“I will try, of course. I will look for opportunities. But he is more heavily protected than ever now. He has his blackamoor Diego, and an agent of Walsingham constantly at his side. I can see no way of approaching him to do the deed.”
“Find a way.” Herrick’s grip tightened, then, of a sudden, broke loose as if his hand had been bitten by a snake. Herrick’s hand flew back theatrically and hung for a few moments in the air.
Percy sighed. “If there is a way, I will find it. I want this as much as-more than-you, Herrick. My family, my life, depends on it.”
Herrick sneered. “I despise your cowardice. You and those like you-Southwell or Cotton-say the words but do not do the deeds. Do you think God will thank you for your craven dealings on the Day of Judgment?”
“I am not a cleric, Mr. Herrick. I do not wish to take Holy Orders, so do not berate me for not being a martyr. That is your business, sir, not mine. And I scorn your airs. I noted the way you looked at that serving wench and I would wager ten marks to your one that you would unfrock her and fuck her without hesitation. Would you have me cheapen a price on your behalf, Mr. Herrick?”
Herrick swept his platter away. It clattered across the table and onto the floor. “So that is it. You think we have missed our chance and you are giving up. Well, I tell you, Percy, I will not give up. If Drake is going to Plymouth, then so must I. But if you have any thought for your mortal flesh and immortal soul, then I suggest you make sure that my journey is in vain. If Drake survives to wreak havoc on the King of Spain’s war fleet, I will kill you myself, first plucking off your stones, then forcing them down your throat. And that will be just a beginning. After that, I promise you, things will become most unpleasant.”
Shakespeare gathered together a force of twenty pursuivants and rode for Horsley Down.
It was dark when they arrived a quarter of a mile from the house. Shakespeare reined in his gray mare and raised his hand to halt, then signaled them all to dismount. The men tethered their horses within a clump of trees. There was no moon, but they had pitch torches. He ordered all but two to be snuffed.
He had Newall there, sneering as ever. It had been unavoidable; Shakespeare did not have his own squadron of men and Walsingham had insisted he go along. At a short meeting not two hours since in Seething Lane, the old man had given the go-ahead for this raid and had also informed Shakespeare that Drake had his commission. “Soon he will be safe at sea. Then the Spaniard shall feel the heat of his fire. But keep him alive until then, John. Keep him alive until his fleet is afloat.”
Shakespeare looked with cold eyes at Newall. He would take no insubordination from him. Even though Newall had the title Chief Pursuivant, Shakespeare was in charge here. “Mr. Newall, you will take four men to the back of the house. And be wary; Herrick is a hired killer and will not hesitate to attack with whatever is to hand. And he is wounded. Like an injured animal, he may feel he has nothing to lose in attempting to fight his way out.”
Newall grunted. He knew he had to take orders from this squeamish, book-hugging official, however much he despised him and his soft manners. If it were up to him, he would simply torch the house and all in it and thus save the state the cost of a trial and execution.
Shakespeare waited sixty seconds while Newall and his men moved through thickets to the back of the house. There were no lights from inside. Shakespeare ordered the other group forward to the front door with the battering tree, and when they were positioned, he brought his sword down as the signal. With a mighty swing, they wielded the heavy oak log at the door, splintering it on impact. The front men charged in shouting while those at the rear quickly lit their torches and surged forward to block all exits through windows or roof lights. Shakespeare followed the vanguard, ducking into the low-ceilinged hallway. It had the feel of a neglected old farmhouse, with dirt floors and ragged walls where the lime plaster had broken away to reveal the wattles.
“Upstairs straightway. Do not give him time to hide!”
The men at the front raced up the rickety, half-broken steps, shouting and banging as they charged. Within moments they had scoured every room of the house. It was empty.
“Keep moving,” Shakespeare ordered the sergeant. “Spread out. Take the ground-floor rooms first. Search every cupboard, every cranny, break open wainscoting, turn over beds. If he is here, find him.”
Within three hours it became clear they were not going to find Herrick. But in the main bedchamber they did find a bloodstained rag, which, it seemed to Shakespeare, was probably used to staunch Herrick’s wound from Boltfoot’s shot. More importantly, Shakespeare spotted a small piece of rolled linen, discarded casually beneath the bed. He picked it up and unfurled it. There, poorly painted but easily recognizable, was a portrait of Sir Francis Drake, one of the many such pictures sold throughout England and the rest of Europe since the Vice Admiral’s daring circumnavigation of the globe. “So Herrick has been here,” he said under his breath. “And we have missed him. God in heaven, we have missed him.”
Shakespeare left late in the evening, cursing his fortune and leaving a guard of three men.
Across the road, in the shadows, Herrick stood and watched the activity for a short while. He had arrived back at the house barely a minute after the onset of the raid. Shakespeare could not have known how close he had come to trapping his quarry.
Quietly, Herrick slipped away down the alleys to Southwark. He would have to find an inn tonight, then take horse on the morrow. The question that would not go away was how the pursuivants had found this house. Had the locals become suspicious-or had someone informed on him? His only hope now was to follow Drake before he gathered his fleet and set sail from Plymouth. It was time to kill… and time was running out.
Starling day was enjoying life. She had everything she needed. Treasure, a beautiful new house and business in the heart of Southwark, the best food that money could buy, and clothes that would not have looked out of place on a court lady. But behind the happiness, there was a worry. It was a worry shared by Parsimony Field: they had heard from a girl they brought over from the Bel Savage that Richard Topcliffe was looking for them and they feared it was only a matter of time before he found them.
They had changed their names. Starling was now known as Little Bird and Parsimony was Queenie. Their establishment was called Queens and it had one of the best positions of all the Southwark stews. Prices were high, as befitted a bawdy house with good-looking young girls and comfortable rooms, but it was well frequented. Men of money from across the river came here, as did foreigners whose wives were left far behind in France and beyond, ships’ officers and seamen happy to blow a year’s wages and plunder in a night or two of bliss.
Parsimony was in her element. She was able to indulge her passion for the arts of love with whomsoever she pleased. Starling, meanwhile, decided she had had enough of such things and had retired from the game, restricting her role to greeting the customers.
They even had their own strong-armed guard, Jack Butler, to look after them, and kitchen staff to provide sweetmeats and fair drinks for the guests. The worry, of course, was that they were flying too high. Someone would be sure to recognize them and go to Topcliffe with the information.
“Maybe we should go to Bristol or Norwich,” Starling said. They talked about it, but kept putting off a decision. And the longer they did so, the more business boomed and the more settled they became.
Tonight, Starling was dealing cards for some gentlemen in the grand withdrawing room. The house, as always, was winning handsomely, but none of the men seemed to care.
“I’ll be in the Clink before you’re done with me, Little Bird. Up to my ears in debt!” the eldest son of a northern bishop, who seemed intent on disposing of his inheritance before he had inherited it, said with a laugh.
“Never mind, Eddie, I’ll get one of my wenches to bring you broth and a kindly hand every now and then.”
“The devil with it. Deal on, Little Bird, deal on.”
Parsimony was upstairs and unhappy. She liked swiving as much as the next girl. A lot more than the next girl, if truth be told. But she didn’t like this sort of thing. Not one bit.
She stood with her back to the wall, dressed only in a light kirtle, lash in her right hand, and looked down at the man on the bed. He was a strange one all right. He’d come in to Queens pissing money like a conduit of gold and demanded a room and a girl for the night. He took one look at Parsimony and said, “You will do, mistress. I like the look of you.” Parsimony was in the mood and the man seemed presentable, so she readily agreed. But then he started asking for little extras like this: he wanted her to scourge him. And do it proper, so it hurt. Funny thing was, he was already injured, a nasty oozing wound on his side. She had offered to bandage it for him but he didn’t seem interested; just wanted his lashing. So here they were.
“Do it, mistress, do it.”
