Revenger (25 page)

D
AVY KERK WAS NOT AT THE BREWERY IN GULLY
hole. “He’s not been in since you came here to see him, Mr. Cooper,” Ralph Hogsden said. “And he has left me in much difficulty, I can tell you. I have orders for casks which I cannot fulfill.”

“Do you know where he might be?”

“Probably gone down with the plague. It’s not like him to be away. He’s always been reliable.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Since Christmas of the year ’90. He was in a bad way. He told me he had returned to Antwerp having had enough of the seafaring life, but then fell foul of the Inquisition. He had to escape in a hurry. I gave him a trial and saw he was a fine craftsman. Made barrels as tight as a nun’s whimsy.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Aye, not far from the river at Bank End. Tall, thin house, middle of a new frame with smart lozenge timbering. Must have cost him a small chest of treasure. I do reckon he did some fair privateering in his time afloat. If you see him, tell him to let me know what’s going on, because I cannot keep his job open.”

B
OLTFOOT WAS FEELING
the heat of the day as he limped haltingly along westward through the crowded Southwark streets. He felt the weight of his caliver strung across his back and his old cutlass slapping at his thigh. His clubfoot dragged more heavily than ever.

The house was easy to spot. It was as Hogsden had described it. The exposed timbering was of finest oak. Boltfoot stepped up to the low front door and hammered with the haft of his dagger. He heard a scuffling from inside, but no one came. He knocked again. After a minute, it was opened by a fair young woman. She looked flustered and wiped her hands on her apron as if she had been preparing food.

“Yes?”

“I am looking for Davy Kerk. Is this his house?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Boltfoot Cooper. I have spoken with him already at Hogsden Trent’s.”

“Well, he’s not here.”

“May I come in and wait for him?”

“He doesn’t live here anymore. He’s gone.”

Boltfoot stepped forward before she could close the door and pushed his way inside. The room was modest but well cared for. Clean rushes on the floor, a table and stools in the center of the room. On the table was a fresh-killed cock, its fine tail feathers gleaming bright and ready for plucking. It was surrounded by an array of fresh fruits and vegetables. “Would you have some beer, mistress, for I am feeling the heat sore bad today?”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Is it commonplace for you to push your way into folks’ houses, Mr. Cooper?”

“No, but I did believe you were about to shut me out. Please, a beaker of beer and I’ll be on my way.”

The young woman found a beaker and filled it from the faucet of a keg in the corner of the room. She handed it to Boltfoot. “Here, drink it and be gone.”

He sipped the beer. It was good and refreshing. He was no expert in such things, but thought the woman well-spoken, her voice that of one from a good family, though he noted that her fingers were black like a scullery woman’s.

“Is this Hogsden Trent beer?”

“No, I brew it. Can’t afford to be buying beer off the brewer.”

“It’s good, mistress, very good.”

“Tell me what you want, then go. I’ll pass on a message to him next time I see him, which won’t be for quite a few days or weeks, I reckon.”

She was a good-looking, healthy young woman, well attired in a clean and pressed flaxen smock that went with the color of her hair. “Are you Mistress Kerk, Davy’s wife?”

“Me? Married to him? He’s my father, you dunderhead. Why would I be wed to an old fool like that?”

“But he lives here with you?”

He thought she looked confused, unsure how to answer the question. “Well, he does when he’s here.”

“Are you Dutch, too? You don’t sound Dutch.”

“I was brought up by an aunt here in England while my father was at sea. My mother is long dead.”

He glanced up at a crucifix on the wall. “And you are of the same faith, you and your father?”

She bridled. “What are you trying to say?”

“It was a straight question.”

“Would it make a difference if we did not share our religion? Must one family be of one mind?”

Boltfoot thought of his master, Shakespeare, a confirmed Protestant, married to a devout Catholic. Much trouble it had brought them. He shrugged his shoulders. “No. No difference. Think nothing of it. But where is he? He has a steady job at the brewery. He should be about.”

“He has other business. Elsewhere. I look after things for him.”

“What business? Ralph Hogsden reckons he should be at work for him.”

“What’s it to you?”

“I think you know.”

“Well, you’re mistaken. I don’t know what this is all about, and neither am I interested. So you can finish your beer and leave. Now, before I summon the watch.”

“Did he tell you about me, mistress?”

“Aye, he did. Said you were a snooping cripple. He didn’t like you, and nor do I. So go. You’re not welcome here.”

“Has he spoken to you about the Roanoke colony and the voyage there?”

“Go, Mr. Cooper.”

“And one Eleanor Dare? Have you heard that name?”

She sighed and her shoulders slumped. “Of course I’ve heard of Roanoke. Everybody in England has heard it. It has been bruited about in all the penny broadsheets and it was all the gossip in the taverns and victuallers’ a year or two back. You would have had to be in Peru not to have heard of all that nonsense. But just because my father was one of them as took them there doesn’t mean he knows anything. And nor do I. Now, I’ve got a fowl to pluck and other work to do, so I’d be very pleased if you would leave. I’ve given you beer. Other than that, I cannot help you.”

Boltfoot finished the beer and made for the door. He noticed a picture on the wall, facing the crucifix, a skilled ink drawing of a pair of guinea fowl beside a copper pot. Though austerely framed in plain wood, he could see it was an expert work. He looked again at the woman’s blackened hands. “That is a fine picture, mistress. Is it by you? Do you draw in ink?”

She did not respond, merely glared at Boltfoot.

“I will be back, mistress. Tell your father I must speak with him and that it will be to his benefit.”

Boltfoot stood outside a long while, watching the house from
the shadows, expecting to see Davy Kerk appear at any moment. Even in the shade, he felt weak. At last he felt himself becoming faint; he had to get home to see Jane. He struggled through the crowds and stalls of Southwark back toward the bridge. The sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes and he felt his shirt and breeches stick to his body with the heat and the effort of walking.

At Long Southwark he stopped. He should have searched the house, with or without her permission. He should have demanded to know where Davy Kerk had gone on his so-called business. He should have stayed there until Kerk returned, for she obviously was not preparing a chicken-fowl to eat alone.

Cursing his dragging foot and the infernal heat, he turned back westward once more. The last thing he heard was the voice of a mother. “Here, Bobby, give a farthing to that poor lame soldier.” Then a boy of about eight pressed a farthing into his hand. He stared down at it, bewildered, his brow dripping sweat into his palm. He looked up and, across the road, he saw a woman’s blue-gray eyes peering out at him from inside a cowl. And then, nothing.

T
HE DECISION WAS MADE
over supper. Catherine, Jane, the children, and Jack Butler—should he return by dawn—would go to Catherine’s hometown, not far from York in the north of Yorkshire, with the squadron offered by Cecil.

Catherine’s mood lifted immediately and she began bustling around the house, fetching the essentials for the journey and packing them in boxes and bags.

The desperate question was, where was Jack Butler? Shakespeare was now very concerned not just for his servant’s safety, but because he wanted the family to travel with at least one trusted man in attendance. He ruffled young Andrew Woode’s
hair. “Well, lad, if Mr. Butler does not appear, you will be the man of the family.”

“Yes, sir.”

The thought of Catherine leaving for a journey of more than two hundred miles with Jane, little Mary, and their wards Andrew, now eleven, and nine-year-old Grace, somehow made their recent disagreements over religion and Father Southwell seem insignificant.

“I shall miss you, Catherine,” Shakespeare said.

“Join us, then, John.”

He smiled without conviction. “Yes. As soon as I can.”

“I saw Father Southwell in the Gatehouse,” Catherine said quietly. “Topcliffe allowed me in. He wished to gloat.” She looked closely at her husband for his reaction.

A few days earlier, Shakespeare would have exploded in a fury at such news. Now it seemed pointless. She was going away, beyond the reach of Topcliffe and the plague and all other sources of harm.

“I had thought you would go there. How does Southwell fare?”

“Not well. He had been left hanging against the wall, his legs strapped back. He was close to death.”

“It was the course he chose, Catherine. I believe he has longed for martyrdom.”

She was about to say something sharp by way of reply, but held her tongue. “John, let us talk of that another time. I have much to do before the soldiers arrive for us. One thing, though, I must tell you. I also met Anne Bellamy, who is changed beyond recognition. I know it is caused by the horror of what she and her family have come to, but I confess I found her hard to like. She said something curious to me, though. A warning or a threat, I know not which: she said we will all be drowning in chrism. The Shakespeares, she said, as if it included all of us. I know not why,
but it even occurred to me that she meant your brother, too. How would she know of Will?”

Shakespeare saw the connection at once. “She must have been with Father Southwell at Southampton House. William would have been there oftentimes; he has the patronage of the Earl of Southampton. What her warning could mean, though, I cannot say. Why should we drown in holy oil?”

“She was very confused, full of hatred for God and the world—and me.”

Shakespeare was silent a moment. It sounded like yet another filthy attempt at intimidation by Richard Topcliffe. Either that or the meaningless ranting of a poor Bess o’Bedlam; anyone taken into custody by Topcliffe might be turned mad by his brutality. “Pay it no heed, Catherine. Here, take another glass of wine with me and be merry at the thought of seeing your mother and father.”

Later, they spoke in quiet tones and sat with wine in the candlelight. Both had much to say to each other that they could not say, and though they slept in the same bed for the first time in days, they did not make love. The distance between them was still unbridged, but perhaps it was not quite a chasm. Nonetheless, it was a bad way to part.

In the early hours of the morning, Shakespeare rose from the bed, unable to sleep. He looked at Catherine lying there and touched her face. She was so still and quiet, he wondered whether she, too, was awake. But she did not respond to his touch. Treading barefoot, he walked in silence to the solar and lit a candle. He looked again through the papers he had brought from the turret room.

He studied the Roanoke documents once more. One of them was a sheet he had dismissed earlier as being of no consequence. It was dated 1589, the year before it was discovered that the colonists were missing. At the top were the words “SWR’s new Virginia Corporation,” and below was a list of the names of the
investors. Shakespeare ran a finger down the names. They were all great merchants of the City, with plenty of spare gold to put into such a risky venture. His finger stopped at one of the names and he went cold. Jacob Winterberry—the Puritan bridegroom of the murdered girl Amy Le Neve.

So Jacob Winterberry was an investor in Sir Walter Ralegh’s Roanoke colony. At this befuddling hour of the morning, Shakespeare could make no sense of it. Was it mere coincidence? Everything he had learned from Walsingham had taught him that such things were never coincidence. He felt suddenly tired. Perhaps he would see Winterberry on the morrow. He would find out then. He went back to the bedroom and slipped once more into the marital bed, beside the still, warm body of his wife.