inside the room at the pile of black powder awaiting casking.
Quincesmith smiled as he relocked the door. ‘Have you been a soldier, Mr Cooper? You are a poor sort of man with your crippled foot, but you look strong enough otherwise. And at least you stand as straight as you can, not scratching your balls like the levies of thieves and rogues that captains must accept as foot soldiers in these wars. I like the look of you.’
‘I was at sea.’
‘Against the Armada? Are you a cooper, as your name implies? We need good coopers here. You’d have to learn to hoop the kegs with osier, like water butts, not steel. Copper’s safe, too. Do you work with copper? The pay is good.’
‘No, Mr Quincesmith. I ask again. How did these men get their gunpowder?’
Quincesmith shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Does your Mr Shakespeare think we are all fools here? We know the threat from Spain. Their agents would dearly love to put a spark in the powder store. That is why we are so tight. That is why our guards — men like Mr Amos and Mr Willis, whom you have met — are all veterans of the Low Countries campaign under Norris. Hard, disciplined men. And nor are we complacent, Mr Cooper. Our guards are out with the trainbands every week to hone their fighting skills. They will not hesitate to kill.’
‘You have not answered my question.’
‘Where did the powder come from? I might guess a carrack’s hold. Once the powder is aboard ship, no one will notice a portion vanishing.’
Boltfoot said nothing. Of course, that was possible — but improbable. Before a merchantman set sail, the vessel would be full of men and the powder would be secured in the hold. It would be no easy matter spiriting it away unseen.
‘Or,’ Quincesmith continued, ‘it might be another powdermill. There are those that say Three Mills at Bromley-by-Bow is not kept as well as it should be.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I hear things, Mr Cooper. The lads at the Royal Armoury…’
‘But who? Give me a name.’
Quincesmith smiled and tilted his chin towards the third man in the room. ‘Mr Sarjent here for one. He knows Three Mills well and will not say a good word for it. Go and look at the place yourself if you want to know more.’
‘I need more than that. You have made accusations against another powdermill. Tell me the detail.’
Quincesmith stepped forward and took Boltfoot’s hand. ‘Let me shake you by the hand, Mr Cooper, for you are a stubborn stump of man and I want to help you. Others might wish to shake you by the throat, but, in truth, I think I would have been pleased to have had you as a soldier. Here, look at this before you go seeking out warrants.’ He produced a paper. ‘I received this not an hour since from Mr Bedwell at the Tower, brought with Mr William Sarjent here. It says I am to do all in my power to assist you with what knowledge I have — and that I am to show you the inner workings of my fine mill. It says, too, that Mr Sarjent is to accompany you during your investigations.’
‘I know that,’ Boltfoot said, declining to look at the paper.
Quincesmith grinned and revealed his teeth, a few of which were missing. He put the paper aside. ‘Now then, Mr Cooper, what more can I tell you? Allow me to explain the making and storing of gunpowder to you in small detail, as if I was talking to a simpleton or a child. Then Mr Sarjent will take you on your way. You will find him a stern companion, I have no doubt, but he is a brave fighting man and knows as much about the safekeeping of gunpowder as any man in the realm. I pray you find the source of this powder without delay, for it does none of us any good to have such things happening…’
Chapter 7
As John Shakespeare approached the ancient nunnery of St Mary at Clerkenwell, the birdsong was suddenly silenced by the crack of a gunshot. Shakespeare reined in his grey mare. A pair of boys in ragged clothes wrestled furiously on the dusty path in front of him, oblivious to everything but their fight.
He looked about. It seemed the firing had come from within the former convent. Kicking on again, he stepped the mare around the boys and walked on past the well where the parish clerks once performed mystery plays. Ahead of him was the great entrance door to St Mary’s. The spring sun streaming through the leaves of a pair of silver birches dappled the grassy verge with light.
Shakespeare tethered the mare to a post, then strode on foot to the convent entrance. The great arched gateway was open and untended. He called out, but no one came. He walked in towards the central courtyard, from where he heard voices, then another volley of gunfire and cackling laughter.
Through clouds of powder smoke, he saw that the courtyard was a wide open, arid place, uncared for and thick with weeds. Had the Benedictine sisters still been here, they would surely have been aghast at the vision they beheld. Or perhaps they wouldn’t, he thought wryly; it depended whose version you accepted of what went on in the Catholic monasteries.
Three women were at one end of the yard. Two of them sat against the wall, flagons of some liquor or ale in their hands. The third one, a fair-haired woman in her forties who must once have been pretty, was on her feet, a smoking wheel-lock pistol hanging loosely from her fingers. Her top was bare, her breasts pendulous over a belly of loose skin and fat. The two sitting women were scarcely more decent, sitting with their legs apart and their cheap kirtles hitched up to reveal their thighs and more. Their hair was awry and their chemises open. One scratched at a pustule on her haggard face. The other, a dark-haired girl no older than seventeen, would have been comely if she had combed her hair — and if she had looked less hard and villainous. She had unmarked skin, like a milkmaid, and puffed at a clay pipe.
At the far end of the yard, tied by a cord to a hook in the wall, was a small dog, lying in a pool of its own blood. It was moving, but slowly, close to death from the pistol balls that had pierced it.
The women turned as Shakespeare entered. The bare-breasted woman raised the pistol and pointed it at him. Her friends burst out laughing once again.
Without hesitation, Shakespeare walked forward and wrenched the spent firearm from the woman’s grasp. She seemed unconcerned. ‘A sovereign and I’ll fire your pistol, dove. I know how to fire a man’s pistol…’
Shakespeare ignored her and went to the listless dog. He removed his dagger and cut its throat as an act of mercy, then returned to the women.
‘I am looking for Black Lucy. I believe she has premises here. Do you work for her?’
‘Work for Luce? The maggoty Moor wouldn’t look at us. And nor would we work for such a greasy drab.’
‘But you know where she is?’
‘What’s it to you — and what’s it worth?’ She grasped hold of one of her breasts and tried to push it into Shakespeare’s face. But she was unsteady from the drink and her knees buckled, sending her toppling forward. Shakespeare could have reached out and held her up, but he stepped back and let her fall to the cobble-stone ground. Her friends laughed. Shakespeare turned to them.
‘Do either of you know where she is? I’ll give you threepence.’
‘You done for our dog, mister,’ the young one said, blowing out smoke. ‘That little bitch was worth a lot to us. We saved her from the plague men and loved her like she was our kin.’ The woman began coughing.
Shakespeare knelt down and took the flagons from them. They were both about half full of strong ale. He started pouring one away. The women bridled and reached out their hands as if they were birds’ talons, but he easily evaded their grasp. ‘Well?’ he demanded as the last drop fell to the ground.
‘Sixpence,’ the young, hard-faced one said.
Shakespeare took out three pennies and held them up. ‘One each and you can have the rest of the ale back.’
‘Give them to us, then we’ll tell you.’
‘Tell me first.’
She threw back her knotted hair and gestured vaguely to a small passageway leading from the courtyard to the northern precinct of the old nunnery. ‘Back there. But you’d do better with us. Swive the three of us for a crown
