Holy Spy

Chapter 44

Shakespeare and Boltfoot reined in at the beginning of a rough path through the woods. In the distance they could see the faint glow of lantern lights. Above them, the sparkle of stars in a cool, clear sky.

‘Is this the place?’

‘I believe so, master, though I could not swear to it.’

‘It accords with Mr Sorbus’s directions, but he only came here the once.’

‘We have nothing to lose by finding out.’

Except our lives. ‘I can go alone, Boltfoot. You do not need to come with me. He will bear a grudge against you for jumping ship.’

Boltfoot grunted but said nothing. Nor did he make any move to abandon his master.

‘Very well. Kick on.’

They rode a hundred yards along the path, but before they came into the clearing four men appeared from the trees, each bearing a petronel.

‘Halt,’ one said.

Shakespeare and Boltfoot stopped, then held their hands aloft to show themselves to be no threat. ‘We mean no harm,’ Shakespeare said. ‘I come to talk with Mr Ball, for I have a matter of great import to tell him.’

‘I know that one.’ Another of the men thrust his bearded chin towards Boltfoot. ‘He’s been here before. We gave him a beating.’

‘As I said, we come as friends.’

The man laughed. ‘Friends? You don’t look like no friends of Mr Ball!’

‘Take us to him. Let him decide.’

‘As you will, but it’s your throats he’ll cut. Dismount and follow me.’

‘Our horses . . .’

‘We’ll look after the horses. Fine-looking animals. Might just keep them for ourselves when you’re bathing in blood.’

The area around the barn was lit by a hundred lanterns and torches. Wild music drifted out from the great doorway into the night air. Inside, they could see that the cavernous space was filled with light and people. There was laughter and movement, raucous cries of delight and violent, intemperate dancing.

The stench of sweat, beer and tobacco smoke hung in the air like the brimstone fumes of some debauched netherworld.

Shakespeare, held between half a dozen heavily armed guards, looked at Boltfoot in astonishment. His assistant had described this place as it had been in daytime; he had not expected to find it like this. It had the glitter and life of a great hall of the nobility, but there the comparison ended. There was no elegance, no grandeur. The women had the abandon of whores, their flesh exposed to the elements without shame. Many of the men were stripped to the waist, their muscles and scars rippling to the rhythm of the minstrels. No soulful ballads here; this music came from the earth and had the tenor of battle and sex. Who were all these people?

The lead man appeared at the barn doorway, his petronel pointing down loosely. ‘Well, masters, fortune may yet be with you. He is in a fine humour this night and will talk with you.’

‘Are you afraid, John Shakespeare?’

They were sitting at a table in a room adjoining the great hall, away from the riotous carousing. Shakespeare had been given to understand that a wedding was being celebrated. It was a little quieter here, but the menace was palpable. This was Cutting Ball’s private apartment. More than that, it was the place where he dispensed terror. Shakespeare could sense it in the air; unspeakable things had happened here.

Two men stood behind Cutting Ball. Their bare arms were crossed, bulging snake-scarred muscles that clearly served as their escutcheon or livery, depicting membership of their master’s outlaw band.

And yet the strength of their arms and bulging chests seemed as nothing compared to the ox-like power and wolfish barbarity that emanated from the figure of Cutting Ball. He lounged back on a plain-backed chair as though he owned the world and all in it, as though a command to kill would arouse no more emotion in those eyes than an order for another cup of ale. He had clearly been whirling and throwing himself about like the rest of his crew, for his face was dripping in perspiration. He ran a hand through the greying edges of his long hair and, as he did so, the shining snake carved into his sweat-slick arm seemed to writhe like a living python.

‘I have heard your reputation, Mr Ball. I also know that you have no desire to enrage Mr Secretary, to which end I have left letters to be delivered to him informing him that I am coming here. These will be delivered should I disappear or should any harm befall me. If I judge correctly, you would not wish to provoke Sir Francis Walsingham.’

‘You presume much, Shakespeare. Well, I will hear what you have to say.’

‘I want access to Giltspur House.’

‘Do you? And what has that to do with me?’

‘The chief of guards is your man.’ For all he knew, every one of the guards belonged to Cutting Ball. Sorbus had not been certain on this. Shakespeare could not help wondering whether the strongroom holding the Giltspur fortune also held much of Cutting Ball’s own ill-gotten gains. But that was not something to refer to here and now.

‘Where did you hear this?’

‘From the lips of Abraham Sorbus, who now awaits the hangman.’

‘Ah yes, Sorbus. I recall the day he came here with a message from his master. Never have I seen such fear in a man’s eyes. Well, he is ripe for the noose for he is a sodomite and the woman is a whore. They will be no loss to the world.’

‘We are none of us guilt-free,’ Shakespeare said, looking Ball directly in the eye. ‘But they are innocent of the crime for which they will hang. I must get into the house to discover proof, for I know the name of the true killer: Arthur Giltspur. If I am correct, then he has stolen not just from his own family’s coffers but yours, too.’

Ball was silent for a few moments, then he flicked his fingers as a signal to the men behind him. ‘Go,’ he said. The men bowed to their master and hurried from the room. When the door had been closed, he jutted his forked beard at Shakespeare. ‘Continue.’

‘He has been skimming vast sums from the money you pay to the Treasury and then tampering with the entries in the black book. Nick Giltspur discovered what was happening and, for his pains, was silenced by his own nephew.’

‘What is your evidence?’

‘Arthur Giltspur had the motive – he had squandered his great fortune gambling. He had the means – for he must have become acquainted with Will Cane through Cane’s association with Abigail Colton, a lady’s maid in Giltspur House. And then, when he feared I was beginning to get too close to the truth, he tried to shoot me dead.’

‘And you are certain of this?’

‘I am staking my life on it by being here.’

Ball took his bollock-dagger from his belt and spun it in his fingers. The blade glittered in the candleglow. He twisted it and turned it, his eyes on it as though he would find answers there. ‘Arthur Giltspur, you say. He is a libertine, I grant you.’

‘You know him then.’

‘I know that he has lost a great deal at the tables. This is true enough. But I had never thought he had the balls to kill. And even if he did the deed, that does not make Sorbus or the woman innocent. Perhaps they were all in it. Perhaps Arthur had his prick up the widow’s skirts.’

‘I need to find out the truth. I can only do so with your assistance, Mr Ball.’

‘If someone has been stealing from me, I deal with it myself.’

‘No. I must do it. Otherwise Kat and Sorbus will die. I must find the evidence this night.’

‘I care nothing for them. They are fartleberries on my arse. Let them hang.’ He began to rise, the discussion over.

‘One more moment, if you would, Mr Ball. Let me just say this: the man who ordered the deaths of Kat Giltspur and Abraham Sorbus has also expressed a powerful desire to hang you. So, you see, you do have something in common with the condemned.’

‘You mean Recorder Fleetwood. I have heard as much.’

‘He tells me he wants you in his courtroom so that he may sentence you to death. It is his life’s work.’

‘Perhaps I will do for him first.’

‘Before then, however, it would be good to thwart him in this case . . . for both our sakes.’

‘Indeed, I would see Fleetwood discomfited. No, I would see him rot.’

‘To help me now would sore vex him.’

Ball tapped the point of the bollock-dagger on the oak table, delineating an image of a noose. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will send my man Wicklow with you. Go into Giltspur House. Find this evidence if it exists. But be very careful; the strongroom is to remain untouched. And after this night, there will be no more cooperation between us, Shakespeare. As for the matter of the crippled cooper . . .’ He pointed the dagger at Boltfoot. ‘As for this beetle, he has deserted his post aboard the Falcon. I saved him once because of your connection to Mr Secretary. Take him with you now, but think on this: I am not inclined to save his skin again.’