Surrey. He left the animal with a peasant farmhand, with the promise of sixpence if he took good care of it, then walked on toward the nearest village to find another mount. He had come in the clothes he wore that morning: bearskin cloak, doublet, breeches, hose, and a fur hat. He had no baggage or panniers to carry, just a purse with more than enough coinage for the journey. Trudging alone, he knew he was vulnerable to attack by highway thieves. Even spattered with mud, his clothes were clearly of a fine cut. With so much hunger in the land, there were bands of vagabonds and robbers roaming everywhere.
The walk to the village took two hours. His boots became clogged and the dampness soaked through to his skin. Wind howled around him and every now and then he was forced to clamber over fallen trees that had come down in places across the road. By the time he arrived at a ford across a river, just to the east of the village, he was hungry, weary, short-tempered, and keenly aware that he was losing time in the pursuit of his elusive quarry.
The ferryman was in his riverside hut eating lunch and did not bother to look up as Shakespeare approached. Without any preliminaries, Shakespeare snapped, “God’s blood, ferryman, I am on Queen’s business and must cross this river straightway and find a horse.”
The ferryman looked up languidly from his meal, then raised a tankard of ale to his mouth and drank slowly, sieving the ale through a hedge of whiskers.
“Well, sir, get a move on!”
Putting down his ale, the ferryman looked around as if Shakespeare were not there. “Did someone say something? Or did my old dog just fart?”
“This is Queen’s business!”
The ferryman at last met his eyes. “And I am on the business of my luncheon, which I consider of much greater import than your business or that of the Queen or anyone else you may wish to mention. You can either wait until I have finished or you can swim.”
Fuming, Shakespeare settled down to wait. The ferryman, a curly-haired man of forty with as many chins as he had years, balanced his platter on his fair belly, lingering long over his mutton stew. Finally he belched, put his arms behind his head, lay back on a straw palliasse, and closed his eyes to sleep. Shakespeare drew his sword and thrust it down until it touched his throat. “You will take me now , ferryman, or I will see you lose your license. Or worse.”
The ferryman betrayed no concern. “I do not like your manner, sir, and so I have made a decision. I will not take you today. The wind is up too much and I fear it would not be safe, so tomorrow it is. If you’re lucky. And I must tell you that my brother has the livery stable, and I believe he may not be able to supply you with a horse once you do cross to the village. But there is another ford twelve miles upriver if you prefer to walk there.”
Shakespeare realized his threats were doing no good at all. Ignoring the sword, the ferryman turned over on to his side as if to go to sleep. Gritting his teeth and sighing, Shakespeare pulled the sword back from his throat and re-sheathed it. This called for a change of tack. He looked at the man for a minute. It was hard to admit it, but he had not approached the situation well; his anger at losing the horse to lameness had clouded his judgment. He took a deep breath. “Mr. Ferryman,” he said painfully, “if perchance I have offended you, it was not my intent and I must apologize. Let me throw myself on your mercy, because the life of one of England’s greatest heroes is at stake. If I do not get across this river and take horse in short order, I will not be able to save him.”
The ferryman turned back and raised himself from the straw on his elbows. He cupped an ear with his hand. “Did I hear you say sorry just then?”
“Yes, if you so wish it, you may believe that I said sorry.”
“Was that exceeding sorry?”
“It was indeed.”
“I suppose that could change things. Tell me more: who is this hero you would save?”
“Sir Francis Drake himself. His life is in grave danger and I must ride to Plymouth to warn him. I am Mr. Secretary Walsingham’s man.”
“Drake?”
“Yes, Drake.”
“Sir Francis Drake, the greatest Englishman that ever drew breath?”
“The very same, ferryman. Even now, he is heading for Plymouth by sea, unaware that a Spanish murderer is sent to kill him.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so? Come on, let’s get you across. And my brother will give you his finest horse.”
“Thank you, ferryman, you will be well rewarded with gold.”
“No, sir, I will not take your money. You can pay me by killing the Spaniard with your fine sword. Make it slow and painful, sir, slow and painful. Relieve him of his hazelnuts first, if at all possible. And I shall play my part by serving you some of my wife’s mutton stew as we cross, sir. It is goodly fare.”
The ferry was little more than a sturdy raft of aged oak, pulled across the river by means of thick hemp cables attached to deeply embedded posts on both sides. It had room for a heavy dray, half a dozen farm horses, and some cattle. Now there was just Shakespeare and the ferryman, who gave him a portion of his mutton stew. As they made the brief crossing, Shakespeare tucked into the food with relish. He had had nothing to eat all day. The food was good. When he finished, he thanked the ferryman and asked whether any single horsemen had crossed the river in the past few hours.
“Indeed, sir. A rider crossed here five hours since. He rode tall in the saddle and I noted he was unbearded. He did not utter above three words to me, though, so I learned nothing of him. I believe he had a change of horse at my brother Ben’s livery, so perchance he said something to him. Ask Ben, sir.”
“I will. I will. I think, Mr. Ferryman, that you have met the man who means to kill Sir Francis Drake. I have not a moment to lose.”
Chapter 37
By the time Drake and his band reached Dover, the wind was just beginning to ease. The quay was solid with ships come in for shelter from the Channel storms, their masts and rigging a tangle of sticks that would make a fine autumn bonfire for any Spaniard with a tinderbox.
The group came to a halt on the cobbled quayside. Waves crashed into the shingle beach below them. In the distance, the Channel across to France was white-flecked. No packet boats could make the crossing in such a turbulent sea. If Boltfoot was tired from the long ride, he did not show it. His eyes were ever vigilant; a seasoned mariner never allowed fatigue to interfere with his watch.
Captain Harper Stanley slapped the steaming flank of his mount and leaned over toward Drake. “Shall I find an inn, Vice Admiral?” he asked, fishing for a feather bed for the night.
Drake gazed at him as if he were a madman or worse. “No, Stanley, by God! Are you gone soft that you seek a bed in a tavern when there are ship’s cabins and hammocks to be inhabited? Get yourself aboard ship, sir, and clear the captain’s cabin for the Lady Elizabeth. You will arrange garlands and see to it that she is served dainties on fine dishes. There will be music as we dine tonight. Viols will suit us well.” He glanced toward Sir William Courtenay, who had ridden twenty yards behind him in a sulk and had not looked on Drake except with hatred all day. “Are you a music man, Sir William? Or is that, too, a venal sin in your religion? Come, sir, sup with us this evening and you may confess your wickedness to the Cardinal Bishop afterwards.”
“I would rather starve than sup with you, Drake. I will be staying at an inn tonight as Captain Stanley suggests.”
Drake bristled. “Aboard my ship, Courtenay, I am king, emperor, and answerable only to God. If you wish to travel with me and if you are a gentleman, then you will sup with me. Otherwise, you may stay here in Dover and await your chances with a tin carrier or some such returning westward to the Stannaries. Do you understand me?”
Courtenay was trapped. “You know I cannot wait. If those are your terms, then I will have to accept them. But I will repay you in kind one day, Drake. One day, what is yours will be mine.”
Drake laughed easily. “If I were buttermilk-hued and listened to Papist threats, Sir William, I would never
