found dead before they went missing.
Peace went on: “Given the area they were found in and the nature of their bodies-weathered faces and coarse, callused hands used to hauling on ropes day after day-I would hazard a guess that they were both mariners. And fighting ones, too. Look at this fellow, see his scars.”
Shakespeare noted the man’s livid red scar across his forearm. “Well, good luck with your inquiry, Joshua.”
The Searcher of the Dead laughed mirthlessly. “My inquiry? What inquiry? The coroner sent me the bodies, but no one will look into the deaths of two unknown seafarers-however monstrous their torments. The constable feigns concern, but he is more interested in clearing vagabonds into Bridewell than investigating the murder of a pair of unmourned souls. That is what Londoners want-streets clear of sturdy beggars. No one will notice a couple less mariners; there are plenty more to be pressed where they came from.”
“I have never heard you so bitter, Joshua.”
“Put it down to the heat, John. That and the prospect of the pestilence taking us all in the next few weeks.” Peace laughed again, this time with a smile and a semblance of mirth. “Look after yourself, my friend.”
“I will-and I am certain, at least, to take the killer of Amy and Joe. They will have justice.”
“Good. Do you know the killer’s name?”
“I do.”
“Just a word of caution. Ask yourself this: why did the murderer not dispose of the weapon where it would never be found? Even more to the point, why did he-or she-not at least clean the telltale gore and hair from the mace?”
“Because he did not need to,” Shakespeare said. “As far as he was concerned, no one was ever going to suspect murder-until
B OLTFOOT WOKE from his long sleep. It was nighttime. The only light came from a small candle somewhere near the door. The pain was still heavy, though not as intense as it had been. All around him he heard the sound of snoring, groaning, and creaking beds. How long was it since first he woke in this hospital? He had no idea. With great effort, he managed to slide from the bed onto the floor.
He felt faint, but he had to get out of here. He had to get to the house of Davy Kerk; he had to get back to Jane. Where were his own clothes? And where were his cutlass and caliver and purse? He took two steps forward, stumbled, and fell across another bed, his legs buckling beneath him. The inhabitant of the bed kicked out and cursed.
Boltfoot tried to push himself up again, but he was as feeble as a baby. Two gentle hands tucked themselves under his arms. “Oh dear, sir, you really are in a very poor way.” It was the voice of the nurse again. With practiced strength and tenderness, she helped him up from the bed and gently guided him back to his own.
He allowed her to lay him down, for he did not have the fight to resist.
“I must leave this place… my caliver… my cutlass.”
“Do not concern yourself with such things. They are safely kept by the hospitaller and will be returned to you when it is time to leave. Now, if you wish, I could bring you a little broth to build up your strength.”
He nodded slowly. Yes, he needed strength.
The nurse fetched a bowl and fed him with a wood spoon. His mother had died of childbed fever and his father had raised him alone. He supposed there must have been a wet nurse for some months, but he had no recollection of her. It was soothing, this feeding by a woman.
“Your head has been badly injured. The surgeon says the skull-bone has been broken on the temple. He said it was lucky you had such a hard head. He also said you need rest.”
“I do not have time.” He had never known his mother, but in his dreams she would have been like this woman, this nurse, with her kind hands and plump, warm face. He thought he saw his mother once, in the southern Pacific Ocean when the sea raged for days without end and he believed they must all go to a watery grave together; he thought he saw her face, serene and inviting in the heart of the storm. She was beckoning him in and saying that all would be well. Yet he knew that that face was no more than a spirit, a siren; this woman, here in this hospital, was soft flesh and warm blood.
“At the very least, you will have to stay here a few days.”
Boltfoot groaned.
“A woman has called for you, sir. I had thought she was the woman who found you and had you brought here. She said your name was Mr. Cooper. Am I right in thinking that it is you?”
“Yes, I am Boltfoot Cooper. What manner of woman was it? Was it my wife, perchance? Was she with child?”
“No, not with child.”
“Then she was not my wife.”
“She called herself a friend and asked after your welfare. She is not here now but she will come again in the morning to check that you still breathe. She was very concerned.”
“Tell me, what was her appearance?”
“Well, I would say she was fair of hair with blue eyes. Pretty, most would call her. Yet she did seem nervous, frightened even. She was very worried about you.”
It sounded like the woman in Davy Kerk’s house, the one that claimed to be his daughter. But why would she be worried about him? Was it Kerk that hammered him to the ground? There was only one way to find out. Sleep more-this night at least-regain his strength and his weapons, then watch and wait for her.
Chapter 28
F ROM DOWNRIVER, A VOLLEY OF GUNFIRE SUDDENLY burst forth in the early morning air, then a great peal of church bells commenced. As Shakespeare was about to step into a tilt-boat at the Steelyard stairs, the gunfire increased and drew closer. Churches all along the route of the river took up the peal.
“She’s off,” one of the watermen said. “We must hasten or we’ll be pushed aside and waiting forever while she passes.”
“We have missed our chance,” Shakespeare said brusquely, stepping back from the boat. “I will ride instead.”
After a night of troubled sleep, followed by a solitary breakfast foraged from the buttery, he was brittle and on edge.
The Queen’s summer progress had reached London from its starting point of Greenwich. It would make the first part of its long journey westward by river, then the bargeloads of luggage and furniture-including her own great bed-would be transferred to wagons for the road.
Shakespeare had business at the Tower, but waited a short while to watch the river spectacle.
The royal vessels drew ever closer. The advance guard was already forging ahead, clearing river traffic for the Queen’s barge. At the banks of the river, moored boats were slapped back and forth by the wash from the royal traffic.
In the vanguard was a vessel full of noise and fury: a dozen drummers beating as one, flutes singing, trumpets blaring, and gunfire exploding. Then came the Queen herself. She sat in state, alone in the front cabin of her fabulous vessel with its gleaming windows of glass, the frames painted with gold. Above her, a red satin canopy billowed against the sun and the river breeze. Ten or more royal pennants streamed behind the dazzling boat. This barge was tugged by ropes attached to another, slightly smaller vessel, in which twenty-one of the strongest oarsmen in England pulled hard to maintain the craft’s astonishing speed. This was no leisurely summer outing on the Thames; the Queen wanted to get well upriver by day’s end.
Shakespeare had seen inside the Queen’s barge on other occasions and was familiar with its lines; in a cabin adorned with coats of arms, she would be seated on a cloth-of-gold cushion and her feet would be resting on a crimson rug. All about her would be fragrant blossoms and petals and garlands of eglantine roses.
Now, as he gazed, he thought he made out Sir Robert Cecil and his father, old Burghley, in the second cabin.
