Chapter 37
IN THE STABLES of Thomas Digges’s manor house, Shakespeare appraised Ursula in her new clothes. Her tatters had been replaced with a plain worsted gown belonging to Digges’s wife, Agnes. She looked respectable.
‘How does that feel?’
‘Like nettles and hedgehogs. It’s going to be hot today. I’ll die in this.’
‘Well, you’ll have to deal with that as it happens. I can tell you that you look a great deal more comely than you did. No one would take you for a thief dressed like that.’
‘They’d be pigging wrong then, wouldn’t they.’
‘There is to be no more stealing. You are staying here in this manor and you will be in the charge of Mr Mills. He will ensure you are fed properly and I have told him I want you to have some education. He will arrange that.’
‘I don’t want no learning. I want to come with you. You’re going to pigging France.’
Shakespeare ignored her plea. ‘If you are caught stealing again, then you will be sent away from this place and your chance of a decent life will be gone. Stay here, try to learn your alphabet and some writing, and I pledge that, when I return, I will find a position for you in some household. I believe you to be good. This is your one chance to prove it.’
‘You’re worse than Andrew pigging Woode.’
The groom brought out Shakespeare’s bay gelding, saddled up.
‘And if you are permitted to do any riding while you are here – and that is down to Mr Mills and Mr Digges – you will use a saddle. For if you do not, you will be marked down as a vagabond wherever you go. Try it – you might grow to prefer it. You might also find that townsfolk treat you with a great deal more respect.’
Ursula turned her face away. For a moment, Shakespeare wondered whether she was about to cry, but then realised it was a preposterous thought. This girl had lived through harshness that a seasoned soldier might never see. What was left in life to bring tears to her eyes?
Shakespeare mounted his charge. Without another word, he patted the horse’s neck, then shook the reins and rode out.
Marching. Endless marching. Andrew had always had strong legs and a good heart. He had been the fastest runner of all his friends. But nothing could have prepared him for this daily, gruelling slog, through the summer heat as the ever-changing band of recruits threaded its way down through southern England. Along the way, they picked up new pressed men and lost others to desertion and, in the case of one persistent offender, the sting of Provost Pinkney’s summary justice.
Andrew kept his head up and marched. He did not complain about the exhaustion, nor the poor food of oatmeal and rotting salt beef. The only comfort was the ale, which was bought or requisitioned from alehouses and taverns along the way.
They were camped near Weymouth when Reaphook approached him. ‘I’m going tonight, slipping away. Come with me.’
Andrew gulped down the remainder of his cup of ale. ‘Why would I want to go with you?’
‘It’s our last chance. Together, we can get away. Help each other … It’s got to be better with two.’
‘You’re insane, Reaphook. I’d rather dine with the devil than go with you. Anyway, he’ll hang you.’
‘Not if he doesn’t catch me he won’t. I’m not going to no war. Only sheep walk willingly to slaughter. And for what? Eightpence a day they’re supposed to pay us, which is paltry enough seeing that they take half of it for the muck they call food. And even the fourpence left over we never see. Whose purse do you think that goes in?’
‘Stow you, Reaphook. Do you ever stop complaining?’
‘There’s a great deal to complain about. My feet are nothing but blisters so that my feet squelch with blood and pus.’
‘Wish you were still with Staffy, do you? Should have treated him with respect. He was twice the man you are.’
Reaphook snarled. ‘He wasn’t so bastardly clean. You didn’t see the worst of him.’
Andrew laughed. ‘Well, he put up with you until you betrayed him. Being in his band was worse than marching with the militia, was it? You should have seen how the vagabonds all laughed when Provost Pinkney pressed you into service. Just like you betrayed Staffy. Serves you right, Reaphook.’
‘I’ll kill you one day, boy. I’ll pluck out your eyes with my sickle and tread them into the dust.’
Andrew’s fear of Reaphook had been replaced by anger. ‘You’re a dirty turd of a man. You’re less than a man for the way you treated Ursula.’
‘Well, I had her, boy. She’s a grubby little drab, but I had her first.’
Andrew considered pushing his fist into Reaphook’s nasty face for talking of Ursula in such terms. Instead, he arched his aching back. ‘I’m tired of listening to this. I’m going to lay out my palliasse and sleep. You can piss off into the night if you want to, but I’ll be laughing when Pinkney whips you and strings you up.’
Reaphook looked at him with loathing. ‘Spindle should have done for you when he had the chance. There’ll be another time, though. I’ll make sure of that.’
The monkey leapt through the rigging with crazy abandon, as though she had returned to the freedom of her jungle home in the Americas. The mariners fell for her instantly, could not take their eyes off the little animal.
Boltfoot sat on the deck beneath the bulwark, watching the antics with half an eye. Mainly he watched Ivory, who had climbed higher up and stood alone in the maintop, keeping lookout.
After days without wind, the Vanguard was out in the open seas, tacking east towards Cape Margate and Foreness Point, before the long turn into the narrow seas and the run westwards. The sea was racing with white-flecked waves. If the wind held, they should be in Brittany within three or, at the most, four days. The sooner, the better, for Boltfoot. The crew and fighting men on this vessel seemed to have been dredged from the gaols of London. He trusted none of them.
Boltfoot had heard that Captain-General Norreys was confined to his cabin, seasick. The monkey was what most men talked of, though – that and its exotic owner, a great and beautiful lady, travelling with Norreys. No one knew who she was, though someone said she was a Frenchie, for they had heard her speak with a strange accent. Most believed her to be Black John’s whore.
Frobisher stood by the helm or on the poopdeck. He was restless, ever-present. Two years away from the sea, ashore at his Yorkshire home, had made him hungry for the churn of the ocean, and even hungrier for action. Men who had served under him before knew to avoid him when he was like this. His energy could be brittle.
A shadow came across Boltfoot. A young gentleman officer stood in front of him in a black and gold doublet, as though he had come direct from the royal presence. Boltfoot looked up, but did not move.
‘Get up, man,’ the officer ordered. ‘There is work to be done.’
Boltfoot rose to his feet. ‘I am not here as crew, master,’ he said with due deference.
‘I say who is crew.’ He nodded over towards some loose ropes. ‘Stow those cables, then fetch me brandy.’
‘No, sir, you have no authority over me.’ Boltfoot could see that this man was new to the sea and that he had no idea either what he was doing or what needed to be done. ‘It is not my task.’
‘Damn you, man.’ The officer raised his hand to strike Boltfoot. Suddenly, Frobisher’s hand clasped the wrist.
‘What is this?’ he growled. ‘Why are you raising your hand to this man?’
‘He disobeyed an order, Sir Martin.’
‘Did he now?’
Frobisher raised his gold-inlaid wheel-lock pistol, but instead of threatening Boltfoot, he battered the stock into the officer’s head and shoulder, clubbing him down to the deck. Frobisher stood over him with contempt, then turned to his lieutenant.
‘Remove this man to his quarters. He will remain there until I decide what to do with him.’ He turned to the other officers. ‘For those not acquainted with my methods, let this be a lesson: I alone administer discipline aboard my vessels. My men will be treated with respect, as will I. And I am to be addressed as admiral at all times.’
Above him the monkey had leapt down through the rigging and was sitting on the yard-arm watching the proceedings. Frobisher ignored her.
‘As for you, Mr Cooper, I see you attract trouble. Are you, also, a thief like Drake?’
Boltfoot was standing stiffly. ‘No, admiral, I am not. In truth, Drake stole from me as he steals from all men. He stole gold from me and Will Legge.’
‘Well, as long as you bear hatred towards Drake, you may yet turn out to be a friend of mine. At ease, Mr Cooper.’
Boltfoot tried to relax, but could not. He was being sent off to war in Brittany! What was that godforsaken spit of land to do with him? Why should he die and leave a widow and orphan just to protect some poxy Frenchies from rampaging Spaniards?
‘Thank you, admiral,’ was all he said.
‘You’ll find me harsh but fair. But I tell you this: I need Mr Eye and his infernal contraption. Make sure they remain safe.’
‘I will do my utmost.’
‘Good man, Mr Cooper.’
Frobisher resumed his pacing of the deck, but Boltfoot did not feel reassured. If the would-be assassin from Portsmouth or any confederate was still seeking Ivory, they would be here. But how could he be spotted among a ship’s complement of hundreds of men?
John Shakespeare looked out over the port and bay of Weymouth in Dorset. Seagulls screeched and swooped overhead. In the harbour entrance, waves broke and foamed.
It was mid-morning and the fish market was closing for business. The day’s trades had been made; cod, haddock, John Dory and herring bought and sold.
Shakespeare stopped a porter and asked about soldiers.
‘Talk to the mayor,’ the man said curtly, pointing at a building that looked out over the port. ‘That’s his counting house.’
Shakespeare’s progress here along the coastal roads had been swift. First Portsmouth, then Southampton, then Poole, now this wide bay. Along the route, he had sought soldiers. Mostly, he had found stragglers and deserters, who ran from him as though he were a provost sent to round them up. He also encountered companies of recruits in the towns, one of a hundred men, another of thirty. He was told that most men had now gone to join Captain-General Norreys at Paimpol in Brittany.
A couple of recruiting sergeants said they had heard of Pinkney, but had nothing to say about him other than that he was a Low Countries veteran. They had no idea where he might be.
Now, at Weymouth, the mayor studied Shakespeare suspiciously.
‘Aye, there was a company here,’ he said at last. His eyes swivelled from Shakespeare to the doorway, as if expecting to be set upon by robbers. ‘New-pressed recruits by the look of them. Shabby, villainous lot, they were. They are all embarked for Brittany now. Why? Who wants to know?’
‘I am John Shakespeare, an officer of Sir Robert Cecil. I am on urgent business.’
‘Cecil, eh? Well, they left with the tide, crowded aboard a couple of old fishing hoys. No bark would take them. The hoy masters didn’t want them, but even less did I want men-at-arms remaining in town, plundering food, strong liquor and our womenfolk. They had been here three nights and were becoming ever more lawless and drunk, waving their pikes and pricks about. The Lord knows how many bastard babies will be born here in nine months’ time. We have had levies through here before, so we know that soldiers will forage, but this was worse – this was pillage. I feared for the safety of all. In the end I twisted the hoy skippers by the arm, called in favours and paid them out of my own coffers. If you work for Cecil, as you say, then you can tell him I want my money back and Her Majesty should pay, as it’s her war. Will you do that for me, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘I will pass on your message. In the meanwhile, do you know anything about the men – who they were?’
The burgess smelt of fish. He scratched the inside of his ear with the rough-hewn nail of his forefinger. ‘They were commanded by a provost marshal named Pinkney. If you need to know more, there is one as may tell you – one we picked up for thieving a silver cup from my house. Pinkney wanted him handed over so he could mete out justice himself, but I wasn’t having it. The felon’s in the town gaol, on short commons until he returns my cup or is hanged.’
‘Thank you.’
Shakespeare left the mayor to his business. Outside, he untethered his horse and walked it to the stone-built prison. The keeper showed him to the cell, where the miscreant was shackled to the floor in a small space he shared with rats, fleas, lice and a dozen other men awaiting trial or punishment. Shakespeare held his kerchief to his nose. He recognised the man immediately. It was Pinkney’s lethal companion on the road to Lathom House in Lancashire.
‘Well, well, what have we here?’ Shakespeare said. He could scarce believe his good fortune.
The man looked up at him through dull eyes. He was thinner and less powerful than he had been; his muscles seemed wasted, the bull chest shrunken. He did not appear to recognise Shakespeare.
‘Remember me? You were trying to hang a priest in Lancashire.’
The man grunted non-committally.
‘So now you are the one to be hanged.’
The man spat at Shakespeare’s feet, but his mouth was dry and his aim fell short.
Shakespeare did not move. ‘I would talk with you.’
‘I have nothing to say to you, whoever you are – unless you give me ale and food and spare me from the rope.’
‘I cannot do that. You are on short commons by order of the justice and will be convicted by a court of law – if you are guilty.’
‘Then I will not talk.’
‘I recall Pinkney calling you Cordwright. What are you to Pinkney? His sergeant?’
The man spat on the ground again, closed his eyes and leant back against the dripping stone wall. He was clearly in pain.
‘Why were you in Lancashire? There could have been no levy for Brittany that far north. My understanding is that the pressing of men was confined to eighteen southern counties.’
The man laughed, suddenly interested. ‘Oh, yes, you’d like to know about Lancashire. I’m sure you’d like to know the truth of that. Aye, that would send a shiver down your spine. Let us just say that when we are not a-soldiering, Provost Pinkney and me do little tasks for a certain great personage, a man whose word is his bond. As is Mr Pinkney’s.’
‘What tasks?’
‘Clearing of hornets’ nests, scourging of vermin. We are scavengers, clearing up the foul messes of other men. But I have told you the price. Food for my stomach, ale for my gullet and no rope for my neck. It would be worth it to you, though.’
Shakespeare left the villain in his dungeon, with the lice and ordure, and returned to the mayor’s counting house.
‘The man has information I need. He will talk only if his life is spared and he has more food and some ale.’
‘Well, he won’t get that.’
‘What if I got the money you want from Cecil for the transport vessels?’
The mayor looked at him questioningly. ‘Is that possible?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s forty-two marks. Do you have it?’
‘That is a great deal of money. I had thought a crossing to France was reckoned at two shillings a man.’
‘Sheep’s bollocks, Mr Shakespeare. Two shillings a man may be true of Dover to Calais, but Weymouth to Brittany is more than a hundred miles and the coast there has some of the most treacherous waters you could care to encounter. Forty-two marks, sir.’
‘Well, I do not have that amount here. But I will bring it to you.’
The mayor hesitated, then shook his head decisively. ‘I’ll have the money first – and my silver cup. Then I’ll do a deal over the prisoner. Come back to me when you have forty-two marks in gold, Mr Shakespeare. If you’re quick about it, you may yet find the prisoner alive when you return.’