Holy Spy (30 page)

‘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. There’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.’

‘But you have enemies. How can you not have enemies when you work for Walsingham?’

He closed the chamber door. He did not want Jane to be implicated in the harbouring of a wanted felon.

‘Thank God you are safe, Kat.’ His prayer had been half answered. ‘I have been in a frenzy of worry.’

‘Do not be concerned on my behalf. When have I not been able to look after myself ?’

Never. But this was different. He could see the strain and fear in her eyes.

‘John, have you made any progress in your inquiries?’

‘I have found out that Will Cane was dying anyway. Joshua Peace discovered that he was riddled with cankers.’

Her face brightened. ‘Surely that must help.’

‘It gives him a possible motive for lying about you. But it does not clear your name.’

Shakespeare sat down on the edge of the bed at her side. She looked worn and haggard. How was it, then, that she still managed to look so beautiful, even in Osric Redd’s old jerkin? Just sitting next to her like this, the old stirrings returned. Absently, he began to brush one of the stray locks from her face, tucking it behind her ear, but then stopped. ‘Forgive me . . .’

‘You have nothing to forgive.’

‘Where are you hiding? Be straight with me.’

‘I cannot say. No, I
will not
say.’

‘Why did you leave Oswald Redd?’

‘I had to. He was seizing upon my misfortune to lock me away.’

‘What of his brother?’

‘Osric? What has he to do with this?’

‘When Redd told me you had disappeared without trace from the farm, I confess I looked at his brother with suspicion.’

‘Osric is harmless. I made his meals and we passed no more than two words a day. He talks to his sheep more than ever he would talk with me. Had I stayed, that would have been my life, for ever. Oswald had plans to make a farm wife of me.’

It was a familiar story. ‘Just as I had plans to make an intelligencer’s wife of you,’ said Shakespeare ruefully.

She had her hands to her head again. For a moment, he thought she was sobbing. Kat Whetstone weep? Was such a thing possible?

‘Kat,’ Shakespeare spoke gently. ‘Can you tell me who would benefit from the death of Nicholas Giltspur? Tell me everything you know about his family and associates. I have been to Giltspur House and I cannot but wonder whether the secret we are seeking abides there.’

She raised her tear-stained face. ‘What do you wish to know?’

‘Tell me about Arthur and his grandmother. And the steward, Sorbus. What about your maidservant, Abigail? And perhaps you need to tell me more about your late husband. You told me you loved him. But you also said that you would not have married him had he been poor.’

‘That is true. I would not have married him, but I would have loved him and shared his bed.’