and we’ll use alum to make us virgins. She’ll charge you three sovereigns for just one of her loose-cunnied whores.’ The girl pulled her kirtle up past her bare belly and thighs and displayed herself to him.
Shakespeare put the flagon down, tossed them the three pennies and walked away.
‘Here,’ one of them called. ‘That’s our pistol you got there.’
‘It’s safer with me.’
A sign hung over the doorway of the old dorter where once the nuns had their plain beds and sparse living quarters. The sign was painted in gold on a black background and said simply Vespers.
Unlike the dust-strewn courtyard, the area here was well kept; the ground swept, the mortar and woodwork maintained in good repair. The door beneath the sign was newly crafted from oak and inviting.
Shakespeare saw that it was ajar and pushed it open. It gave on to an open hall with wood panelling. On the far wall, beneath a gallery, hung a long, brightly coloured tapestry. Shakespeare glanced at it, expecting its subject to be religious, perhaps the Virgin Mary, or some hunting scene. But then he saw that it was an exquisite needlework respresentation of a naked woman, dark-skinned, with chains of gold about her throat, her slender waist, her wrists and her ankles.
‘Good day to you, sir.’
Shakespeare turned. He frowned. She was a fair-faced woman in her early thirties, with a warm smile. The voice and face were vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place them. She seemed to have a clearer idea, for she stiffened, as if she recognised him.
‘I am seeking Lucy, whom I believe to be the mistress of this establishment.’
The woman, who wore good clothes, though bordering on the immodest with a low-cut bodice, regained her composure and bowed to him. ‘Please wait here, sir. There is a settle in the hall. Would you like the maid to bring you beer or wine?’
‘Beer would suit me well.’
‘It will be with you straightway.’ She began to walk off.
‘Do you not wish to know my name?’
The woman looked back and smiled conspiratorially. ‘We do not often deal with names at Vespers, sir, though you may invent one if you desire.’
Shakespeare laughed; it seemed he was taken for a client. The woman disappeared and he looked around the hall. It was beautifully furnished with cushion-laden settles, a polished table and coffers, and drapes about the high windows. He sat down and waited. After a minute a maid appeared, bowed and handed him a pewter pot of beer. He took a deep quaff, enjoying the tang of hops on his parched throat. He noticed some books on the table and picked one up, quickly looking through the pages. He smiled again; they were amatory sonnets. It occurred to him that the fine nature of the room might have led the casual visitor to believe this was a respectable house, but the book gave the lie to that. This was a whorehouse, however it might present itself. He sipped again at the beer and waited.
At the soft whisper of footsteps he looked towards the staircase that curved down from the gallery. A tall and elegant woman was gliding down. Her skin was of the darkest hue that Shakespeare had ever seen, her features exquisite and her bearing regal. As she approached him, with the woman from the door trailing in her wake, she seemed to curtsy, but it wasn’t really that, nothing more in truth than a gracious acknowledgement of his presence.
‘Good day, Mr Shakespeare. It is a great pleasure to meet you. I am Lucy.’
‘How do you know my name?’ He could not take his eyes from her skin, exposed at her neck and face and wrists, vanishing into a gown of gold.
She glanced at the woman at her side. ‘Beth knows you. Think back, Mr Shakespeare. Do you not remember your first love, Beth Evans?’
His brow creased in puzzlement and wonder. Beth Evans? Here, in a whorehouse? Could this be true? He stared at her and his eyes widened in recognition.
‘Beth?’ he said quietly.
‘Yes, it is me, John.’ Her eyes smiled back at him. ‘You really didn’t know me, did you?’
He shook his head.
‘I think you always had your nose in a book when you should have been looking at me.’ Her dark brown eyes and full lips creased in good humour. ‘I have watched your progress from afar, John. You have come a great distance from the Warwickshire meadows where we ran together.’
They had been but sixteen, sweethearts for one summer, or so it seemed. Perhaps five weeks, hardly more, and then she had taken up with the smithy’s son and left Shakespeare heartbroken. He felt a pang at the memory of it; he had sworn to be hers forever and now, when he met her again, he had not known her. How their paths had diverged: he had gone to Gray’s Inn, entered the service of Sir Francis Walsingham and later that of Sir Robert Cecil, and was believed, by some, to be destined for great things. Beth had become a common whore. Well, not so common by the look of her and this sumptuous establishment.
Lucy touched his arm. ‘I am sure there will be time aplenty for you to talk of times past. Come, Mr Shakespeare, how can I help you? I am sure it is not swiving you are after, for Beth assures me you are above the lewd sportings we habitually offer our clients.’
It was true enough, but somehow, in this place, it made him sound a very dull man.
‘I think I know you, John,’ Beth said, ‘even after all these years.’
Of course. He had been slow off the mark that summer of ’75. He had treated her like a lady and talked of Socrates and Bosworth Field, of Chaucer and his great ambitions for himself and England, when all she wanted was to be rolled in the hay like all her friends. ‘It is true,’ he said, nodding with a resigned sigh. ‘You do know me.’ He turned to Lucy. ‘No, I am not here for your services, mistress. I am here on Queen’s business with one question. Do you know the where abouts of Walstan Glebe?’
Lucy furrowed her brow as if she did not quite understand the question, but he was certain he saw a sparkle in her dark brown eyes. ‘Walstan Glebe?’
‘Come, come, mistress, you know him well. L for Liar burned on to his forehead. You must know, too, that I could have this establishment closed down before nightfall and you and all the whores — ’ he caught the accusing stare of Beth Evans — ‘all the occupants interned at Bridewell.’
‘Mr Shakespeare, you do not need to threaten me. I will answer you straight. Of course I know Wally Glebe. But I will not tell you where he is, for that would be a breach of trust. I will, if you wish, get a message to him saying that you would talk with him.’
‘I cannot overemphasise the seriousness of this business. We have reason to believe that Glebe has knowledge of the recent gunpowder atrocity at the Dutch church. If he is in any way involved, then he is guilty of high treason. Anyone withholding evidence of any kind — including knowledge of his whereabouts — will be considered an accessory.’
Lucy folded her arms across her chest. ‘Mr Shakespeare, I wish the culprits caught as much as you. A great many of my clients are strangers from France and the Low Countries. I am, myself, of foreign birth and I do not like this present fervour against strangers. I have said I will go to Glebe — and I will.’
‘No, that is not enough. If you did so he would simply disappear, as he has done before. I have no wish to harm you, mistress, and I care not a jot how you earn your living, but if you do not give me the information I require, pursuivants will take you to the Tower, where you will be subjected to hard questioning none can resist. I must tell you that the Council has authorised the use of torture in this matter.’
‘Then you will have to torture me.’
Shakespeare was bemused. He had always hesitated to use such threats, but when he did they inevitably had an instant and dramatic effect. Not so here; she had not lost her charm, nor her equanimity. Her eyes still looked at him with humour. If she was afraid, there was no sign of it.
‘I will take you to him,’ Beth Evans said.
Shakespeare looked at her, then back to Lucy. Lucy said nothing, but the glimmer of a smile played around her full lips.
‘Will that do?’
‘You know where he is?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, he likes me, too. Return here at seven of the clock and I will take you. I know where he will be at that time, for I have been summoned to him.’
