Prince - John Shakespeare 03 - (29 page)

Chapter 37

A
T FIRST THEY
saw a plume of flame shoot up, fifty, a hundred feet in the air, perhaps more. A whoosh of fire, as if the earth itself spewed forth its entrails. So monstrous, so malevolent, it towered over the world and grew so that a man might think it would develop horns, hooves and a flashing red tail.

Almost simultaneously there was a great cloud of smoke, littered with a mass of wood splinters, iron, stones, bodies; all hurled upwards and outwards with uncontainable, venomous energy. Then the sound, a blast of such ear-splitting ferocity that the brain could scarcely register it, and the shock – a sudden wind with the power to knock a man off his feet, senseless.

The
Swiftsure
pitched over to the larboard at such an angle that all those aboard, all the cannon, all the stores, were hurled down. One saker drove two gunners into the sea, another crushed the master gunner’s left leg.

Shakespeare fell hard into the bulwark, which saved him from going over the side. Boltfoot smacked into him, winding them both.

As the vessel righted itself, then heeled back over, they saw Mr Adam and the helmsman sliding across the deck like a pair of children sliding down a slope of snow on wooden boards. Shakespeare clung on to a rope, and Boltfoot clung on to Shakespeare’s waist.

At last the
Swiftsure
steadied. Shakespeare jumped up. He looked over the bulwark and saw two men in the sea. ‘Men overboard!’ he shouted, and dived in without thinking what he was going to do.

The water was churning foam. For the second time that day Shakespeare pushed out with an overarm stroke to try to save life. Then he saw the ship’s boat, broken loose from its line to the
Swiftsure
, just two yards away. He lunged for it, grabbed the side and clambered in. There were two oars aboard. He started rowing towards the two seamen, one of whom was floundering, the other seeming unconscious.

Up on the ship’s deck, Boltfoot looked upriver to a patch of water and floating debris where once a hundred-ton bark had been. Now it was no more than a hulk, alight and belching forth hot steam and smoke and surrounded by flotsam. No one within a hundred yards of the
Sieve
could have survived. Boltfoot looked at his hand. It was shaking. His hand had never shaken before, even in the hottest exchange of fire. He tried to imagine what such a blast would have done to London Bridge. It would have reduced its nine-hundred-foot span to rubble.

James Adam struggled to his feet and came across the wet, slippery deck to where Boltfoot stood. He put an arm around his shoulders. For a moment, Boltfoot forgot the pain of his scorched back and welcomed the touch of another human being.

‘God’s teeth, Mr Cooper, but my ears are ringing like Bow bells. I think it fair to say we hit the correct vessel, don’t you?’

Boltfoot found himself laughing for the first time in many days. ‘Aye, that I do, Mr Adam,’ he said, shouting against the din of his own ringing ears.
Plenty of holes in that Sieve now
, he thought, but declined to say it.

Debris started to rain down on them – wood, ash, fluttering shreds of sail, blood.

‘Time to haul Mr Shakespeare aboard and look to the injured,’ Adam shouted back.

The damage to the
Swiftsure
was not great. A broken spar, cracks in the bulwarks and gunports where the sakers had rolled. The whipstaff and bilge-pump would need repairs, but they were minor faults, easily remedied.

The harm to the men was greater. The master gunner’s shin and thigh were broken and one of the sailors Shakespeare had brought in had concussion from a head injury. As the officers fought to bring order out of chaos, Shakespeare suddenly realised that Peter Gulden, the clockmaker, was missing.

‘I saw him jump,’ Boltfoot said. ‘Just before the hellburner went up.’

They all peered over the bulwarks into the water.

‘No sign of him,’ Shakespeare said.

‘Better dead than what he had coming had he lived,’ Adam said.

‘Wait – I think I see him there, amid the wreckage.’

There was a body, floating face down. They could tell from the man’s rich attire and bald head that it was Gulden. From this distance, it seemed almost certain that he was dead. A pair of sailors were despatched to bring the body aboard.

Shakespeare said nothing. It would have been better if he had taken his life before ever he designed so foul a device, but Gulden had found his courage at last. He had been weak, not evil.

The
Swiftsure
was making way slowly. All along the route, they saw the anxious, news-greedy faces of spectators lining the banks. None knew what had happened and no one aboard the ship was about to tell them.

The officers and crew kept a look-out to see whether any other shipping or fisher boats needed assistance. The damage wrought seemed mercifully slight. Shakespeare looked over the poop bulwark at the remains of the
Sieve
. He saw the bodies of three of the black-clad Scots, floating face down. He could not tell whether they were men or women. Boltfoot had told him a little of their strange rituals. Doubtless other bodies would appear in the days to come, for none could have survived.

‘Sister Agnes and Sister Gellie, you say?’

‘They were kin of witches by that name, Mr Shakespeare,’ Boltfoot said gloomily. ‘Burned by James for setting to sea in sieves with intent to sink his ship.’

Shakespeare shook his head in bewilderment. Scots or English, heathen or Christian, he was certain of one thing: they were pawns in a bigger game. This was a Spanish conspiracy; Gulden the clockmaker had confirmed it. Everything had come from Madrid and from the Spanish regime in the Low Countries, and it was far from done. ‘We cannot rest, Boltfoot. We must find this prince of Scots.’

At the time of the explosion, horses had reared and whinnied, men and women had stopped their work as far away as Chelsea and had looked at each other with questioning, unbelieving eyes. Was this the second coming, or had a powdermill exploded? London was rife with rumour and fear. At Greenwich Palace, Sir Robert Cecil had closed his keen eyes and murmured a prayer of supplication. He knew he would be summoned by the Queen for an explanation, so he immediately sent out messengers to gather information and to order the palace guard doubled, before making his way to the presence-chamber.

Across the river, Holy Trinity Curl had felt a surge of pride and satisfaction. It was all coming together. He would have his vengeance. The Dutch would die in their hundreds. He would make a special diversion to the Sluyterman household and do for them, every one. That would be the greatest pleasure.
Sluyterman.
The very name stank of foreign treachery and usury.

Oliver Kettle’s brow furrowed at the sound of the blast. ‘Mr Curl,’ he said. ‘This is three or more hours early. And the direction of the sound is not right. I would swear that blast was in the east, not the west.’

‘Sound plays tricks, Mr Kettle. It will echo and distort. That was our hellburner, there can be no doubt. Glory be, the wind must have carried it sooner than we could have hoped. Have you ever heard a more thunderous or wondrous sound?’ He turned to the gathering. ‘This is our time, men. Have courage. File from here in good order and follow your commanders with the mettle of true Englishmen. When they see what damage is wrought, the prentices and journeymen will rise up in their hundreds, then their thousands. The stout hearts of London will join you, this I pledge.’

The
Swiftsure
picked up a group of six men whose fishing boat had been turned over and who were clinging to the upturned hull. They also went to the assistance of a fisher who had been struck by flying debris.

In the early afternoon, Adam ordered the ship to drop anchor off Greenwich to await the turn of the tide, which would not be long. Shakespeare and Boltfoot disembarked with the injured gunnery crew and the fishermen.

Cecil was on the quayside, standing apart from a group of courtiers. He was clutching a crystal goblet of red wine. Shakespeare hurriedly despatched Boltfoot and the seamen to be treated for their injuries, then bowed low to Cecil. The privy councillor was more tense than he had ever seen him.

‘You heard the blast, Sir Robert?’

‘Of course I heard the blast. They must have heard it in France!’

‘It was a hellburner, greater even than the one used at Antwerp. Thanks to God’s will and fine English gunnery, we were able to destroy it off Erith marshes. They had meant to blow the bridge and bring slaughter and mayhem to London. It was a conspiracy of terrible proportions involving many men. Even your father’s intelligencer William Sarjent. There is much to be told.’

‘Sarjent? God’s faith, John, I am sorry …’

‘He and Quincesmith have been double-dealing for years, since their time in the Low Countries. I suspect they took many tons of powder from Rotherhithe. They were in league with Baines and a rabble-rouser called Curl – and they nearly did for poor Boltfoot.’

‘My father will be mortified. He never suspected Sarjent. If such a man betrays us, then who is to be trusted?’ He shook his head gravely. ‘Much has happened, John. The palace has been in uproar. The royal guard has been engaged in a skirmish with a band of renegades within this past hour. Seven of them, all now dead. They came upon Greenwich with stealth, thinking to storm through the palace unhindered. The guard was ready and killed them like dogs.’

‘They must have been Curl’s men.’

‘Indeed. And a man identified as this same Curl tried to march through the city to the bridge. I am told his militia stopped in its tracks, open-mouthed with horror when they came close to the bridge, as if they had seen a spectre. Clearly, they had expected to see it destroyed and hoped to garner support among the people of London. Little did they realise what affection our London folk hold for Her Royal Majesty. When no one joined their band, they seemed unsure of what to do next. They were milling about like lost sheep when a detachment from the Tower found them and engaged them. Most of Curl’s men tried to turn tail. Two or three escaped, but the others were either killed or captured. That is not all: there was another disturbance, at the Dutch church. But it was already heavily guarded and the rebels were driven off, excepting two dead, one of them their ringleader, a Mr Kettle.’

‘What of Curl? Was he taken?’

Cecil shook his head briskly. ‘No. He was recognised in the skirmish but escaped. What I want to know, Mr Shakespeare, is what in God’s name is going on? Do we have a civil war on our hands?’

‘It seems we have quelled the first wave, Sir Robert.’

‘But?’

‘But there is still this prince of Scots. Somewhere. We must find Baines and the Spanish woman. They hold the keys to this.’

Cecil looked grim. His hand tightened around his crystal cup of wine. ‘This is not over – will never be over – while the Papists of this realm believe such a prince exists. Get to him before it is too late.’

Chapter 38

S
HAKESPEARE TROD THROUGH
the acrid dungeons of Newgate gaol. At his side, struggling to keep up, was the keeper, a stout fellow with a red beard and well-fed belly, whom he knew well.

‘Tell me, master keeper, who brought him here?’

‘The constable of Westminster, Mr Shakespeare, sent by the sheriff.’

‘Where was he found?’

‘He had sought refuge with the Member of Parliament, Mr Topcliffe, sir, but was immediately arrested by that gentleman and handed over to the constable.’

Shakespeare laughed bitterly. ‘Mr Topcliffe was always good at protecting his back.’

‘Indeed, master.’

They found Holy Trinity Curl sullen and silent in Limbo, Newgate’s deepest pit. What little air was to be had in this lightless hole was putrid with stench and disease. This was a waiting-room for death, the place men came when the only journey left was the ride to the scaffold.

Shakespeare held a candle in his hand and looked at the miserable figure without compassion. ‘I have some questions for you, Mr Curl. You are about to meet your maker. I cannot promise this, but you may think it possible you will receive a less hostile reception in the hereafter if you cooperate with the forces of the law in the here and now.’

Curl said nothing.

Shakespeare could see that the man had been injured. He had an untreated gash on his temple and blood caked his strange amber hair and beard.

‘You have nothing to lose by talking, and I can make your last hours easier by having food and ale brought to you. Tell me this, at least. You knew one Christopher Marlowe, yes?’

‘Tell him, Curl.’ The voice of another condemned man came from the darkness. ‘If you don’t want ale, there’s others here that do.’

Shakespeare looked into the shadows at the man who had just spoken and felt a sudden surge of pity for him. This cell was filled with humankind brought to its lowest ebb. There were twenty men here waiting the noose for various crimes. He determined to send them ale, whatever the outcome of his talk with Curl.

‘Well, Mr Curl? Talk.’

‘I knew of Marlowe. Who didn’t?’ Curl spoke with a surprisingly firm voice.

‘And you sought his death?’

‘No. Why should I?’

‘So you did not have him killed by Poley and Frizer in Ellie Bull’s house in Deptford.’

Curl shook his head. ‘I heard of that death, but that was nothing to do with me. He was nothing to us.’

‘But you signed your poster
Tamburlaine
. And you had Glebe write broadsheets signed
Tamburlaine’s Apostle
…’

‘I never knew what that was about.’

‘Who suggested it? Baines?’

Curl looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Never heard the name.’

‘How about Laveroke?’

Curl nodded.

‘They are one and the same. Laveroke is Richard Baines, a notorious intelligencer.’

‘So? Many people use different names. Many more earn a crust of bread selling secrets to men like you.’

‘And would it surprise you to learn that Mr Laveroke, alias Baines, is an ordained priest and that he was working for Spain?’

Curl blanched. He seemed to gasp and almost shrink. He was silent a moment, then he struggled angrily against his fetters. ‘You lie!’

‘No, Mr Curl, I do not lie. He worked for Spain – as did you, though you never knew it. Had you succeeded in your designs against the strangers of the Low Countries and against the Crown, you would have brought strangers here of an altogether different cast: the steel morion and blade of the Spaniard. You would have opened the floodgate to Philip’s murderous yoke and the Pope’s Inquisition.’

‘No.’

‘Yes, Mr Curl. They thought you a convenient tool. I see you as nothing more than an inconvenient fool. Tomorrow, I will bury my wife because of your unholy deeds. It is as much as I can do not to cut your throat here, but I will let the law run its course.’

‘Your wife was an accident. We wanted to kill the Dutch …’

‘It was no accident. It was murder. But there is still one thing that puzzles me: who were those Scots, the ones in the black gowns? What was your cause to them?’

Curl laughed. ‘A strange lot. They were Laveroke’s. He brought them down. They were kin of the witches burned by King James. Laveroke promised them vengeance and death to the King in return for building and manning the hellburner.’

‘Why not use Englishmen?’

‘Because we knew there would be spies among the English – spies like your little friend Cooper. There would be no such spies among the Scots. We could not afford to have word get out about the hellburner, so they were the ones that carried the powder there and fashioned her.’

Shakespeare nodded. It showed the diabolical range and extent of this conspiracy. Whether any other than Baines understood it to be a Spanish plot, they might never know. But where was he now? Clearly Curl would not know.

‘And where is this Scots prince?’

‘That’s nothing to do with us. That’s just broadsheet tittle-tattle. Why would we care about a Scots prince?’

‘Indeed.’ Shakespeare nodded his head slowly. This man really had no idea what he had been engaged in. ‘One last question, Mr Curl, and I will send you ale. Why did you seek sanctuary at Topcliffe’s house?’

Curl laughed again. ‘Because I thought he was on our side. Now I know that he is on no one’s side but his own.’

John Shakespeare walked to the church of St John in Walbrook, holding the hands of Mary and Grace. Andrew walked at their side. A few paces behind them came Boltfoot Cooper with Jane, who carried their baby.

A few chosen friends were there to pay their respects. Catherine’s brother was down from Cambridge, as were her old friend Berthe Haan, the Sluyterman family and Susanna, on her first day out of hospital. There were no more than twenty mourners. Sir Robert Cecil was not there, and Shakespeare understood why. Catherine would wish her requiem mass to be said in the Romish way and Cecil could not be seen to condone such a thing.

‘There will be no repercussions, John. Find a seminary priest to say the mass and I vow he will have free passage on this day. Take one from Bridewell or the Marshalsea. But I ask only this: keep the church door closed while the mass is said, so that the people of London do not hear of it. Keep the sad occasion small in scale and private.’

Many tears were shed, though not by John Shakespeare. The tears that, throughout his life, had habitually pricked his eyes with the onset of emotion, were dry in the face of such overwhelming grief.

After the burial, he asked Boltfoot and Jane to take the children home without him, so that he might be alone at the graveside. The day was bright and the sky was blue. It should have been black with clouds and a constant rain.

He spoke to her, head bowed, as though she were there. ‘I should have been a better husband to you. I should have understood more. Thank you, Catherine, for our days together. Thank you for the children.’

A man came and stood beside him. Shakespeare turned and looked into his eyes. He knew that face, that grey hair and that well-cut beard, but could not recall where he had seen them.

‘We met at a crossroads,’ the man said. ‘You seemed lost. Did you find the way to go?’

Shakespeare shook his head. ‘I found a way. But I do not know if it is the right way.’

The man put his arm around Shakespeare’s shoulders. ‘God gave us free will, yet we pray to him to show us the way. Can a man have a guide and yet choose his own path?’

Shakespeare hung his head. He could not move from this man’s arms. The tears were flowing now, washing down his face. He uttered great choking sobs, weeping in a way he had not done since childhood.

‘And yet He is with us, John. He is with you …’

The quiet unnerved Shakespeare. His ears still rang from the deafening blast of the hellburner, yet all else descended into silence. Cecil had sent messages to Scotland, but no word was received back of any attempt on the King’s life. Luke Laveroke, alias Richard Baines, seemed to have disappeared into the ether, as had Rabbie Bruce. Nor was there any sign of Doña Ana.

While Boltfoot lay, face down, on his bed, his back slathered with ointments brought from the apothecary, Shakespeare followed what leads he could muster. He went again to Henbird and together they stepped down to his cellar to talk with Walstan Glebe. Shakespeare came to realise there was some value in the man. ‘Work for me, Mr Glebe,’ he said of a sudden. ‘And I will ensure your press is licensed. But I vow that if ever you do a trade of the sort you did with Laveroke, I will personally drive the tumbrel that carries you to the gallows. Everything you hear, you will pass to me, however small. Do you understand?’

Glebe, happy to be alive and pleased at the chance of release from his piss-acrid cell, accepted the offer. Shakespeare knew he could never be trusted, yet he knew, too, that he could not function without the services of such doubtful men.

‘What I most want from you, Glebe, is any word on the whereabouts of this prince of Scots.’

‘Thank you, Mr Shakespeare. I pledge I will keep my ears open.’

‘Good, for if you do not, they shall surely be sliced off by order of the court. And in the meantime, I will have a little task for you to perform with your confounded press. There is a matter that needs to be set straight.’

In Privy Council, Sir Robert Cecil demanded information from the Earl of Essex. ‘You know whom we seek, my lord, where is this woman? I ask this, for it is known that she was at your house.’

Essex, irritated at being asked such a question in a way that seemed to accuse him of collusion with Ana Cabral, bridled. ‘I do not know what you mean, Sir Robert …’ But he did know what he meant, and he knew, too, that Cecil had the Queen’s backing in asking it. He tilted his proud chin and gazed down his nose at his little rival. ‘All I can tell you is that I have not seen the wretched whore since the day of the Golden Spur. Nor has Don Antonio, who resides with me still. In truth, I believe him glad to be rid of her.’

On Cecil’s orders, the trials of those captured in the skirmishes around the city were heard with little ado and at speed. Six men were found guilty of insurrection and riot and were sentenced to be hanged at the places they had been taken: three by the bridge, two by the Dutch church and one, Curl, in Westminster. Cecil insisted they be spared the
godly butchery
of drawing and quartering, ‘For the Queen will not have martyrs made of these so-called apostles.’

On the day of execution, Shakespeare rose at dawn and went to the refectory. Jane followed soon after, with Mary and Grace, and set about preparing food and drink for their breakfasts.

Shakespeare did not feel like eating, but he sipped some small ale. He was surprised that Andrew was absent. ‘Is he still abed, Jane?’

‘I shall go and fetch him, master.’

‘No, no. Leave the boy. He needs sleep.’

After a few minutes, Shakespeare went to Andrew’s room. The boy was not there.

Andrew Woode fought his way through the heaving crowd close to the Gatehouse at Westminster. At twelve years of age, he was nimble enough to duck under people’s arms but tall and strong enough not to be easily elbowed aside. He had the fair hair of his long-dead mother, and something of her solemn aspect. He could not remember her. All he knew of her was her portrait, in which she wore a black gown, a white coif about her hair and a cross at her slender neck. In truth, Catherine had become more of a mother to him.

The morning was bright. There was a carnival air. Street sellers shouted their wares. ‘Saffron cakes!’ ‘Kent strawberries!’ ‘Broadsheets here!’

The boy found a place at the front of the throng, with a clear view of the scaffold, not fifteen yards away. His heart pounded like the beat of a war-drum.

At seven of the clock, just as the bells of St Margaret’s began to chime, a cart came into view. In the back, arms bound tight, Andrew could see the pathetic creature who had come here to die. He was a man with amber hair, amber freckles and amber eyes; strange, piercing eyes that flickered here and there through the crowd of onlookers as though seeking someone he knew, some help or comfort in these last minutes on earth. For a moment, Andrew felt the man’s eyes meet his, then they turned away.

‘Do you have anything to say?’ the hangman demanded.

‘I beg forgiveness of Her Majesty, to whom I never meant any harm. All I did, I did for England. And if there is a God, I pray for His mercy.’

‘That’s enough.’ Without ceremony, the hangman tried to thrust a hood over the man’s head, but the condemned man shied away from it. ‘No, not the hood.’ The hangman shrugged carelessly, put the hood aside and went straight to the noose. He looped the rough hemp cord about the man’s neck, then tightened it and stepped down from the cart. For a few moments, the condemned man stood on the cart, staring ahead with terror in his eyes, then the hangman lashed the horse away.

Holy Trinity Curl swung violently. He kicked and choked. His death dance lasted twelve minutes. No one stepped forward to pull his legs and hasten death.

The crowd drifted away, bored. They had hoped for more of a speech, perhaps a jest or two from the condemned man. All London had heard of his paltry attempt at insurrection and considered it laughable. Had he really thought they would take up arms and join him? The apprentices could organise better riots at Bartholomew Fair. The real talk of the city was the hellburner. That had been some bang, some thunder.

Andrew stayed and gazed at the grotesque tableau. The distended tongue lolled out. The amber eyes, open and bulging, stared without sight. Blood from the ears streaked the beard. A dark patch on the breeches betrayed the last humiliation, pissing himself in public. Andrew breathed deeply to prevent the bile rising in his throat, then turned away. The frantic beating of his heart had calmed. The killer of the woman he loved as a mother was dead.

‘You look as if you need food and drink,’ Shakespeare said when Andrew arrived home.

‘I have no appetite, sir.’

‘No. Nor would I. But at least sup a little ale. Here.’ He handed him his own cup.