‘Take a seat, Mr Shakespeare. I hope you will allow me to pour you a goblet of Aquitaine brandy.’ Huckerbee reached for an ornate flagon.
‘No thank you, Sir Robert.’ Shakespeare remained standing.
Huckerbee smiled and poured himself one. ‘I won’t keep you, for I know you are a busy man, but I wished to talk with you about this.’ He put down the flagon and picked up a sheet of paper. ‘This is a bill of account from the misses Smith, known to you and employed by you as night-workers, I believe.’
‘They are whores, Sir Robert. Uncommon whores, but whores all the same.’
‘Quite, but it is not a word Her Majesty likes to be used about her palaces. I take it you have seen the invoice?’
‘I have seen no bills of account from the Smith sisters. I had believed they would be sending their reckonings directly to Mr Phelippes.’
‘No, that is not so in this case. As you know, he is back and forth between London and Chartley conjuring sense out of the Scots Queen’s ciphers. I am told that you are now the man in charge of these matters and therefore it follows that you take responsibility for authorising the payment, which I am required to counter-sign.’ He handed the paper across to Shakespeare. ‘Have I been misled, sir?’
Shakespeare took the paper. To Beth and Eliza Smith, for services rendered, twenty sovereigns, gold. As requisitioned and agreed by Mr John Shakespeare, gent. It was written in a fine sloping hand on good quality paper, dated and signed by both sisters. Twenty sovereigns was a vast amount; more than a skilled artisan could earn in two years.
‘I had no notion, Sir Robert.’ He looked up at Huckerbee and met his condescending gaze. ‘I knew they were costly, but they assured me that they always dealt with Thomas Phelippes and Mr Secretary, and that the price was always happily agreed by them.’ He placed the paper back on Huckerbee’s desk.
‘And you believed them, sir? You took the word of two notorious night-workers . . . whores? I cannot believe Mr Secretary has ever agreed such a sum. It cannot be justified.’ Huckerbee’s languorous front had been dropped.
Shakespeare stood his ground. ‘We needed their services. Mr Secretary told me to do what was necessary to keep Gilbert Gifford from taking flight. If the costs are excessive, then I shall answer to my master and if necessary I will order the sisters to re-submit their invoice. But that will be a matter for Sir Francis. Is that all? I have work to do.’ He turned to go.
‘Wait, damn you, I will not be brushed off.’
All pretence of cool urbanity was gone like a blast of wind on a still day. Shakespeare turned back. ‘Do you think to talk to me so? You are not my master.’
‘Indeed, I am your master in this, Shakespeare, for I control the purse that is paying for this ambitious scheme of the Principal Secretary. The Queen herself has me before her almost every day demanding closer control of Treasury funds – so you will hear me.’ Shakespeare said nothing, but waited. ‘Mr Shakespeare, am I not making myself clear?’ ‘If you have something to say, say it, for I have no time for such trifling matters.’
‘Trifling, you say? No time? I thought you had all the time in the world, pursuing your own interests around town, and all at the expense of the Treasury. I have heard it said, too, that you have been making use of the whores’ services yourself. Perhaps that is why their price is so outrageous. Would Mr Secretary like to hear that you are plundering Her Majesty’s coffers to pay for your peccadilloes?’
‘What exactly are you saying?’
‘You are misusing Treasury funds. There is an ugly word for it: embezzlement.’
‘That is slander, Huckerbee. You rave like a Bedlam fool.’ Shakespeare was angry now, but his ire was underlaid by anxiety. What exactly did Huckerbee think he knew – and who had been talking to him? Was the Queen herself really involved in this? He sniffed the air. Huckerbee kept his sumptuous display of roses in large urns about the room, but they could not conceal the stink of overflowing middens that was beginning to make this palace uninhabitable; the sooner the court moved on to the fresh air of Richmond, the better. But there was more than the stench of human waste in this room, there was the stink of double dealing, too.
‘I will be sending a report to Mr Secretary. You have not heard the last of this, Shakespeare.’
He should have walked out then, but he had to defend himself, even though he had nothing to hide. ‘Someone has been putting lies about. Who have you been talking to?’
‘My information is sound enough. You spend my money on your own pursuits.’
‘Your money?’
‘The money I dispense. Do not quibble with me, sir. I suggest you restrict yourself to government work or you will pay a heavy price.’
‘Mr Secretary will not be gulled by you. He knows my honesty. And if I am engaged in any other matters, he knows all about them, for I keep no secrets from him.’ Even as he spoke the words, he wished he had kept his counsel; he was defending himself like a schoolboy in front of an overbearing master. He had handed the advantage to Huckerbee.
The comptroller sat back in his chair. ‘Then all will be well for you, won’t it, Shakespeare?’ His voice had regained its composure. ‘If Mr Secretary is happy that you have been going about your own business in his time, then who am I to gainsay him? And if he is content that you use official funds for the swiving of a pair of costly whores, then so be it. But I will not be party to it.’
There was a knock at his door.
‘Come in,’ he said.
A bluecoat entered and bowed low. ‘My lord Burghley requests your presence, Sir Robert.’
‘Tell him I will be with him presently. A minute, no more.’ He waved an elegant hand at Shakespeare. ‘Go, sir. Take your boat.’ He screwed up the Smith sisters’ invoice and flung it at Shakespeare. ‘And take that with you, for I will not sign it off.’
Chapter 25
Richard Young, magistrate of London, circled the red-headed man on the stool. All the while he looked at his captive with a steady gaze. Had he been a cat and his prey a mouse, he would surely have batted it with a paw, claws extended.
Osric Redd was bound tight. His legs were secured at the ankles and his hands were tied behind his back. He was in the centre of the parlour in the farm that had always been his home and he had no idea what was going on, who these men were or what they might want from him. They kept asking the same question.
‘Where is she, Mr Redd?’
‘I told you. I don’t know. Why would I know?’
‘Because she was here.’
‘Aye, she was here. You asked me and I told you. But I told you, too, that she was gone, and so she is. I need to go to my sheep.’
Young approached Osric and stooped even more than usual so that he might meet his prisoner eye to eye. ‘I will break you asunder if you say the word sheep one more time, Mr Redd.’ Young was a poor-looking creature, his lips dry and downcast from a life lived without humour. He was not strong, but he did not need to be when he had a band of six men with him to do the brutish work of taking and holding men for questioning.
Without warning, Young pushed the bound man full on the chest. The stool toppled backwards and Osric fell with it, his head cracking on the dirt floor with a hideous thud. His chin smacked forward into his chest. Blood began to pour from his mouth.
‘Pull him up,’ Young ordered. ‘Wipe the dog’s dirty mouth.’
Two men bent forward and pulled the injured man and his stool back upright. His head lolled to the side and his eyes were closed. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose onto his shepherd’s smock. He immediately fell to the floor again, unable to keep his balance.
‘I think he’s dead, Mr Young.’
‘He’s not dead. I only gave him a push to jog his memory and loosen his peasant tongue. Give him water and a clip around the head, that’ll wake him.’
The man shrugged and and wandered off. Justice Young reached into his pocket and pulled out a kerchief, then thought better of it and put it back. Inste
ad, he pulled out his dagger and cut a large strip of cloth from Osric’s woollen smock. He scraped the cloth across the injured man’s blood-soaked face. The blood smeared, but kept dripping.
‘Dirty dog. Look at him.’
One of his men returned carrying a wooden pail. ‘I found this outside, Mr Young. I wouldn’t drink it, though. They do say the plague is spread in water, so I won’t drink it for no man.’
‘It’s not for drinking, you dolt.’ Young snatched the pail and upended it over Osric’s head.
As the water washed down over him, Osric grunted and then opened his mouth and gasped.
‘There you are. Told you there was nothing wrong with the dirty dog, God damn him to hell.’
‘What do we do with him now? I don’t think he knows anything. He don’t look too well.’
‘Since when did I ask you to think? He has acknowledged that he harboured a notorious fugitive here – and I intend to discover where she is and have her hanged.’
‘There was the other man,’ Osric said, blood spraying with each word.
‘Other man?’
‘Aye. The other one. Shake . . . Shake . . .’
‘Shakespeare?’
Justice Young knelt on the sawdust and mud floor and raised Osric’s head so that he might speak a little easier.
‘You say Shakespeare was here?’
‘He found the dress, then burnt it.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘That’s all I know.’
‘Did he take the woman away?’
‘There was a fire set and he did burn the dress.’
‘Why did he do that?’
‘Can I go to my sheep now?’
‘Where is she? Where is your brother?’
Osric opened his mouth, but nothing more came out.
Young rose to his feet and turned to his minions. There was nothing more to be had from this imbecile at the present. ‘Convey this man to Bridewell, where I shall resume my questioning in due course.’
‘My sheep will worry where I am.’
Young shook his head. This man was a waste of God’s good air. ‘On second thoughts, leave him. If he’s too stupid to conceal the fact that she was here, then he’s too stupid to conceal anything else.’
In the meantime, thought Young, I shall resume my search for this sheep-witted man’s brother for he, most assuredly, must know the whereabouts of the murdering bitch Katherine Giltspur. He brightened. Maybe he could catch them both and let them dance their last jigs together. Shakespeare, too. Now that would make a fine spectacle for the good folk of London town.
In the pigsty, Boltfoot had been assailed by the stench of dung. Now all he could smell was fish; fish more putrid and loathsome than anything he had ever smelt in all his years at sea.
He was on a ship of some kind and that was all he knew, for they had brought him by night, hooded. When the hood was removed, he had caught a glimpse of masts and rigging, stark against the moon, before they lowered him into the hold and closed the hatch.
It was pitch dark down here. He moved around at will, for he was not bound, but the hatchway was bolted from above. Even with the passing of the hours the gloom did not lighten, but he quickly discovered that his only companions in the stinking cell were barrels, some full of salted fish and meat, but many more empty.
The lapping of the waves and the stench of the fish told him everything and nothing. And then he heard the familiar shouts of a ship’s master ordering the mooring lines cast away and the sails unfurled, and he felt the changing motion of the vessel as it turned from landward to seaward with the rising breeze and ebbing tide, and his heart sank.
He guessed he must be in the tidal reaches of the Thames, heading downriver towards the estuary, and then the sea.
It was becoming horribly clear; from the stench of the fish and the wallowing and the creaking of heavy timbers, he was obviously aboard a fishing vessel large enough to head for the deep seas of the north. All ships carried salted fish, but the overpowering smell in this hold told him that fish was not only carried but salted here. Such a vessel could be headed anywhere – the narrow seas, the German Bight, the far north and Iceland. Would that be where they dropped him, as food for the fishes? The sailor’s worst nightmare.
And now he would not be able to tell his master that Will Cane, the man who killed Nicholas Giltspur, had been conducting an amorous liaison with a woman named Abigail, maidservant to Giltspur’s widow, Kat Whetstone. Was this the intelligence that could save Kat’s life? Or might it just condemn her? Either way, it was information that Mr Shakespeare needed, and in a hurry. But he wouldn’t get it while Boltfoot was aboard this putrid floating fish stall of a ship.
The sea became rougher and the ship lurched. Boltfoot curled himself up on a coil of rope and tried to sleep. An hour or so out, the hatch opened and Boltfoot blinked open his eyes. Above him, in the square of dark blue, he saw the yellow light of a lantern.
A gruff voice boomed into the echoing hollow of the hold. ‘How’s it going down there?’
‘Like a stroll by Paris Garden.’
‘You want some aqua vitae?’
Boltfoot laughed. ‘I’ll take the aqua vitae, but what I really want is setting down on dry land.’
‘Tell you what, I’ll bring you a tot of spirit and some tobacco. How does that sound?’
‘Good enough.’
‘And some food, too. Don’t want to starve our new carver of casks, do we? You wait there, Mr Cooper, and I shall return with a fine spread for you in no time.’ So that was it: he had been pressed into service, sold by Cutting Ball for a pound or two. Skilled coopers were valuable
men aboard ship. Boltfoot cursed. He had met enough pressed men in his time to know that there was little or nothing that could be done. Once at sea, you were as much a prisoner as you would be if incarcerated in the Tower. And you worked or felt the lash.
The face at the hatch reappeared and a rope ladder was dropped down. The man descended, carrying a rough canvas bag tied to his belt, and the lantern in one hand.
‘Here we are then, Mr Cooper.’ He put down the lantern, then untied his bag from his waist. He was a squat man like Boltfoot, with an honest, weatherbeaten face. The sort of face Boltfoot had encountered many times aboard ships where men had to trust in each other and in God.
‘What’s your name, sailor?’
‘Turnmill.’ From the bag he pulled out a tin mug. ‘That’ll be yours. Lose it and you’ll have to pay for another from your share of the take. Same with this.’ He produced a tin plate. ‘So keep them safe.’
‘I’ve been at sea before, Mr Turnmill. I know what’s what.’
Turnmill pulled out a small packet of tobacco and a clay pipe, then a hunk of bread and a sizeable pat of butter. ‘And here’s your aqua vitae.’ He unhooked a small stoppered flask from his belt, took out the cork and poured a large measure into Boltfoot’s cup. ‘That’ll give you back your sea legs.’
The spirit bit the back of Boltfoot’s throat and burnt its way down his gullet. He began to feel a good deal better. He put down his cup and crumbled some tobacco into the pipe.
‘When am I to be allowed out of this stinking hold? I am no use to you down here.’
‘When we’re far enough from land. Captain says he don’t want you swimming to shore.’
Boltfoot pointed to his club foot. ‘And does it look to you as though I could swim?’
‘Not for me to say.’ Turnmill lit a thin taper from the lantern’s flame. He handed it to Boltfoot, who held it to his pipe and drew deeply on the fragrant smoke.
‘Well, Mr Cooper, you know how to smoke and you know how to drink, so maybe you’ll survive the voyage.’
‘What vessel is this?’
‘Three-masted bark. No herring-buss or ketch this, Mr Cooper.’
‘A deep-sea bark . . .’ His heart fell.
‘Aye. None deeper.’
‘Where we headed?’
‘A long way from here. Th
ere’s six vessels in all. First we’re headed to Brittany for salt, then across the western sea to the Grand Banks. Men say you can drop a pail into the sea and you’ll catch a cod. Others say they’ve seen a cod as big as a man.’
Boltfoot closed his eyes in despair. They would be away months; possibly through the autumn and into winter. He knew all about the Grand Banks, the great shallows off the northern coasts of the New World. The lure of the cod fishing there and the great wealth to be made had drawn many ships from England and the other maritime nations to try their luck. Some had grown rich, but many more had never returned. It was the worst of destinations, especially as there was absolutely no hope of getting off this vessel.
Chapter 26
Shakespeare bade Jane goodnight and retired to his solar to read and think. After an hour, his eyes heavy, he put down the book and knelt on the floor. He closed his eyes and said a prayer for the lives of both Kat and Boltfoot. Then he picked up the candle and went to his chamber.
As he entered the room he caught his step, and his heart began pounding. A man was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, tousled fair hair tied back. He breathed out. It was Kat Whetstone in the dirty jerkin, shirt and hose of a labouring man.
Catching his breath, he held up the candle so that its glow fell across her. ‘Kat?’
Slowly, she removed her fingers from her face and met his eyes. ‘John.’
‘How . . .’
She smiled. ‘I lived here once, if you recall. It was simple to get in. You should bolt your front door.’
‘I have nothing worth stealing, no treasure.’
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