would build a bridge.
Outside the room, Ana was waiting for him. ‘Did he take some tincture, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘Yes, he drank from a vial.’
‘It is a spirit of opium. He has much pain, you know. They used him ill in prison.’
‘I understand.’
‘He will drift into sleep now. Come, sir, why do you not ride with the vidame and me? We have fine horses. Unless you have other pleasures in mind…’
Chapter 11
Catherine Shakespeare busied herself preparing Susanna for their short journey across London. Her adoptive daughter, Grace Woode, fished a good summer dress from her clothes coffer and held it up to the Sluytermans’ serving girl.
‘Would this suit, Mama?’ she asked Catherine. ‘Do you not think it would fit her?’
Catherine laughed. The gown was far too small. Grace was ten and small for her age; Susanna was twelve and tall. ‘I think one of my own would fit a little better, Grace. Let us see what we can find.’
They eventually found a serviceable outfit of light-brown linen that would not look out of place on a well-to-do townswoman’s daughter. Catherine stood back and looked at the girl admiringly. ‘ Voelt dat goed aan, Susanna?’ She had learned a little Dutch from her friend, Berthe Haan.
Susanna smiled. ‘ Het past goed, Vrouw Shakespeare. Dank U.’
Both carried baskets and wore respectable lawn pynners as they set off up Dowgate. Catherine wore her brightest summer dress, saffron and green. To avoid the suspicion of any watchers, they kept their eyes straight ahead or looked at each other and chatted as if they were merely a mother and daughter off to market on a fine summer’s morning. By the time they were halfway up the road they had the confidence to look about them. On their right they gazed at the Erber, the great mansion where Vice-Admiral Sir Francis Drake lived when he was in London. Susanna asked about it and Catherine tried to explain in her faltering Dutch. The words ‘Francis Drake’ had the required effect.
Susanna smiled. ‘Ah, Drake, de geweldige zee kapitein. De veroveraar van de Spaanse Armada.’
‘Well done, Susanna. Remember, the English people are your friends, as is the Queen. Men like Topcliffe twist the law to their own ends. You will be safe now.’
The girl nodded uncertainly. They continued on due north, taking in the sights, smells and noises of the city. Susanna seemed to lose her nerves and became increasingly exhilarated by all she saw. Instinctively, she put her hand in Catherine’s as they passed the stocks market. They then turned a little eastwards into the wide avenue of Threadneedle Street, before heading north again into Broad Street.
Catherine squeezed the girl’s hand. She always liked to visit Berthe Haan. She had sent Jane to her last night with a written message about Susanna. The reply had been instant: yes, of course, they would be happy to take Susanna in. They were entitled to have a Dutch servant girl, so she would be safe there and legal.
As they turned across the street to the Dutch market, the place was alive with colour and noise. Susanna’s eyes opened wide with pleasure at the sound of so many voices in her own language. Catherine decided there was enough time to look around; it was a good opportunity to buy some of the Dutch cheese that John enjoyed so much with his breakfast bread and ale.
‘Well, Mr Curl, where shall we park our wagon?’
‘We are spoilt for choice, Mr Laveroke. One cannot move for Dutch dogs in this market. I cannot abide their strange attire — the bonnets of lace, the clogs of wood. Let us see how many we can kill. It will be better than a show of fireworks organised by the Fire Master of England.’
‘Indeed, Mr Curl. I do believe it will be. And who knows what fire may fly to the heart of this foul regime and scorch the Queen’s treacherous pseudo-ministers. We need rioting. That is your task, Mr Curl. Rage from the pulpit and the street corner. Get the apprentices out; tell your followers to take to the streets. We need you to do your business, Mr Curl. England needs you.’
‘I shall speak from the heart, Mr Laveroke.’
‘Here, then, by this cheese stall. I shall set the clock now.’ Laveroke climbed down from the front of the wagon and went around to the back. Hidden between two of the six barrels was a curious bronze and steel mechanism of gears and balances. He released the brake and set it in motion. In two minutes’ time, if all went as planned, a shard of flint would fall against a plate of steel and send a shower of sparks into the pan of powder protruding from one of the kegs. ‘Let us now walk away at a brisk pace. If we stand well back, we can enjoy the spectacle.’
John Shakespeare joined Ana Cabral and the Vidame de Chartres outside the postern door, close to the stables. Grooms were there with three horses, ready saddled. They were well-conformed animals, with quarters built for speed. Shakespeare noticed a pair of guards in the shadows of nearby trees.
‘Mr Shakespeare, allow me to introduce you to Pregent de la Fin, Vidame de Chartres,’ Ana said. ‘Perhaps you know his father, Jean de la Fin, France’s ambassador here in England.’
‘Of course.’ Shakespeare bowed to the man and noted that he had extended a slender hand to be kissed. Shakespeare ignored it. ‘I have, indeed met your father, Monsieur le Vidame. It is an honour to meet you.’
‘Do you race horses, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘Not since boyhood.’
‘But you will race against me, yes?’
Why not? If that was what they wanted. Shakespeare knew himself to be a good enough rider. If the horse was up to the task, so was he. And there was nothing else to do while he waited for Perez to wake from his opium slumber.
The vidame was in his thirties. He was exceedingly slim but, perhaps, strong, too. His dark hair was long, hanging loose about his shoulders. He wore doublet and hose of brilliant yellow, green and gold, beneath a green velvet hat. Shakespeare would have called him pretty rather than handsome, and yet he was not effeminate; too much steeliness in him for that.
‘Let us ride, then. You see the church? It is two miles, Mr Shakespeare. The first to the large yew tree beside it. You choose: the black filly or the bay colt. Your best sword for mine — and mine has a hundred gemstones in its hilt. Ana, ride on ahead. You are the judge in this.’
Shakespeare examined the two animals. They both looked fine specimens, but the filly seemed to have a more intelligent eye. He gestured with a tilt of his chin. ‘I will have her.’
‘A fine choice. She is the better animal.’
With the help of a groom, Shakespeare mounted the black filly. She was nervy and had clearly never pulled a plough or wagon. Ana was trotting away into the distance.
‘I will race you for the honour, Monsieur le Vidame, not the sword,’ Shakespeare said. ‘For all that I know,’ he added disingenuously, ‘this is a farm nag.’
‘Does she look like a farm nag? You are sitting astride a pure-bred Barb, sir, bred in Rome and brought with me from the finest stables in France. A three-year-old Barbary colt. That is a racehorse, not a nag. You may keep your English hobbies and your Spanish jennets. The Barb wins every time. I believe the Queen has a fine hobby named Great Henry. At the summer races, we will take pleasure in beating her with our filly.’
‘In the meantime, we ride for honour.’
‘No, there must be a prize. If not a sword, let us race for a favour.’
Shakespeare was not happy. ‘A favour it is,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But a legal favour, and of small value. Dona Ana to be arbiter…’
‘Very well. Now ride. I give you a ten-yard start.’
The vidame clapped his hands, Shakespeare shook the reins, and the horse set off like a ball from an arquebus. This was, indeed, a racehorse. Catching his breath, he settled down and gripped his thighs against the muscled barrel of the filly.
As the horse thundered across the parkland he sensed she was going too fast. This was no half-mile dash; she would never stay two miles at such a speed. He turned and saw that the Frenchman was a hundred yards
