The occasional flicker of light through the drapes showed that the house was not asleep. Something was happening. Something would happen soon. He could feel it in his blood and in his tingling flesh. He was suffused with energy and a dreadful rage.
The street was almost deserted, save for the occasional night animal, crying for a mate. A pair of late-night revellers in the gowns of lawyers traipsed by but did not see him in the darkness. He was as still as stone, his eyes fixed. At last he saw a light by the window closest to the front door, then the door opened and a figure stepped out. The figure was that of a man. The man hesitated, looked up and down the street, then set off eastwards. Shakespeare followed him, softly, keeping his distance.
He could take the man at any time, but he wanted to see where he was going.
The rented warehouse by the glassworks in Crutched Friars was empty now, save for a drying heap of dung and the two people who stood by the great double door. Laveroke, also known as Baines and by a dozen other names, held a pitch torch and looked about him. All the gunpowder was gone. The air was thick with dust.
‘How many barrels in the end, Mr Laveroke?’
‘Two hundred and ten. Each of a hundred pounds. That must be more than twenty thousand pounds, Doña Ana.’
Ana looked at Laveroke’s handsome face. His teeth shone white. When would she see him again? Another month, another year, five years? It was always pleasant when their paths crossed. He was full of energy, clever, merciless. She was the chief and the thinker, Laveroke the foot soldier and killer.
‘And is it now packed tight in the vessel?
Laveroke laughed. ‘As tight as a bull in a cow. There are no holes in this Sieve.’
Ana did not laugh. ‘We need to be clear now,’ she said. ‘We need to be precise on our roles. Timing is everything. No one must fail. It is a simple plan: an assassination in Scotland, a powder blast, an uprising in London. If each of these three parts succeeds, this tinder-dry island will blaze like a dead oak … and fall.’
The two of them stood in silence a moment. Ana said this was simple, but they both knew the plan had been long in the devising. These two people were the only ones outside the Escorial who understood it in its entirety. Its success depended on no one else understanding it.
Neither Curl and his band of English malcontents, nor the Scots, understood what they were engaged on. Curl and his men believed they were staging a commoners’ revolt, rising up against the hated foreigners and their noble sponsors. The Scots believed they were taking revenge against James for the roasting of their kin. They were all dupes.
‘How fares our Prince Francis Philip?’
Ana Cabral drew a short draught of smoke through her ebony pipe. ‘He is … as well as can be expected. His every need is catered to, as befits a prince of the royal blood of Scotland, England and France.’
‘And yet?’
Ana shrugged her shoulders. ‘What can I say? He is not like other men.’
‘Would it not be better to move him to Scotland now?’
‘No. He must stay here. We will do nothing but build up his name. Let his legend grow while the fires rage. The prince’s hand must remain clean, unstained by blood. The moment will become clear. When blood and fire rain down on Scotland and when England’s Roman Catholic faithful take arms against the dog-spittle Cecils. That is when the prince will step forward as saviour.’
‘If ever I settle down to a quiet life farming some orange grove in Castile, I think you would make a perfect wife, Doña Ana.’
Ana smiled and performed a light curtsy. ‘I am flattered, Mr Laveroke, though I fear I will never be the marrying kind. Now, sir, let us kneel and pray for God’s benediction on our enterprise, done in His name. Then you must ride. By the time the Sieve blows its hole you should be halfway to Edinburgh, for I believe you have an appointment with the King that you must not miss.’
It seemed to Boltfoot that William Sarjent slept. He had been watching him through narrowed eyes for the best part of half an hour and had seen no movement. Sarjent had done with his incessant tales of his own heroism in battle, but was he really sleeping?
Boltfoot ached in every bone and sinew. The skin on his back was on fire with pain from the burning, yet he had to move, and move with stealth. Now. There might be no other time.
He rose to his feet. It was dark save for a guttering tallow candle. He was a little stronger now. He looked down at the still figure of William Sarjent, and his eyes immediately went to the man’s wheel-lock and dagger. He looked about at his surroundings. There was nothing here to hold him in, yet could he move soundlessly enough to escape? If Sarjent awoke, Boltfoot would never outrun him. Sarjent had the weapons. Boltfoot had to take control before he could get away. He took a pace forward. He was within three feet of the man. If he could prise the dagger from the belt, he would have Sarjent at his mercy.
Sarjent exhaled, then drew in a deep breath that rattled in the back of his throat. He was snoring. He must be asleep. Boltfoot went down on one knee and reached out for the hilt of the dagger. Sarjent’s hand flashed out like the head of a snake; his fingers clasped on Boltfoot’s hand, like hissing jaws.
With his other hand, Sarjent took the wheel-lock from his belt, and pushed its muzzle into the centre of Boltfoot’s face.
‘Dear me, Mr Cooper. I told you mariners were no match for a soldier. Sit yourself down, if you would.’
Boltfoot gritted his teeth in frustration and sank back in his place close to the tower’s wall of stone blocks.
‘Now where was I? Ah, yes, I was telling you about the Scottish lads and lassies. They were witches, you see, Mr Cooper. Mighty riled by their king, I do believe. Do you not know the tale of the witches of North Berwick?’
Boltfoot said nothing.
‘It is a tale of much dancing, cannibalism and fornicating with the devil. But let us start at the beginning. Three years ago, King James of Scotland sailed home from Copenhagen with his new young bride, Anne of Denmark. And a mighty anxious time he had of it, by all accounts, for a great storm blew up, sinking one of his fleet and endangering his own life. It was said that his ship was the most badly buffeted save the one that perished. No one could explain this strange, unexpected weather, for the sea had been calm. What you may ask, Mr Cooper, had this to do with witches? All became clear a year later. A coven was uncovered by a lord’s bailiff in a village near Edinburgh.’
Sarjent quaffed some ale and offered the flagon to Boltfoot. He took it and drank, for his throat was as arid as a stone.
‘It came about like this. The bailiff had a pretty young maidservant named Gellie Duncan, who claimed some magical skill at the curing of illnesses and the healing of wounds. The bailiff suspected her of witchcraft to have such powers. With the help of others, he questioned the wretched girl with the help of a thumbscrew and other means, but she confessed to nothing.
‘But then a mark was spotted upon her throat, the mark of Satan. Again she was tortured, and this time she confessed that she was, indeed, a bride of the devil and that all her cures were done by witchcraft. Once her mouth was open, there was no stopping her. The names of all the rest of her coven came tripping from her tongue – men and women, goodwives of Edinburgh, even a schoolmaster. In all, she accused thirty or more people of being witches with her.
‘Among them was a midwife named Agnes Sampson, who at first denied any dealings with the devil. But when she was tortured and a mark of Satan found upon her, she confessed to all that pretty maid Gellie had confessed. And she told yet more of their doings, the most notorious being a meeting of two hundred witches in the church of North Berwick on the eve of All Hallows.’ Sarjent wiped his sleeve across his ale-soaked beard. ‘Are you following me, Mr Cooper?’
Boltfoot growled sullenly.
‘It was said this church meeting was organised by the schoolmaster, Dr John Fian, a man with powers, who was as nimble as the devil. He used this skill for the collecting of cats for Satan, to help him raise s
torms. His purpose in bringing all the black-clad coven to this church was to meet the devil himself. Well, old Lucifer did turn up, baring his fangs and scaring them with his claws, no doubt. And he told them he had a little mission for them: he wanted them to go to sea and sink King James’s ship, for he did not like his Christian ways.’
None of this made sense to Boltfoot. He had other matters on his mind. Yet he found himself curiously beguiled by the tale.
‘Without ado, the witches set to sea in sieves, carrying with them a cat that had been drawn nine times across a fire, one of the beasts captured by the catlike Dr Fian.
‘When they saw what they believed to be the King’s ship, the devil ordered Dr Fian to hurl the cat into the sea – a satanic version of baptism, I am told by those who know about these things – which he did. This caused the seas to rage and the wind to howl up into a tempest that nearly sank the King’s ship and did sink another. The devil’s fleet then returned to North Berwick in their sieves. Upon reaching shore, the happy witches marched to the church. Gellie Duncan was at the front playing the Jew’s harp.
‘The church door was locked, so Dr Fian blew through the keyhole and it burst open. The church was in darkness, so the cunning schoolmaster blew on the dead candles and they came alight. The devil was already there, waiting for them, standing in the pulpit with his long tail hanging over the edge. He made all the witches kiss his arse, then out they trooped into the churchyard and feasted on dead bodies from the graves. The evening ended with another dance, Gellie Duncan on her Jew’s harp once more, playing a little satanic ballad called “Kimmer, go you before, kimmer go you”.’ Sarjent smiled evenly at Boltfoot. ‘I trust I am not making you queasy, Mr Cooper?’
‘I have not heard such gibberish in all my life.’
‘Nor I, Mr Cooper, nor I. But there’s many as did believe it, including the King of Scotland himself. All this was told at the trial of the witches, an event attended by King James in person, for he has a keen interest in witchcraft. He was also present at much of the torture of the unfortunate souls who were accused, and even had Agnes Sampson brought to him at the palace of Holyrood House so that he might examine her in person. While there, she implicated Lord Francis Hepburn, saying he was the leader of the witches and had been the chief conspirator.
‘This earl, you may know, Mr Cooper, is the cousin of the King and would inherit his crown if he died without leaving children of his own. The King was loath to believe all this wild talk by Agnes, but then she asked him to draw near and whispered in his ear something that he had said to his bride on their wedding night, and which only they could know. James was so struck by this that he had the earl arrested. It didn’t help poor foolish Agnes Sampson, though. She, Gellie Duncan, Dr Fian and many others were all burned to death on Castle Hill in Edinburgh, on the King’s orders, for he proclaimed that witchcraft was a crime so abominable that it was God’s law they should be so destroyed.
‘As for the earl, he escaped and is still at large. But the thing is, you see, Mr Cooper, this all caused much resentment among those who loved the ones burned as witches. For each one burned at the stake, another ten wished harm upon their king. That was bad news for James, but a fine opportunity for a muster-master to raise an army of insurrection. Sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces, mothers and fathers – all came flocking to our cause when they heard we had work to be done against this Scottish king and his English cousin. Do you understand a little now?’
Boltfoot made the occasional noise to make Sarjent think he was interested. All his thoughts were on finding a way to escape this place. He was feeling stronger, but Sarjent was a seasoned fighting man and would not let down his guard. He leant against the stone, hands never far from his sword, dagger and pistol, and talked incessantly by the tallow light.
‘But what are we to do with you, Mr Cooper?’ he said at last, as though he had finally come to the moment of truth. He shook his head. ‘I had thought our dark-clad friends would so weaken you that when I rescued you, there would be a little gratitude and that I would discover exactly what your master has been told. But I now know you to be made of sterner stuff, that you will reveal nothing to me even to the point of death.’ His voice turned harsh. ‘There is no more to be learnt from you …’
Suddenly there was a noise outside. The three Scots stood there, three dark shadows against the dark sky. At that moment, a cloud slipped past and the moon cast a weak glimmer so that he could see their blank, cold faces and the dust and dirt stains on their black gowns. Boltfoot looked at his caliver in vain, for it was not loaded. And then he noticed another man behind them. Quincesmith. Jeremiah Quincesmith, the master of Rotherhithe Powdermill, where he had first encountered Sarjent. It could mean but one thing: they were confederates, misappropriating gunpowder together for God knew what purpose. He found himself thinking of Mr Knagg of Three Mills, hunted by pursuivants on Sarjent’s orders. Please God he had not been taken. He gritted his teeth; there was nothing to be done about that now.
Sarjent grinned broadly. ‘Why, Mr Cooper, talk of the devil. It appears our friends have come back for you. And my good friend Mr Quincesmith has arrived, too. They have all had a long day’s toil. And I do believe they wish to hurl you into the sea like a cat and bring forth another tempest …’
Chapter 33
SOMEWHERE IN THE maze of houses that made up the poorest part of London, east of the city, Shakespeare stopped. His quarry was outside a house, looking up at its dark windows. Tentatively, the man knocked at the closed door, but there was no reply. He lifted the latch and the door opened. The man went in.
It had taken half an hour to reach this point. Shakespeare had followed the man through the dark streets with practised stealth. Now, he moved a little closer so that he could try to see inside the building into which the man had disappeared. There was no light except from a segment of moon, dipping in and out of the clouds. He heard his quarry calling softly inside the building, seeking someone. Still there was no reply. He heard his footsteps on creaking boards, moving deeper into the house. Shakespeare stepped through the doorway after him and found himself in a small empty hall. He could smell fresh wood, as though a carpenter had been at work. He waited in the gloom by the front door, unseen.
The man he had been following was walking up a flight of stairs, for he heard ancient boards bending under feet and a diminishing of the sound as he went higher up through the old building. All the time, there was the same soft calling, but no response. The footfalls began to get louder once more. The man was coming down again. Shakespeare tensed and waited, his poniard in his right hand.
He saw a vague shape. The man was in the front room, not three yards away. He had stopped. Shakespeare’s heart beat faster. He heard a sniff, as though the man was smelling the air. Did he sense his presence? Shakespeare did not wait to find out. He lunged at the shape, knocking him to the ground, hard. The man let out a low moan as the air was beaten from his lungs by the fall. Shakespeare brought his left forearm down hard into the side of the man’s head.
The man grunted with pain and tried to wriggle aside, but Shakespeare had him now, kneeling astride him, pinning him down at the shoulders and upper arms. With his left hand, he grabbed the man’s hair and slammed his head down on to the floor and held it there. The tip of his poniard found the man’s throat and pricked the skin, just enough to let him know that his life was forefeit if he tried anything. He moved his face down to the man’s ear and whispered hoarsely. ‘Mr Gulden, you have one slender chance of avoiding the butcher’s filleting knife at Tyburn. You will tell me all you know. There will be no second chance.’
Peter Gulden was tall, probably as tall as Shakespeare, but he was soft and did not have the strength to resist.
‘I cannot breathe!’
‘If you can speak, you can breathe. And if you wish to continue to breathe, you will speak – and speak plain.’
‘Let me up. I will talk. I will tell you everything,
I swear it. I wanted none of this.’
Shakespeare increased the pressure on Gulden’s head. ‘Who were you expecting to find in this house?’ he rasped.
‘I don’t know, please.’
The knife nicked the skin of his throat, a little flick of flesh cut away by the poniard’s fine razor point. Blood ran along the blade and into the hot palm of Shakespeare’s hand.
‘Curl, maybe Curl … Laveroke. I came to find Laveroke.’
‘And they were here?’
‘Yes, in the past. With many others. I thought they would be here, but they are all gone.’
‘Who is Curl?’
‘Holy Trinity Curl.’ Gulden spoke in a rush, his voice high-pitched with panic, as though he could not divulge his secrets fast enough. ‘Curl and Laveroke. Mr Shakespeare, I am sorry about your wife. I beg your forgiveness, sir. I did not know they would do such a thing. They threaten my own family. My wife, my children—’
‘Where are they?
‘In Spanish hands, in the Low Countries.’
‘Not your family, Gulden. Laveroke and this Curl. If they are not here, where are they? You have built them another clock, I know it. Where is it?’
‘I will take you there, Mr Shakespeare. Only spare me, sir. I beg you, spare my life.’
‘Where?’
‘Many miles from here – I do not know the name of the place, but I can take you.’
‘Hellburners, yes?’ The knifepoint again digging into his throat.
‘One – one hellebrander.’
Shakespeare dragged Gulden to his feet and held him against the wall, the poniard close and sharp, his hand so tense it could rip Gulden’s throat out with a single jerk. ‘How far? East, west, north, south?’
‘Eastward, Mr Shakespeare. Please, the dagger – I know it was eastward, perhaps forty miles – I was always taken there.’
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