Prince

Chapter 26

Dozens of royal and noble pennants fluttered in the warm breeze. Canopies of green and harvest gold shone in the sunlight.

John Shakespeare walked through the Greenwich Park crowds and stalls. Here, a pair of oxen roasted over an enormous open fire, their juices dripping and sizzling in the flames; there, a juggler throwing six burning batons of pitch into the air in a constant, circular stream, catching them and twirling them onwards with consummate skill. Everywhere, people and horses milled about, seeking food, drink and amusement from the many open-air cooks and entertainers. Gamesters threw down purses of silver and gold in bets on cards, dice, cockfights and courses. Minstrels plucked and sang for a few pennies. Wrestlers, bare to the waist and glistening with sweat, struggled to exhaust each other in a fight that could only end in surrender or death. A group of whores stood close by, doing all in their power to lure the men by thrusting out dimpled thighs and pulpy breasts. But the men weren’t buying today; they found the allure of gaming, of manly sports, of blackened meat and fresh-drawn tankards of beer even greater than the promise of soft female flesh.

He stopped momentarily as a pair of horses thundered past him with whooping riders aboard. It was, evidently, a small private race before the grand main events. They were poor, gypsy animals, with no saddles or stirrups but only cloths about their backs. Yet the riders were powerful and skilled.

Shakespeare looked on these innocent pleasures with unheeding eyes. He was a man apart from this seething mass of humanity, wrapped in a darkness from which there was no escape. All that drove him onwards, like a desperate, blinkered mule at the wheel, was the thought that he must find Catherine’s killer.

Before coming here, Shakespeare had spoken with Jane. She was concerned for the children, ‘Grace is acting like a little mother to Mary, but it does not feel right, Mr Shakespeare. They are like players, acting out some strange drama between themselves. Andrew is angry. He will scarce look at me nor reply when I ask some straightforward question. He says no more than yes or no. He is a big lad now, and I have no control over him. I had thought he would take a kitchen knife to the Scotch man.’

‘I had an inclination to do much the same,’ Shakespeare said wryly.

‘And yet I have seen him alone, in dark corners, raging and weeping his eyes out. I do not know what to do for the best, Mr Shakespeare, in God’s name I do not. How am I to talk to them? They need you.’

He had said nothing, though he knew she was right.

As he reached the main stands, a volley of cannon fire signalled that the royal party was about to depart from Greenwich Palace. Much of London seemed to have migrated downriver today for the pomp and pageantry of these summer races. Thousands of men, women and children lined the half-mile route from the palace to the royal viewing point, all of them hoping for a glimpse of their queen. A score of horsemen on white destriers, all in dazzling armour with sword blades raised in front of them, came first, followed by a series of carriages.

The third carriage carried the Queen herself, resplendent in an Italian dress in cloth of gold, stitched with hundreds of rare jewels. She wore a caul and bonnet after the Italian fashion and cooled herself with a gold-handled fan of white feathers. Every so often she waved to the cheering crowds, seeming to enjoy their enduring love. It was as if, for a day, all was well with her realm; there were no poor, no plague victims, no foreign wars, no threat from Spain.

The Queen was closely followed by ten members of her Privy Council, amongst whom was the Earl of Essex, newly appointed. Essex held his shoulders back and rode tall and proud, adorned in fine white silk and taffeta with buttons of pearl and silver. He sat astride a huge black war stallion caparisoned in the same silk and taffeta as his own attire, a line of pearls ranging down its nose. Beside Essex rode Sir Robert Cecil, small and insignificant, dressed in a modest ruff and black doublet, embroidered with discreet knots of gold. The men, so contrasting in their physique and dress, did not look at each other once.

‘A fine sight, is it not, Mr Shakespeare? Almost the equal of Paris or Madrid… but not quite.’

Shakespeare turned to find the smiling figure of Ana Cabral at his side. She wore a dazzling gown of black silk, with slashes of lustrous scarlet, sweeping out from her hips with the assistance of a Spanish bell farthingale. It was high-bodiced with a simple, lace ruff that did nothing to conceal but rather drew attention to the erotic smoothness of her throat. The effect of her dress, coupled with her fair and silver hair and black eye patch drew many glances. In her small, black-gloved hand she had a long thin pipe of ebony, which she sucked on now and then, blowing out thin wisps of smoke into the summer air.

‘Are you suggesting there is a court anywhere else in the world to match the majesty of Gloriana?’

‘Your words, Mr Shakespeare, not mine.’

Shakespeare did not laugh. ‘I am glad you have found me, Dona Ana, for I wish to talk with you — and enlist your aid. Sir Robert Cecil is exceedingly anxious to have Don Antonio brought to him. Now that word is out in the broadsheets, it appears all London talks of nothing else but your Scots prince. Sir Robert wishes to have the truth from Don Antonio and will pay exceeding well. Can you arrange it?’

‘Of course, if the price is right. For me and Don Antonio…’

‘The price will be as you wish, within reason, Dona Ana. All we need to do is arrange a time. Shall we say this evening, at six of the clock in Greenwich Palace?’

‘I am sure we can arrange something suitable.’

‘Is Don Antonio here now?’

Ana Cabral waved her fine-gloved hand and carved a stream of smoke with her elegant black pipe. ‘He is indisposed. You must know that he suffers from many ailments, which is why he always has his box of remedies at his side.’

Suddenly her smile transformed into an expression of sorrow. She touched his hand with her own gloved fingers. ‘I have not expressed my condolences for your great sadness, senor…’

Shakespeare stiffened. How free the world was with its sympathy and pity.

Ana sighed. ‘I know. There is nothing I can say. Come with me now. Please. Come and meet the vidame and inspect Conquistadora.’

Shakespeare suspected that Perez’s indisposition was more likely caused by an excess of opium than by any illness. Or perhaps it was simply a convenient excuse for not coming to the racing. He stayed Ana Cabral. ‘You have not given a firm response to my suggestion. Let us fix a time for you to bring Don Antonio to Cecil. Six of the clock, yes?’

She shrugged her narrow shoulders helplessly. ‘I am unable to be so definite. He is my master. I can ask him if that is a convenient time — but I certainly cannot hold him to it. You must understand this, sir. No more could you speak for Sir Robert Cecil. But come with me now…’

In the makeshift stables area, behind the canopied royal stands, a smell of cooking meat gave way to the aroma of new-dropped horse dung. Inside a large tented barnlike structure containing half a dozen animals, each in their own stall, the Vidame de Chartres was talking with a member of the Queen’s equerry. They were beside a black horse that Shakespeare recognised as the Barbary filly he had ridden at Gaynes Park.

Seeing the newcomers, the royal officer bowed and moved away.

The vidame made an extravagant gesture with his hand by way of greeting to Shakespeare. ‘Have you come to see Conquistadora, the Barb filly?’ He reached out and patted the beast’s noble black head.

‘Not exactly.’

‘Hazard all your worldly goods on her. I will race her against the Queen’s stallion Great Henry for the Golden Spur. The gamers offer three sovereigns to the one against the Barb. Take it.’

‘Mr Shakespeare does not wish to hear about horses,’ Ana said. ‘He is at his secret work this day. He wishes me to bring Don Antonio to Sir Robert Cecil.’

‘Ana, my dear, I am certain you will work your charms on Don Antonio. But you must also insist that Mr Shakespeare brings forth my prize from the race at Gaynes Park.’

Shakespeare had either forgotten about the favour he was supposed to owe the vidame, or he had deliberately put it out of mind. He took his sword from his belt, laid it across his hands and offered it to the vidame. ‘Take it, Monsieur le Vidame. It is all I have to offer, for I do not have the power or inclination to comply with your demand. Under English law, I believe the one you call Monique to be a free woman.’

‘But you agreed to the wager and its terms, Mr Shakespeare!’

‘Under a certain duress. I said the favour must be legal. How can it be legal to hand a woman into slavery in a land where such bondage is outlawed? Have the sword. It is a poor thing compared to yours, but I have been fond of it. Take it and let that be an end to the matter.’

The vidame did not take the sword. ‘No, sir, I will have what is mine. Nothing more, nothing less.’

‘I cannot help you.’ Shakespeare was curt in his dismissal. He had had enough of these lewd and corrupt hangers-on. While London crumbled before an enemy onslaught, and while a pretender waited to claim the thrones of England and Scotland for Popery and Spain, they twittered of horses and slave girls.

The vidame looked from Ana to Shakespeare and gave a gallic shrug. ‘Then nor, I fear, can we help you.’ He turned away with a last stroke for Conquistadora, and wandered off.

Shakespeare watched him go, then sheathed his sword and looked to Ana. ‘My business here is nothing to do with the vidame. You are the one close to Don Antonio. Bring him to Greenwich Palace this evening, for he must know that Cecil is not the man to cross if he wishes to advance his cause in England.’

Ana brushed a persistent wasp away from her hair. ‘Don Antonio’s interests do not lie only here. He enjoys the patronage of Henri of France and he is well aware that a word from the vidame or his father could imperil his position at the French court. The vidame is not one to be scorned.’

Shakespeare felt he would explode. ‘Then it is up to you, Dona Ana. You must come with me to Cecil this evening. He demands more information from you. If you hold anything back, I tell you that this will become a Council matter, and you will not have the immunity that your master enjoys.’

‘You do not need to threaten me, Mr Shakespeare. I brought you the secret, did I not? Of course I will be there. It will be my pleasure. I may be Spanish but I am no friend of King Philip.’

Shakespeare looked at her hard, wondering where the truth ended and the lies began. He liked her in a curious way, would find her attractive at a different time of his life, but he did not trust her. And there was another matter to be considered: The London Informer. ‘It is true that you brought me the secret, Dona Ana, yet if I had waited a few hours I might have read it in a penny broadsheet. How do you explain that — and what do you know of Walstan Glebe and a man known as Laveroke?’

Ana shook her head with a disarming smile. ‘I have never heard either name.’

‘So how did The London Informer hear of the Scots prince — a story, apparently, known only to you, Don Antonio and an old nurse?’

‘I was as surprised as you to see that broadsheet, sir. But the story was not had from my lips. I sold you the secret in good faith.’

‘I wonder why I do not believe you…’

Ana Cabral sighed. ‘Oh, my dear Mr Shakespeare, how can I convince you?’ She took him by the arm. ‘Come with me,’ she said soothingly, leading him towards the royal enclosure. Suddenly she stopped and turned, as if she had caught sight of something — or someone.

Shakespeare sensed the change in her; a sudden whisper of unease. He looked around sharply. There was no one there but a couple of grooms sharing a pipe of sotweed.

‘Here is your coffin, Mr Cooper,’ Warboys said, running a hand along the smooth wood. ‘Do you approve of its fine lines? I crafted it myself, for that is how I earn my daily bread when not doing my duty with the Free English Trainband.’

Boltfoot had no idea where he was. They had mentioned Canvey, but that meant nothing to him. He had been brought here, blindfold and gagged with rags, his arms bound behind his back with thin strips of rawhide. Tossed like a dead deer on the back of a horse-drawn wagon, his journey had been long and painful along potholed tracks. After a while, he had been transferred to some sort of boat and brought across a stretch of water, a journey which seemed to take some hours, then landed and dragged up to this higher ground. The blindfold and gag had been removed and he saw now that he was in a small thicket of stunted trees, surrounded by tangles of brambles and bracken-bushes. He could hear seabirds. Beyond the spinney, he could make out an endless bleak landscape of tufted grass, dried mud and dark, still pools of water. A few more low trees hugged the skyline. The coffin of good elm lay before him, close to a half-dug hole in the earth. There were four men. Warboys and three others garbed in black, with cowls, who were busy digging into the earth with spades.

‘And there,’ Warboys continued, pointing to the hole they were making, ‘will be your grave.’

There were no beaten tracks here, no way for a man to discover where he was. Why, he wondered incongruously, would they provide a coffin for his body? Why even bother digging a grave, rather than simply throwing his carcass into a creek or leaving it for the birds and wild animals to gnaw on?

Warboys put his mouth close to Boltfoot’s ear. ‘I wish to know what Cecil and your master know. These Scottish sorcerers wish to make merry, and we must keep them happy. Sadly for you, Mr Cooper, you are their entertainment. And as they go about their business, I am assured they will discover the secrets of your soul.’

Boltfoot noted that Warboys’s speech was slurred from drink, but he was not listening to the words. With the blindfold off, he was becoming accustomed to the drear, cloudy light, and was trying to take in all he might about this place and these men, his captors.

Warboys took a swig from his flagon and gasped with pleasure. He put the flagon to Boltfoot’s lips. ‘Drink, Mr Cooper, for it is the last liquid you will have.’ Boltfoot gulped at the raw brandy. It did nothing to quench his thirst. Warboys patted his shoulder, as though taking leave of an old crewmate at the end of a voyage. ‘I must bid you farewell, Mr Cooper, for there is much to be done. But our Scottish friends will weave their spells and summon the truth from your lips. As you lie in your coffin ask yourself this: how do you determine whether a man tells the truth? If I were to pull out your fingernails and ask you a question, you would straightway say whatever I wanted you to say. But would it be the truth? This way, we will have the truth. This way you will tell us exactly what you and your masters know of us, even though you know you will die for saying it. You will beg for sweet death to take you.’

As Warboys strode off, Boltfoot gazed without emotion at the three men in black. They had finished their hole and were busy starting a fire of twigs and dried dead-wood. They said nothing to him. He was bound and they were armed with skenes and firearms. He could see that they had his own caliver and cutlass, too.

With the fire under way, two of the black-robed men strode across. Boltfoot watched, powerless and motionless, as they dragged the coffin into the hole in the ground. It was a shallow hole, and the top of the coffin was no more than twelve inches below the surface. He did not try to struggle against his bonds, for it would merely use up valuable energy; he must stay as still as stone. Without ado, they lifted him up and dropped him with a bone-jarring thud into the coffin, then hammered down the lid with iron nails. Boltfoot was on his back, his face close to the lid. His arms, tied behind him, were pressed agonisingly into the small of his back. The weight of his body drove his wrists hard into the ungiving elm.

There was a grey speck of daylight, a breathing hole, otherwise darkness. A tube of metal was suddenly pushed down into the breathing space, then he could hear the sound of earth being thrown on to the casket above him. After a few minutes, there was silence. He was alone and buried. He could not move. All he could do was struggle for breath through the tube. Or scream. And he had no intention of screaming.

Two members of the royal guard beat a drum roll, then the herald in his royal tabard trumpeted a fanfare and called order. Standing beside him, the Master of the Revels, Edmund Tilney, grey and stooped, rose to his full height on his rostrum in the royal stand. ‘The horses are at the start!’

The Queen, still fanning herself, for the day was warm and close, sat between Essex and old Thomas Heneage, her ever-faithful friend. She paid no heed to Tilney and continued to talk confidentially to those near her.

Shakespeare watched them from a distance of some thirty yards. If Essex saw him, it did not register on his face.

‘If the Barb filly wins the Golden Spur,’ Ana Cabral whispered into Shakespeare’s ear, ‘it will not matter a half-penny apple what little Cecil says. The Queen has a private wager with Essex and if her hobby loses to Conquistadora she has vowed to admit Don Antonio to the presence-chamber. If her Great Henry wins, then she will boot Antonio across the narrow sea to France. I believe she is torn, for I am told she enjoys the company of charming, indiscreet men — and that is Don Antonio. I am told, too, that she calls him traitor and would have none of him — and yet she is intrigued by him and delights to hear tales of all his doings.’

‘We shall soon find out.’

The Queen was so close now it occurred to Shakespeare that Ana could stride towards her from the crowd and shoot her through the throat or heart with a wheel-lock pistol before any guards had a chance to stop her. How many conspiracies and attempts had there been on her life in the thirty-five years she had reigned? He had lost count, and yet still she presented herself to her people as though she had not a care for her safety. Shakespeare could not help but admire her courage. Nor could he help wondering about the motives of Ana Cabral. He turned to look at her and saw her gazing at the Queen.

‘She looks very vulnerable, do you not think, Dona Ana?’

‘ Hmm?’ Ana appeared lost in a dream.

‘The Queen. She is in her sixtieth year. I have not seen her in many months. She seems smaller, more frail.’

‘If you say so, sir.’

‘What do you wish from us, Dona Ana? What is your purpose in coming to England?’

She smiled and frowned at the same time. ‘Why, pleasure, sir, of course. I am a daughter of Spain. I want music and strong limbs, rich wines and little deaths. What else would I wish? I fear I do not understand the question, though, for you know that I am here merely as consort to Don Antonio.’

He thought back to the room at Gaynes Park where she lay with Perez’s insolent secretary. Their eyes had met when he opened the door. She had seemed unconcerned by his prying gaze, had even seemed to enjoy his looking upon her coupling; likewise, she had seemed unconcerned that her lover Perez took peasants for bedmates and spent much of his days in an opium haze.

‘Are you an assassin, Dona Ana? Would you kill our Queen? ’ Shakespeare suddenly realised he had spoken his thoughts out aloud.

She looked at him, puzzled, then laughed. ‘What a strange, forward man you are, Mr Shakespeare. I am a pleasure seeker, nothing more. If Don Antonio’s interests lie elsewhere, I will seek gratification where I may.’ She smiled at him, reached out and squeezed his hand.

He recoiled from her touch, as if bitten by an adder.