Prince

Chapter 20

‘ Who is behind this?’ Cecil demanded, slamming the broadsheet down on the table.

Shakespeare had never seen Sir Robert so agitated. ‘A villain named Walstan Glebe,’ he said. ‘I believe I know a way to him.’

‘Well, bring him in. Why is such a man at large to disseminate this? If word of this reaches the Queen, her fury will know no bounds. Give your information to Mr Mills.’

‘No. I want Glebe alive…’

Mills went white. ‘Sir Robert, this is a calumny!’

‘Morley died under your watch, Frank,’ Shakespeare put in. ‘I cannot risk another such death.’

‘He killed himself! It was none of my doing.’

‘Indeed, yet you did not ensure his safety. Nor did you discover the knowledge he would have imparted to me.’

Mills turned to Cecil. ‘Sir Robert, this is intolerable-’

Cecil’s small, feminine hand rose. ‘Stop this. We do not have time for such brabbling. You will work together, not against each other. Do you understand me? God’s wounds, we have enough to deal with. What I say is this — if Glebe can print news of gunpowder and a Scots prince, then we are dealing with a conspiracy monstrous in scope and compass. It does not take a great wit to imagine that the powder is the means by which they would put their princeling on the throne of England — or Scotland — or both. Now, Mr Shakespeare, find this Glebe and bring him to Newgate, where we shall question him. If need be, with the rack.’

Shakespeare nodded, his jaw set grimly.

‘Whatever your qualms, Mr Shakespeare. Do you understand me?’

Shakespeare looked Cecil in the eye, but said nothing. Cecil turned away and addressed Mills.

‘Frank, you will find this clockmaker. If need be, you will bring every clockmaker in London to the Tower. That, surely, cannot be beyond your wit.’

‘It is not so simple, Sir Rob-’

‘Then make it simple. And John — ’ he turned back to Shakespeare — ‘find out where your man Cooper is and what he has discovered. In the meantime, we shall await word from Perez and his diabolical crew of intrigants. But we shall not wait long. I will have the whereabouts of the pretender prince torn from his mouth. If necessary, along with his tongue…’

At times, Beth Evans wondered where life might have taken her had she not broken up with John Shakespeare. Could there have been more to their innocent summer frolic? Might he have married her and given her a family and a home, in place of barrenness and whoredom? Inevitably, she shook her head and smiled wanly to herself, for the answer, always, was no. They would have ended up hating each other. With babes at her feet, he would have resented her for thwarting his ambition.

She laughed at her own musings. The truth was he had not even recognised her. And when he had failed to turn up for their planned meeting to seek out Glebe, he had not even sent word.

Naked, her long fair hair hanging loose, she washed herself, vigorously, squatting over a bowl of cold water with a soap ball in one hand. Her client, an archdeacon from St Paul’s, dressed slowly beside the chamber window, gazing out at a grey summer’s day. She wished he would hurry up and leave, for he had done his business and she had his shillings. She wanted to erase every trace of him from this room and from her body. Beth could be as accommodating as the next whore — and many men sought her out specially, for the years had treated her well — but when it was done, it was done. She could not bear the ones who wanted to linger and talk, perhaps to assuage their guilt or shame, as though they were engaged in innocent discourse at home with their goodwife.

There was a discreet double knock at the door. It was code from her maid. The hour was up and another client was waiting. If no client was waiting, there would be no knock and she could tarry and dally with the man as long as she wished.

Beth smiled at the archdeacon. ‘Duty calls, venerable sir.’

The clergyman caught her eye and nodded gravely. ‘Of course, my dear, I was in a dream. For a moment there I quite forgot that you were a working girl.’

‘Will I see you next week?’

‘Indeed, God willing.’

Still naked, she hustled him out of the chamber as best she could without physically pushing him, smiling inside at the way he invoked the will of God to assist him in his wanton perambulations. As he disappeared down the stairway, Beth’s maid appeared. ‘You have a visitor, Beth.’

‘Who is it this time?’

‘Not a client. Your friend Mr Shakespeare.’

Her body stirred like it had once as a girl. She grinned broadly at the maid. ‘Then you had better help me dress myself.’

‘It is possible he might prefer you as you are, mistress.’

‘Oh I think not. No, indeed, I am sure he would not.’

Shakespeare was taut with impatience, waiting in the hall below the gallery. His mind was elsewhere. Cecil had spoken of a monstrous conspiracy — gunpowder to blow a usurper on to the throne — but other thoughts crowded in, too: what was Topcliffe’s interest in his brother? Had Will been right in thinking the death of Marlowe was in some way connected to a purge against the theatre world? And was that death really not linked to the events at the Dutch church and in the Dutch market?

He looked up at the tapestry depicting Black Lucy without emotion or wonder. The last time he had been to this whorehouse, he had threatened without a great deal of conviction to have all its occupants hauled off to prison. Now, if he did not get an immediate response to his questioning, he was minded to do just that.

At last Beth arrived. He nodded to her stiffly.

‘Mistress Evans,’ he said.

‘I must now have the whereabouts of Walstan Glebe.’

‘John, what happened to you? You did not come…’

‘There were other matters. Now I must get to Glebe.’

‘And I shall be happy to take you, for he paid me only half the agreed fee when last I was sent to him.’

Shakespeare ignored her. ‘Is your mistress here… Mistress Lucy?’

‘She is. But John, I must tell you, you look in dire need of rest and food. Your visage, your attire — it is as though you have not eaten nor slept in a week. Forgive me for speaking plain.’

‘My appearance is of no consequence. I have ridden hard. Be pleased to fetch Mistress Lucy, and then, within the hour, we must depart to find Glebe. I take it you still know where he is?’

‘Yes.’ Beth was shaken. This man was in a bad way. She noticed that he was heavily armed: two wheel-lock pistols in his belt, as well as his sword and poniard. ‘Please, will you first tarry awhile and partake of victuals. Some meats and wine…’

‘There is no time. Just do as I say, mistress — Beth.’

‘As you will, John. Follow me.’

She took him to the withdrawing room, a chamber of intimate comfort with lustrous drapes, deep cushions, sumptuous settles and tapestries, all finished with red and gold threads. ‘Wait here, John. If she is with a client, I will bring her away and return in a few minutes.’

A maid brought him a goblet of sweet wine and he downed it in one gulp. Beth reappeared two minutes later. ‘Lucy will be here presently.’

Shakespeare nodded curtly in acknowledgement.

Her eyes went again to the wheel-locks adorning his waist. ‘Are you expecting to need those?’

‘He gave me the slip once before. It won’t happen again. Where is he?’

‘Within the city wall by Aldersgate. St Anne’s Lane. No more than a mile. I will take you to the very house. You may ride and I will walk at your side.’

‘And you are certain he will be there?’

‘If not, we will find another way to him. I will not let you down, John.’

Lucy appeared at the doorway. Last time she had worn a gown of gold, now she was in an array of cream linens, which served all the more to accentuate the black sheen of her skin. She held herself erect and proud, her shoulders back. Yet today there was a difference. She was less at ease. She did not smile. ‘Mr Shakespeare,’ she said, a note of surprise and some disquiet in her voice.

Shakespeare offered no greeting. ‘I am going with Beth Evans to find Glebe. Before I go, I wish to talk with you. It is important for you to realise, mistress, quite how precarious is your position, given your refusal to tell me the whereabouts of Glebe. I must tell you that I have already shown the greatest forbearance towards this house. I could have had pursuivants here to tear the place apart and wrench the information from your mouth by force, and the Privy Council would have thanked me for it. I say that to you now not as a threat but as a warning; nothing must come between me and Glebe. The stakes are raised in this game.’

Lucy lowered her eyes. ‘I understand.’

‘Do you?’

‘I do, sir. I will not hinder you in any way. I know about the incident in the Dutch Market…’

Shakespeare cut her short. ‘You will not talk of that. I have some questions regarding your person. Answer me straight, do not dissemble and do not ask me why I wish to know these things.’

‘Very well.’

‘Which country are you from?’

If she was puzzled by the nature of the question, she did not show it. ‘Africa. My father was an Ethiop, but my brothers and I were taken slave by Mussalman corsairs. They sold me to a great lord of France. I do not know what became of my two brothers.’

‘Who was this French lord?’

‘The son of Jean de la Fin, Seigneur de Beauvoir-la-Nocle, whom you know as Henri of France’s ambassador to the court of Elizabeth.’

‘His son is the Vidame de Chartres. Are you saying you were his slave?’

‘That is so. Did you not know this?’

‘Mistress Lucy, just answer my questions. What were you to him as a slave? A housemaid, a concubine — what?’

‘You may ask him that yourself, Mr Shakespeare, for is he not now here in England?’

Shakespeare ignored the question. ‘How did you come to England?’

Lucy’s eyes shone in the candlelight. ‘Yet more corsairs! This time under the English flag. One of Captain Hawkins’s fine ships-of-war took me while I was en route to Harfleur. I think the sailors were beguiled by my beauty and brought me to England and freedom rather than sell me on to the Spanish planters in the Indies. So now I am a free Englishwoman and happy to be of service to this proud nation.’

Shakespeare looked at her with a dubious, inquiring eye.

‘You do not have slavery here, I believe. I am told that three hundred years of serfdom left a bitter taste and that you do not allow it.’

‘But you are not English, and you must know that the Queen believes there are too many men and women of your hue here. She has ordered that Moors and Ethiops be cast out. Do you know anywhere — any friends — with whom you might stay awhile? For your safety.’

Lucy stood to her full height and tilted up her chin. ‘I understand what you are saying, sir, but take a look at my face. Do you think it possible to hide such a face anywhere in this land?’ She pursed her generous lips, almost in a kiss. She looked to Beth Evans, then back at Shakespeare. ‘I think I know enough men of power to protect me.’

‘Do you, mistress? Are you not afraid?’

Lucy turned again to Beth. ‘What do you say, Beth?’

‘I’d take you over a tiger any day, Luce.’

As he rode southwards and eastwards towards Aldersgate, thoughts of Catherine intruded. Dark, unholy visions. He saw her bloody remains all dressed in a green velvet gown. He saw her black hair adorning a white-boned, smiling skull, from which stared two piercing blue eyes.

She had not been a saint, and nor had he. Their marriage, more than five years long, had been difficult. She had been stubborn, unyielding in her Papism. At times, in truth, he had resented her for wrecking his career with Walsingham. He might have been a minister of the Crown by now. Many another man would have beaten her for her intransigence, her disobedience and her sullen moods.

He felt Beth Evans’s arms around his waist. Sweet, easy Beth. She had laughed the summer long when they were both sixteen in the year ’75. She laughed without spite at his seriousness; laughed lewdly when they saw a bull with an enormous prick mount a cow in a field; laughed mockingly when he panicked that he would not get her home before dark in the long, light evenings; laughed with incredulity at his refusal to drink too much strong cider; laughed tenderly at his clumsy moves towards kissing her.

But Catherine, so very different, was the one he loved. In the good times, of which there were many, they soared together. When they talked over a platter of meat and when they drank wine together, they were the best of argumentative friends. It was a love like no other, but it was not one he would have chosen for peace of mind; it had hit him with the force of a flood tide or tempest and had carried him along with it. Like a ship at sea, all he could do was run with the storm. This love had immersed him in its raging passions and thrown him in its wild wind, had done with him what it willed. It was untamed, raw and delirious in its uncontrollable beauty. That was Catherine Shakespeare. He could never have loved Beth like that.

At the city gate, a large draywagon had lost a wheel and collapsed, spilling its load of seasoned building timbers. Even those on foot struggled to get through the blocked thoroughfare. Dozens of carts and wains were backed up for almost a mile to the north along broad Aldersgate Steet, and to the other side, too, deep into the narrow alleyways of the city. Shakespeare was having none of it. He rode on past the crowds and horses, pushing any protesters aside with his cry of ‘Queen’s business, make way!’ At the gate, he and Beth dismounted and they walked the horse across the great oak logs, roundly cursed by the workmen who were trying to hoist them away.

‘Down here,’ Beth said when they were clear at last. ‘This alley on the left.’

They tethered the horse outside a modest and anonymous wood-frame house, the middle of a terrace of three, with jettied floors jutting out exaggeratedly into the dark little street.

Quickly, he loaded and primed both wheel-lock pistols and looped a binding cord around his chest. ‘Wait here,’ he said to Beth. ‘If I’m not out in ten minutes, fetch the constable.’

She watched him go. Just before they left, Lucy had told her that John’s wife was dead, killed by the explosion of gunpowder in the Dutch market. She had gone cold with shock. ‘Be careful with your friend,’ Lucy had said. ‘He will want vengeance. Do not get in his way.’

Walstan Glebe pulled the last copy of his new broadsheet from the press and held it up, waving it to help dry the ink. In his mouth he had a pipe of tobacco, which he sucked on like a babe at the teat.

He couldn’t keep up with the news. The London Informer was selling like saffron cakes on a sunny day at Bartholomew Fair. First the death of Marlowe, followed almost immediately by the explosion outside the Dutch church. Then this scarce believable story of the secret child of the Scots devil, Mary (even if he didn’t quite believe it, the story was one everyone wanted to read). He could hardly acquire enough paper to print the copies he could sell, and the type sorts were wearing so thin that many words were becoming illegible. The press itself had seen better days and seemed unlikely to last the month out. But such problems could soon be put behind him if gold kept filling his coffers the way it did. Soon he would have enough to buy a permanent press, with a new set of type, and secure regular premises. This was the future; London could never get too much news.

The door opened and he turned towards it expecting his girl, Bella, back with the ale and pie he had sent her to fetch. Instead, he saw the tall figure of John Shakespeare, with two wheel-locks pointing straight at him.

Walstan Glebe stood there, as if glued to the floor, a damp sheet of paper in his hand. Shakespeare could see the words across the top of the broadsheet: Five are blasted to horrible death at Dutch market. Then the next line: Her Majesty outraged at strangers’ powder plot.

‘Mr Shakespeare-’

‘Still lying, Glebe?’

As if suddenly realising what he was holding, Glebe turned the broadsheet and looked at the headlines. He removed the pipe from his mouth. ‘This is all true, Mr Shakespeare. I swear it. And my press is licensed.’

Shakespeare gazed past him towards the rickety press, upright against the wall. Nearby was a box of type sorts and piles of broadsheets ready for distribution. How did Glebe continually manage to evade the law and find gold enough to replace the presses which the Stationers’ Company made it their business to destroy?

‘Licensed? If that press is licensed, then I’m the Pope. You’ve never had a licence in your miserable life, Glebe.’ Bitterly, he thought back to the words he had seen printed in Glebe’s rag after the church blast. ‘Did enough dogs die for your liking this time?’

‘Mr Shakespeare, please, I was devastated to hear of your sad loss.’

‘Get down flat on the ground, with your hands behind your back. One wrong move and I will discharge both pistols at you.’

‘How did you find me?’

Shakespeare said nothing, but moved closer with the pistols.

‘Some putrid mangy-arsed whore, I’ll wager.’

‘Down!’

Glebe let go the sheet of paper and it fluttered to the floor. Slowly, he dropped to his knees, his eyes all the while fixed on Shakespeare’s guns.

Shakespeare stuck one of the wheel-locks in his belt and shook the coiled cord from his shoulder. The door creaked. He half turned. A dark-haired girl stood open-mouthed in the doorway with a blackjack of ale and a gold-crusted pie.

It was all the distraction Glebe needed. There was unlikely to be a second chance. He flung himself forward at Shakespeare’s legs, knocking him off-balance.

Shakespeare stumbled backwards but maintained his footing. Glebe was faster and launched himself past the girl and through the doorway. The jug fell from her hands, spewing ale across the sawdust-strewn floor. She stood there, mouth agape, pie in hand, as Shakespeare lunged forward after the slippery Glebe, pushing her aside and falling headlong into the street. Glebe was three or four yards ahead of him, running… and then sprawling. Beth Evans had extended her leg and tripped him, sending him hurtling to the ground.

Shakespeare was on his back in an instant, a wheel-lock to his head. He handed the other wheel-lock to Beth, then took the length of cord from his shoulder and tied Glebe’s hands tight behind his back.

The thick thatch of hair atop Glebe’s head was grey now, but he still wore it in a long fringe to cover the L for Liar branded on to his forehead by the courts for fraudulently selling odes written by other poets as if they were his own work. Shakespeare wrenched back his hair and leant down to speak in his ear. ‘We’ll remove your nose this time, Glebe. Try growing your hair to cover that little hole.’

Glebe grunted with the pain of his fall and the wrenching of his head in Shakespeare’s powerful fist.

‘Get up. I am taking you to the Tower and I promise you will tell me everything I wish to know.’

At last Glebe found his voice. ‘You cannot do this. My press is licensed. I have powerful patrons.’

‘Well, we’ll find out. In Little Ease…’