Prince - John Shakespeare 03 - (17 page)

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 …’

Chapter 21

I
N THE CELL
known as Little Ease, a man could neither lay his body down fully, nor stand erect. The floor was four foot by four foot and it was no more than four foot in height, like a dice, so that a man of normal height had no room to move, nor rest. He could crouch like a cat or he could kneel or sit against the wall, but he could not stretch his aching limbs or ease the pain in his cruelly bent back by arching it. The very thought of the wretched hole was enough to strike terror and panic into the stoutest heart. The breath came short, the gasping wails of despair rose within the back of the throat. It was a place of madness, a place that would have you pleading for a quick death. After a few days in Little Ease, a man with the strongest of spirits would be fit for nothing but a Bedlam cell or the scaffold.

In his time, Walstan Glebe had suffered the sting of the branding iron and the smell of his own roasting flesh. He had been shackled to the stinking floor of Newgate with scarce enough food to live. He had been whipped for the public’s entertainment at Bridewell and had been threatened with the noose on several occasions. Yet none of those memories matched his fear of Little Ease.

‘Mr Shakespeare, I beg you, not that,’ he whimpered. ‘I have done nothing to warrant such punishment.’

It was not long since Shakespeare had dragged Christopher Morley through the streets towards the Counter prison in Wood Street on a leash linked to his stirrup. It had not been the safest method of taking in a felon, for who could tell when a confederate might dash forward with a razor to slash the cord and free the prisoner. He could take no such chances with Glebe. Instead, he strapped him over the back of his grey mare, his wrists and ankles tied tight by a length of rope stretched under the animal’s belly.

Shakespeare turned to Beth Evans. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Take care in returning to the …’ He stopped, not sure what to say.

Beth laughed as she used to. ‘Don’t worry about my sensitivities, John. I know what I am – and I am not ashamed.’

‘No, of course not.’

Suddenly her smile dissolved. ‘I can only imagine your grief. I am desperately sorry for what has happened. I know you loved her.’

He nodded stiffly and turned away, then shook the reins.

The horse walked with the swaggering gait of the fine mare she was. Her powerful hind quarters swayed with every step along the difficult city roads, sometimes cobbled, sometimes mere dirt and potholes. Each step jolted Glebe, crushing his lungs and turning his belly to mush.

‘Stop a while for pity’s sake. You will shake me to death or make me shit my breeches. I need drink!’

‘Do you think anyone cares about your thirst or even your life, Glebe? Do you think Her Majesty is amused by your pernicious little story about the succession and your involvement in the gunpowder conspiracy? Death awaits you.’

‘None of it was me! I beg you to listen.’

Glebe was having trouble talking. The taut straps and jogging of the beast continually winded him and loosened his bowels.

Shakespeare stopped the horse. ‘So who was it?’

Glebe said nothing for a few moments. Shakespeare shook the rein and the mare walked on.

‘Stop. Stop!’

Shakespeare halted again. He looked at the miserable bundle across the back of his horse. Glebe was dressed in good clothes. A well-made brown doublet and breeches, a cambric falling band around his neck. But he was a villainous, untrustworthy creature who scratched a living out of other men’s misfortunes. He had crossed Shakespeare’s path before and he had not liked him then. He could not bring himself even to read what the worm had written about the blast that killed Catherine. He knew it would dredge up her Papist past and his own failings.

‘I will give you a name.’

Shakespeare said nothing.

‘Mr Shakespeare, you must let me down from here. I beg you, not the Tower. Not Little Ease. I will tell you everything you wish to know. God’s death, I could kill that whore-bitch Beth Evans.’ He began coughing uncontrollably.

Shakespeare looked at him in silence.

‘Give me at least a chance,’ Glebe said when the coughing fit subsided.

‘Why?’

‘Because I can give you what you want.’

‘You will give me what I want in Little Ease, and I will trust your answers more when you are there.’

‘I pledge it, by all that is holy. I swear on my life and my mother’s soul.’

‘Holy? I have heard such words from you before, Glebe. They were as ash and aloes in your mouth.’

They were near Leadenhall, a few minutes’ walk from the Tower. Around them, the world passed in a noisy clattering of hooves, creaking of wagons and calling of wares. No one paid them heed. Another felon taken in to face justice – who should care about that?

‘Very well. His name is Laveroke. Luke Laveroke.’

‘The name means nothing. I have not heard of him. Tell me more.’

‘Do you pledge to free me? I have already told you enough to cost my life.’

‘Free you? You still fancy yourself the jester, I see.’

‘Anywhere but the Tower and I will talk.’

Shakespeare hesitated a few moments, then slapped the mare into a slow walk once more. He leant over to Glebe and whispered in his ear. ‘Very well. I have just the hole for you. But if for one moment I do not feel you are cooperating – if I feel you are holding anything back from me – think on this: it will be but a short hurdle ride to Little Ease …’

Boltfoot did not fear for his own life, yet he was aware enough to know that he was in a perilous place. Every so often another man, or a pair of men, came into the workshop to converse with Warboys. Their voices and language were guarded and Boltfoot found it difficult to follow what they said. They spoke of deliveries, trainbands and, most confusingly of all, a sieve. But they spoke in low voices and their conversations seemed deliberately to be couched in terms that made their meaning indecipherable. Boltfoot affected to pay them no heed and carried on with his work, chiselling and planing with precision. Warboys, meanwhile, drank pint after pint of strong ale.

On several occasions, men came from other parts of the house and simply nodded in acknowledgement on their way through, or stood awhile, watching, before retreating into the depths of the tenement.

At last Boltfoot was finished and stood back from the workbench. Warboys put down his jar of strong ale and held up the old arquebus in the slanting light from the window. His hands were surprisingly steady, given the amount he had drunk. ‘A fair piece of work that, Mr Cooper. A serviceable stock you have crafted there. We do, indeed, need a man like you.’

‘Good. That is what I desire. I will help in any wise I can.’

‘
Any
wise, Mr Cooper? Do you have no reservations?’

‘None.’

‘That is good. Faint-hearts do not fare well with us. What do you believe?’

Boltfoot frowned, not comprehending the nature of the question.

‘Do you believe in one God? Do you believe in the devil? Do you believe the dead will rise when called on?’

‘No, not necromancy, though I had thought I saw things – spirits – in storms at sea. And yes, of course I believe in God.’

‘Of course. What man would not …’ Warboys’s nostrils dilated and he spoke with such scorn that Boltfoot gained a clear impression that this man did
not
believe in God. ‘And yet, Mr Cooper, though I know that there are many dark things man does not know or understand, I also know that he needs solid things in the here and now – weapons of war. Hagbuts and halberds.’

‘What would you have me do?’

‘You will find out soon enough, Mr Cooper. Barrels, certainly, but there are other requirements, too … Have patience.’

‘First, I must attend to certain matters. I will leave you now and be back here soon after dawn.’

Warboys’s laugh came from the depths of his throat and would have intimidated a lesser man. There was humour in it, but only the humour of a cat that has a rat with which to amuse itself.

Boltfoot’s whole body stiffened. He looked at his cutlass and caliver in the corner of the workroom, on the floor against the wall; they were useless to him in these circumstances. ‘I have things to organise, a horse to see fed and stabled.’ More than anything, he had to get word to Master Shakespeare.

‘You are not going anywhere. You are one of us now, an apostle of the Free English Trainband. We must stay together. You may be a volunteer, Mr Cooper, but I must advise you to consider yourself one of us. Once a man is with us, there is only one way for him to leave.’

There was no point in arguing. He could not appear reluctant. ‘I have fought for England before, Mr Warboys, and I will happily venture my life again. But what of my horse? I think he deserves his feed and a stable for the night.’

‘Where is he?’

‘By St Botolph. If I see to him now, I could be back within an hour or two.’

Warboys clapped him on the back. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Cooper. We’ll see to the nag on our way.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘You will find out all you need. Now pick up your fine weapons, and let us be gone. Men are waiting for us, each and every one of them with a common complaint – their livelihoods have been stolen from them and they and their families have been left to starve.’

‘God’s blood, John, this is a terrible pass,’ Henbird said.

Shakespeare pushed Glebe down roughly on to a settle. ‘I wish you to keep this miserable churl safe, Nicholas. Question him with me, then lock him away. You have a cellar?’

‘Beneath a concealed trapdoor. It’ll hold this fellow safe enough. And I have information for you.’

‘Hold it until we have dispensed with Glebe.’

They were in Nicholas Henbird’s pleasant solar room. The sky was dull, but even on such a day, light flooded in through large windows. Glebe, his arms bound behind his back, sat on a settle by a window. He looked as disconsolate as the sky.

Shakespeare glared at Glebe with contempt, then turned back to Henbird. ‘He has mentioned a name. Laveroke. Have you heard of him, Nick?’

Henbird shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Perhaps he is an invention of Glebe’s gong-house mind.’

‘I swear it, Mr Shakespeare. He is all too real, though I wish I had never met him.’

‘Tell us all you know. Who is this man, where did you meet, why is he using your broadsheet?’

‘I was approached by him,’ Glebe said in a quavering voice. ‘In a tavern.’

‘Which tavern?’

‘The Swan in Gray’s Inn Road. I go there often, to listen to the lawyers talk, to garner what news I may. This man, this Laveroke, approached me and asked if I would publish a goodly tale. He said he knew of me from friends. He told me he could give me stories that would sell the
Informer
by the wagonload. Not only that, he said, but he would pay me two pounds in gold for each story I published. How could I refuse such an offer, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘So you became
Tamburlaine’s Apostle
?’

‘No, that was Laveroke. He was the author of the stories: he put that name at the end. And they were good stories, Mr Shakespeare, the news the people wished to read.’

Henbird stood still by his great desk. ‘You must have realised you were delving into treacherous waters, Mr Glebe.’

Glebe nodded. ‘I was concerned, Mr Henbird, indeed I was. But which publisher would not want such tales? And to be paid gold as well …’

‘You should have gone straightway to the Privy Council or, at the very least, to Stationers’ Hall, and you know it, Glebe,’ Shakespeare said. ‘Tell me of this Laveroke. What manner of man is he?’

Glebe sat in sullen resignation. ‘What are you going to do with me, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘That very much depends on you, Glebe. You have saved yourself from Little Ease thus far. But Sir Robert Cecil wishes you consigned to Newgate, and from there to Tyburn. You would do well to convince me otherwise.’

Glebe sighed heavily. ‘In truth, Mr Shakespeare, I thought Laveroke gentry, perhaps even nobility. He had an air about him, sir, an air …’

‘Explain.’

‘I thought him used to command. He was well attired in fine doublet. He had a jewelled dagger at his waist and, though not fat, he looked prosperous.’

‘After this first meeting at The Swan, where did you talk? Did he bring the stories to you at the house near Aldersgate?’

‘No. There is a tavern where I usually take my evening repast, The Mitre. He would come to me there. I had no idea when he would come. He would arrive with the story written in what I took to be his hand and with two pounds in gold.’

‘What was his voice?’

‘I cannot say. I could not identify it.’

‘Spanish? French? Dutch? English?’

‘He spoke perfect English, sir, but beyond that I cannot tell you true what he was, whether of Bristol or Norwich or any other place in this land.’

‘Was he bearded?’

‘Indeed. A spade beard, I would say, neat and well trimmed, as if he had been attended by a good East Cheap barber. His face was unmarked. He was a fetching man with hair that fell to his shoulder. I noted a heavy gold band on his forefinger and pearls studding the front of his doublet.’

‘Where can I find him?’

Glebe lowered his eyes, hunching down into his shoulders. He did not look up. His voice was a mumble, but Shakespeare’s hearing was acute. ‘I do not know. I never knew. I have never seen him before and wish never to see him again, for it is meeting him that has brought me to this ugly pass.’

‘Oh no, Glebe. There is more than that. You have wit enough to know the power of the words you have published. You know well what the Council thinks of such talk. And when it is written, it is a thousand times worse, for it infects others. You know this. Whatever else you are, you are no simpleton.’

Glebe stayed silent.

‘Have you heard of one Christopher Morley?’

Glebe shook his head.

‘He stayed silent. He is now dead, with a cord wound tight about his neck. That is the price of silence. And Marlowe? Did you know Kit Marlowe or Frizer or Poley or Skeres?’