‘They are the devil’s riders. I’ll take them on. One at a time or all at once.’
‘You will be of no use to anyone if you are trampled underfoot. We can do nothing here. Come, Goodfellow, our feasting awaits us. Let us hear what Mr Babington has to say.’
‘First these.’
The lead rider walked his horse forward. He was a man in his sixties with no cap, his white hair hung about his ears. Shakespeare recognised him instantly as Richard Topcliffe, and shuddered with loathing. Their paths had crossed before, and no good had come of it.
The rider looked down with disdain at the two men blocking his men’s way. ‘What is this? Do you wish us to beat you from our path?’ He raised his crop and was about to crack Savage about the head when he noticed Shakespeare and his hand faltered.
‘Satan’s turd, it is Shakespeare . . .’
‘We are going about our business, Topcliffe. My friend has had a drink or two. I will move him from your path.’ He wrenched at Savage’s arm and growled, ‘Come away, Goodfellow. I know this man. He will kill you if you cross him.’
Savage did not seem at all perturbed. He narrowed his eyes as though to imprint a portrait of the infamous pursuivant into his brain. ‘So you are Topcliffe,’ he said, not moving an inch. ‘The man who torments women and children. And I see you are such a brave man that you have friends to help you.’ He raised his fists like a pugilist. ‘Dismount and try me man-to-man. If you dare.’
Topcliffe glared at Savage with such seething hatred that Shakespeare feared he would draw his sword and cut him to death there and then, but something held him back. He raised his hand to signal his men to move forward, then leant low in the saddle and spat words into Shakespeare’s ear. ‘Take this man in hand, Shakespeare for if I see him again, I swear I will do for him.’
He shook the reins and urged his horse forward, brushing past Savage and knocking him away. The other pursuivants followed, finding a path through the two men. And then they were past. Topcliffe kicked on into a trot, and the others followed suit, making their captives stumble and run just to keep up. They disappeared into a cloud of dust.
‘The devil damn you, John. Do you not know about that man? Did you not see those poor women and children he held? I wanted to kill him.’
‘I know him better than you, Goodfellow, and I despise him as much. But there were a dozen of them. You would have died
– and your vow to God would have died with you.’
Savage would never know it, but Shakespeare was certain that the only thing that had saved his life was his own presence there. Walsingham’s command that the Pope’s White Sons were to be allowed to go unmolested must have been forcefully made. Even Topcliffe had noted it.
‘Perhaps it would have been better that way,’ Savage said. ‘If I had but killed Topcliffe, my own death would have at least served some purpose. Death has never held terrors for me, John. It would have been an end to all my troubles.’
Shakespeare gripped his friend by the arm. ‘You have said enough.’ In the pit of his stomach, he felt sick with apprehension. Darkness was enveloping his world. A great deal of blood would spill forth before the light of hope returned.
Chapter 36
Salisbury and Abingdon were at the door to the upper room at the tavern in Newgate. They looked at Shakespeare and Savage with cold eyes. ‘Come in,’ Salisbury said, pulling Savage by the sleeve and dragging him through into the noisy interior.
Shakespeare attempted to follow him but Salisbury held up the flat of his hand against his chest. ‘Not you.’
‘Mr Salisbury, what is this?’ Through the door he could see a crowd of perhaps twenty young men. Robin Poley was there, laughing at some jest made by Babington and touching his arm with affection. Ballard was there, too, dressed in all his soldierly finery, in the guise of Captain Fortescue. Tichbourne, Tilney, Dunn, Gage, Charnock, Edward Windsor, Travers and others that Shakespeare could not put a name to. And then he spotted Dominic de Warre. How had he found his way here? He must have run along side alleys. He should be in bed asleep.
‘You are not wanted,’ Salisbury told Shakespeare, his face as hard as his words.
He tried to catch sight of Savage in the throng, but he had already disappeared into the crowd of young men. Had he seen him being barred?
Through the throng, Shakespeare caught Poley’s eye. He smiled and seemed to wink. Shakespeare did not return the wink, but concentrated on Salisbury. ‘May I at least know why I am to be excluded?’
‘Mr Babington has taken advice. He thinks it safer for everyone – you included – that you take your supper elsewhere. He would not wish for an accident to befall you.’
‘Advice from whom?’
Salisbury ran a hand through the wild tangle of his hair. ‘Why, his new friend, Robin Poley. It seems he has some doubts about you. As do I, Mr Shakespeare. As do I, which I have said all along.’
‘May I at least speak to Mr Babington?’
‘No.’
Shakespeare half expected to find Kat waiting for him when he returned to Seething Lane, but she was not there, nor was there any word from her. Perhaps she had not yet seen the notice on the Si Quis door. Perhaps she had seen sense and had returned to the north of England. Or maybe there was a simpler explanation: the note had fallen from its hook and flown away on the wind.
He thought of their last night together. Her slender body between his cool sheets. The love had indeed gone, he knew that for certain; but the pleasure had been undiminished.
‘Good evening, master.’
‘Good evening, Jane.’
‘A messenger came and said that Mr Tort would be calling on you in the morning, at ten o’clock.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Will that be all, sir – or can I bring you some pigeon pie?’
He had almost forgotten; his ejection from Babington’s feast meant he had not eaten. ‘Indeed, Jane, that would suit me well.’
But what of Babington’s decision to exclude him? Had he put a foot wrong somewhere, said a word out of place? Or had it all been Robin Poley’s doing? Laughter welled up in Shakespeare as suddenly he understood. Poley had cast doubts on Shakespeare to boost his own credibility. Poley was a sly one. Well, perhaps there was nothing lost by his absence. Poley would bring word of the feast to Walsingham. And Shakespeare already knew Babington’s momentous news: he had received a letter from the Queen of Scots and had sent one back. Now was the time for all those who loved her to rally to the cause.
Boltfoot was locked in the hold, curled up asleep on a coil of rope, like a cat. Something touched him and he was instantly awake, imagining the pointy teeth of a rat gnawing at his face.
‘Hush, Mr Cooper, it is only I, Maywether.’
Boltfoot sat upright.
Godfrey Maywether had a lantern which lit his straggle-bearded face. ‘No sudden movements, there is a dagger in my hand.’ He held up the blade so that it caught the light.
Above them, a high wind blew through the rigging of the eighty-ton ship. They were rocking, not pitching, moored at the port of Sandwich in the south-east corner of Kent, safe from the gales that might otherwise have driven them onto the Goodwin Sands, the great ship-eater; only God knew how many thousands of mariners and vessels had been sucked to their death there. Here in safe harbour, though, there was another danger for the crew – the danger that Boltfoot might try to escape; that was why he had been locked in the hold once more.
‘No let-up in the gale?’
‘We’re here a day, that’s for sure, maybe more. Here, drink this.’ He put a cup of ale to Boltfoot’s lips and he drank thirstily.
‘The offer stands, Mr Maywether. I could improve on it.’
‘I want a hundred and fifty pounds. Not a penny less.’
So Maywether was as much a rogue as Boltfoot had always believed him. He sucked air through his teeth. ‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘It’s up to you, Cooper. A hundred and fifty, mariner’s sol
emn pledge, or you stay here in this hold and spend the next five or six months sawing staves and packing fish into salt.’
What would Mr Shakespeare say? Would he even be able to find such money? He was not poor, but nor was he a rich man. There would be time enough to raise the money, however, for Maywether would not be back in London before Christmas.
He nodded. ‘Very well. I will have the money when you return. Mariner’s solemn pledge.’
‘No. I’m coming with you. We’ll travel together and you’ll give me the money in London. Then I’ll be off to Lincolnshire, for I’ll be done for if I stay anywhere near the Thames.’
It was a huge sum of money, yet somehow he had to get to his master the information that he had learnt from Bathsheba Cane: that Kat’s maid was the lover of the murderer Will Cane. More than that, new and important intelligence touching on the Giltspur family given him casually by Maywether in their last conversation, intelligence that might be at the very heart of the murder and all the mysteries surrounding it. He sighed heavily, then nodded his acceptance of the deal. ‘Hundred and fifty in London,’ he said.
‘Mariner’s solemn pledge.’
‘I swear it. Perhaps you’re not such a swine after all, Mr Maywether.’ In truth nothing had changed about the man; he was simply doing what he had always done – looking out for himself. ‘So, what will you do with this new-found fortune?’
‘I’ll get myself a chandlery in Grimsby. You can come with me. I’ll set you up with a cooperage. We’ll be the wealthiest men in town soon enough.’
‘When do we go?’
‘Now. Captain Bootmann’s drunk, limp-pricked and snoring in a whore’s loft. And the rest of the crew are in much the same state. Pissed as bilge rats. They won’t notice we’re gone until dawn, and we’ll have walked twenty miles by then. Breakfast in Canterbury. That’ll suit me. A nice little pilgrimage. You coming, Cooper?’
Did he trust Maywether? He had no choice. ‘Aye.’
Maywether thrust his dagger back into his belt and held out his hand. Boltfoot took it and the deal was sealed. He’d have to find the money now, even if he had to sell his soul to do so.
Severin Tort arrived promptly. Shakespeare was in his solar, working on a bundle of correspondence that had been couriered to him from Mr Secretary’s offices. When Jane announced the arrival, he asked her to send him up.
He shuffled away the papers and stood to welcome his guest. The men shook hands, then Shakespeare invited him to sit on the settle beneath a shelf of books.
‘I am glad to see you, Mr Tort. I wanted to ask you about Abigail Colton, the maidservant you recommended to the Giltspurs.’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘What do you know of her?’
‘Absolutely nothing. She worked for us but was surplus to requirements. That is all.’
‘She is with child – and I believe the father is probably the murderer Will Cane.’ Shakespeare looked into Tort’s eyes for a reaction.
Tort looked puzzled, then laughed nervously. ‘Well, that is of course alarming, but in truth I can barely even recall the young woman’s face.’
Did he believe the lawyer? He wasn’t at all sure. ‘Well, let us move on. How may I help you, Mr Tort?’ Shakespeare took
the straight-backed chair at his desk.
‘May we speak privately?’
‘There is no one else in the house save my maidservant. Speak freely, Mr Tort.’
‘That is not what I meant. What I wish is to speak to you as my friend, rather than a Queen’s man.’ The attorney looked ill at ease. He seemed to have shrunk in his neat black suit since last they met. His hair, so distinguished with its silver sheen, now seemed flat and white, like a winter sky. ‘I have a favour to beg of you, Mr Shakespeare. A very great favour.’
‘Then speak and I will listen, as a friend. I can promise no more.’
‘It is a matter of the utmost delicacy, touching on my stepson Dominic de Warre.’ He clutched at his throat, smoothing down his ruff as though it would choke him.
‘You are distressed, Mr Tort. Would you care for aught to drink?’
‘No. No, I will be well soon enough. You must excuse me.’
‘Please continue. You mentioned Dominic.’
‘He came into my household with my late beloved wife. As she lay dying, I vowed that I would always do all in my power to protect him and to ensure that he prospered. He is a good boy of great wit, but sometimes he thinks too much. He was but twelve years of age when his mother died and I have struggled to be a good and worthy father to him. I fear I have failed.’
‘What is this to me, Mr Tort?’
‘I am not a fool. I know what is going on. My stepson runs with these Pope’s White Sons. That is what everyone calls them, is it not? Divers young men who do services for the Bishop of Rome against this realm.’
‘Is that so? I know nothing of such things. What are these Pope’s White Sons?’
Tort threw him a look that said you do not fool me with your denials. ‘Come, Mr Shakespeare, let us speak like honest men. The whole of London knows who they are and what they are about. Insurrection . . . freeing the Scots Queen. And the whole world knows where it will end: on the scaffold. I cannot allow that to happen to Dominic. He is but a boy. He knows not what he does.’
Shakespeare gave a small laugh and spread his palms as if he were totally bemused. ‘If I could help, I would, but I know nothing of such matters. Who are these desperate men? Where do I find them? I am certain Mr Secretary should be told of them.’
Sharp irritation flashed across Tort’s equable features. ‘You know them as well as any man, Mr Shakespeare. Indeed you do, sir. Indeed you do. You work for Walsingham. These Pope’s White Sons, as men call them, they are all going to die. You know this to be true.’ He rose from the settle and began pacing the room.
‘No, sir. I know nothing of the sort.’ He could not admit to any knowledge of such things to this man. He could not admit that he, too, feared for Dominic. Never reveal your knowledge, never reveal the game to any man. He watched the pacing Tort with sadness. Shakespeare tried to ease the tension. ‘What of you, Mr Tort? You are a Catholic, are you not? These years have been hard for you. I am sure that Dominic is merely enjoying London life with a group of like-minded friends. It is the way with young men. As a Catholic, is it not possible that you are seeing conspiracy and danger where no such things exist?’
The lawyer’s eyes widened and his shoulders stiffened. He stopped and glared at his host. ‘What are you saying, sir? Do you tell me Catholics are not persecuted in this realm? Do you tell me that no one has been torn apart on the scaffold for the crime of being a priest?’
Shakespeare did not answer, for he could not deny it. And yet he knew, too, that not all priests had benign intent. He knew that the exiles Father Persons and Cardinal Allen would back an invasion of their own country by the Catholic powers of Paris, Rome and Madrid.
Tort seemed to read his mind. ‘And before you ask me the bloody question – would I support the Pope if he were to lead an army of invasion – the answer is no. I may be a Catholic, but I am loyal to my sovereign lady Elizabeth, Queen of England, and I would rather be sliced open by a Tyburn butcher’s knife than have any foreign power invade this realm. I would take up weapons against the Pope himself rather than any Spanish or French man-at-arms walk along Cheapside. So please, I beg you, listen to me: Dominic de Warre is a sensitive youth, an innocent and foolish boy. He is on the path to perdition. They all are. Everyone knows it. You know it, Mr Shakespeare. And so I entreat you: save him.’
Shakespeare very slowly and very deliberately shook his head. ‘I can do nothing for you or for Dominic because I know nothing of these things. You are his stepfather; if you do not like the company he keeps, then forbid him to meet these people you talk of. This is your fatherly duty, not mine. Now if that is all, I have much work.’ He stood and began to move towards the door to show his visitor out.
Tort grabbed hold o
f his sleeve. ‘No, I will not be dismissed so easily. Help me, Mr Shakespeare, and I will help you.’
‘Mr Tort, I understand that you are in anguish over your boy, and I sympathise, but there is nothing I can do for you and nothing I need from you. In truth, I do not know why you wish to help him, for from what you say he seems to be singularly lacking in any sense of filial duty to you. To speak plain, he seems to have no time for you, sir.’
‘He resents me for living when his father and mother are both dead. He has never known that I love him as much as any father ever loved his son. I see his mother in his eyes and I love him all the more. If only . . .’
‘If only what?’
‘If only he would love me as I love him.’
The lawyer closed his eyes. His teeth were now clenched tight and his lips were no more than a line, a gash in his face, as though he had words to spit out but his heart would not let him; as though his mouth would never open to utter words again.
Shakespeare lifted the latch and held open the door. ‘Well, sir, I think we are done here. We share a bond of care for Kat Whetstone, but that is all. If you will forgive me, I have work to do.’
Tort made no move to exit. He opened his mouth like a fish, but no words came out, only a sigh.
‘If you have something else to say, then speak, I entreat you, for the morning moves on apace.’
‘If I give you this, you must help me.’
‘Give me what? I told you, there is nothing I need from you. And nothing I can give you, for I have no knowledge of this conspiracy you claim to have uncovered.’
‘Then I must tell you what I know, but in doing so, I place my trust in the honour and decency that I hope to find in your heart. Help Dominic, I beg you. And if you ever make use of the information I impart, you can never say that it came from me.’
Once again, Shakespeare declined to speak, merely waited for Tort.
‘Very well.’ Tort nodded. ‘I am about to tell you a great secret. It is a matter of import that touches on the very governance of this land – and involves both the Giltspurs and the felon known as Cutting Ball.’
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