Holy Spy (10 page)

‘Cutting Ball, eh? Now there’s a tiger of a man.’

Boltfoot looked at the woman’s eyes. Was she making merry of him? ‘You know something of him, mistress?’

‘Cutting Ball? No, no, Mr Cooper. That’s too dangerous for a maiden like me.’

This woman was no more a maiden than Boltfoot was a bishop. He grunted his scepticism. ‘Anyway, it’s the woman I really want to know about . . . Mistress Giltspur.’

‘Who do you work for, Mr Cooper?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘Not good enough. Try again.’

‘And I say again, it’s my business. But if you’ve got information, I’ve got silver for you.’

‘Mr Cooper, you look a fair fellow, so let me give you a little warning. Go home and keep your mouth sewn as tight as a seafarer’s shroud, else you’ll wake up with your throat cut one fine morning. Do you hear me?’

‘Aye, but—’

‘No buts. Take heed. I could have you taken from here right now, sliced open and dropped in the river. And when your body was washed up, no one would care a groat. So go. If you want a gage of ale, go to the Topsail, but don’t ask no questions there either, for you are delving into matters that are of no concern to you, nor any other common man with an interest in being alive.’

And then she was gone, and Boltfoot found himself alone, standing beneath a lantern outside the alehouse. The scents of the river mingled with the stench of the dung-clogged street. Old memories came rushing back like the tide: the smell of pitch and brine, the feel of the rolling sea beneath scrubbed oak decking, the sawdust and shavings of the barrels he’d built for Drake and the crew of the
Golden Hind
as they laboured against hunger and exhaustion to cross the great Pacific and get home. Memories of a time he never wished to experience again in this life.

He stood there for a minute, then began dragging his club foot down towards the Topsail Arms. What in God’s name did Mr Shakespeare expect of him? He must know that no one around these parts would open their mouth to a stranger. Once again he tried to make conversation, but the other drinkers looked at him as though he were an unpleasant piece of jetsam, then turned away.

He tried the same method at the Old Wharf and at an alehouse that had no sign but which he knew of as the Bishop’s Prick. He moved on northwards, but even after a score of taverns he had still got nowhere. Tired and despondent, he decided there was no more to be done this night and set off to traipse along the path back towards the city.

The way was ill lit and almost deserted. Boltfoot kept his hand on the hilt of his cutlass as he walked slowly, trying to avoid potholes and piles of waste. He had not brought his caliver; a gun would not have been welcome in the drinking holes he’d been visiting.

He planned to enter the city by way of Postern Gate, the old entrance just north of the Tower, once a great arched building and now fallen into ruin, but he was stopped by a broad-chested watchman. The man approached him from behind, swinging his lantern and pushing the shaft of his halberd aggressively into the ground in front of Boltfoot.

‘Where you going?’

‘Get your pole out of the way. You trying to trip me?’

‘I’m Potken, the watch for this ward, and I’ll put my halberd where I like. Down your gullet if I so desire. Now where you going, maggot?’

‘Home. Seething Lane.’

‘You don’t look like no denizen of Seething Lane. If you want entry to the city, come by day with the carters and wagoners.’

‘I’m a serving man. My master’s house is there.’

‘And who would your master be?’

‘John Shakespeare.’

‘Shakespeare? Never heard of him.’

‘He’s a Queen’s Man. Assistant secretary to Sir Francis Walsingham. Argue with
him
, if you will.’

The watchman was not tall, but he puffed up his heavy chest like a cockbird and pushed out his ragged-bearded chin. ‘Is that so?’

The tactic had no effect on Boltfoot. ‘Aye, and I’ve been on an errand for my master, which is not for your ears, nor anyone else’s. And by now he’ll be wondering where I am, so if you’ll let me pass, I’ll be on my way.’

‘Hold fast. What’s your name?’

‘Cooper. Mr Cooper to you.’

‘Well, Mr Cooper, I don’t trust a word you say. Seething Lane, eh? That’s close enough – second on the right – so I do believe. Perhaps I should accompany you home, maybe have a word or two with your master. And if you’re lying to me, then it’ll be straight to Bridewell and the treadmill with you – and I’ll have your name down for the Friday floggings.’

‘A turd in your throat, watchman.’ Boltfoot limped on. He was almost at Mr Shakespeare’s house when he felt a hand clamping his shoulder and swung round, his cutlass out.

‘Touch me again and I’ll cut you open like a Spaniard.’

Potken backed off. ‘Put up your strange sword, Cooper. I’ve got a message for you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Em from the Burning Prow wants to see you tomorrow. Says she’s got word for you. Come again through the Postern Gate and I’ll take you to her.’

‘Why didn’t she tell me this herself?’

‘What sort of muttonhead are you, Cooper? Do you think she’d talk with you among witnesses? Come at your leisure and she’ll make it worth your while.’ He laughed and his barrel chest heaved. ‘I’m sure of that well enough.’

Boltfoot stared at the man, furious with himself. Now Potken knew he worked for Shakespeare – and so, as day followed night, would the woman known as Em. He cursed his loose tongue. He would have to warn Mr Shakespeare.

The watchman turned away, his laughter ringing in the cool night air. Boltfoot rapped at the door. It was opened by Jane in nightgown and cap, bleary-eyed and ready for bed. Boltfoot nodded to her and turned back again. He had spotted a movement in the shadow of a doorway a little way down the street. The watchman was still watching.

Shakespeare awoke on a narrow truckle bed. He opened his eyes but at first he could see nothing. He turned over on his side and groaned at the pain in his head. He could just hear low murmurings – little more than whispers – coming from the other side of the door.

Delicately, he pulled himself up to a sitting position, took several deep breaths, and forced himself to stand. The events of the night came back bit by bit. The drinking, the attack, and then the short walk here to this modest lodging in a street behind Temple Bar where he had promptly fallen asleep. But perhaps there was still something to be gained. His head might be pounding, but the effects of the alcohol had mostly worn off. He was thinking more clearly.

He put his ear to the door. He could hear Anthony Babington and Thomas Salisbury, but their words were muffled and indecipherable. Then they went silent. Shakespeare heard soft footfalls and quickly he pushed open the door, scratching his head groggily as he did so.

Salisbury was standing in front of him. His strawlike hair and the knife in his hand made him look quite mad: a malign scarecrow.

Shakespeare’s gaze dropped from Salisbury’s unsmiling face to the knife.

‘This?’ Salisbury said, holding up the blade. ‘I was cutting a piece of bread. We wondered whether you might be awake. Perhaps you’d like a slice, Mr Shakespeare?’

Shakespeare yawned. ‘Bread, Mr Salisbury? Why, yes, that would suit me well. And a little milk if you have it. To settle my gut.’

‘Then bread and milk you shall have.’

‘Thank you.’ Shakespeare stepped forward into the room. It was large and light, with many books. Some of them, he noted, were stacked high and had similar covers, as though newly printed and ready for distribution. Catholic tracts from the seminaries, perhaps?

‘How are you feeling, Mr Shakespeare?’ Babington asked solicitously. He was stretched out on the settle, feet up and hands behind his head. ‘I must confess you look rather ragged and not a little shabby.’

‘I
feel
yet worse than I look.’

‘Almost as tattered as Thomas Salisbury here. You, however, will tidy yourself up and go bravely, whereas Mr Salisbury will always look like a wild man of the moors. Even Mr Mane’s ministrations can do nothing for his hair and his tailor has quite given up on him.’ Babington laughed and swung round to make space beside him. ‘Come, sit with me while Mr Salisbury fetches you sustenance.’

Shakespeare took the offer of the seat with gratitude. Not for the first time he was struck by Babington’s easy elegance and good looks. It was not surprising that he had caught the Queen of Scots’ eye when he delivered letters to her in the years she was held in Sheffield Castle. How different might his life have been had he chosen instead to fawn over Elizabeth, for she would undoubtedly have been won over. He could have cheered her days with jests and scandalous tittle-tattle.

‘Where is Mr Tichbourne?’ Shakespeare asked. ‘I recall he was with you when you saved me from those young dogs.’

‘He has returned to his own lodgings near St Bart’s. Chidiock needs his sleep, poor wretch. He has the constitution of a young maid and we have drunk him into oblivion. Likewise you, it seems.’

Shakespeare affected to bridle. ‘I seem to remember it was a fine, merry feast and that my cup was filled as fast as any man’s.’

‘I noticed that you conversed with Mr Tilney. What did you talk about?’

Salisbury returned with a cup of milk and Shakespeare drank it down. It was rich and thick with cream, the way he liked it. He nodded his appreciation to Salisbury, handed back the cup and picked up the hunk of bread from the platter that had been placed at his side. He took a bite and chewed. The two men were waiting for him to speak, but he did not hurry in his eating. He needed to consider his response carefully. When he had swallowed the morsel and patted his mouth with his sleeve, he met his host’s eye. ‘He said I should follow you in all things, Mr Babington.’

‘What else?’

‘He expressed surprise that Walsingham let me out.’

Babington smiled. ‘That is indeed a matter of interest, and has been ever since Mr Savage introduced you to our little band of brothers.’

‘I have been completely open with you, Mr Babington. Ask me questions and I will answer them.’

Babington put up a palm. ‘Mr Shakespeare, I beg you, do not feel insulted. Be assured that I was most happy that you joined our cheery group of diners and drinkers, for I know you come of good Warwickshire stock, wedded to the true faith. You are familiar with the mass and you are confessed. But I must tell you that there are those among us . . .’ His gaze strayed to Salisbury, then back to Shakespeare ‘. . . who have their doubts about you. Can a man work for both Walsingham and the Pope? Some men wonder whose cause you truly serve.’

Shakespeare frowned, then spread his hands. ‘They could ask the same question of every man at the Plough. What of Tilney or Abingdon? They are sworn guards of the Queen’s body. Who do they serve? Even Mr Salisbury here, who can say what is in
his
heart? Was he not brought up as ward to the demon Leicester?’

‘You are right, of course. We must all have faith and trust in each other, otherwise Walsingham and Burghley will have won the battle before the trumpet is even sounded. But I am obliged to mention it, for it is a matter that comes up time and again. One of our number whispered to me last night that you were known to be a deal too close to Mr Secretary and that you should be shunned.’

Shakespeare raised both his hands. ‘Mr Babington, Mr Salisbury, if you do not trust me, then I will bid you good fortune and withdraw from your company this moment, for I can well understand your fears and I have no wish to cause you sleepless nights, let alone difficulties with your fellows.’

‘Can you not say anything in your defence? A single word to prove where your loyalties truly lie? For whether you are with us or against us, you must know that there is a great deal more to our band than a gathering of friends enjoying good food and speaking our minds. Any man of wit must see that.’

Shakespeare shook his head. ‘You must take me or leave me. And I will not hold it against you if you cast me out. Now, if it please you, I must depart, for Mr Secretary will require my presence soon after dawn so that he may set me on the trail of papists and traitors . . .’