He wrapped himself in a fur cloak, donned his favorite beaver hat, and walked out into the street. He had a meeting with Herrick and the prospect set his nerves on edge. Until now he had avoided all contact with the man, dealing always through intermediaries at the French embassy, but now that the attempt on Drake’s life had failed, he had no choice. Until now, he had been firmly in control of events; it was he who had organized the required weapon through Cogg and he who had sent messages to Herrick informing him where Drake would disembark and from which ship. They were unlikely to get such a chance again before the Vice Admiral sailed.
Drake had received orders from the Queen, and the English fleet was due to weigh anchor any day. The plan was for Drake and his young wife, Elizabeth Sydenham, to ride for Dover and then take the wind along the Channel to Plymouth. The ships now in the Thames-four royal galleons and a group of fighting merchantmen-would be taken westward by others. After that, who could tell? The best guess was that they would head west for Panama to plunder Spanish shipping. But whatever the plan, the Spanish King and his ministers wanted Drake stopped. They wanted him dead.
They must act, and soon. Both he and Herrick were equally set on their course of action, but their motives were very different. For him, it all came down to the filthy stink of tallow candles. His family had suffered intolerable insult and financial hardship through their disagreements with the Crown. At the lowest point, when his father had lost his head to the axe, they had been reduced to lighting their poor cottage with tallow made from sheep fat. He could recall the bitter tears of his mother as the tallow belched out its acrid smoke, where once she had lit her great hall with beeswax. If Drake died, he would get the seventy thousand ducats promised by King Philip, enough to restore his family’s fortune and standing.
He did not use his real name. He was a Percy, a younger forgotten cousin of the proud Catholic Percy family from the borders. The family that had once sired the great warrior Hotspur had suffered grievous hardship through the putting down of their abortive uprising in 1569: many had died by rope or axe, among them the head of the clan, Thomas Percy, who was attainted and executed. The loss of lands and wealth and reputation had been devastating. And it had not ended there; the family had been persecuted without mercy ever since. Henry, the eighth earl, had died in the Tower not two years since, accused of complicity in the Throckmorton plot to place Mary Queen of Scots on the throne of England. How could the family not harbor a grudge? And yet this Percy was not made of martyr stock. Enough Percys had died for the cause of Rome; he wanted others-their enemies-to die instead.
It had been hard keeping up this pretense all these years. The early years were the worst, learning to dissemble, to become a loyal servant of the Crown fighting the Spaniard, but the deception had been vital to his long-term goal. Eventually, through the offices of Mendoza-Spain’s former Spanish ambassador in London and now in Paris-he had persuaded King Philip that he could perform this task for the right price. Seventy thousand ducats was that price. All he needed was a professional killer to be sent and he, the forgotten Percy, would organize the where withal and the opportunity to put an end to Drake. His own hands had to be clean of blood, at least until the armada landed. That was where Herrick came in. Herrick was his weapon; the priest was the stuff of martyrdom and did not fear death. The first attempt had been a miserable failure thanks to that accursed coxswain putting his body between Drake and the musketball, but there would be other chances.
Now Percy and Herrick were meeting. It was high risk, for to be seen with such a man would be tantamount to treason, and Percy did not relish a traitor’s death.
As arranged, Herrick was waiting in a corner booth of The Bull, sitting alone, eating a platter of beef and pork with gusto, as though he had not supped for a week. Percy watched him for a time, to be sure he had the right man. When he was certain it was not a trap, he approached. Herrick was just raising a tankard to his lips, quaffing fresh water. The Jesuit never touched wine or any other alcoholic beverage except at Mass. But that was the Blood of Christ, not wine; just as the wafer became Christ’s body on entering the mouth of a communicant, so the wine became His blood; every Roman Catholic knew that to be true and every Protestant declared it false.
“You take your life into your hands drinking that stuff,” Percy said by way of greeting. “Get some beer down your gullet.”
Herrick looked at him sourly. “This is good spring water. Your countrymen take too much strong liquor. There is nothing wrong with the pure water which God provides.”
“Well, if you die before your day is run, blame no one but yourself, Herrick. Or whatever name you are using today…”
“Herrick will do.”
Percy raised his head in signal to a serving wench to come over. “How did you miss?” he asked Herrick.
“I think you know what happened.”
Percy shook his head in practiced dismay. “I do indeed. You have bungled, Herrick. And it must be put right.”
“I need more information. Where can I find Drake next? How can I get close to him? I no longer have the long-range weapon. I believed I had no further use for it.”
“Things will be more difficult from now on. The admiral has his commission. He will be heading west, to Plymouth, to gather his fleet within a day, no more. He will have four royal ships of war along with ten more at the least. With surprise on their side, they can do much harm.”
Suddenly Herrick became angry. He beat his hands on the oak table so that the trencher of food jumped in the air. The movement caused a sharp pain in his side where the ball had scored him, and he winced. At least the wound had not turned to gangrene, but it slowed him. “Then you must play your part. You will surely be with him. You must do that which you have avoided for so long.”
The wench had returned. She looked startled by their angry words, though she had no idea what concerned them. She was a comely girl, big breasts spilling out of the front of her dress in most generous measure. Percy smiled at her and preened his whiskers. “Ah, girl, I will have a pint of your strongest beer and a large trencher of meats. Spare no expense, for my friend here is paying.”
As she left, Herrick reached out and grasped Percy’s wrist. “Do you hear me?” he said in an urgent whisper. “You are in deep, sir, deeper than the raging western sea. I know how you have tried to work this. But that will no longer suffice. Will you be aboard ship with Drake on his way to Plymouth?”
Percy tried to wrench his wrist free, but he could not dislodge himself from Herrick’s iron grip. “Take your hand off me!”
“Do you hear me?”
“Yes! I hear you. And yes, I will be with Drake. But I am the whetstone, Herrick. I do not cut the barley: I sharpen the blade to do it.”
“God’s blood, that is not enough! You will be there. Throw him overboard. Or whatever it is you pirates do by way of expedient killings.”
“I will try, of course. I will look for opportunities. But he is more heavily protected than ever now. He has his blackamoor Diego, and an agent of Walsingham constantly at his side. I can see no way of approaching him to do the deed.”
“Find a way.” Herrick’s grip tightened, then, of a sudden, broke loose as if his hand had been bitten by a snake. Herrick’s hand flew back theatrically and hung for a few moments in the air.
Percy sighed. “If there is a way, I will find it. I want this as much as-more than-you, Herrick. My family, my life, depends on it.”
Herrick sneered. “I despise your cowardice. You and those like you-Southwell or Cotton-say the words but do not do the deeds. Do you think God will thank you for your craven dealings on the Day of Judgment?”
“I am not a cleric, Mr. Herrick. I do not wish to take Holy Orders, so do not berate me for not being a martyr. That is your business, sir, not mine. And I scorn your airs. I noted the way you looked at that serving wench and I would wager ten marks to your one that you would unfrock her and fuck her without hesitation. Would you have me cheapen
a price on your behalf, Mr. Herrick?”
Herrick swept his platter away. It clattered across the table and onto the floor. “So that is it. You think we have missed our chance and you are giving up. Well, I tell you, Percy, I will not give up. If Drake is going to Plymouth, then so must I. But if you have any thought for your mortal flesh and immortal soul, then I suggest you make sure that my journey is in vain. If Drake survives to wreak havoc on the King of Spain’s war fleet, I will kill you myself, first plucking off your stones, then forcing them down your throat. And that will be just a beginning. After that, I promise you, things will become most unpleasant.”
Shakespeare gathered together a force of twenty pursuivants and rode for Horsley Down.
It was dark when they arrived a quarter of a mile from the house. Shakespeare reined in his gray mare and raised his hand to halt, then signaled them all to dismount. The men tethered their horses within a clump of trees. There was no moon, but they had pitch torches. He ordered all but two to be snuffed.
He had Newall there, sneering as ever. It had been unavoidable; Shakespeare did not have his own squadron of men and Walsingham had insisted he go along. At a short meeting not two hours since in Seething Lane, the old man had given the go-ahead for this raid and had also informed Shakespeare that Drake had his commission. “Soon he will be safe at sea. Then the Spaniard shall feel the heat of his fire. But keep him alive until then, John. Keep him alive until his fleet is afloat.”
Shakespeare looked with cold eyes at Newall. He would take no insubordination from him. Even though Newall had the title Chief Pursuivant, Shakespeare was in charge here. “Mr. Newall, you will take four men to the back of the house. And be wary; Herrick is a hired killer and will not hesitate to attack with whatever is to hand. And he is wounded. Like an injured animal, he may feel he has nothing to lose in attempting to fight his way out.”
Newall grunted. He knew he had to take orders from this squeamish, book-hugging official, however much he despised him and his soft manners. If it were up to him, he would simply torch the house and all in it and thus save the state the cost of a trial and execution.
Shakespeare waited sixty seconds while Newall and his men moved through thickets to the back of the house. There were no lights from inside. Shakespeare ordered the other group forward to the front door with the battering tree, and when they were positioned, he brought his sword down as the signal. With a mighty swing, they wielded the heavy oak log at the door, splintering it on impact. The front men charged in shouting while those at the rear quickly lit their torches and surged forward to block all exits through windows or roof lights. Shakespeare followed the vanguard, ducking into the low-ceilinged hallway. It had the feel of a neglected old farmhouse, with dirt floors and ragged walls where the lime plaster had broken away to reveal the wattles.
“Upstairs straightway. Do not give him time to hide!”
The men at the front raced up the rickety, half-broken steps, shouting and banging as they charged. Within moments they had scoured every room of the house. It was empty.
“Keep moving,” Shakespeare ordered the sergeant. “Spread out. Take the ground-floor rooms first. Search every cupboard, every cranny, break open wainscoting, turn over beds. If he is here, find him.”
Within three hours it became clear they were not going to find Herrick. But in the main bedchamber they did find a bloodstained rag, which, it seemed to Shakespeare, was probably used to staunch Herrick’s wound from Boltfoot’s shot. More importantly, Shakespeare spotted a small piece of rolled linen, discarded casually beneath the bed. He picked it up and unfurled it. There, poorly painted but easily recognizable, was a portrait of Sir Francis Drake, one of the many such pictures sold throughout England and the rest of Europe since the Vice Admiral’s daring circumnavigation of the globe. “So Herrick has been here,” he said under his breath. “And we have missed him. God in heaven, we have missed him.”
Shakespeare left late in the evening, cursing his fortune and leaving a guard of three men.
Across the road, in the shadows, Herrick stood and watched the activity for a short while. He had arrived back at the house barely a minute after the onset of the raid. Shakespeare could not have known how close he had come to trapping his quarry.
Quietly, Herrick slipped away down the alleys to Southwark. He would have to find an inn tonight, then take horse on the morrow. The question that would not go away was how the pursuivants had found this house. Had the locals become suspicious-or had someone informed on him? His only hope now was to follow Drake before he gathered his fleet and set sail from Plymouth. It was time to kill… and time was running out.
Starling day was enjoying life. She had everything she needed. Treasure, a beautiful new house and business in the heart of Southwark, the best food that money could buy, and clothes that would not have looked out of place on a court lady. But behind the happiness, there was a worry. It was a worry shared by Parsimony Field: they had heard from a girl they brought over from the Bel Savage that Richard Topcliffe was looking for them and they feared it was only a matter of time before he found them.
They had changed their names. Starling was now known as Little Bird and Parsimony was Queenie. Their establishment was called Queens and it had one of the best positions of all the Southwark stews. Prices were high, as befitted a bawdy house with good-looking young girls and comfortable rooms, but it was well frequented. Men of money from across the river came here, as did foreigners whose wives were left far behind in France and beyond, ships’ officers and seamen happy to blow a year’s wages and plunder in a night or two of bliss.
Parsimony was in her element. She was able to indulge her passion for the arts of love with whomsoever she pleased. Starling, meanwhile, decided she had had enough of such things and had retired from the game, restricting her role to greeting the customers.
They even had their own strong-armed guard, Jack Butler, to look after them, and kitchen staff to provide sweetmeats and fair drinks for the guests. The worry, of course, was that they were flying too high. Someone would be sure to recognize them and go to Topcliffe with the information.
“Maybe we should go to Bristol or Norwich,” Starling said. They talked about it, but kept putting off a decision. And the longer they did so, the more business boomed and the more settled they became.
Tonight, Starling was dealing cards for some gentlemen in the grand withdrawing room. The house, as always, was winning handsomely, but none of the men seemed to care.
“I’ll be in the Clink before you’re done with me, Little Bird. Up to my ears in debt!” the eldest son of a northern bishop, who seemed intent on disposing of his inheritance before he had inherited it, said with a laugh.
“Never mind, Eddie, I’ll get one of my wenches to bring you broth and a kindly hand every now and then.”
“The devil with it. Deal on, Little Bird, deal on.”
Parsimony was upstairs and unhappy. She liked swiving as much as the next girl. A lot more than the next girl, if truth be told. But she didn’t like this sort of thing. Not one bit.
She stood with her back to the wall, dressed only in a light kirtle, lash in her right hand, and looked down at the man on the bed. He was a strange one all right. He’d come in to Queens pissing money like a conduit of gold and demanded a room and a girl for the night. He took one look at Parsimony and said, “You will do, mistress. I like the look of you.” Parsimony was in the mood and the man seemed presentable, so she readily agreed. But then he started asking for little extras like this: he wanted her to scourge him. And do it proper, so it hurt. Funny thing was, he was already injured, a nasty oozing wound on his side. She had offered to bandage it for him but he didn’t seem interested; just wanted his lashing. So here they were.
“Do it, mistress, do it.”
“Look, I don’t mind a bit of messing about, a few light strokes before a good fuck, but I’m not doing it any harder than I’ve already given you.”
“How much do you wan
t?”
“I don’t need your money, sir. I run a respectable business here and I don’t want no dead bodies on my hands.”
“Then get another girl, who will do it.”
Parsimony shrugged her shoulders. This was a difficult one. She needed to have a word with Starling. “All right. Wait here, sweeting.”
She left him on the bed and traipsed downstairs. Starling would know what to do. In some ways she was the cleverer of the two.
Parsimony touched her arm at the card table. “A word if I might, Little Bird.”
“Of course, Queenie.”
They went off to a private room. “Got a cove upstairs wants me to beat him raw like a Bridewell penitent. Thing is, he’s got good money. Shame to turn him away.”
“Then give him what he wants.”
“Don’t like to, Starling. It’s not me.”
“Well, I’d happily give any man a thrashing. All I’d have to do is close my eyes and think of my husband.”
“Would you do this one for me? I’ll owe you.”
“Of course, ducks. You take over the dealing. And give the bishop’s son a break. It’s not good for business to skin customers into the gutter.”
Chapter 34
Every muscle was taut like a drawn-back longbow string. How close had he come to Herrick? The assassin had been there. He had definitely been there at the house by Horsley Down-and recently. Now he was gone, lost in the sea of people of all shades that inhabited this infernal town.
Shakespeare sipped his wine by the fire. On the morrow, he would ride to Windsor and find this Ptolomeus. But he lacked enthusiasm for the task. What purpose could such an outing serve? How could an old, decrepit priest help him find the murderer of Lady Blanche Howard or prevent the murder of Sir Francis Drake?
The good news was that Drake would soon be traveling to Plymouth by sea. Reason told Shakespeare that Drake would be out of harm’s way, yet there was a gnawing pit of worry in his stomach that suggested otherwise. There was something terribly wrong here. For the first time, Shakespeare had a sense of dread; he began to fear he was going to lose this battle.
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