Prince

Chapter 33

Somewhere in the maze of houses that made up the poorest part of London, east of the city, Shakespeare stopped. His quarry was outside a house, looking up at its dark windows. Tentatively, the man knocked at the closed door, but there was no reply. He lifted the latch and the door opened. The man went in.

It had taken half an hour to reach this point. Shakespeare had followed the man through the dark streets with practised stealth. Now, he moved a little closer so that he could try to see inside the building into which the man had disappeared. There was no light except from a segment of moon, dipping in and out of the clouds. He heard his quarry calling softly inside the building, seeking someone. Still there was no reply. He heard his footsteps on creaking boards, moving deeper into the house. Shakespeare stepped through the doorway after him and found himself in a small empty hall. He could smell fresh wood, as though a carpenter had been at work. He waited in the gloom by the front door, unseen.

The man he had been following was walking up a flight of stairs, for he heard ancient boards bending under feet and a diminishing of the sound as he went higher up through the old building. All the time, there was the same soft calling, but no response. The footfalls began to get louder once more. The man was coming down again. Shakespeare tensed and waited, his poniard in his right hand.

He saw a vague shape. The man was in the front room, not three yards away. He had stopped. Shakespeare’s heart beat faster. He heard a sniff, as though the man was smelling the air. Did he sense his presence? Shakespeare did not wait to find out. He lunged at the shape, knocking him to the ground, hard. The man let out a low moan as the air was beaten from his lungs by the fall. Shakespeare brought his left forearm down hard into the side of the man’s head.

The man grunted with pain and tried to wriggle aside, but Shakespeare had him now, kneeling astride him, pinning him down at the shoulders and upper arms. With his left hand, he grabbed the man’s hair and slammed his head down on to the floor and held it there. The tip of his poniard found the man’s throat and pricked the skin, just enough to let him know that his life was forefeit if he tried anything. He moved his face down to the man’s ear and whispered hoarsely. ‘Mr Gulden, you have one slender chance of avoiding the butcher’s filleting knife at Tyburn. You will tell me all you know. There will be no second chance.’

Peter Gulden was tall, probably as tall as Shakespeare, but he was soft and did not have the strength to resist.

‘I cannot breathe!’

‘If you can speak, you can breathe. And if you wish to continue to breathe, you will speak — and speak plain.’

‘Let me up. I will talk. I will tell you everything, I swear it. I wanted none of this.’

Shakespeare increased the pressure on Gulden’s head. ‘Who were you expecting to find in this house?’ he rasped.

‘I don’t know, please.’

The knife nicked the skin of his throat, a little flick of flesh cut away by the poniard’s fine razor point. Blood ran along the blade and into the hot palm of Shakespeare’s hand.

‘Curl, maybe Curl… Laveroke. I came to find Laveroke.’

‘And they were here?’

‘Yes, in the past. With many others. I thought they would be here, but they are all gone.’

‘Who is Curl?’

‘Holy Trinity Curl.’ Gulden spoke in a rush, his voice high-pitched with panic, as though he could not divulge his secrets fast enough. ‘Curl and Laveroke. Mr Shakespeare, I am sorry about your wife. I beg your forgiveness, sir. I did not know they would do such a thing. They threaten my own family. My wife, my children-’

‘Where are they?

‘In Spanish hands, in the Low Countries.’

‘Not your family, Gulden. Laveroke and this Curl. If they are not here, where are they? You have built them another clock, I know it. Where is it?’

‘I will take you there, Mr Shakespeare. Only spare me, sir. I beg you, spare my life.’

‘Where?’

‘Many miles from here — I do not know the name of the place, but I can take you.’

‘Hellburners, yes?’ The knifepoint again digging into his throat.

‘One — one hellebrander.’

Shakespeare dragged Gulden to his feet and held him against the wall, the poniard close and sharp, his hand so tense it could rip Gulden’s throat out with a single jerk. ‘How far? East, west, north, south?’

‘Eastward, Mr Shakespeare. Please, the dagger — I know it was eastward, perhaps forty miles — I was always taken there.’

‘There must be stables near here. We need horses.’

‘No, we must go by boat, downriver, Mr Shakespeare. An island in the Thames. The estuary.’

Shakespeare could feel the man’s fear as his blood trickled through his fingers. He knew he had him, that he was a broken, terrified man. He took the poniard from Gulden’s throat, wiped the blade on the man’s sleeve, then thrust it in his own belt. He pulled him by the arm and pushed him hard out of the door. ‘Then let us find a boat, Mr Gulden.’

It was no more than a quarter of a mile to the river. Shakespeare walked at a fast pace. Gulden stumbled ahead, saying nothing but clutching his nicked throat as he was pushed along. Shakespeare estimated they were some way east of St Katherine’s Hospital, towards Thames pool. Ahead of them was a wharf. This was what he wanted. He saw a landing stage where fishermen had lanterns lit and were working on their nets. Two men were bringing their catch ashore from a moored, single-masted fishing boat, rigged fore and aft, which he guessed to be a skiff or small smack. He strode up to them.

‘A good catch?’

‘Aye master, fair enough.’ The elder of the two men eyed Shakespeare cautiously, his eyes flicking to Gulden, who was clearly under duress.

‘What will you make from it?’

‘This little lot? I reckon there’s four stone of good herring and salmon there. Got a couple of eels, too. But if you’re buying, you’re out of luck. It’s all spoken for at Billingsgate.’

‘I want to buy your services. One of you take the fish to market — the other sail us downriver. I’ll pay you twice the price of the fish you have there, in gold.’

‘We’ll get a pound for this lot.’

Shakespeare didn’t believe him, but he wasn’t going to haggle. ‘Two pounds, then. Here.’ He spilt coins from his purse into the man’s palm. ‘Take it.’

The elder fisherman looked at the money in amazement, then glared into Shakespeare’s eyes. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Queen’s business. I am in a hurry and have no time to explain. You must take us down the river… to one of the islands.’

The old fisherman hesitated, then laughed. ‘Yes, master, I’ll take your gold.’ He winked at his companion. ‘Robert, you get that fish to market and get them nets mended. I’ll sail these gentry coves wherever they want. Go to the New World for that kind of gold, if so they please.’

Within two minutes the remainder of the catch was landed and Shakespeare and Gulden were in the sailing boat with the fisher, tacking out to mid-stream, where they caught the best of the ebb tide and began the race downstream. ‘We’ll make more’n ten knots an hour with this tide, master. But then it’ll turn and we’ll be like a sea snail. Now tell me, which of the islands is it you want?’

‘Well?’ he said to Gulden.

‘I do not know its name. I wish I did. It is nothing but mudflats and creeks, beyond Gravesend, well beyond it — towards the northern shore of the river.’

‘Sounds like Canvey or Two Tree Island,’ the fisher said.

‘I’ll know it when we see it,’ said Gulden.

‘How?’ Shakespeare demanded. ‘There is nothing to be seen in this darkness.’

The only light was the lantern the fisher kept by the tiller. There were few lights from the riverbank, yet he steered a course with the confidence that only a man who has been out on this stretch of water night after night all his life could have done. ‘It will be light soon enough,’ he said, addressing Shakespeare. ‘If I’m sailing into danger, master, you might tell me what to expect.’

It occurred to Shakespeare that he might need the fisher’s assistance before this day was done, so he explained briefly.

The fisher laughed. ‘Should have asked for four pounds, not two.’

Shakespeare settled back towards the rear of the boat. The water became increasingly choppy as the river broadened. He had his sword across his lap, in case Gulden suddenly learnt courage. They travelled an hour or more in silence, all soaked through by the constant spray. The only sounds were the slapping of the waves and the occasional barking of a dog from somewhere on land, to the south or north. ‘Well, Mr Gulden,’ he said at last. ‘It’s time to hear your sorry tale.’

‘How did you know?’

‘That you were the clockmaker I sought? Instinct, Mr Gulden. Instinct is a powerful force. It is what Sir Robert Cecil pays me for. The ability to spot a deceiver. I suggest you try telling me some truths.’

Gulden was desperate to tell his tale. He had been at Antwerp in ’85, had helped the clockmaker who set the timing device for the Hope. ‘When Parma captured the city I fled, thinking the Spanish would hear of my part in the deaths of so many of their soldiers. My wife and children remained and I told them I would send for them. I had thought they would be safe, for Parma had pledged free passage to all Protestants. That was a terrible error on my part, for I fell into the hands of two English soldiers — soldiers who had already sold their honour to Spain.’

Shakespeare could see, even in this poor lantern light, that tears were streaming down the Dutchman’s face. ‘My wife and children were taken hostage and I was told to seek refuge in England. I would have to perform certain tasks for the Spanish and my family would be safe. If I did as I was told, I would, in time, be reunited with them. And so I came here and met up again with Signor Giambelli and worked with him on the English hellburners plan, all the while giving details of our progress to the Spanish. I must say that Giambelli knew nothing of my double-dealing. I kept begging the Spanish to let my wife and children join me, but to no avail. And now… now I have destroyed your family, Mr Shakespeare, with my infernal clocks, and I fear I will soon have aided and abetted in a plan to kill many, many more. I would take my life, hurl myself into this river. I have thought of such a course of action often enough, but I do nothing. I am a coward.’

‘You spoke of two English soldiers?’

‘Yes.’

‘What became of them?’

‘They are here in England. They were my contacts. They are the ones who gave me my orders and made me work for Laveroke and Curl.’

‘Their names?’

‘William Sarjent and Jeremiah Quincesmith. In the Low Countries, they were armourers and gunpowder men with Captain-General Norris and the Earl of Leicester. But they dealt treacherously, communicating secrets to Parma and others on the Spanish side. I always believed their motive was gold, not religion.’

‘Did you say Sarjent?’

Gulden nodded grimly and wiped a sleeve across his bloody, tear-stained face. In the distance, directly ahead of them, Shakespeare caught the first glint of the rising sun. He felt a cold knotting in his entrails. Sarjent — the man the Cecils believed to be their intelligencer. Boltfoot had been handed to him, like a tethered sacrifice in an arena of lions.