behind him and losing ground. The vidame’s pace was far more sensible. Gently, Shakespeare shortened the reins and brought her on the bit. The young filly fought the restraint, her head high and struggling to be let loose, but Shakespeare held her hard.
He crouched low in the saddle, as he had seen riders do at the royal races, almost lying along the horse’s withers, his face close to her flying mane. He could hear the sound of the vidame close behind now; that was where he wanted him.
Shakespeare reckoned they had gone the best part of a mile. Time to keep his nerve. Let the vidame pass, go on a few yards if he wished. Beyond some cottages and to the left of a copse, they came to an incline. The vidame was with him. He was still hardly moving a muscle on his bay colt. Yet Shakespeare could feel that his own mount had plenty left to give. The race was on.
They came to a dip. The filly faltered on the downhill, as if untrained for inclines, but quickly regained her legs. The church was out of sight now. With a kick of his spurs the vidame shot his mount ahead as they came to the rise. Shakespeare had been caught unawares. The vidame knew this territory; this was no time to lose position. Within seconds the bay colt was five yards ahead. They came to the crest of the rise. The church was a furlong away and they were riding a well-trodden path.
Up ahead, Shakespeare saw Ana reining in beside a tree. He gave his filly the bridle, cracked her flank with his whip-stock and kicked hard with his unspurred heels. The horse surged forwards. Shakespeare had never felt such power beneath him. In a few strides he was once more up to the tail of the bay colt and closing. But the colt wasn’t stopping. The filly inched closer and closer. Half a length now, a neck. Then they were past the tree.
The vidame had won, by no more than the length of his colt’s powerful neck. Shakespeare cursed himself. His horse could have won, should have won, given a more clever ride. Slowly, he pulled up, then wheeled his dripping mount and trotted back to the yew. Ana was grinning at him.
‘You rode a poor race, Mr Shakespeare. The filly is ten lengths better than the colt, a different class of animal. You should have slapped her earlier. What filly does not lengthen her stride when hit with a crop?’
‘I confess it — the colt had the better rider. On the day.’
‘Do not berate yourself. The vidame knows this path well. He knows both the horses. I think the filly can beat any horse in England in a fair race. We call her Conquistadora.’
‘I am surprised you entrusted her to me.’
‘Oh, I trust you, Mr Shakespeare. I know more about you than you might imagine.’
The vidame was now with them. ‘Well, well, Mr Shakespeare. I do believe you owe me a favour. What shall it be?’
‘You tell me, Monsieur le Vidame.’
Boltfoot Cooper parted company with Sarjent at Three Mills. Sarjent had insisted on going to fetch pursuivants to take over the mill, but Boltfoot would have none of it.
‘I will stay here with Mr Knagg and ensure he does not leave. You can take him in when you return with your men.’
Sarjent seemed reluctant to go under such conditions but quickly realised he had no option. Boltfoot watched him ride off and felt only relief; he wished to move on alone.
‘Well, Mr Knagg,’ Boltfoot had said before leaving the powdermill. ‘It appears you are soon to have a visit from the pursuivants.’
‘This is an outrage,’ Knagg had spluttered. ‘You know there is no evidence of wrong-dealing here. No powder is missing and nor has any man brought in a tinderbox. Sarjent is a liar, a custrel, a bloody fabricator of evidence — and worse.’
Boltfoot had observed him closely. The man was distressed and afraid. But that did not make him guilty. ‘Do you have lawyers, Mr Knagg? I know nothing of such things, but I think it were to your benefit to consult them.’
‘You will speak for me in court, will you, Mr Cooper? You and Sir Robert Cecil? You will be gone like dust in the wind.’
Boltfoot had shifted uneasily. He must ride on. There was much to be done and little time.
‘A lawyer, Mr Knagg,’ he said. ‘Either bring a lawyer here to defend you — or make haste to disappear. And take your family with you.’
‘Are you suggesting I leave my post, Mr Cooper?’
‘That is for you to decide. Good day, Mr Knagg.’
Boltfoot had ridden away with a heavy heart, heading south and west towards the county of Surrey. Now, twenty hours later, he reined in his horse and gazed across the fields towards the village of Godstone and saw the familiar spirals of smoke from the charcoal pyres in the coppiced woods of alder and willow. He was glad to be rid of Sarjent and his infernal bragging. He had had enough of such vanity under Drake, and wanted no more. But what of Knagg? Boltfoot’s years of close-living with men in the confines of a square-rigger had taught him much, but in this case he felt distinctly uncertain. Sarjent insisted Knagg was guilty, but Boltfoot’s instinct suggested otherwise.
Ana Cabral took Shakespeare to the withdrawing room. ‘Wait here,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘Don Antonio will make himself available to you soon. Servants will attend on your requirements.’ She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘I would enjoy spending more time with you — but I have other matters that must be attended to.’ As she walked from the room, her hips moving in a rhythm like dance, he could not take his eyes from her.
He was brought cold meats and ale, which he consumed. Irritably, he paced the room. He opened the door and looked out. A guard was there, watching him.
‘I need the gong-house.’
The sentinel grunted and gestured with his head towards the far end of the hall. Shakespeare found the hole close by the eastern end of the building, by a boot-room. He had a much needed piss. Adjusting his breeches, he spotted a small, winding staircase. Without hesitation, he ascended to the first floor and found himself in an ill-lit passageway. For a few moments, he looked about him, then crept forward. The passageway led into another. He came to the gallery by the main staircase, near Perez’s chamber. He hastened along it. Further down the passageway he came to the door of another chamber. He stopped; he could hear noises from within. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it gently and it glided further open, soundlessly. He peered into the room. The curtains were drawn closed but enough light penetrated for him to see two naked figures on the bed: Ana Cabral and Perez’s secretary.
Very proud and insolent for a mere secretary. Indeed, he was, if this was the way he served his master’s mistress. And what of her, betraying her lord in the same building where he slept?
Ana lay back on the cushions. Her eyes were open, uncovered by the black patch, staring straight into Shakespeare’s. So the patch was nothing but an affectation, perhaps for Don Antonio’s pleasure, to remind him of his tragic princess. The secretary lay between Ana’s legs, low down, moving slowly, unaware that he was being observed. Ana caressed her breast and smiled at Shakespeare, forming her lips into a kiss.
Shakespeare stepped back, pulling the door silently closed behind him. He stood a moment, his blood thudding from his heart to his yard. He wanted to look again, but he turned away. At the far end of the passageway, he thought he saw the stooped figure of an old woman coming his way, hobbling with a walking stick; then he felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder and turned to see the burly figure of Edward Wilton, the chief of guards.
‘You’re a long way from the house of easement, Mr Shakespeare. Got lost, did we? Let me show you back to the withdrawing room.’
Chapter 12
A table had been set for five in the great hall.
‘I believe you owe Monsieur le Vidame a favour, Mr Shakespeare,’ Perez said. He was wide awake and full of vigour after his long hours of rest. ‘I am a generous man. He has told me what favour he desires. So I say to you this: grant him his favour, arrange for me to be presented to the Queen at the royal court, and pay me some token sum — say ten thousand sovereigns — and you shall know my secret. This is information known to none but King Philip and his closest advisers. I promise you this: it is a secret that will drain the blood from those wizened faces on the Privy Council and shock even the Basilisk herself.’
