-yard and rode at a reckless canter through the streets, knocking water sellers, traders and goodwives out of his way. This sheet of paper changed everything. He had to consult Cecil without delay. He had been used by Ana Cabral, perhaps by Perez too. Gold had never been the main issue here; they had simply wanted the information out in the public domain, for how could a man claim a throne if no one had ever heard of him? These were the first shots in a campaign to have their prince recognised by the world as the heir to King James VI of Scotland and to Queen Elizabeth of England.
Secondly, the connection with Walstan Glebe and his London Informer raised another possibility, one that he had not even considered until now. How did Glebe have knowledge of both the gunpowder campaign and the supposed lost prince, unless there was some connection? Both conspiracies shared one common intention: the destabilising of the realm. And who would wish that but Spain? There was no time to lose. He had to bring in Glebe and discover all he knew. He was the key to everything.
‘It has been too long,’ Ana Cabral said, running a finger sensuously down the man’s hairless chest to his bare abdomen and moving her open mouth closer to him as she did so. ‘I have missed you.’
The man leant forward and kissed the nape of her neck, then laughed. ‘Are you addressing me or my prick, señorita?’
‘Both of you, sir. I like you both, for between you, you satisfy me body and soul.’ She lay back on the she
ets, stretched out, abandoned to the erotic moment of warm bodies and cool sheets.
He swung his legs away from her and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Reciprocated. But we have things to talk on. The ship is ready. She stands moored in a remote inlet of the Thames. With dark humour she has been christened the Sieve by my Scots friends, but I promise you she is seaworthy enough for any passage. The building of the machine is well under way.’
‘When will she be ready?’
‘The work is arduous and must be carried out discreetly. A shepherd boy or a fisherman might note something, so great stealth is necessary – and that slows us.’
‘Within two days?’
‘I hope – yes, I am sure. Though much still depends upon the clocksmith. His device must be perfect.’
Ana lay back on the warm linen, all rumpled and aromatic from their energetic cavortings. ‘Can that be a little earlier?’
The man turned her way and clasped his mouth to her young breast. He felt himself stirring once more. He did not really have time for this, but some things were more important than war and religion, and Ana Cabral’s remarkable body was one of them.
She pushed his face away. ‘Speak to me, sir.’ She beat his chest in a sudden squall of fury.
‘Maybe two days, more likely three … I am not certain. There is much heavy lifting, without benefit of cranes or derricks. We are short of trustworthy men.’
‘And the powder? Do you have all the powder?’
‘It is safely stored and ready. Twelve thousand pounds of finest corned English gunpowder.’
As quickly as her storm rose, it subsided. Ana circled her arms around him and resumed her ministrations. ‘Make it twenty. Our masters in Madrid have recalculated. They now say twenty thousand pounds. Enough to make the loudest roar the world has ever known. Enough to make God himself wish he could make thunder as great. Do you understand, Mr Laveroke?’
‘Yes, I understand, Doña Ana.’
‘Good, then you shall be well paid, for little Robertus Diabolus has provided me with gold. But you must keep your useful Scottish friends about their business. More powder, more powder, more powder.’
Chapter 20
‘WHO IS BEHIND this?’ Cecil demanded, slamming the broadsheet down on the table.
Shakespeare had never seen Sir Robert so agitated. ‘A villain named Walstan Glebe,’ he said. ‘I believe I know a way to him.’
‘Well, bring him in. Why is such a man at large to disseminate this? If word of this reaches the Queen, her fury will know no bounds. Give your information to Mr Mills.’
‘No. I want Glebe alive …’
Mills went white. ‘Sir Robert, this is a calumny!’
‘Morley died under your watch, Frank,’ Shakespeare put in. ‘I cannot risk another such death.’
‘He killed himself! It was none of my doing.’
‘Indeed, yet you did not ensure his safety. Nor did you discover the knowledge he would have imparted to me.’
Mills turned to Cecil. ‘Sir Robert, this is intolerable—’
Cecil’s small, feminine hand rose. ‘Stop this. We do not have time for such brabbling. You will work together, not against each other. Do you understand me? God’s wounds, we have enough to deal with. What I say is this – if Glebe can print news of gunpowder and a Scots prince, then we are dealing with a conspiracy monstrous in scope and compass. It does not take a great wit to imagine that the powder is the means by which they would put their princeling on the throne of England – or Scotland – or both. Now, Mr Shakespeare, find this Glebe and bring him to Newgate, where we shall question him. If need be, with the rack.’
Shakespeare nodded, his jaw set grimly.
‘Whatever your qualms, Mr Shakespeare. Do you understand me?’
Shakespeare looked Cecil in the eye, but said nothing. Cecil turned away and addressed Mills.
‘Frank, you will find this clockmaker. If need be, you will bring every clockmaker in London to the Tower. That, surely, cannot be beyond your wit.’
‘It is not so simple, Sir Rob—’
‘Then make it simple. And John –’ he turned back to Shakespeare – ‘find out where your man Cooper is and what he has discovered. In the meantime, we shall await word from Perez and his diabolical crew of intrigants. But we shall not wait long. I will have the whereabouts of the pretender prince torn from his mouth. If necessary, along with his tongue …’
At times, Beth Evans wondered where life might have taken her had she not broken up with John Shakespeare. Could there have been more to their innocent summer frolic? Might he have married her and given her a family and a home, in place of barrenness and whoredom? Inevitably, she shook her head and smiled wanly to herself, for the answer, always, was no. They would have ended up hating each other. With babes at her feet, he would have resented her for thwarting his ambition.
She laughed at her own musings. The truth was he had not even recognised her. And when he had failed to turn up for their planned meeting to seek out Glebe, he had not even sent word.
Naked, her long fair hair hanging loose, she washed herself, vigorously, squatting over a bowl of cold water with a soap ball in one hand. Her client, an archdeacon from St Paul’s, dressed slowly beside the chamber window, gazing out at a grey summer’s day. She wished he would hurry up and leave, for he had done his business and she had his shillings. She wanted to erase every trace of him from this room and from her body. Beth could be as accommodating as the next whore – and many men sought her out specially, for the years had treated her well – but when it was done, it was done. She could not bear the ones who wanted to linger and talk, perhaps to assuage their guilt or shame, as though they were engaged in innocent discourse at home with their goodwife.
There was a discreet double knock at the door. It was code from her maid. The hour was up and another client was waiting. If no client was waiting, there would be no knock and she could tarry and dally with the man as long as she wished.
Beth smiled at the archdeacon. ‘Duty calls, venerable sir.’
The clergyman caught her eye and nodded gravely. ‘Of course, my dear, I was in a dream. For a moment there I quite forgot that you were a working girl.’
‘Will I see you next week?’
‘Indeed, God willing.’
Still naked, she hustled him out of the chamber as best she could without physically pushing him, smiling inside at the way he invoked the will of God to assist him in his wanton perambulations. As he disappeared down the stairway, Beth’s maid appeared. ‘You have a visitor, Beth.’
‘Who is it this time?’
‘Not a client. Your friend Mr Shakespeare.’
Her body stirred like it had once as a girl. She grinned broadly at the maid. ‘Then you had better help me dress myself.’
‘It is possible he might prefer you as you are, mistress.’
‘Oh I think not. No, indeed, I am sure he would not.’
Shakespeare was taut with impatience, waiting in the hall below the gallery. His mind was elsewhere. Cecil had spoken of a monstrous conspiracy – gunpowder to blow a usurper on to the throne – but other thoughts crowded in, too: what was Topcliffe’s interest in his brother? Had Will been right in thinking the death of Marlowe was in some way connected to a purge against the theatre world? And was that death really not linked to the events at the Dutch church and in the Dutch market?
He looked up at the tapestry depicting Black Lucy without emotion or wonder. The last time he had been to this whorehouse, he had threatened without a great deal of conviction to have all its occupants hauled off to prison. Now, if he did not get an immediate response to his questioning, he was minded to do just that.
At last Beth arrived. He nodded to her stiffly.
‘Mistress Evans,’ he said.
‘I must now have the whereabouts of Walstan Glebe.’
‘John, what happened to you? You did not come …’
‘There were other matters. Now I must get to Glebe.’
‘And I shall be happy to take you, for he paid me only half the agreed fee when last I was sent to him.’
Shakespeare ignored her. ‘Is your mistress here … Mistress Lucy?’
‘She is. But John, I must tell you, you look in dire need of rest and food. Your visage, your attire – it is as though you have not eaten nor slept in a week. Forgive me for speaking plain.’
‘My appearance is of no consequence. I have ridden hard. Be pleased to fetch Mistress Lucy, and then, within the hour, we must depart to find Glebe. I take it you still know where he is?’
‘Yes.’ Beth was shaken. This man was in a bad way. She noticed that he was heavily armed: two wheel-lock pistols in his belt, as well as his sword and poniard. ‘Please, will you first tarry awhile and partake of victuals. Some meats and wine …’
‘There is no time. Just do as I say, mistress – Beth.’
‘As you will, John. Follow me.’
She took him to the withdrawing room, a chamber of intimate comfort with lustrous drapes, deep cushions, sumptuous settles and tapestries, all finished with red and gold threads. ‘Wait here, John. If she is with a client, I will bring her away and return in a few minutes.’
A maid brought him a goblet of sweet wine and he downed it in one gulp. Beth reappeared two minutes later. ‘Lucy will be here presently.’
Shakespeare nodded curtly in acknowledgement.
Her eyes went again to the wheel-locks adorning his waist. ‘Are you expecting to need those?’
‘He gave me the slip once before. It won’t happen again. Where is he?’
‘Within the city wall by Aldersgate. St Anne’s Lane. No more than a mile. I will take you to the very house. You may ride and I will walk at your side.’
‘And you are certain he will be there?’
‘If not, we will find another way to him. I will not let you down, John.’
Lucy appeared at the doorway. Last time she had worn a gown of gold, now she was in an array of cream linens, which served all the more to accentuate the black sheen of her skin. She held herself erect and proud, her shoulders back. Yet today there was a difference. She was less at ease. She did not smile. ‘Mr Shakespeare,’ she said, a note of surprise and some disquiet in her voice.
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