Prince - John Shakespeare 03 - (19 page)

Chapter 23

T
HE
V
IDAME DE
Chartres cut an elegant and rather unlikely figure as he reined in his horse in the neat courtyard outside the Vespers bawdy-house in the old convent of St Mary at Clerkenwell. A lantern burned outside the door. He could have brought an escort from the French embassy, where his father held sway; instead he came alone.

He dismounted, tethered his horse and pushed through the unlocked door into the spacious, well-draped and brightly lit interior.

For a moment he stood in the entrance hall taking in his surroundings. He wore no hat and his head was tilted back as he looked about him, his long dark hair swinging as though it had a life of its own. He stood with his shoulders back, a proud man, pleased with himself, afraid of no one. His doublet of sunflower yellow was exceedingly tight, accentuating his slender, muscled body. He enjoyed beauty, a pleasure that extended to his own appearance.

A woman appeared and smiled at him. ‘How may we help you, kind sir?’

‘I am looking for –’ he was about to say Monique, but quickly corrected himself – ‘Lucy.’

‘Shall I say who wants her?’

‘Prégent. Prégent de la Fin.’

‘Wait here, master.’

‘No. Take me to her.’

‘I think she is with someone, sir.’

‘I care not.’ He took the young woman’s upper arm in a firm grip. ‘Come, mam’selle, take me to her.’

‘Please, sir, I cannot. She will not allow it. You are hurting me, master.’

The vidame released her. ‘Well, I shall find her myself.’ He strode forward into the great hall and looked about him. Without hesitation, he climbed the stairs.

The unfortunate whore trailed in his wake. ‘Sir, it cannot be seemly to barge in on a lady. She may be—’

‘This door?’ The vidame pushed open a door and peered in. A man knelt over the end of the bed so that his naked arse was exposed. A woman, also naked, was just behind him clutching something that looked very like a parsnip or carrot. The naked man turned at the creak of the door. His eyes met the vidame’s in horror and astonishment and he began scrabbling away to cover himself. The vidame laughed and moved on to the next room.

He was about to go in when the whore who followed him put her hands together in supplication. ‘Sir, please not that chamber,’ she begged.

‘Where then?

‘Along the way. The great chamber.’

‘Very well. You may go, mam’selle. I will not need your assistance.’

He strode to the door indicated and walked straight in. Lucy was stretched out naked, eyes closed. Beside her was a short, fat man with a hairy back. The vidame approached the bed and hauled him up. The man protested volubly, but the vidame ignored him. With little ado, he threw him from the room, tossing a selection of garments after him, and kicked the door shut. He then turned back and stared at Lucy.

Her eyes were open now, shining. She sat up in bed, reclining against a bank of pillows beneath the four-posted canopy, glaring at him.

‘Well, Monique,’ he said. ‘Do you not greet your master?’

‘I have no master. But I will say good day to you, Prégent. Good day and goodbye.’

‘I have come a long way to fetch you home …’

‘And I have come a long way to be rid of you. So I say good riddance, Prégent. I do not know how to make myself clearer.’

He stepped forward. She did not shy away. She had no fear of him. She knew he would not hurt her, nor mark her skin.

‘Did you not yearn for me, Monique?’

‘I expected you, that is for certain.’

‘I will have you back, you know. One way or another. You belong to me, body and soul. By the laws of God and man, you are mine, paid for in gold and in passion.’

‘You paid for a slave. But this land has no slavery, so I am no slave, nor ever will be again, neither to you nor any other man. I would kill you before that.’

‘So you wish your freedom?’

‘I have it.’

The vidame gazed upon her dark skin. He knew and adored every inch of it. He knew its value, too, for he had paid a handsome price for her. Eight thousand Venetian ducats, in gold.

‘I need you, Monique.’

‘Then pay for me, like all the rest. And my name is Lucy, not Monique. Two sovereigns will buy you a night.’

‘Can one put a price on love? Do you know how much I paid for you?’

‘If it was more than two sovereigns, you are more a fool than ever I thought, Prégent, for that is the price.’

‘If I were to free you I would need eight thousand golden ducats.’ He looked around the chamber. ‘You have a fair property here, but a long way from such a sum. How much is in your coffers?’

‘None for you. I
take
money from men, not give it.’

‘But you are a whore now, so you are used to striking a bargain. You will pay me or come with me, for this Virgin Queen will hand you to me. She wishes to keep the French and their embassy happy.’

As he spoke, the door opened. Beth Evans entered with two men. They were large and powerfully built and wore the livery of serving men. ‘I thought you might need a little assistance, Lucy,’ Beth said.

‘This man is just leaving. Perhaps you would show him to the door.’

The vidame unsheathed his sword and turned away from the men, unconcerned. He held up the bright, untarnished blade so that it caught the flickering candlelight, and he ran its finely honed edge between his perfectly manicured fingers. ‘Do you remember my swordsman’s skills, Monique? Would you pit your poor brutes against my blade?’

Lucy looked towards Beth and the two men and shook her head. ‘Leave him. He would slice you as fine as bacon before you had even touched him.’

The vidame smiled. ‘Fear not. I am leaving now. But think on what I have said, Monique. I would like to say that the choice is yours, but we both know that is really not the case.’ Sliding the blade back into its scabbard, he leant across the bed and kissed Lucy on her exquisite black thigh.

Chapter 24

A
T THE END
of the training the band dispersed into smaller groups and marched back through the dark streets to the house where Boltfoot had carved the new arquebus stock. From the workshop, they herded through towards the back of the building where there was a refectory with two long tables.

One of the men, some sort of lieutenant to Warboys, who had left the group earlier, grasped Boltfoot by the arm. ‘You see these men, Cooper. They’re a fine-looking bunch, wouldn’t you say?’

Boltoot had seen better, but he had seen much worse. He grunted an affirmative.

‘They were in poor ways when we found them. Him over there –’ he nodded towards a healthy though otherwise unremarkable man of about thirty – ‘he was curled up like a stillborn in the mud by the river, just waiting for the tide to take him. Food and training we gave him and now he’ll happily die for England. Now get some food for yourself. You’ve earned it well today.’

Boltfoot counted near forty men in all. At the end of the large room was a table with two steaming pots. The men collected trenchers from a pile and filed past as two solid-looking drabs ladled out generous helpings of a thick mutton broth and a mash of swede or turnip. Each man was also given a tankard of ale, and then took his place at the table benches and began to eat.

So far, Boltfoot had not managed to have much of a conversation with any of these men. He thought them a dour lot, much less cheery than he might have expected to find aboard a ship.

‘Good fare,’ he said to the fellow on his left.

The man was no taller than Boltfoot and heavy-set with dull eyes. He looked at Boltfoot, said nothing, then returned to his food. Boltfoot shrugged his shoulders and turned to the man at his right. He was of a different cast. His eyes seemed more intelligent than most of those here and he had shared a jest or two out at the Artillery Yard.

‘Well,’ Boltfoot said, ‘leastwise we won’t die of hunger.’

‘Plenty of other ways to die though, ain’t there.’

‘I’m Cooper. By name and calling.’

‘And my name’s my own business, but I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Cooper. You can stand by me in the line of fire any day, for you powder your fine caliver like a proper fighting man and have a good aim.’

‘I should say you have a good aim yourself, Mr No-Name.’

The fellow laughed, then put down his wooden spoon and proffered his hand for Boltfoot to shake, which he did.

‘Where are you from?’ Boltfoot asked at length.

The man looked at him. ‘Why would you wish to know that?’

‘Just making talk.’

‘A man can be too curious, but I think you know that. For what it’s worth, I am from these parts, London-born. I was a cobbler, worked for a shoe mercer in the city. Had a shilling a day, which just about kept my wife and six bairns fed and sheltered. When the mercer died, I looked for work elsewhere, but everywhere I went there was Dutch shoemakers setting up and they only employed their own kind. One by one the children died of hunger or ague, all but one daughter, then my goodwife got took by the pest. So now I mend the boots of the men here and know how to handle a matchlock with the best. I’ll make a better England for the girl.’ He laughed suddenly, with bitter loathing. ‘Look around this room, you’ll hear this story from half the men or more.’

Just then, Warboys arrived at the head of the room. He stood and looked about, then clapped his hands to call the room to attention. Other men had already drifted in during the course of the meal and the place was now packed out, both standing and sitting. There was a strange light, with half a dozen wall sconces flickering shadows back and forth. The room had the expectant, nervy atmosphere of a crowded dog-fighting pit. Spoons stopped clattering against bowls and the men fell silent.

Boltfoot had seen mutinous men before. There had been times enough aboard the
Golden Hind
with Drake when the crew would happily have slit their captain-general’s throat and taken over the ship, excepting they didn’t have the knowledge or skill to sail her home without the officers and pilot. But this band here, in this crowded room east of the city, was of a different order. He saw that he was surrounded by men so driven by despair that now they had nothing to lose. They had sunk low, as his copesmate at the table had indicated, but now they were disciplined and determined. And they were well armed.

From the side of the room a small figure appeared. For a moment it seemed he had a halo of gold about his head, but then Boltfoot realised it was his hair that glowed in the candlelight. It was a most unusual colour, like the amber that mariners were wont to pick up from the beaches of the Baltic Sea. His eyes, too, were of a similar hue and shone in the shadowy light.

The man wore workmen’s clothes, as did everyone else in this room. Boltfoot knew immediately, from the descriptions given him at the Three Mills and at Godstone, that this was Holy Trinity Curl.

Curl climbed on to a stool so that he overtopped all those present. For a few moments he merely stood there, looking from left to right, surveying his audience, now utterly hushed.

‘It is a fine thing to see so many honest English faces,’ he said at last. His voice was quiet but strong. His words were met by a thunderous round of applause and banging of jugs and bowls on the table.

Boltfoot saw the reaction and joined in, clapping his hands together with the rest. He studied the gaunt, set faces of the men, illuminated by the unsteady light of the candles.

‘We are all here in common cause. We are poor artificers and working men who have seen their fellows and their families starve and die while the strangers who now inhabit this land grow fat and rich.’

Curl’s voice began to rise in intensity.

‘When this century did begin, no vagabonds were seen abroad in England for every man had work to do and food on his table. Now there are twelve thousand sturdy beggars in London alone – and that be the Lord Mayor’s own figure. Sturdy beggars they call them and put them into Bridewell to be shackled and lashed. Sturdy beggars, when all they beg is the chance to do a day’s work and feed their children. And who took their work away? You all know who, for it has happened to you. The dirty strangers of France, the Germanys and the Low Countries. A turd in all their mouths!’

The throng roared its anger. Curl cursed the strangers again and vowed to kill them and their wives and children, in their churches and in their beds. His eyes glared into the flickering gloom. He railed at Egyptians and Jews, at France and Belgia. ‘Their cut-throat merchants undo us all! They take our trade and raise our rents, while our soldiers are sent abroad to the wars – to
their
wars – to die like dogs for
their
lands. But we’ll cut
their
throats. We’ll blow
them
to dust. We will spill more blood than was spilled at Paris …’

On and on he went, cheered by every man, his voice increasing and becoming hoarse with fury, laying out in painstaking detail all the sins of the foreigners – their importation of foreign goods to undercut the English, their sham religion, their selling of low-priced wares at markets, their secret desire to take over and rule this land.

‘And how is this allowed? Who profits in England to permit this secret invasion of our city and country? The nobles. Aye, the nobles. Did I say
noble
? There is nothing noble about the upstart Cecils, nor Heneage, nor Howard of Effingham, nor any of the Council or court, save Her Majesty. These pearl-clad courtiers wound their country and their queen for lucre’s sake. Spanish gold and Dutch diamonds, that is what they covet and get from our blood. And yet they had best beware, for our blades are honed and our powder is dry.’

For an hour, he went on, repeating time and again the perceived sins of the strangers, the nobility that allowed them into England, and what would be done against them. At times, his voice calmed and he spoke in measured tones, then it raged like a tempest and his lips were flecked with spit. Finally, he turned to his vision of an England in which all men were landowners and free, where the nobility had been cast down and set to the yoke.

Curl shook his clenched right fist. ‘There shall be such an explosion of sentiment in this city that none may withstand it. Tread on a worm and it will turn. I say to stranger and treacherous noble alike, fly! Fly now or die! The time is almost here …’

For a full two minutes he stood erect, fist raised, accepting the frenzied applause of his followers. Some men came up to him and kissed his feet, others shook their hagbuts and daggers in the air. Then he stepped down from his stool and shook the hands of those clustered close to him, including Mr Warboys.

Warboys leant close to Curl and seemed to whisper a few words in his ear, at which Curl nodded. Warboys then looked across to Boltfoot and signalled with his hand for him to come over.

Boltfoot pushed through the mass of men towards the front of the room.

‘This is Mr Cooper,’ Warboys said. ‘He says he is eager to serve you.’

Curl smiled gravely and took Boltfoot by the hand, his amber eyes delving deep, as though looking for his soul. ‘I want no man to serve me, Mr Cooper,’ he said. ‘I want these men to serve
England
. Drink a gage of good English booze tonight and prepare to pay the blood price when you are called. Are you with us, Mr Cooper?’

Boltfoot grunted. He would rather eat his own balls than fight alongside this man.

‘Mr Warboys tells me you are a skilled woodworker. We have need of such men.’

‘It’s what I do, Mr Curl, and I don’t want to be doing it for no Dutchman.’

‘Then we are as one. Now drink ale and get sleep.’

Curl shook Boltfoot’s hand again, then turned away.

‘There is a dry palliasse for you upstairs, Mr Cooper,’ Warboys said. ‘With the other men. You will be up at dawn and there will be food for you, then work.’

It occurred to Boltfoot that he was indeed a pressed man, if not a prisoner. He could as well get out of this house as he could have removed himself safely from a ship-of-war in the middle of the Western Ocean. At least at sea, he had a vague notion of where he was headed. Here, in this house, trapped, he had no idea what might be waiting on the morrow.

He picked up his blackjack of ale and drank a deep draught. His eyes over the lip of the jug caught another man’s eyes. Their eyes locked. Suddenly a door was opened and a breeze came into the room blowing out half of the candles. Boltfoot’s skin crept with dread. The way the man had looked at him. Did he know him? If so, Boltfoot could not place him. He was a cold-faced, unremarkable man, with dark hair, thick as a horse’s mane, and a mouth so turned down that it was impossible to believe he had ever in his life smiled. Boltfoot looked away.

Had he seen that face before? Had they once been crewmates under Drake? He struggled to find a memory, but could discover none. He gazed again in the direction of the man to seek some clue in his face, but the man had vanished.