Shakespeare nodded. It showed the diabolical range and extent of this conspiracy. Whether any other than Baines understood it to be a Spanish plot, they might never know. But where was he now? Clearly Curl would not know.
‘And where is this Scots prince?’
‘That’s nothing to do with us. That’s just broadsheet tittle-tattle. Why would we care about a Scots prince?’
‘Indeed.’ Shakespeare nodded his head slowly. This man really had no idea what he had been engaged in. ‘One last question, Mr Curl, and I will send you ale. Why did you seek sanctuary at Topcliffe’s house?’
Curl laughed again. ‘Because I thought he was on our side. Now I know that he is on no one’s side but his own.’
John Shakespeare walked to the church of St John in Walbrook, holding the hands of Mary and Grace. Andrew walked at their side. A few paces behind them came Boltfoot Cooper with Jane, who carried their baby.
A few chosen friends were there to pay their respects. Catherine’s brother was down from Cambridge, as were her old friend Berthe Haan, the Sluyterman family and Susanna, on her first day out of hospital. There were no more than twenty mourners. Sir Robert Cecil was not there, and Shakespeare understood why. Catherine would wish her requiem mass to be said in the Romish way and Cecil could not be seen to condone such a thing.
‘There will be no repercussions, John. Find a seminary priest to say the mass and I vow he will have free passage on this day. Take one from Bridewell or the Marshalsea. But I ask only this: keep the church door closed while the mass is said, so that the people of London do not hear of it. Keep the sad occasion small in scale and private.’
Many tears were shed, though not by John Shakespeare. The tears that, throughout his life, had habitually pricked his eyes with the onset of emotion, were dry in the face of such overwhelming grief.
After the burial, he asked Boltfoot and Jane to take the children home without him, so that he might be alone at the graveside. The day was bright and the sky was blue. It should have been black with clouds and a constant rain.
He spoke to her, head bowed, as though she were there. ‘I should have been a better husband to you. I should have understood more. Thank you, Catherine, for our days together. Thank you for the children.’
A man came and stood beside him. Shakespeare turned and looked into his eyes. He knew that face, that grey hair and that well-cut beard, but could not recall where he had seen them.
‘We met at a crossroads,’ the man said. ‘You seemed lost. Did you find the way to go?’
Shakespeare shook his head. ‘I found a way. But I do not know if it is the right way.’
The man put his arm around Shakespeare’s shoulders. ‘God gave us free will, yet we pray to him to show us the way. Can a man have a guide and yet choose his own path?’
Shakespeare hung his head. He could not move from this man’s arms. The tears were flowing now, washing down his face. He uttered great choking sobs, weeping in a way he had not done since childhood.
‘And yet He is with us, John. He is with you…’
The quiet unnerved Shakespeare. His ears still rang from the deafening blast of the hellburner, yet all else descended into silence. Cecil had sent messages to Scotland, but no word was received back of any attempt on the King’s life. Luke Laveroke, alias Richard Baines, seemed to have disappeared into the ether, as had Rabbie Bruce. Nor was there any sign of Dona Ana.
While Boltfoot lay, face down, on his bed, his back slathered with ointments brought from the apothecary, Shakespeare followed what leads he could muster. He went again to Henbird and together they stepped down to his cellar to talk with Walstan Glebe. Shakespeare came to realise there was some value in the man. ‘Work for me, Mr Glebe,’ he said of a sudden. ‘And I will ensure your press is licensed. But I vow that if ever you do a trade of the sort you did with Laveroke, I will personally drive the tumbrel that carries you to the gallows. Everything you hear, you will pass to me, however small. Do you understand?’
Glebe, happy to be alive and pleased at the chance of release from his piss-acrid cell, accepted the offer. Shakespeare knew he could never be trusted, yet he knew, too, that he could not function without the services of such doubtful men.
‘What I most want from you, Glebe, is any word on the whereabouts of this prince of Scots.’
‘Thank you, Mr Shakespeare. I pledge I will keep my ears open.’
‘Good, for if you do not, they shall surely be sliced off by order of the court. And in the meantime, I will have a little task for you to perform with your confounded press. There is a matter that needs to be set straight.’
In Privy Council, Sir Robert Cecil demanded information from the Earl of Essex. ‘You know whom we seek, my lord, where is this woman? I ask this, for it is known that she was at your house.’
Essex, irritated at being asked such a question in a way that seemed to accuse him of collusion with Ana Cabral, bridled. ‘I do not know what you mean, Sir Robert…’ But he did know what he meant, and he knew, too, that Cecil had the Queen’s backing in asking it. He tilted his proud chin and gazed down his nose at his little rival. ‘All I can tell you is that I have not seen the wretched whore since the day of the Golden Spur. Nor has Don Antonio, who resides with me still. In truth, I believe him glad to be rid of her.’
On Cecil’s orders, the trials of those captured in the skirmishes around the city were heard with little ado and at speed. Six men were found guilty of insurrection and riot and were sentenced to be hanged at the places they had been taken: three by the bridge, two by the Dutch church and one, Curl, in Westminster. Cecil insisted they be spared the godly butchery of drawing and quartering, ‘For the Queen will not have martyrs made of these so-called apostles.’
On the day of execution, Shakespeare rose at dawn and went to the refectory. Jane followed soon after, with Mary and Grace, and set about preparing food and drink for their breakfasts.
Shakespeare did not feel like eating, but he sipped some small ale. He was surprised that Andrew was absent. ‘Is he still abed, Jane?’
‘I shall go and fetch him, master.’
‘No, no. Leave the boy. He needs sleep.’
After a few minutes, Shakespeare went to Andrew’s room. The boy was not there.
Andrew Woode fought his way through the heaving crowd close to the Gatehouse at Westminster. At twelve years of age, he was nimble enough to duck under people’s arms but tall and strong enough not to be easily elbowed aside. He had the fair hair of his long-dead mother, and something of her solemn aspect. He could not remember her. All he knew of her was her portrait, in which she wore a black gown, a white coif about her hair and a cross at her slender neck. In truth, Catherine had become more of a mother to him.
The morning was bright. There was a carnival air. Street sellers shouted their wares. ‘Saffron cakes!’ ‘Kent strawberries!’ ‘Broadsheets here!’
The boy found a place at the front of the throng, with a clear view of the scaffold, not fifteen yards away. His heart pounded like the beat of a war-drum.
At seven of the clock, just as the bells of St Margaret’s began to chime, a cart came into view. In the back, arms bound tight, Andrew could see the pathetic creature who had come here to die. He was a man with amber hair, amber freckles and amber eyes; strange, piercing eyes that flickered here and there through the crowd of onlookers as though seeking someone he knew, some help or comfort in these last minutes on earth. For a moment, Andrew felt the man’s eyes meet his, then they turned away.
‘Do you have anything to say?’ the hangman demanded.
‘I beg forgiveness of Her Majesty, to whom I never meant any harm. All I did, I did for England. And if there is a God, I pray for His mercy.’
‘That’s enough.’ Without ceremony, the hangman tried to thrust a hood over the man’s head, but the condemned man shied away from it. ‘No, not the hood.’ The hangman shrugged carelessly, put the hood aside and went straight to the noose. He looped the rough hemp
cord about the man’s neck, then tightened it and stepped down from the cart. For a few moments, the condemned man stood on the cart, staring ahead with terror in his eyes, then the hangman lashed the horse away.
Holy Trinity Curl swung violently. He kicked and choked. His death dance lasted twelve minutes. No one stepped forward to pull his legs and hasten death.
The crowd drifted away, bored. They had hoped for more of a speech, perhaps a jest or two from the condemned man. All London had heard of his paltry attempt at insurrection and considered it laughable. Had he really thought they would take up arms and join him? The apprentices could organise better riots at Bartholomew Fair. The real talk of the city was the hellburner. That had been some bang, some thunder.
Andrew stayed and gazed at the grotesque tableau. The distended tongue lolled out. The amber eyes, open and bulging, stared without sight. Blood from the ears streaked the beard. A dark patch on the breeches betrayed the last humiliation, pissing himself in public. Andrew breathed deeply to prevent the bile rising in his throat, then turned away. The frantic beating of his heart had calmed. The killer of the woman he loved as a mother was dead.
‘You look as if you need food and drink,’ Shakespeare said when Andrew arrived home.
‘I have no appetite, sir.’
‘No. Nor would I. But at least sup a little ale. Here.’ He handed him his own cup.
Andrew took a few sips, then thirstily downed the whole half-pint.
‘Better?’
The boy shook his head. Suddenly, he looked old beyond his years. ‘No. Not better. Empty. I had expected some kind of elation, but there was none. My hatred seeped away into nothingness.’
Shakespeare held the boy to him. ‘You are a man now,’ he said. ‘A good man. We will talk of your future, soon.’ As he spoke, there was a knock at the door, and he heard Jane’s soft-shod feet scuttling through the hall to answer it.
‘Will, it is good to see you.’
‘I would have come sooner. There were… difficulties.’
‘Well, you are here now. Welcome.’
‘I am lost for words.’
Shakespeare smiled. ‘There is a first time for everything, Will. Say nothing. It has all been said.’ He embraced his brother, whose clothes were dusty and stained.
‘In truth, John, as well as bringing my condolences, I come with another purpose. I fear I was not wholly open with you the last time we met. I knew more about the death of Kit Marlowe than I told you. I thought it safer to avoid London for a while. I believe I am still in grave danger.’
Shakespeare stood back from his brother and looked into his eyes inquiringly. ‘You are safe here, Will. Come to my solar. Let us talk in comfort. You look as if you have been dragged here from Stratford. Jane will bring us refreshments.’
In the quiet of Shakespeare’s sunlit room, his brother unburdened himself.
‘John, I am sure you must know of the arrest and torture of Thomas Kyd before Marlowe’s death.’
‘Of course. He was one of those believed to be this Tamburlaine who wrote the attack on the strangers, which was posted outside the Dutch church. But I did not believe it for one moment. It was Francis Mills who ordered his arrest and hard questioning. Mills has a taste for torture, I fear. Perhaps it is revenge for the ill-treatment he has at the hands of his sluttish wife.’ Shakespeare could not help noticing that his brother’s hands were trembling and that his brow was deeply furrowed with concern.
‘You will know, too, John, that Tom Kyd had shared lodgings with Kit Marlowe.’
‘Yes, of course. It was much discussed.’
‘So when Kyd was arrested and the pursuivants searched his rooms, what were they looking for?’
‘Why, evidence linking him to the Dutch church tract. All they found, though, was some discourse on atheism, which is offence enough in the eyes of many. I believe he said it was not his paper, but Marlowe’s.’ Shakespeare snorted, without humour. He was bemused. ‘But Will, this was just one of many lines of inquiry into the Dutch church posters. A reward of a hundred marks was offered for information, and torture was sanctioned by the Privy Council. Few believed, however, that Marlowe was behind the posters, for why would he have named himself so clearly, knowing the penalty for such sedition?’
‘Perhaps the searchers were looking for something else when they tore apart Tom Kyd’s room and broke his body on the Bridewell engines of torment. Perhaps Poley, Frizer and Skeres were seeking the same thing when they took Kit Marlowe to a room in Deptford and killed him.’
‘What else could they have been looking for?’
‘I cannot tell you for the present. Suffice it to say that I know of it. I could add that there are some who do believe Poley, Frizer and Skeres were not the only ones present in that room when the killing occurred.’
‘Who else?’
‘I cannot tell you.’
‘Why did you not mention any of this before?’
‘You would have been compromised. It would have been your duty to seek out whatever Poley and the others were after, and then destroy it.’
‘You must at least tell me what manner of thing you mean. Is it written matter, some sedition?’
‘Not now. You will know soon enough.’
‘Coining, perhaps? Marlowe had much trouble with his counterfeiting activites when he was in Flushing. It was a weakness of his. Had he treasure hidden, false money, that they sought?’
‘Be patient.’
Shakespeare poured brandy for his brother from the jug left by Jane. ‘Will, beloved brother, if Marlowe was involved in counterfeiting the Queen’s coin or writing something of a seditious nature and you know what it is, you are already in peril. Nothing you can tell me will make your position more dangerous. You say they tortured Kyd and killed Marlowe because of it. Why would they stop there? The slightest suspicion that you know of its whereabouts could lead to your arrest, and worse.’
‘That is why I left London so hurriedly after the inquest. I had only stayed as long as I did to discover what came out in the testimony of Poley, Skeres and Frizer. I went home to Stratford, but I soon realised I could not stay there; I had to face up to this matter. These past days I have been in Shoreditch, for I had much to organise. I fear I did not hear of Catherine’s terrible death until now. My coming here to your home has had to be most quiet, and I must keep it that way.’
‘Someone is after you?’
‘It is possible.’
‘And is there some link to Catherine’s death?’
‘No, none that I know. John, come with me on the morrow and you shall discover all that I know.’
‘This disturbs me greatly.’
‘Yes, but I must ask you to trust me on this.’
Chapter 39
The keeper of the Marshalsea shook his head and rubbed his long, grease-streaked beard. ‘I am sorry, Mr Shakespeare. Ingram Frizer is no longer here. Got his pardon from the Queen yesterday and so I had to let him out.’
Shakespeare uttered a low oath. ‘Where did he go?’
‘I have his place of abode. I did write it in the black book. You are welcome to consult it, though whether he went there I could not say.’
The keys on the keeper’s belt clanged with every step through the echoing halls of the old prison as he led Shakespeare to his little room. ‘Here we are, master,’ he said at last as he opened the door, letting Shakespeare in first.
Shakespeare held a kerchief to his nose in disgust. There was a foul smell in here of cooking fat, which added a nauseous quality to the common gaol scents of ordure and sweat.
The keeper brought down the black book and opened it flat on the crooked table, where, judging from the stains, scraps and crumbs, he took his daily food.
‘There we go, sir. Admitted the second of June, killed a man in self-defence. Following inquest, to be held on remand awaiting decision of court in Chancery. Now he has had his formal pardon. Let me see, where did he abide?’ The keeper scratched his dirty, fat fo
refinger across the page. ‘Ah, there it is — not far from here, master. By the river, St Augustine Inn, my old father always knew it as. Now, though it is called Sentlegar House. Tenement building. Many of the worst sort live there, sir. You will find it hard by the Bridge House.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I wish you fortune of Mr Frizer, sir, for I cannot say I liked him much. A sly fellow, I would say. Not one to turn your back on, lest you wish a poniard in the kidney.’
Shakespeare was relieved to step out into the comparatively fresh air of Southwark. The streets were thronged with stalls selling goods from the world over, brought back by the great trading carracks. Spanish gold and fruits could be had here, wine from France, printed books from the German lands, furs from the Russias and spices from the Moluccas. Looking down Long Southwark to the bridge, he saw nothing but people, wains and farm beasts, packed tight in an endless stream. He shuddered at the thought of what might have been, had the hellburner done its foul work.
St Augustine Inn was less than a furlong from the gaol. Shakespeare walked straight in, for the door was open. A family of ten huddled in the first room he saw, a drab band of whores in the next. He asked after Ingram Frizer. No one would admit to knowing him. He looked in all the tenements. There were only poor families, whores and rats. Not a clue as to his whereabouts.
The windows were shuttered at Robert Poley’s splendid, timbered townhouse in Birchin Lane, just north of Lombard Street. Yet it was not entirely empty, for a housekeeper answered the door to Shakespeare.
‘I would speak with Mr Poley,’ Shakespeare demanded.
‘I fear he is not here, master,’ the woman said. She was an honest-looking woman in her thirties. Shakespeare looked at her questioningly and wondered why any decent goodwife would wish to work for a villain such as Poley.
‘When will he be back?’
‘He has left for the summer, master. Gone to the country to escape the pestilence. I just come here to dust and look out for the place while he’s away.’
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