Prince

Chapter 5

Topcliffe might not have been certain whether John Shakespeare would blow his head apart, but he had no doubt that Boltfoot Cooper would. He was not going to put his life on the line for a matter as insignificant as this.

Reluctantly he ordered his pursuivants out and as he himself turned at the door, he tarried a few seconds, cursing Shakespeare and Cooper to hell and threatening to spill the last drop of Sluyterman’s blood, and that of his family. Boltfoot pushed the hoary old rackmaster in the chest with the muzzle of his primed caliver, until he had forced him out and away from the house. Topcliffe shook himself angrily and strode off towards his fellow pursuivants and their tethered mounts, spitting a vow of vengeance into the night.

Shakespeare made sure he had gone, then watched as the Sluyterman family fell into one another’s arms, sobbing and shaking. He wondered briefly what this family had endured in the Low Countries at the hands of the Spanish. Many souls had lost their lives there, and many more had been thrown out of their homes into exile by the Duke of Parma and his steel-clad horde. All that, and then to come to this.

He walked across to the line of servants. They still stood in line and some were trembling. He avoided the gaze of the one who had shown no fear, though his instinct was to grasp him by the nape of the neck, pull him to the door and kick him out after Topcliffe, with whom he was doubtless in league. No, better to observe him; he might be made use of yet.

Sluyterman thanked the servants and dismissed them to their quarters. He kissed his children and asked his wife to take them to their beds.

‘I must thank you, sir,’ he said to Shakespeare when they were alone.

‘I told you, Mr Sluyterman, this is about me. It can be no coincidence that he chose your home. I would say, however, that you have a treacherous servant in this house. The Englishman with black hair and a downturned mouth…’

‘His name is Oliver Kettle. I have not felt happy about him. We had some argument. He spoke to my daughter Marthe without respect. I think he had unhealthy interests in her. Also, my wife caught him most importunely with one of the serving girls, his hands on her… I do not like to say more.’ Sluyterman shook his head, his eyes drifting around the destruction wrought by the intruders on his comfortable home.

‘Well, do not dismiss him, but watch him. I may have a purpose for him. Be careful. If you have more problems, I will have him consigned to Newgate. As for the serving girl that Mr Topcliffe sought…’ Shakespeare paused to see the effect of his words and saw something akin to shame in the Dutchman’s eyes. ‘I believe she is safe. I saw a figure in the shadows outside.’

‘Thank you, sir. Thank you.’

Shakespeare shook his hand. ‘It is good to meet you properly, Mijnheer Sluyterman — even though these are not the happiest of circumstances. If I were you, I would adhere strictly to the law from now on and keep your head down. Mr Topcliffe is dangerous and relentless.’

Catherine found the servant girl shivering in a corner of their courtyard, half concealed behind an old wagon wheel awaiting repair by Boltfoot. The girl was on her haunches, her arms tight around her tall, slender body, still in her thin nightdress. She hid her face from the light of Catherine’s lantern. Gently, Catherine put a comforting arm around her and whispered soft words. The girl, who looked no more than twelve and wore her hair in two shoulder-length plaits, had the height of an adult woman. She spoke no English, but quickly understood that this was a friend and said her name was Susanna.

‘She can stay with us tonight, Mr Sluyterman,’ Shakespeare said a short while later. ‘And on the morrow you must move her to a safer place. You surely have friends who could take her in.’

Sluyterman bowed his head in thanks and relief. ‘I will do that, Mr Shakespeare, sir. Thank you. You are a good neighbour.’

The Dutchman explained to Susanna what was happening and assured her she would be safe now. The girl nodded nervously but said nothing. Then the Shakespeares bade Sluyterman goodnight and brought her up to the room where their own five-year-old daughter, Mary, lay asleep. Catherine put down some blankets and cushions for the girl and left, quietly closing the door behind her.

Shakespeare and his wife were further from sleep than ever. As they sat together, he sipped at a beaker of rich milk, cool from the larder. ‘This was about me, Catherine,’ he said. ‘I know it. Topcliffe was trying to intimidate me. He wasn’t interested in that girl. It was a warning shot to me.’

‘Something to do with the Marlowe killing and inquest?’

It was well after midnight and his blood was still pumping hard. ‘Yes. But what? At the inquest Topcliffe seemed to suggest he was in agreement with me — that Marlowe had been murdered and that the jury had reached the wrong verdict.’

‘Did he not also make it plain that he thought Marlowe was right to abuse and intimidate the refugees? If so, then that accords with what happened this night. It was said Marlowe did not like refugees. Now Topcliffe has shown himself of similar mind. And so he uses the Return of Strangers and information from a hateful servant to seek out one he thought he could harass. It is his way, John. It has always been his way. Catholics, foreigners, gypsies, all are vermin in Topcliffe’s twisted mind.’

‘True.’ Shakespeare’s deep, hooded eyes shone in the warm light of the single candle on the table between them. ‘But there is something else here. He knew this was my neighbour. This was for my benefit. He targeted Sluyterman because he spotted on the Return that he lived next door to us. But why, Catherine? What game is Topcliffe playing with me?’

In the morning, shortly after dawn, Shakespeare slapped the flank of Boltfoot’s horse and bade him farewell. He watched for a few moments as his assistant rode off at a trot towards the bridge on the first part of the journey to the powdermills. A little later, Shakespeare went back indoors and joined Catherine and the children for a breakfast of bread, eggs, cheese and ale, all served by Jane Cooper. The Dutch girl, Susanna, stayed in Mary’s room and Jane took her some food and drink. Shakespeare had ordered that she be kept out of sight. The servant Oliver Kettle would be waiting for her return to the Sluyterman household; if she came back, he would hasten to Westminster to inform Topcliffe again. Nor would it surprise Shakespeare if Topcliffe had another watcher in Dowgate keeping an eye on both their houses.

At eight of the clock, Shakespeare eased himself into the saddle of his grey mare in the mews stables and headed north and west through the narrow, hurried streets of the city.

He found Nicholas Henbird in a fine house on St Nicholas Shambles, not more than fifty yards from the enormous ancient priory of Christ’s Church.

Henbird’s house stood a little way beyond Stinking Lane. It was one of a number of fair wood-frames built around a pleasant central court with a well. A clerk opened the door and Shakespeare was soon shown through to Henbird’s splendid solar, now filled with the morning sun. The cool, bright aspect lightened Shakespeare’s spirits. He gazed upon Henbird’s girth with wonder and smiled. He had changed a lot since winning the coveted post of Royal Purveyor of Poultry, a good reward for his secret work on behalf of Walsingham over many years. Shakespeare shook his old colleague by the hand. He guessed Henbird must be about fifty. He certainly looked it. He had gained the portly belly and rosy round face that so often came with the fine living of ermine-clad merchants. Yet Shakespeare was not deceived. Those kindly pink cheeks and convivial manner lied; the well-fed body housed a cold heart and dagger-sharp mind.

‘Nick, I had not thought to see you so prosperous.’

Henbird’s face broke into a satisfied beam, like a churchman at the thought of a Sunday sirloin and a quart of beer. ‘The court cannot get enough poultry, John. Swan, geese, chickens, duck. My clerks do it all and the money comes in faster than I can spend it on buxom whores, fine foods and sweet wines. Look at this wondrous belly!’ He patted his middle with pleasure. ‘Has not Mr Secretary done me well? My clerks buy from the shires and arrange the sales and the neck-wringing. All I have to do is pluck the money. Why, the clerks even count my silver for me. Are you acquainted with turkey-cock? I shall arrange one to be killed and roasted for your supper tonight. A succulent white-fleshed bird — I hope you will agree it flavoursome.’

‘Thank you, Nick. But I have come for something else.’

‘You do not surprise me. I would have wagered a month of my warrant on it. So, John, let us talk of secrets. I have heard whispered gossip that you are engaged in that dark and bloody world once more. For little Robert Cecil, I do believe.’

Shakespeare took a seat at Henbird’s intricately carved table. ‘I do indeed work for Sir Robert, a man who has the best interests of his sovereign and his country at heart. Unlike some at court,’ he added wryly.

Henbird laughed and his belly shook like a subtlety of milk jelly. ‘Yes, there are those whose own interests do not always coincide with those of Her Most Royal Majesty.’ He rubbed his ear. ‘Did I not hear in the past year that you had fallen foul of my lord of Essex? A most grievous falling out, I am told.’

Shakespeare said nothing. It seemed that Henbird’s ears were as close to the ground as ever, and his hearing as acute. The memory of the conflict with Essex was not one Shakespeare relished, but nor could he regret discovering the sly and treacherous heart of the Queen’s favourite. One day, he and Cecil would doubtless need such information. In the meantime, he would never be a welcome guest at Essex House again. Nor would he wish to be. He had chosen the path of peace, tied to Cecil’s star; let those who wished war join the Essex camp.

‘Come now, John. Do not deny it.’

‘I am not here for such talk, Nick. But I am glad that you have not lost your talent for discovering men’s secrets, for I would make use of it.’

Henbird clapped his hands and a livery-clad serving man hurried in and bowed low. ‘What will you have, John, honest English ale or good Burgundian wine?’

‘Ale.’

Henbird nodded to the servant. ‘A pitcher of ale. And make haste, man, before we die of thirst. Now, John…’

Shakespeare waited until the servant had closed the door behind him, then spoke. ‘I want to find Glebe. Walstan Glebe. I recall you made use of him from time to time. Is there a way to seek him out?’

Henbird’s eyes widened. He was enjoying this. ‘Walstan Glebe? Have you looked in limbo or the pit? That’s where I would put him and let him rot like kitchen waste. I would happily cut away his ears and nose to make him prettier. And I would sever his hands at the wrist to make my purse feel safer.’

‘So you don’t know where he is?’

Henbird put up a hand. ‘Now, I didn’t say that, John. I didn’t say that at all. Permit me to guess: could this be something to do with the late issue of his Informer, in which he signs himself Tamburlaine’s Disciple?’

‘ Apostle.’

‘I begin to understand. A most sensitive subject, I am sure. Not one that Sir Robert or the court would care to dwell on for too long. They will want you to solve this and have the powdermen strung up in short order, John. They need the coin from these Dutch goldsmiths and wool merchants to fill the war coffer. Can’t be upsetting the refugees and scaring them back to the Low Countries with their gold and silver.’

‘And Glebe?’

‘Yes, I think I know a way to him. What favour will you do me in return?’

‘What do you want?’ Shakespeare glanced around the room with its exquisite plasterwork, carved oak furnishings and delicate tapestries. ‘You have gold aplenty.’

The ale arrived and they both drank deeply. At last Henbird wiped his gold-threaded sleeve across his mouth. ‘I want to be part of it, John. I want to be part of your world once more. This chicken warrant is most lucrative, but it wearies me to distraction. I would gladly not see another ledger or profit sheet in my life.’

Shakespeare looked Henbird in the eye and saw that he was being utterly serious. Suddenly he leaned forward, reached out his hand across the table and shook Henbird’s firmly. ‘Call it a trade, Nick. I need help and I can think of no one I would rather employ than you. You are well placed and I have a task for you, if you will take it.’

‘Anything, John, anything to get me away from talk of fowl.’

‘But first tell me a way to Glebe.’

‘As you will. I believe I do have a way. Have you heard of Black Lucy?’

‘Why, yes.’

‘Glebe has long had an obsession with the whore. She is succubus to him. He worships her glistening black hide — can’t get enough of it.’

‘From what I have heard, he is not alone in that.’

‘Indeed, John, she is a most wondrous exotic creature. Pope, saint or archbishop would be sore tempted by that one. I confess I have partaken of the fruit myself on occasion. A man could spend his family’s fortune on Luce and not rue the day he first saw her. I know and like her well. When once you see her in puris naturalibus, you will desire no other.’

‘Will she help me find him?’

Henbird spread out the plump palms of his hands. ‘If she likes you, if you pay her enough, if she wants to do Glebe a bad turn — any one of those may bring you to him. But tread carefully and treat her well, for she is a greater gift to London than all the beasts in the menagerie.’

‘One more question, Nick: you worked with Poley in the Babington inquiry of ’86. Who does he work for now?’

‘The same man he always worked for — himself. Other than that, I have heard tell that he has connections to Essex House and to Thomas Walsingham. They all do — Poley, Frizer and Skeres. Frizer has been Walsingham’s servant. Poley and Skeres worked with him against the Babington plot. But Thomas Walsingham has no interest in such things now. He is a country gentleman, tending his estates in Kent, dabbling with poetry.’

Shakespeare thought of Thomas Walsingham. Was any man more different from his kin? He was a warm, good-natured man, as far removed from his uncle Francis, the Queen’s late principal secretary, as it was possible to be. He could not see him as the puppet master pulling these strings. Yet nothing could be ruled out in such affairs.

‘Give me your opinion. Who was behind the Marlowe killing? Who was the paymaster and what was the motive?’

Henbird was a man who had stayed alive in the lethal underworld of spies, assassins and traitors by knowing when to talk and when not. ‘That would be an opinion too far, John. My neck might be thicker than a chicken’s, yet it is equally susceptible to the farm-wife’s blade.’

‘You said you wished to go intelligencing again, Nick. I had not thought you afraid of farm-wives.’

‘Do not underestimate farm-wives, nor Queen’s servants…’

Shakespeare nodded. He understood. Queen’s servants. ‘Topcliffe?’

‘You said the name, not I.’

‘But why?’

‘That is for you to discover. And there is the one that said most recently that Marlowe should be silenced…’

‘Baines. Richard Baines.’ Shakespeare frowned. It was a name that had cropped up in his investigations, even before Marlowe’s death. Baines, another sometime spy for Walsingham, had written a tract against Marlowe within the past month in which he said that all Christians should ‘endeavour that the mouth of so dangerous a member be stopped’.

‘Again, John, you said the name. I believe he complained of Kit Marlowe’s irreverence. But that did not sit well with me, for I do not recall Rick Baines having much in the way of religion. Anyway, his wish came true, for Marlowe’s mouth was indeed stopped. Does that mean he did it, though?’

‘It would not be the first man he had killed in cold blood.’ Topcliffe and Baines. Shakespeare tried to find a connection between the two men. What an unholy alliance. ‘You have said enough, Nick. Now, my small task for you: I wish you to discover what you may about a man named Oliver Kettle, presently a servant in the house of a Dutch wool merchant named Jan Sluyterman, of Dowgate. I have a notion about him. But be careful.’

‘As always, John. And the fee?’

‘First find me some information, then ask that.’

‘Ah yes, I had forgot, you learned thrift from Mr Secretary…’