Holy Spy

Chapter 14

No one could have told what was inside the building. From the outside it looked exactly what it once must have been – a tithe barn. He and the watchman, Potken, had walked along farm tracks into the countryside north of Whitechapel. For the last half-hour Boltfoot had walked blindfold.

He had been reluctant to do so, for no man likes to be so vulnerable and at the mercy of a stranger. But he had finally conceded when Potken told him that without it they could proceed no further.

The going was slow, each step tentative and reliant on Potken’s assurance that the ground was flat and nothing was in their way. Boltfoot tried to count the steps and remember the turns and the sensation of the sun on his head and brow; anything to discern their direction.

Now Potken removed the scarf from his eyes and Boltfoot blinked up at the enormous brick and oak construction that confronted him. He looked around. There was no sign of the highway, nor any sound of life save for birdsong and the lowing of cattle. With woodlands on three sides, there was no recognisable landmark for him to gauge his position. This place was well hidden despite its immense size.

Livestock grazed in the fields. In the air, crows and gulls savoured the warm summer breeze. Then, from inside the barn, they heard the deep ringing of men laughing. Potken waited, seemingly afraid to go in. He whispered in Boltfoot’s ear.

‘Ask no questions.’

Almost immediately two men in working clothes – guards who looked like farmhands – emerged from the great double doorway. Without a word, they nodded their acknowledgement to Potken and allowed the two newcomers to go in. Boltfoot followed in the wake of the watchman. He expected to see hay and sacks and farm equipment. But his assumption was immediately proved false. This building might once have been a barn, but its purpose had been changed. It was now a great hall with tables that would seat a hundred people if so required. There were no more than a dozen here now, which only served to emphasise its great size.

As he stepped onto the stone floor, complete with rush matting like a comfortable house, he tried to take in what he could see by the light from the door and the dozen or so candles that burned on the tables. His eyes quickly adjusted to the echoing gloom. The only people apart from themselves and the two guards were a group of men and women, who did not look up from whatever it was they were doing at the head of the main table. He heard a man curse and throw down a playing card. Another man laughed. Then one of the women pointed at Boltfoot and he was suddenly aware that she was Em, the bawd from the Burning Prow, the woman who had sent Potken after him. The eyes of the other players followed her finger and stared at Boltfoot.

‘Walk forward, Mr Cooper, walk forward,’ the watchman said, his voice low and his manner even more brittle than before as he urged Boltfoot on with a push in the small of the back. ‘Mr Ball wishes to see you. Be sure to answer his questions directly and fully for he will most certainly know if

you dissemble.’

‘Ball? You mean-’

‘Yes, but do not call him by that name.’ His voice even quieter now, yet somehow too loud in this vast space. ‘Mr Ball will suffice. And do not meet his eye, Mr Cooper. Do not challenge him in any way, nor seek to interrogate him.’

Boltfoot grunted but said nothing. His shoulders were taut. He wondered about his cutlass, surprised that it had not been removed by the men at the door. But it was surely a hopeless implement here, among such lawless men as these were reputed to be.

One of the group stood up and beckoned Boltfoot and the watchman to approach.

‘That’s Mr Ball,’ the watchman whispered, barely moving his mouth. ‘He will kill you without flinching if you displease him.’

Boltfoot had no intention of displeasing Cutting Ball. It was clear to him that there was no way out of here alive if he did not comply absolutely with the wishes of these people. He approached the table.

‘What is this, Potken?’

‘This is Mr Cooper. You said you would like to talk with him.’

‘The man asking about Will Cane? Is this the man, Em?’ He turned to the woman.

‘That’s the worm. Lame in foot and head.’

Boltfoot tried not to meet Cutting Ball’s eye. He was man of the world enough to know that such men often took eye contact amiss, as though it showed a lack of respect. Boltfoot had no fear of the man, but nor did it make sense to sacrifice his life without purpose; Mr Shakespeare would not thank him for that.

Ball stood with his broad shoulders rigid and straight. His gaze was both merciless and amused. In his hands he played with a bollock-dagger, turning it this way and that, running the blade along his palm. He thrust out his chin, and his long, forked beard pointed at Boltfoot like the tongue of a viper.

There was something about the man that almost made Boltfoot think he knew him. No, he had never seen him before, he was sure of that; but he had seen a man very like him. Someone with an air of command, born of natural authority and intimidation. The sort of man that others respected and feared, automatically, without quite knowing why.

And then Boltfoot realised where he had seen such a man before: Cutting Ball had the demeanour of a sea captain. But not just any sea captain – Drake himself. He could have been Drake upon the quarterdeck, ordering men about on matters of life or death with no discernible alteration of facial expression or tone of voice. Always loud, always full of bluster, but no true emotion. Extra brandy for the men at Christmas, a whipping for a cabin boy, three hurrahs when they passed into the wide Pacific ocean, the lopping of a dissenter’s head. All as one and always puffed up like a southern squall. Harsh orders or favours for the crew; never flinching from dispensing whatever measures he considered necessary to maintain order and obedience.

‘Why are you lame, Mr Cooper?’

‘I have a club foot, Mr Ball. With me since birth, I am told.’

Ball’s eye descended to Boltfoot’s left foot. ‘Yes, I see that now. Sit down, Mr Cooper, take your weight off it. Have you had a long walk here?’

Francis Drake, Cutting Ball. In men’s eyes, one was a hero and the other was a villain. To Boltfoot, they were cut from the same cloth; two men who thought themselves beyond the ordinary boundaries of civilised life and society and did what they damned well pleased, irrespective of the destruction they wrought.

Boltfoot sat on the bench, as bidden. He noted the others around the table; there were nine of them, including the woman from the Burning Prow, most of them villainous and staring at him. One of them, eyeing him with amusement, had the soft skin of a gentleman though he wore the rough attire of a working man. Boltfoot ignored them and returned his gaze to Cutting Ball. ‘Mr Potken asked me to come,’ he said. ‘I was seeking some assistance.’

‘You were looking for someone to tell you about my friend Will Cane, I believe.’

‘Yes, Mr Ball.’

‘Why? What do you want to know? He is dead and gone to dust, as we all must go. What could you hope to discover of a man who is naught but blanching bones and rotting flesh?’

‘My master John Shakespeare wishes to know more about him. Whether he had family or friends.’

Ball was a man of at least fifty, with the powerful physique of a man half that age. He said nothing for a few moments as though expecting Boltfoot to continue. He wore a sleeveless leather jerkin and no shirt so that the bulging and tanned muscles of his arms were clearly visible. Boltfoot could not help noting the intricate scar running down one arm, a mass of short and long cuts formed to make a curling serpent. Had he had it carved into his flesh deliberately – or had it been inflicted on him by an enemy? Boltfoot suspected the first option.

‘Carry on, Mr Cooper. Tell me your story. Leave nothing out.’

Boltfoot nodded. ‘Very well. Mr Shakespeare is a friend of Mr Giltspur’s widow. This murder has come as a great horror and surprise to him. He had not thought that Kat – Mistress Giltspur – was the sort of person to do such a thing. And so I believe he hoped that there might be some clue to be had from those who knew Mr Cane.’

‘And Mistress Giltspur. Where is she?’

‘I am told she has fled and is in hiding. That is the story as I know it. I am merely doing my master’s bidding.’

‘Your name is Cooper. Are you then a cooper by trade?’

‘I was, yes. A ship’s cooper with Drake. But no more. I have had enough of the sea for one lifetime.’

Ball turned to the woman from the Burning Prow. ‘What say you, Em?’

‘He is probably honest enough. Hasn’t the wit to lie. But I would like to know more. When he says his master is a friend of Mistress Giltspur, that could mean many things.’

‘Well, Mr Cooper?’

‘They lived together as man and wife, but unwed.’ He knew there was no point in trying to lie or evade the question; enough people knew the truth.

Cutting Ball laughed. ‘Then your Mr Shakespeare is a fortunate man, for she is a fine-favoured wench.’

‘Do you then know her, Mr Ball?’

Ball’s eyes clouded like the sky before a storm. ‘Mr Cooper, do you think to ask me questions? Would you like to know what happened to the last person who asked me a question?’

Boltfoot shook his head. ‘Forgive me. I meant nothing by it.’

‘Good.’ He moved forward and touched the point of his bollock-dagger into Boltfoot’s hose where his prick and balls nestled.

Another man might have recoiled but Boltfoot did not pull back.

‘Drake, you say? He is a dog. The one sea captain who ever tried to defy me. I think I will sell you, Mr Cooper. I am sure you will fetch a few shillings, perhaps a mark or two, and then I will make up some of what I am owed.’

Boltfoot could have said that he shared Cutting Ball’s low opinion of Sir Francis Drake but wiser counsel told him the subject was best avoided, and so he said nothing.

‘You are silent now, Mr Cooper. I repeat my question: do you know where the Giltspur wench is hiding?’ He still did not withdraw the tip of his blade from his guest’s manhood. Boltfoot had no doubt that if he was given the slightest provocation, he would strike it home . . . and add a sharp twist at the end.

‘No, sir.’

‘Think again.’

Boltfoot shook his head decisively. ‘No, sir, I am certain I do not know. It is possible my master has seen her, but if he did, I was not with him and I have no idea of her whereabouts. He does not tell me such things.’ Which was his first lie, for he knew that Mr Shakespeare had gone to Shoreditch.

‘Why do I not believe you?’

‘I know not, Mr Ball. I can but speak the truth. My master would never tell me more than he considered necessary. I am not privy to his secrets.’

‘What does he hope to know about Will Cane?’ It was one of the other players that spoke, the one with the rough clothes but the appearance of a gentleman.

‘I think he hopes that those who knew him would have some notion as to the truth behind the story he told in court. Perhaps there might have been some unknown reason for the accusation laid against Mistress Giltspur. Some falling-out . . .’

‘I think we should fetch your Mr Shakespeare,’ Ball said. ‘Let him answer my questions directly.’

‘He has powerful friends, Mr Ball, for he is a Queen’s man and in the close employ of Mr Secretary.’

‘That almost sounds like a threat. Have you perhaps heard what I like to do with my fine blade? With one cut, I could unman you and then, as a mercy, I might stake you out on the riverbank and watch the tide come in over your miserable head. And you would find your last breath a blessed release.’

‘It was not meant as a threat, Mr Ball. I thought you wished to know who I was and why I was asking questions; Mr Shakespeare is the reason and so I believed you would want to know more about him.’

Ball removed the point of his dagger from the vicinity of Boltfoot’s nether parts and placed it back in his belt. He took an ivory dice from his pocket and handed it to Boltfoot. ‘Throw a six and you may go unmolested; five and you’ll have a beating; four, you lose your balls; three, your eyes; two, a quick death; one, a slow death. Throw it, Mr Cooper.’

Boltfoot held the dice and turned it in his hand. Was it loaded?

‘An even thousand he throws three or less.’ It was the gentleman player who spoke.

Boltfoot turned to him and saw the light of excitement in his eyes. Was this man really staking a thousand pounds on his life or death?

Ball nodded. ‘I accept the bet. Now throw, Mr Cooper. Throw – or I will presume a one.’

He knew he had no option. This man meant every word he said. Boltfoot shook the ivory cube in both hands. He had never been a gambling man, had never seen the point in it. But this was no gamble; this was a straight choice between death or the chance of life. He threw the dice and it rattled across the table in front of him, at last coming to a stop. Two dots showed. A two. That meant a quick death, didn’t it?

‘Aha, I win!’ The gentleman said with delight.

‘And Mr Cooper loses,’ Ball said.

The woman from the Burning Prow, the one called Em, touched Cutting Ball’s bare arm. She wore a low chemise and her large, hanging breasts were scarcely concealed. What was she? Did she run his whores? ‘Don’t do it. Don’t take a stand against Walsingham.’

Ball pushed her hand away with explosive ferocity. ‘I’ll take a stand against whom I like, including you. Get out, Em. Go.’

She seemed about to say something to him, but then merely nodded her fair head and walked away towards the double doors. It seemed to Boltfoot that she was the only person in this great hall of a barn who did not fear Cutting Ball.

Ball did not watch her. Instead he picked up the dice, turned it and slammed it down so that a five showed. He then grabbed Boltfoot by the front of his jerkin and dragged him to his feet.

‘You, get out now. I will not kill you this day for you are a cripple. But if ever I hear that you have come east of the city wall again, I will shove your bollocks down your throat and your eyeballs up your arse. And then the pain will start.’ He threw Boltfoot across the flagged floor, then tossed a coin to the watchman. ‘Get the lads and give him a good beating, Potken, then deliver him to his master.’