Prince - John Shakespeare 03 - (9 page)

He nodded gratefully and stepped inside. They went through to the refectory. She offered him refreshment, but he declined. His hands were clenched into pink fists. His face was flushed, the colour of raw pork belly.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Let me speak plain to you, mistress. I have tried to find lodging for Susanna, but no one is willing to help. The recent Return of Strangers, the placards, the gunpowder, our midnight call from Mr Topcliffe … all are scared.’

‘I understand.’

He looked around as if suddenly wondering where his servant girl was. ‘Is Susanna—’

Catherine shook her head. ‘You have nothing to worry about. She is well. She is in the kitchen with Jane, my housekeeper. I believe she is learning a few words of English.’

‘You are good people. Thank you.’

‘How did Susanna arrive here in England?’

‘It is a terrible story. She is the daughter of my clerk in Antwerp. He was taken prisoner by the Spanish. His throat was cut while he was bound. His wife – Susanna’s mother – has disappeared. No one knows where she is, but we fear the worst. Susanna escaped to Flushing, but she has suffered most grievously, mistress. She must not be sent back to the Low Countries. I fear she would throw herself overboard if they forced her on to a boat.’

‘We won’t let that happen to her.’

‘But she cannot stay here?’

Catherine shrank from the question. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘No, Mr Sluyterman, she cannot stay here. That would be too dangerous for all of us.’

‘What are we to do, then?’

She reached out and touched his hand reassuringly. ‘Fear not, I believe I know where she may go and remain in safety.’

Shakespeare understood well what this Perez mission was all about. One word: Essex. It was said the earl had changed from an exuberant, hot-blooded youth into a mature statesman within the past year. That, at least, was the image he wished to cultivate. Since being appointed a privy councillor just three months previously, he had been affecting the ways of an administrator, attending the House of Lords every morning and sitting in committees during the afternoon. The field of battle was now in his past; he fought instead for high office. He had certainly cozened those close to him. Shakespeare laughed bitterly at the words of the earl’s steward, Anthony Bagot, reported to him with glee by one of his intelligencers: ‘His lordship has become a new man, clean forsaking all his former youthful tricks, carrying himself with honourable gravity.’
A new man
? New tricks, perchance, but there was nothing new about the man, nor his dark desires. Shakespeare knew from sharp experience that Essex had but one ambition – his own advancement. Nobleman, workman, priest, sovereign – all could hang if they stood in his way.

The rivalry between Robert Cecil and Robert Devereux, second Earl of Essex, was well known now. This was as open as the warfare between England and Spain. So if Essex had access to the secrets of a Spanish defector, then Cecil would pay almost any sum to have them first. Achieving that was John Shakespeare’s task, and he did not relish it.

He rode through the long evening hours. It was not an easy journey, for the road was poor and deeply holed and soon turned from open farmland to dense woodland. A drizzle came towards midnight, as he walked his mare through the dark acres of Epping Forest. A steady, slow rain dripped from the high, broad-leaf trees. The darkness was all-consuming and he became slower and slower. After he passed the village of Loughton, the tracks became thinner and more difficult to follow, with no milestones evident. His progress was painful. He had to pick his way like a blind man, continually ducking below low branches and over trees fallen across the muddy, neglected path. He was making not more than one mile to the hour. Finally, in the early morning, in the still twilight before dawn, he arrived at the hamlet of Epping. The rain had stopped. The village was nothing but a collection of farm buildings, a church, a pit of water for the passing livestock to drink their fill, and a wayside inn. He was pleased to see human movement in the yard.

A plump goodwife in kirtle and smock was feeding chickens. She looked up at him wide-eyed, startled to see a traveller at this hour. Shakespeare doffed his sodden cap to her and slid wearily from the grey mare. He and the horse needed victuals and drying out before he could call at Gaynes Park.

Twenty minutes later, wrapped in blankets, he sat in the inn’s kitchens. He had a mug of ale, some bread and butter. The landlord’s wife stoked up the cooking fire and hung his clothes across the mantel to dry. She put on three eggs to boil and laid out cold meats on a trencher.

‘How far to Gaynes Park, mistress?’

‘Two miles across the fields, master.’

‘Have you seen the people presently living there?’

‘Them?’ She hesitated as if the sharpness of her voice already told too much, then dismissed her caution. ‘Aye, they came here while riding out after deer one day last week. They stopped for ale. Two foreign gentlemen, sir, and a lady, with their retainers.’

‘What manner of people were they?’

‘That depends whom I’m talking to, master. I might say something different to my husbandman than I would say to you …’

‘I am no friend of theirs, but an officer of the Crown. You may speak plain to me in safety.’

‘Well, master, I will tell you this: they took ale and pie, then did ride off without paying, laughing all the while. We told the headborough, but he said he could do nothing, that they were the Earl of Essex’s guests.’

Chapter 10

‘
H
OW MANY BARRELS
of gunpowder do you think this time, Mr Laveroke?’

‘Six at the most. Waste not, want not. A quarter of a last will make a pleasant enough bang this fine June day, Mr Curl.’

Luke Laveroke and Holy Trinity Curl were in their rented warehouse close to the glassworks in Crutched Friars, just inside the walls to the east of the city. Shafts of sunlight from the gaps in the barnlike door caught the motes in the air and the dust of the powder, making a series of heavenly beams that seemed to illuminate the two men’s work. By the closed doors lay a heap of dung bought from the gong farmers. Its stench overpowered the distinctive smell of gunpowder so that passers-by would not wonder about the true contents of the building.

An old, rotting wagon that no one would miss when it had been blown to splinterwood stood backed up to the banks of barrels that filled half the dusty floor space of this ancient barn.

‘With God’s help, Mr Laveroke, it will make a very pretty bang and turn our enemies to offal. With God’s
bountiful
help. And we must pray that its ripples spread far, and serve to drive these venal Flemings and Walloons back to their own benighted land, and leave this fair city to us, the common people of England, to whom it rightly belongs. I think we shall have earned the gratitude of all true patriots for the work we do this day.’ Curl’s amber eyes met Laveroke’s and sought his approbation.

In reply, Luke Laveroke smiled a handsome smile as he idly cut his fingernails with the razor edge of his poniard. His teeth were good and his hair shone in the light. All true Englishmen might well be pleased by this day’s work, he thought, but even more so would true Spanish men. But that was not something he would say to Holy Trinity Curl. ‘Indeed,’ was all he said, thrusting his poniard back into his belt, then hoisting a barrel on to the wagon. ‘We shall earn a great deal of gratitude this day. Now haul away, Mr Curl. Our target awaits us.’

‘There is much work to be done.’

‘And we shall need much powder to carry it out to our satisfaction. After this, we shall want a hundred and twenty barrels for our next little turn, all of which must be brought forth and sieved …’

Curl stopped abruptly as he was about to haul up the next barrel. ‘Did you say a
hundred and twenty
, Mr Laveroke?’

‘I did, Mr Curl.’

‘Why, that is enough to blow up a small town!’

‘I hope so. I do hope so.’

Shakespeare raised his hand to hammer at the great door of the Gaynes Park Hall. Set in parkland amid tall trees, this was a house belonging to an aunt of the Earl of Essex’s wife, Frances Walsingham, through her first marriage to the heroic Philip Sidney. The old manor-house was far from palatial, but it would do well enough as a hideaway for a Spanish fugitive and his small train. Before his fist came down against the wood, a hand grasped his wrist in a grip of iron. Shakespeare turned. The hand belonged to one of three burly, heavily armed men who appeared beside him, seemingly from nowhere.

‘Yes?’ the one who held him said. He was wearing the tangerine tabard of the Earl of Essex’s retinue, above military mail, as were his two comrades. They were clearly bodyguards.

‘My name is John Shakespeare. I am here on Queen’s business to see Don Antonio.’

‘Well I am Edward Wilton, chief of the guard, so I shall require your letters-patent and ask you to disarm.’ He released his grip on Shakespeare’s wrist.

Shakespeare had brought no firearm. He handed over his sword and dagger and the paper Cecil had given him. Wilton studied it, then ran his strong-fingered hands across Shakespeare’s clothing, searching for secreted weapons. When he found none, he stood back. ‘Thank you, sir. That is in order.’ He opened the door. A footman in a yet finer tangerine and black livery answered the door. He looked nervous and tired, as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world than here.

The footman bowed and retreated into the darkness of the hall without a word.

‘Collect the sword on your way out, Mr Shakespeare,’ Wilton said.

Shakespeare did not wait to be invited in, but stepped into the hallway and shut the door behind him. He looked about at his surroundings. The place appeared as fatigued as the footman. Above the wainscot, the plasterwork was rent and falling away in places and much of it seemed disfigured by damp and dark yellow and brown blots. There were no portraits, nor any hangings. There was a strong smell of rot. Shakespeare guessed that the house had been unoccupied for years and opened up only recently to accommodate Antonio Perez and his entourage.

‘How may we help you, Mr Shakespeare?’

Shakespeare turned around at the sound of the heavily accented voice; a Spanish accent – something to chill the heart of any Englishmen in these long days of warfare between the two countries. He was face to face with a tall young man, perhaps half an inch above his own six feet. The man was well dressed, in a doublet of silver and black brocaded velvet and slashed silver sleeves. His hair was long, black and combed back. His skin was copper-dark with a sheen of robust health.

‘Don Antonio?’ Even as he said the words, Shakespeare realised it was a foolish question. This man was half Perez’s age.

The man smiled with something akin to condescension. ‘I am his personal secretary, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘I am sent by Sir Robert Cecil. I am told Don Antonio would talk with me.’

‘We were expecting you. But it is very early in the morning. Don Antonio has been unwell and tends to sleep in until midday. Perhaps you will come back later – or would you care to wait?’

‘I will wait. But I would be grateful if he could be woken a little earlier. I have pressing business.’

‘I understand, sir. Let me show you to the parlour and I will alert Don Antonio to your presence as soon as I dare. Would you care for something to eat or drink?’

Shakespeare declined and followed the Spaniard through to a slightly more comfortable room with a settle, a card table and a few books. A tall cedar of Lebanon dominated the gardens outside the window and took most of the light from the room.

The secretary bowed without a great deal of deference and said he would have the servants light a fire, then disappeared. A plain young rustic girl came in, nodded quickly and fearfully to him, then attended to the fireplace. It occurred to Shakespeare that a fire was the last thing he needed on so fine a day, but he suspected the house needed as much warmth as it could get and, anyway, watching her passed the time. Soon the sound of crackling logs and the joyful light of a blazing fire brought some cheer to the room.

Shakespeare sat back and skimmed through the books. They were all Spanish poetry, which did little for him except test his command of the language, which was not, he realised, what it had once been. There were few Spaniards to talk to in London these days, and had not been, in fact, in the nine years since Ambassador Mendoza was expelled from England. The only Spanish that Shakespeare read now was in decoded intercepts of letters criss-crossing between the courts of Europe.

He was just grappling with Herrera’s
Rimas Juventiles
– youthful rhymes – when a woman swept into the room unannounced. Shakespeare turned at the creak of the door and the rustle of her gown. She was dressed for riding in a long velvet cape, a simple dress of fine brown worsted with a safeguard to protect it, a white linen partlet about her breast and a cap adorned with a feather. Most striking of all, she wore a black patch over her left eye. The only time Shakespeare had ever seen a woman affect such a decoration was in a portrait of the notorious Princess of Eboli, said to have been lover and co-conspirator to Perez. Who was this woman who looked so like his former love?

She carried a hunting-crop in her small white-gloved hand. She stopped and gazed with her one seeing eye at Shakespeare, looking him up and down as a horse trader might appraise a prize stallion. Even in her respectable riding attire, a man could not help but notice the voluptuousness of her body, which shimmered even as she stood still.

‘I had heard that we had a visitor,’ she said in slightly stilted English. Her voice was husky and warm, with the mellow, sing-song timbre of her native Spanish. ‘I must say, you do not
look
like one of King Philip’s assassins. But who can tell? Everyone I meet these days seems to be a spy or a mercenary.’

‘I am no assassin, señora.’

‘My name is Ana Cabral,’ she replied, holding out her delicate hand to Shakespeare. ‘Doña Ana. And if you were an assassin, sir, I assure you that you would not get very far. My lord of Essex has the place swarming with his men-at-arms.’

Shakespeare took the gloved hand and bent to kiss it. It remained in his hand a few beats too long.

‘I am with Don Antonio’s party, his travelling companion …’

He did not need to ask in what capacity she accompanied Perez. Something about her manner told him she was his
cortisane.
He guessed her age at twenty-four or twenty-five. She was fair-haired with a streak of silver through one side of her well-coiffed locks. Her English, though accented, was clear-spoken and accurate. She had about her the sensuous demeanour of courtesans everywhere. Perhaps she was born with it. No man could look at her and fail to wonder how she would move beneath the sheets. She was not beautiful, nor even pretty, but she did not need to be, for she dazzled like a rare jewelstone. She would know, Shakespeare thought, all the sexual wiles necessary to keep a man beguiled in bed for as long as she desired, or as long as he had gold enough. She was
worldly
.

‘And you, sir, who are you?’

‘John Shakespeare. I have orders to talk with Antonio Perez.’

‘I imagine you are here to grant him access to the Queen. He has waited nearly two months now and is becoming impatient. And so am I, for I wish to dance at court. Well, come with me. I will take you to his chamber before I go for my ride. You do not have a Spanish wheel-lock secreted up your sleeve, I presume?’

Shakespeare smiled. ‘No wheel-lock. But I had heard Don Antonio was asleep.’

‘That is just his secretary. Pay him no heed. He plays his little games. Very proud and insolent for a mere servant, do you not think?’

Indeed, Shakespeare did think so, but he said nothing. He followed the woman through to the hall and up the stairway to the first floor.

‘Look at this place, Mr Shakespeare,’ she said brushing a cobweb from the corner of a cracked window in the gallery. ‘Henri of Navarre would not treat an honoured guest to his country so.’ She threw open the door to a chamber and pushed on in. A four-poster bed hung with rich drapes stood in the centre of the dimly lit room. The floor was littered with clothing – farm clothes of wool and linsey-kersey, smocks and breeches and a hide jerkin that looked and smelled a hundred years old. Ana Cabral drew the bed curtains apart.

Shakespeare saw what appeared to be a mass of bodies on the bed. He counted limbs and reckoned there to be four people. Two men and two women. All were asleep, softly snoring, though they stirred at the noise and sudden admission of light to their little world. He was assailed by the stench of sweat, stale alcohol, farting and copulation.

‘Don Antonio, you have a visitor,’ Ana said in Spanish, idly stroking one of the limbs with her gloved hand. ‘Mr Shakespeare from the office of Sir Robert Cecil.’

The elder of the two men grunted from the depths of the bedding. Ana leant over and kissed him on the mouth. Shakespeare saw that he had a beet-swarthy face of broken veins, a stubble of beard and a straggle of dyed black hair. He opened his eyes, blinking. Was this the face that had won the love of the tragic Princess of Eboli? Shakespeare shuddered. Carelessly elbowing one of the women in the face, Perez raised himself up against the bed cushions.

‘Shakespeare?’

‘At your service, Don Antonio.’

‘Ana, pay these peasants and send them away. Give more to the little fair one and tell her to return this night. And bring her sister – or brother – if she has one.’

Without a word, Ana began to lay about Perez’s young bedmates with her crop, lashing them hard across legs, buttocks and heads until they leapt up and ran naked from the room, dragging their garments behind them. She laughed at their going, then stretched over the bed once more and kissed Perez. ‘I shall go and give them their dues now. I will have wine and meats brought to you and Mr Shakespeare.’

After she had gone, Perez patted the bed at his side with a gloved hand. ‘Come, sit with me, Mr Shakespeare. Tell me what treasure Sir Robert has to offer.’

Shakespeare lowered his eyes respectfully. Whatever this man had become, he had once been a minister to the crown of the most powerful land in the world and had led an extraordinary life. His relationship with the Princess of Eboli was the stuff of legend. If Perez felt grief for her loss, he showed no signs of it here, in this shabby room with these sweaty farm youths.

Shakespeare sat on the bed beside the grizzled old courtier. He was grateful, at least, that the Spaniard spoke passable English.

‘Look what I am reduced to, Mr Shakespeare.’ Don Antonio waved his hand in an extravagant gesture of displeasure at his surroundings. ‘Forty years ago, my father came to England in honour as secretary to Philip on his marriage to your Queen Mary. And was I not his equal in every way? Once my homes were the most gracious palaces of Aragon and Castile. In my
casilla
outside Madrid I sported and dallied with princesses in courtyards of marble, to the sound of cool-flowing fountains, the scent of lemons and the colours of oleander. Even the horse I rode was scented. Now I make do with toothless country girls who stink of the stables and believe themselves well paid at half a ducat a night. Does no one in this country wash?’

Shakespeare could not contain a light laugh. Even on a summer’s day, this house was no palace and the scent of an English farmyard could be no substitute for fresh Spanish lemons. And it was true; few enough people in England had discovered the joys and profits of bathing.