Prince - John Shakespeare 03 - (33 page)

Chapter 44

F
RANCIS
P
HILIP
B
OTHWELL
Stuart, Prince of Scots, crumpled and fell. His head cracked against the trestle table as he tumbled, but he was already dead from the shot to the heart.

Smoke billowed all around his assailant. The guards, who were used to the sound of musket-fire and the sight of death from the long civil wars of France, immediately closed on Bruce. But he had his second wheel-lock primed and trained on them. ‘Stay back!’ he ordered. ‘All of you, stay back.’

Ana Cabral and Sister Madeleine ignored him and fell to their knees at the side of their prince. His face was still unblemished. His pink lips – fuller than his mother’s thin and disdainful mouth – were slightly parted. His eyes were open but unseeing. The old nun began to wail. Ana Cabral clutched at his poor, lifeless hand and caressed it as if by so doing she could spark the flame of life back into his body.

For a second or two, Shakespeare was shocked speechless. Then he was seized by an ungovernable fury. He lunged forward, but Bruce stepped back. ‘Don’t think I won’t kill you if needs be, Shakespeare. One death, two deaths, a hundred, I shall still sleep the same at night.’

Shakespeare breathed deeply. He looked at the Scotsman with diamond-hard contempt. ‘That was murder, Mr Bruce. Simple, calculated murder of an innocent boy. Is that what your king pays you for?’

‘What would you have done, Shakespeare? Lock him up in Tutbury, Chartley and Fotheringhay for twenty years like his mother? Then chop off his head when the plots surrounding him began to press? This is not just what my king wanted, this is what your Cecils wanted, too.’

Shakespeare was about to rage and argue, but the words he wished to say stuck in his gullet, for he knew that Rabbie Bruce spoke the unpalatable truth. Oh yes, the Cecils wanted this princeling dead. That had been their objective and desire all along. They would be happy at the events of this day.

He looked down once more at the corpse. Perhaps the young man was better off dead. He would never have understood the politics and warfare that would have swirled around him all his life. The hellburner on the Thames was none of his doing, yet it was done in his name. How many hundreds, thousands, would have died in the struggle to put him on the thrones of Scotland and England? For the Spanish and their Catholic supporters in England and Scotland, he would have been the perfect puppet king; utterly pliable, a man to wave to the crowds when commanded to do so, and leave the decision making to others.

Ana Cabral looked up at the man with the smoking gun. ‘I shall see you pay for this, Mr Bruce.’

He shook his head. ‘You will do nothing, señorita, except return to Spain. This is over. All done for.’

Sir Robert Cecil sat at his desk at his home in the Strand, just outside the city walls of London. The minutes passed in silence, except for the scratching of his quill as he deftly dipped the cut nib in ink and wrote at speed in his elegant, sloping hand. At his side stood John Shakespeare. Facing them were Jean de la Fin, Seigneur de Beauvoir-la-Nocle, King Henri IV’s ambassador to the court of Queen Elizabeth, and his son, Prégent de la Fin, Vidame de Chartres. The father stood stiffly, shoulders back, lips tight, bracing himself for this unpleasant encounter. The son was nonchalant, as if he would rather be anywhere else.

At last Cecil looked up from his writing. He addressed himself to the senior of the two Frenchmen. ‘I must now pass on to you the outcome of the deliberations of Her Majesty’s Privy Council. The councillors are, in a word, appalled. You have assisted a power hostile to England at a time when relations between your country and mine are, to say the least, exceeding delicate. Does your king know of what has passed on embassy property?’

‘No, Sir Robert, he does not. This was all our – my son’s – doing. I can do nothing but offer my sincere and humble apologies.’ As he spoke, in excellent English, he never once looked at the vidame, his son.

‘Do you think King Henri would be pleased to hear that his embassy has been implicated in a Spanish plot?’

‘He would have my head, Sir Robert.’

Cecil leaned back in his chair. The flicker of a smile passed his eyes and mouth, then vanished. ‘I have always liked you, Jean. I have thought that we saw eye to eye on many things.’

‘That is true, Sir Robert. I feel shame that my name –’ and now he
did
look sideways at his son – ‘should be connected to such a conspiracy.’

‘Good. Then we can proceed. I have here written the terms which you must accept, without demur.’ He turned the sheet of paper so that the Frenchmen could read it.

‘Firstly, the vidame will return to France. You, Jean, will stay as ambassador. Secondly, you will make it your business to discredit all stories of this Scots prince. As far as you are concerned, as far as we are concerned, the man never existed. It was all a tale put about by the Escorial to sow the seeds of unrest in England. To that end, there will be no trial of the Cabral woman. She will be deported forthwith. Her plot very nearly succeeded. I do not know whether your son had any knowledge of the plan to destroy the bridge, but it is certain that he has dealt dangerously and treacherously. And so there is a third condition: the vidame will return the woman known as Black Lucy to her home in Clerkenwell, unharmed.’

‘
Non!
’ At last the vidame erupted. ‘No. I will not have it. The woman is mine. My property!’

Cecil’s voice stayed icily calm. ‘No, she is not yours. If you listen further, you will understand what is to happen. Mr Shakespeare, you know a little about horses and women, please explain to the vidame what we are offering.’

Shakespeare smiled. He had been looking forward to this. ‘You have a horse, a black Barbary filly named Conquistadora. You and your family also have extraordinary debts because Henri pays you nothing but promises, and you must fund your lavish embassy from your own depleted coffers. We will pay you a thousand sovereigns for the horse on condition that the woman is returned to us.’

‘The horse is worth twice that! And the Queen herself has pledged that I may have Monique back. As I kissed her hand and received the Golden Spur from her, she gave me her word that I could ask anything.’

‘Would you like me to tell Her Majesty what the French embassy has been involved in?’

The vidame turned his head aside contemptuously. ‘Then why do you not just make me an offer for the whore and leave me the horse?’

‘Because, monsieur, we do not buy and sell human flesh. A thousand sovereigns will buy you a stable full of fine horses in France. And a whore every night for ten years should you wish it. Take it. You have no option.’

The vidame’s face was suffused with rage. He glared at his father. ‘Are you party to this, Papa?’

‘There is no other solution, Prégent. This is not a matter for negotiation. If we do not accept, the English will inform Henri of your foolish collusion with these Spaniards and we will lose our heads. It is as simple as that.’

Cecil offered the quill to the two Frenchmen. ‘So, messieurs, if you will just make your mark on the paper, I believe we will have a contract.’

After the Frenchmen had gone, Shakespeare stayed. ‘I confess, Sir Robert, that I am much troubled. The role of the Scotsman, Mr Bruce. He was nothing more than a hired assassin.’

‘And yet you understand why King James thought it necessary to employ him?’

‘Was he, then, employed by James?’

‘The English paid him nothing. He was out of our control.’

‘But you allowed him leeway to operate on our land as he saw fit.’

‘We winked at it, nothing more.’

‘And what of Baines – or Laveroke?’

‘He has disappeared. It was believed he was heading for Scotland with a plan to murder James. Nothing has been heard of him since. Perchance, he was set upon by bandits.’

Shakespeare looked askance at his master.

‘This is a war, John. Men die in wars.’

‘I understand the heat of battle, Sir Robert. But there are times—’

Cecil put up a hand. ‘Leave it, John. Mourn your wife, do not grieve for some unknown palsied prince, now buried in an unmarked grave. Do not grieve for a murderer like Baines who, if God be just, now lies feeding the crows in some woodland ditch.’

‘And what of Marlowe? I know what happened to him.’

‘Do you? Then you know more than I do, and more than I wish to know. Whatever you believe you know, I do not wish to hear it from your lips and you do not wish to tell me, for I believe that to do so would heap much trouble on you and yours and many others. Suffice it to say that whatever the reason Marlowe was in that room, he was not taken there to be killed. It was unpleasant, tragic even, but it was not a premeditated murder. We both know that. The inquest decided it. Let it rest.’

‘And Topcliffe?’

‘Do you have some evidence against him that would be listened to in court?’

Shakespeare shook his head slowly. Not an ounce of evidence. Nothing to prove his guilt in attempting to extract information from Marlowe by illicit torture. Nothing but a play called
The White Dog
, and who knew where that was? All he had was the partial confession of Nicholas Jones. ‘I have words spoken by his apprentice, admitting he was there in the room at the time when the Searcher of the Dead says the killing took place.’

‘And will this apprentice testify as much in court?’

‘No.’

‘Then all you have is hearsay.’ Cecil closed his mouth and looked Shakespeare square in the eye. There was nothing more to be said on the matter and both men knew it.

‘One day—’ Shakespeare began.

Cecil reached out his small, neat hand and stayed Shakespeare with a light touch on the forearm. ‘Let us talk of this horse, this Conquistadora. I had thought to give it to Her Majesty. I think such a gesture would lift her spirits and help us ease Don Antonio Perez’s progress to her presence-chamber. Do you not agree?’

Cecil had changed the subject. Shakespeare sighed. No more delving into murky waters, for to do so could only harm Will, Kyd and all the others from the Dolphin Inn. ‘Yes, Sir Robert, I agree. Her Royal Majesty would be most pleased with such a present.’ At last he managed a faint smile. ‘And I confess I am delighted to be depriving the vidame of his most prized possessions. Perhaps he will collect silver treasures and fine paintings, not slaves, to satisfy his quest for beauty.’

‘Indeed so. Her Majesty shall have the horse. I am not certain, however, that she would appreciate the animal’s name.’

‘It is a little bit …
Spanish.
’

‘Then let us change the filly’s name … to Gloriana. That will please her very well, I do believe.’

Chapter 45

T
HE RAIN CAME
down like mare’s piss, soaking Shakespeare through to the skin as he strode from Dowgate to Wood Street.

At the Counter gaol, the ancient, grey-bearded keeper did not look pleased to see him. Mr Shakespeare had brought nothing but trouble on his previous visits. ‘Good day, kind sir, good day,’ he said, but the tone of his voiced betrayed his true feelings.

Shakespeare stared at him with icy dispassion. ‘Who takes command of the gaol when you are not here, master keeper?’

The old man scratched his beard and crumbs and lice sprinkled out down his jerkin. He hesitated before answering, unsure what was for the best.

‘It is a simple enough question. I cannot believe you spend twenty-four hours of every day and seven days of every week here.’

‘Indeed not, Mr Shakespeare, sir. Why, the chief turnkey is my deputy.’

‘The one I demanded be shackled?’

‘Yes, sir. Or one of the other turnkeys when he is not available.’

‘Bring me to him.’

The keeper shifted uneasily. ‘I cannot, sir.’

‘He is in irons, is he not? I ordered it.’

‘No, sir, I had to unlock him. He was ill with the ague. I had the fetters removed so that he might receive care of his goodwife.’

‘So you disobeyed me? You do realise what this means for your position here?’

‘Indeed, sir, I do, and I am most fearful. It was with a heavy heart that I made the decision to free the turnkey. But what choice did I have? Had I not done so, I know it would have cost his life. He would have wasted and perished, though he had not been convicted of any crime. I would have consulted you, master, but I knew of no way to get word to you.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Gone, sir.’

‘Home?’

‘No, gone altogether, sir, to his maker. Hanged. By the Dutch church. He was among those arrested following the recent disturbances in the city, Mr Shakespeare, after the ship blew up on the river, sir.’

Shakespeare breathed in deeply. So the turnkey had been one of the rebel band of Baines and Curl. He must, surely, have been responsible for Morley’s death. Well, he had had the self-same fate meted out to him: hanged by the neck until dead.

‘Thank you, master keeper. That is all. Take better care when you employ a replacement for the man.’ Shakespeare turned and left, stepping through the great studded door out into the bustle of Wood Street and the pelting rain. He had not even bothered to ask the name of the hanged turnkey. What did it matter? A gnat of a man, he had thought him. Well, he had now proved himself of no significance. No one would remember him save, perhaps, his wife and children, and they would do well to forget all about him as soon as they could.

Lucy was delivered to Shakespeare’s door by two horsemen in tangerine tabards. She had been a guest at Essex House, waiting to be carried aboard a French packet-boat to Calais. She was unharmed.

‘They told me I was there with the Queen’s express permission,’ she said as they sipped wine in his refectory. ‘I confess my time in the earl’s house was well spent, though. I do believe I have acquired new clients of great wealth. Yet, I must thank you, Mr Shakespeare, for I have some inkling of all you have done to rescue me.’

Shakespeare thought she looked magnificent, yet vulnerable and, perhaps, a little afraid. Her hair was soaked from the rain and her black skin glistened. The vidame had thought her a jewel to be added to his collection, but she was a human being, a frail woman leading a life of debauchery that all too often ended in disease, violence, the ravages of liquor and early death. Perhaps this woman could rise above it all, but she would not be the first to have tried and failed.

‘I think it is Beth Evans who most deserves your gratitude,’ he said.

‘I know that very well. She is a fine woman. My right arm. You must come and see her all you wish. No fees will be levied …’

Shakespeare laughed out loud and shook his head. ‘No, Lucy, I think not. Her charms belong to a time long gone. Long, long ago. No, I will not be coming to your trugginghouse.’

The rain stopped and the sun came out again and burned the city dry. The exodus of the wealthy and powerful gathered pace. All feared that a hot summer would bring more disease.

‘I confess that I, too, am going to leave, Mr Shakespeare,’ Jan Sluyterman said. ‘It is too dangerous to keep young children here. They are always the first to die when King Pest arrives.’

Shakespeare had no argument with the Dutchman’s decision. He, too, was planning a departure. He would take Andrew, Grace and Mary to Stratford for the summer. Boltfoot, Jane and their baby, too. Cecil had suggested it. ‘You must have time with them. And you must find yourself a woman to help you. No man can raise three children alone.’

‘I have my servant Jane to help,’ Shakespeare had said shortly. He wanted no woman to replace Catherine. But, yes, he did wish time with the children. They were growing fast and they did not know Stratford, where he had been born and brought up. It would be good to take them there, while his parents yet lived.

Now, here, in the Sluytermans’ garden, he nodded in agreement with his host. ‘Yes, I will do the same.’

The garden was cool, with good shade from an array of well-tended trees: birch and young oak, hornbeam and ash. Shakespeare and Boltfoot were sipping Dutch brandy with Sluyterman. Boltfoot looked ill at ease. His back was still scorched. The mere touch of the cloth of his shirt could make him wince. Further down the garden, the young Sluytermans were playing with Shakespeare’s three children. It was Sunday and morning prayers were done.

Shakespeare’s eyes followed the servant girl, Susanna, as she carried a jug of cordial to the children.

‘She is well, Mr Shakespeare,’ Sluyterman said. ‘We are pleased to have her once again in our home. There has been too much suffering. I owe you a great deal for all your help. More than I can ever repay, I fear.’

‘I believe you had some knowledge of Curl?’

‘That Curl, yes, I recall him well. I had hoped never to hear his name or see him again when we parted company two years since. Was ever a man so ill-named? Holy Trinity …
ha
!’

‘You believe he deliberately put the servant Kettle into your home?’

‘I do, Mr Shakespeare, I do, indeed. He wished to find an excuse for calling in Mr Topcliffe and the pursuivants. It was all done in vengeance for some perceived ill done him. Yet
he
, Curl, was the faithless servant.’

‘What were your dealings with him?’

‘He was a wool factor, but he had little success. He asked to work for me as an agent, saying he could supply good grease wool in great quantities. I was uncertain at first, but then he brought me samples and I agreed to his terms, for wool is difficult to come by for export. I knew I could sell it for good profit in the Low Countries, where there is a great demand. Their home supply has been much disrupted by the wars. This worked well for both of us for two months, no more. Then I realised he was cheating me. He took me for a gull. I did not know it at first, but the wool he shipped was mostly of poorer quality than he had first shown me, and I received complaints from my buyers. I found, too, that he had been charging me for greater quantities than he supplied, so I severed my links with Mr Curl. He was angry with me, but what could I do?’

Shakespeare said nothing. It was a lamentable story which, through a cruel twist of fate, had caused Catherine to be in the Dutch market with Susanna at the very moment that a cask of gunpowder exploded.

Jan Sluyterman shook his head mournfully and repeated, ‘What could I do?’

Suddenly, Shakespeare realised that Boltfoot was looking at him curiously, as though he had something to say. ‘Boltfoot?’

Boltfoot looked away, then took a hefty swig of the brandy. ‘Eases the pain, master.’

‘I thought for a moment you wished to say something.’

‘Just that.’

‘What was that, Boltfoot, that look you gave me?’ Shakespeare asked quietly as they walked the short distance home a little later.

‘Master?’

‘I know you well enough, Boltfoot. That look wasn’t pain. There was something else – something you wished to say.’

‘I do not wish to speak out of order.’

‘God’s blood, Boltfoot, speak your mind.’

Boltfoot shifted uneasily, looking down at his club foot. ‘I do not know at all whether I should be saying this, for it do sound bad, and I know Mr Sluyterman to be a good man, or at least I believe I do. But I did hear another version of that story of him and Holy Trinity Curl.’

Shakespeare stopped. He stood in the middle of the dusty road and tried in vain to look Boltfoot in the eye. ‘And from whom did you hear this story?’

‘From Curl himself, after they had discovered me. I couldn’t stop him, no man could. The tale came out of his mouth in every last detail. He foamed at the mouth with venom as he told me what he thought of Mr Sluyterman and said what he had supposedly done to him.’

‘Tell me.’

At last, Boltfoot looked up and met his master’s gaze. ‘The way Curl told it, he was a successful wool merchant when along comes Sluyterman and suggests they join forces. Curl is to supply the English wool, just as Sluyterman said just now, and Mr Sluyterman will sell it on. But that’s where the similarity in the tale ends. For Curl said he was not Sluyterman’s servant at that time, but an equal partner, and he says that bit by bit he was cheated out of his share of the concern and was left impoverished. In the end, he had to go a-begging for work to Mr Sluyterman …’

‘And?’

‘He was given a job in the counting house, as a ledger clerk, dealing with bills of lading at twelve pence a day. That was scarce enough for him and his wife and two young children, but at least they ate. But that was not the end of it. He said Mr Sluyterman dismissed him in the winter of ’90, claiming he had made misrepresentations in the ledger, though as Curl tells it he had always been honest. After that, Curl could find no work and was brought to such a turn of poverty that he and his family lost the roof over their heads. The children, cold and hungry, took sick and died. His wife cut her own throat. Curl heard later that his job of work in the counting house had been given to a nephew of Sluyterman newly arrived from the Low Countries, which he believed to be the real reason he was dismissed. Now I have no way of knowing whether any of that is true, Mr Shakespeare, but I tell you this: I did believe it at the time of being told.’

Shakespeare did not know what to say. Had he been so wrong about Sluyterman? It was an uncomfortable, troubling thought, and one that was difficult to accept. Yet it would undoubtedly explain why Curl was so fervent in his loathing of the Dutch strangers. He stood there in the street. Above him, swallows swooped and soared. The fragrance of summer flowers drowned the foul city hum, yet his mouth had a bitter taste of rising bile. He wanted to return to Sluyterman’s house and put it to him directly.

It was Boltfoot who stayed him. ‘There is nothing to be gained, master. That is why I said nothing.’

Was that it? Was no one honest in this city of thieves and whores? He nodded briskly to Boltfoot. ‘You are right.’ He turned back and strode the last few paces to his own open door. Ahead of him the children were laughing and skipping, full of the delights of their afternoon at play. He shut the door behind him and enclosed himself in his own world. At least there was beauty and decency here.