Chapter 8
‘ Mariner were you, Mr Cooper?’ William Sarjent said, his voice booming across the riverbank as they awaited the ferry. ‘A sea battle don’t compare to the stench of powder and the clash of steel on land. When two regiments of foot meet on the field there is no hold to escape to; a captain of infantry cannot just turn with the wind and sail away, Mr Cooper. At the Maas river, in the mud and rain with every man’s powder wet and useless, I was at Norris’s side fighting pike to pike when he received a bloody wound to his chest that brought blood to his mouth, yet still we won the day.’
Boltfoot stood beside his horse in silence. In his ear there was the drum of a man’s voice, but he did not hear the words.
‘I was at Sidney’s side, too, when he received his fatal wound in the Low Countries. Place called Zutphen. We had two hundred foot and three hundred horse. Suddenly the fog lifted and three thousand Spaniards appeared. But we did not turn. No man under Norris’s command ever turned from a fight without express order. Never did you see a more gallant gentleman than Sir Philip Sidney. And Norris is the boldest of them all. You can keep your Drakes and Frobishers, Mr Cooper. They are ducks upon the water, not true fighting men. Norris — there’s a man’s man. Mr Quincesmith was his powder-master and took me as his prentice.’
At last the Woolwich ferry arrived and they walked their horses carefully aboard, amidst a packed group of wagons and a host of foot passengers. The rocking of the tide as the low barge pulled away from its moorings spooked one of the harnessed horses and it had to be restrained from pulling its wagon and several men into the dark grey flood.
On the north side of the Thames, deep in the dockyards that brought the wealth of the world to London, they disembarked from the ferry and mounted up once more. Turning westwards, they quickly joined the river Lea at its mouth and rode inland along its course. The landscape was low and fertile either side of the slow, winding stream. Water meadows and copses bounded the banks. Boltfoot reined in to get his bearings. Three Mills should be close now.
At his left side, Sarjent was running his hand through his black hair and saying something about the thunder of cannon and the taste of hot blood, words that every farm boy and villager for a mile about must have heard, so loud was the man. Boltfoot dug his heels sharply into the side of his long-suffering steed and rode ahead, wishing himself rid of this infernal braggart with his hunting-horn voice. He was not certain he could stand another day of this ceaseless roaring in his ear.
As he rode back towards the city, Shakespeare knew he was being watched. He knew well enough how to lose a following horseman, but instead he slowed down.
The day was dull and windless. He thought again about Henbird; had he misunderstood him or had he, indeed, been suggesting that Topcliffe was linked to Robert Poley and to the death of Marlowe? Do not underestimate Queen’s servants.
But why would Topcliffe and Poley have conspired to kill Marlowe? Topcliffe said he shared the playwright’s antipathy towards London’s population of foreigners — so why kill him? And why tell Shakespeare he believed Marlowe was murdered? Shakespeare rode his grey mare across the busy six acres of Smith Field, then into the broad sweep of Little Britain, cutting in towards the city. He casually reined the horse to the right and into the labyrinth of narrow streets close by City Ditch. He walked on down a lane of overhanging houses, then turned left. Seeing that no one was about, he quickly dismounted and waited. He heard the follower before he saw him; the soft clip-clop of hooves on cobbles.
As his pursuer rode into the street, Shakespeare reached up and grasped at his arm and leg, wrenching him clean from the saddle. The man grunted in shock as he flew sideways and fell heavily to the ground. As he landed, he let out a cry of pain, his elbow and the side of his head cracking against the flagstones. Shakespeare was on him in an instant. In his hand he had the wheel-lock pistol he had taken from the three trugs close to Black Lucy’s bawdy-house. He sat astride the man and held the muzzle of the unloaded gun to his face.
‘One wrong move and you die here.’
‘Please — wait.’
‘Who are you?’
‘You know me.’
Shakespeare did, indeed, know him. He knew that soft, oily voice. He knew that slender, serpentine frame with the shoulders that were almost as one with the neck and he knew that contemptible, self-satisfied expression. It did not seem so smug now.
‘Morley…’
‘Mr Shakespeare, I must talk with you.’
Shakespeare held the gun back a few inches but it was still trained on Morley’s face. ‘If you want to talk to me, come to my door. Follow me like an assassin and you are like to die.’
‘I could not approach you at your house. I might have been seen.’
‘Well, you are seen now, and will pay for it.’
‘Please, Mr Shakespeare. I have followed you to Clerkenwell and now here. Had I wished to harm you, I could have done so before now. Will you not hear my story?’
Morley. Christopher Morley. One-time tutor to the Lady Arbella Stuart, claimant to the throne of England, in the household of Bess of Hardwick; one-time spy for Walsingham, but not to be trusted by any man; one-time confederate of the Earl of Essex in a high treason that had nearly cost both men — and others — their heads. Morley had crossed Shakespeare’s path once before — and that had been one time too many. He had hoped never to see the man again.
‘I should kill you here, in this street, like a plague dog.’
‘Then you would never hear the intelligence I have for you.’
‘Five seconds, Morley. Five, four-’
‘I know the name of the powderman…’
He was still in the scarlet velvet doublet and breeches he had worn when last they met, little more than half a year ago. Now the once fine velvet was dirt-stained, torn and threadbare, as if he had been living wild. His hair was uncombed and had grown longer; his wispy, dark moustache and the few strands of hair that constituted his beard had not been trimmed in weeks. He looked like a vagrant.
‘Indeed. Then tell me before I fire.’
‘I cannot — yet. But I will tell you.’
Shakespeare looked into his eyes, then withdrew the gun and stood up. Roughly, he pulled Morley up by the front of his filthy doublet. From his own saddlepack he took a length of cord, then thrust the wheel-lock under his arm, seized Morley’s arms and lashed his wrists together in front of him, knotting them tightly. He left a lead of about six feet, which he secured to the stirrup of the mare. It all happened so fast, Morley scarce had time to protest. Shakespeare clambered aboard the grey mare, leant across to take the reins of Morley’s horse and prepared to ride, dragging Morley behind.
‘Wait, there is more,’ his captive managed to say at last. ‘This is to do with Marlowe. They meant to kill me, not Kit. They are after me, Mr Shakespeare.’
Shakespeare looked down at him with disdain. ‘This street is not the place to discuss such things. We are going to Newgate. You will be very comfortable there, I am sure.’
‘Not Newgate…’
Shakespeare ignored him and slapped the grey mare’s flank.
Morley pulled back on the cord, his heels trying to dig into the ground. ‘No, not Newgate — your home — anywhere but Newgate. I will be known there and killed.’
‘Look at the place, Mr Cooper. It is a disgrace.’
Boltfoot surveyed the Three Mills. The palisade was too low and, in places, the stakes had fallen. A man could get in there with ease. No, he thought, a squadron of men could enter undetected.
In the distance he saw a group of idlers leaning against the side of the main mill building. They were dressed in jerkins and hose like workmen, but they were drinking, not working, and seemed engaged in chatter like denizens
