The guard was quivering. Boltfoot waited and watched him, absolutely still.
‘Very well,’ the guard said at last. ‘I do believe he meant those who do not like the strangers coming to England, sir, for he knew those were my feelings. We had talked of it, as some others here do. He told me…’
‘He told you what?’
‘He told me there were many who thought like me, sir. That many men were organising themselves against the Low Country foreigners who come here and take our trade. Why should we fight and beat the Spanish, he said, and then be invaded by Netherlanders and Frenchies? He said God would visit a terrible retribution upon the strangers and any who welcomed them.’
‘And did you go to hear him?’
The guard was built like a plough-ox, twice the size of Boltfoot, yet he seemed like a schoolboy standing before his teacher awaiting the birch rod across his palm. His slowness to reply gave Boltfoot all the answer he needed.
‘Who was there? How many? What did this Curl say?’
‘I went but once, Mr Cooper.’
‘Did you know that the Privy Council has authorised torture for those suspected of defaming strangers?’
‘I would say there were fifty there. Apprentices and journeymen mostly, a few masterless men, too. Mr Curl did speak and sermonise. He told us that breaking and burning the Antichrist’s idols and relics was but the start. He said Christ had decreed that all men were the same in the eyes of the Lord, that it were harder for a rich man to go to heaven than for a beast to pass through the eye of a needle. While we was listening, one man whispered in my ear that Curl was Jack Cade, the captain of Kent, come back from the dead. That scared me, because I know what became of Cade and his followers. I am no rebel nor traitor, Mr Cooper.’
‘What then? What happened?’
‘Fighting, Mr Cooper. The constable came with the watch by order of the St Botolph parson. They beat us with sticks, but many of Mr Curl’s men did fight back. I would not say it was a riot, but it was a bloody affray. Curl’s lot made the best of their way out of there with their bruises and cuts. I scarpered the other way and never went back.’
Over the shoulder of the guard, Boltfoot noticed the approaching figure of William Sarjent, his face contorted with rage. He was accompanied by a pursuivant in hide jerkin, carrying a halberd. The guard shrank back at their approach.
‘Where in God’s name have you been, Cooper? You were supposed to stay here and keep watch on the traitor Knagg. Now he has run like a hare from greyhounds. Captain-General Norris would have struck off your head for going absent so.’
‘But you are not my captain-general, Mr Sarjent. I am answerable to Mr Shakespeare, Sir Robert Cecil and my sovereign.’
‘There is treason here, Cooper. Much powder is missing. I have brought in an auditor. All night long his candle has burned as he delved through the ledgers, and they don’t add up. There are two to three tons that cannot be accounted for. Tons, Mr Cooper, not hundredweight — two or more tons! Five thousand pounds of powder — enough to provision a royal galleon. No one knows where it has gone.’
‘Then you have a great deal to contend with here. And I am certain there is no better man to deal with it. For were you not a cavalryman at Sir Philip Sidney’s side, a foot soldier beside Norris and a powderman under Mr Quincesmith? I reckon there can be no greater martial man in the land than yourself, Mr Sarjent.’ Rarely had Boltfoot spoken so many words at one turn, but he had bile to vent at this braggart and was pleased to have done so.
‘Damn you, Cooper. You are a noxious insect of a man and you have no idea what you are getting into.’
‘I have business elsewhere.’ Boltfoot turned sharply and limped towards his horse. He was about to pull himself up into the saddle when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Sarjent was coming at him, dagger wrenched from his belt and clasped in his fist. Boltfoot thrust out with his right foot — his good foot — and caught the man in the belly. But he unbalanced himself in the process and fell to the ground, hard. Sarjent stumbled back from the force of the kick, but recovered his composure in moments.
Sarjent lunged forward and fell on the scrabbling figure of Boltfoot. He raised the blade in his right hand. It seemed he would plunge it down into the grizzled face of the old seafarer.
Boltfoot threw a punch. The blow missed, but as he did so he swivelled his head out of the way and the dagger came down away from his face, nicking his right ear, then stabbing harmlessly into the hard earth. Boltfoot wrenched his body the other way, this time throwing Sarjent to the side so that he lost his grip of the dagger’s hilt as he tried to maintain his balance.
As he turned, Boltfoot clasped his hands to Sarjent’s shoulders and jabbed his head forward with all the force he could muster. His solid forehead smacked hard into the bridge of the other man’s nose.
Sarjent squealed in pain. Blood spat from his broken nose. Boltfoot pushed him aside, then staggered to his feet. Blood dripped from his ear where the knife had cut it. Sarjent was sitting on the ground, his hands clutching at his bloody broken nose. Boltfoot pushed his right foot into his chest, knocking him once more to the ground, then walked back towards his horse, dragging his club foot.
This time he made it into the saddle. He glared down at Sarjent, then across to the guard, who was cowering by the entrance to the stockade. The grinning pursuivant leant nonchalantly on his halberd staff. Irritably, Boltfoot kicked his horse into a trot.
Shakespeare sat with Mary, Andrew and Grace, all huddled together on the floor of his solar. He stroked the children’s brows and hugged them and tried to soothe their tears. His own would not come.
At last Mary went to sleep and Jane took her away to bed. Grace was ten and Andrew was twelve, both old enough to comprehend death. Shakespeare talked to them quietly, trying to make sense of an event that made no sense to him. He could not bring himself to say that it was God’s will, for that would have been a lie. This was man’s doing. All he could say to comfort them was that she was with God now and that she looked over them still and would do so always. He had to let them believe that, even if he was less than certain himself.
By midnight, he had taken them to their beds, said the Lord’s Prayer with them and another prayer for Catherine. As he kissed them goodnight, Andrew recoiled from him. He looked in the boy’s eyes and saw his own rage reflected. He could find no words of comfort, so left the children, returned to his solar and sat alone. He had a flask of brandy, yet he drank nothing. He did not sleep. In his cold chamber he had found her comb, the teeth entwined with a few strands of her dark hair. He held it and closed his eyes and tried to remember her face. All he could see was bloody remains, severed limbs and disgorged entrails. Joshua Peace had lied to him; there was no escaping this vision. No words, no closing of the eyes, no Bible readings, nothing could wash away the blood and the horror.
At dawn, he left the solar and spoke briefly with Jane, who could not hide the tears that had flowed all day and night and flowed still. He held her hands in his. ‘Keep the children busy, Jane,’ he said. ‘Give them chores, make them do their reading. Tell them they must be strong in honour and remembrance of their mother.’
He strode to the stables and was leading out his grey mare when he caught sight of Jan Sluyterman.
‘Mr Shakespeare, I do not have words…’
‘There are no words, Mr Sluyterman. Do not look for them. How is the girl, Susanna?’
‘I believe she was standing behind Mistress Shakespeare, who caught the full force of the blast. She fell to the ground and was knocked insensible. Her arm and leg are broken. She has many cuts.’
‘Has there been any more trouble from Topcliffe?’
Sluyterman shook his head.
‘What of the servant, Kettle?’
‘He has disappeared, thank the Lord.’
Shakespeare was disappointed. He had been certain the man could lead him into dark corners.
‘Well, if he returns, let me know straightway, Mr Sluyterman. In the meantime, I would ask you to meet me at the hospital at ten of the clock, for I must talk with the girl and would ask you to interpret for me.’
‘Of course. I will be there.’
Shakespeare shook the Dutchman’s hand, then clambered into the saddle and rode the mare slowly eastwards through the teeming streets towards the Strand.
Cecil was still eating his morning repast when Shakespeare arrived, but he was immediately ushered in.
‘John, I would give you time away to mourn, but I need you.’
