there will be written evidence. Seek it. Above all, remember that this family does not think the marriage vows as sacred as you or I might. If he does intend anything, foil him. If he weds Arbella, all is lost. On your life, you must prevent this.”
Shakespeare frowned. The way Cecil spoke, it was clear he had his own intelligence already. It might be helpful if he would divulge this, but it was clear that would never happen. Like Walsingham, Cecil was content to play the long game.
Shakespeare bowed again and prepared to leave. Cecil stayed him.
“You know, John,” he said, “you would do well to think of removing your family from this wretched city for a few weeks. I believe you come from Stratford. Why not send them there?”
Shakespeare winced. “It is my fervent wish, Sir Robert, but things are not well between my wife and me. She will not go.”
“Where are her own family?”
“In the far northern reaches of the realm, the North Riding of Yorkshire, sir. It would be too dangerous for them to go so far unaccompanied. I believe the road is wild, with much banditry.”
Cecil’s eyes lit up. “I might have a solution, John. Indeed, I am certain I have one-if you can move quickly. Can your family be ready by morning?”
“It is possible, sir.”
“There is a troop of militia going to the middle Marches of the border to put down a rising of freebooters and blackmailers. They leave early tomorrow-a band of thirty men. If you can get your family ready in time, I will instruct the captain to collect them and take them to their destination. They will be safe.”
Shakespeare allowed himself a smile; it was the first good news he had had in days and would remove a huge weight of worry from his overburdened shoulders. It would also, he hoped, cure his wife’s melancholy and ease her hostility toward him. “Thank you, Sir Robert. They will be ready.”
“Then that is settled. Now go.”
“There was one other thing.” Shakespeare briefly outlined the Le Neve connection-and the link between Jaggard and McGunn.
Cecil listened in silence, then nodded. “Keep digging, John, keep digging.”
Chapter 23
D AVY KERK WAS NOT AT THE BREWERY IN GULLY hole. “He’s not been in since you came here to see him, Mr. Cooper,” Ralph Hogsden said. “And he has left me in much difficulty, I can tell you. I have orders for casks which I cannot fulfill.”
“Do you know where he might be?”
“Probably gone down with the plague. It’s not like him to be away. He’s always been reliable.”
“How long has he been here?”
“Since Christmas of the year ’90. He was in a bad way. He told me he had returned to Antwerp having had enough of the seafaring life, but then fell foul of the Inquisition. He had to escape in a hurry. I gave him a trial and saw he was a fine craftsman. Made barrels as tight as a nun’s whimsy.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Aye, not far from the river at Bank End. Tall, thin house, middle of a new frame with smart lozenge timbering. Must have cost him a small chest of treasure. I do reckon he did some fair privateering in his time afloat. If you see him, tell him to let me know what’s going on, because I cannot keep his job open.”
B OLTFOOT WAS FEELING the heat of the day as he limped haltingly along westward through the crowded Southwark streets. He felt the weight of his caliver strung across his back and his old cutlass slapping at his thigh. His clubfoot dragged more heavily than ever.
The house was easy to spot. It was as Hogsden had described it. The exposed timbering was of finest oak. Boltfoot stepped up to the low front door and hammered with the haft of his dagger. He heard a scuffling from inside, but no one came. He knocked again. After a minute, it was opened by a fair young woman. She looked flustered and wiped her hands on her apron as if she had been preparing food.
“Yes?”
“I am looking for Davy Kerk. Is this his house?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Boltfoot Cooper. I have spoken with him already at Hogsden Trent’s.”
“Well, he’s not here.”
“May I come in and wait for him?”
“He doesn’t live here anymore. He’s gone.”
Boltfoot stepped forward before she could close the door and pushed his way inside. The room was modest but well cared for. Clean rushes on the floor, a table and stools in the center of the room. On the table was a fresh- killed cock, its fine tail feathers gleaming bright and ready for plucking. It was surrounded by an array of fresh fruits and vegetables. “Would you have some beer, mistress, for I am feeling the heat sore bad today?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Is it commonplace for you to push your way into folks’ houses, Mr. Cooper?”
“No, but I did believe you were about to shut me out. Please, a beaker of beer and I’ll be on my way.”
The young woman found a beaker and filled it from the faucet of a keg in the corner of the room. She handed it to Boltfoot. “Here, drink it and be gone.”
He sipped the beer. It was good and refreshing. He was no expert in such things, but thought the woman well- spoken, her voice that of one from a good family, though he noted that her fingers were black like a scullery woman’s.
“Is this Hogsden Trent beer?”
“No, I brew it. Can’t afford to be buying beer off the brewer.”
“It’s good, mistress, very good.”
“Tell me what you want, then go. I’ll pass on a message to him next time I see him, which won’t be for quite a few days or weeks, I reckon.”
She was a good-looking, healthy young woman, well attired in a clean and pressed flaxen smock that went with the color of her hair. “Are you Mistress Kerk, Davy’s wife?”
“Me? Married to him? He’s my father, you dunderhead. Why would I be wed to an old fool like that?”
“But he lives here with you?”
He thought she looked confused, unsure how to answer the question. “Well, he does when he’s here.”
“Are you Dutch, too? You don’t sound Dutch.”
“I was brought up by an aunt here in England while my father was at sea. My mother is long dead.”
He glanced up at a crucifix on the wall. “And you are of the same faith, you and your father?”
She bridled. “What are you trying to say?”
“It was a straight question.”
“Would it make a difference if we did not share our religion? Must one family be of one mind?”
Boltfoot thought of his master, Shakespeare, a confirmed Protestant, married to a devout Catholic. Much trouble it had brought them. He shrugged his shoulders. “No. No difference. Think nothing of it. But where is he? He has a steady job at the brewery. He should be about.”
“He has other business. Elsewhere. I look after things for him.”
“What business? Ralph Hogsden reckons he should be at work for him.”
“What’s it to you?”
“I think you know.”
“Well, you’re mistaken. I don’t know what this is all about, and neither am I interested. So you can finish your beer and leave. Now, before I summon the watch.”
“Did he tell you about me, mistress?”
“Aye, he did. Said you were a snooping cripple. He didn’t like you, and nor do I. So go. You’re not welcome
