express orders of my lord of Essex. It is my understanding that Don Antonio is to be received at court. Gaynes Park is now closed, sir.’
Shakespeare cursed silently. How was he to bring Perez to Cecil now? It would be easier for a fingerless man to prise an oyster from its shell than to extract the Spaniard from Essex House under the earl’s gaze.
The church of St Boltoph stood less than fifty yards outside the city wall near Aldgate. Boltfoot tethered his horse by a water trough, then walked into the church’s bleak confines, stripped of all semblance of joy and beauty by the Protestant destroyers. The church was new-built since the old one fell away into ruin, but only the stones themselves seemed to have any pride and bearing.
A young woman sat in prayer on a plain three-legged stool. He watched her for a while. As she stood to go, he approached her. She averted her gaze and scurried away as if he was a poisonous snake.
Boltfoot walked outside. An old man knelt near a gravestone, cutting the grass and tares with a sickle.
‘Good day. I am looking for Mr Curl,’ Boltfoot said.
The man looked up at him briefly, then returned to his work.
‘I would pay for information.’
The old man looked up again. ‘My wife is buried here.’
‘I am sorry.’ Boltfoot turned disconsolately and walked away. Across the road he saw the sign of a hostelry. The Empty Vessel. He went in and ordered himself a blackjack of ale, then tried to talk with the landlord. ‘Do you know anything about the church?’
‘What is there to know? It is a church.’ He nodded his head to another drinker and set about drawing more ale from a keg.
‘Fine kegs you have here,’ Boltfoot said.
‘Aye, fine kegs, but the beer and ale inside them is better. Kegs never quenched a man’s thirst nor took away his pain.’
‘Kegs certainly cause a man’s thirst. The making of them, leastwise. I know it — for I am a cooper by trade.’
‘Are you now?’ the landlord said, suddenly interested. ‘Looking for work, are you? There’s always work for a journeyman cooper.’
Boltfoot supped deep of the ale. It was good and refreshing. ‘Not work at present, but something else. A place where Englishmen may live among their own kind without the din of strange voices and tongues.’
The landlord looked at him long and hard.
‘Would you know of such a place, innkeeper? Of such folk that think like me?’
‘That depends how you think. Are you saying you do not like strangers?’
‘Do you?’
The landlord reached over the bar, removed Boltfoot’s half-emptied leather jug and replaced it with the two pennies he had paid. ‘Take your money and get out, journeyman cooper. There are too many of your ilk in these parts and I will have none of you on these premises, with or without your threats.’
‘How have I offended you?’
‘You have offended me because I have a keen sense of smell. You are a dog turd on my shoe. It might please you to know that my goodwife hails from France and you insult her and me with your dirty talk. I won’t have it. Begone, master cooper.’
Bolfoot shuffled out. He wished very much to tell the landlord that he was sorry, that he had never intended to insult him or his goodwife, for those were not his opinions, that he was merely searching for one who did think like that. But he could not say these things and had to leave feeling like a criminal.
He stood outside the Empty Vessel wondering about his next move. The inn door opened and a man appeared, wiping his dirty sleeve across his mouth. He grinned at Boltfoot. ‘Master taverner keeps fine ale and good wine but makes poor company.’
Boltfoot frowned and said nothing.
‘I think you might be wanting something altogether stronger, master cooper. I did hear you say you were a cooper, did I not?’
‘I am not looking for work.’
‘But you are looking for friends, if I am right. English friends.’
‘Aye, that’s true enough. And who are you?’
‘I am someone who may be able to help you in your quest. Why not walk with me a while.’
‘I wanted to meet Mr Curl. Holy Trinity Curl.’
‘Too hot for him around here these days, master cooper.’
Boltfoot looked at the man. He was a grubby weasel of a fellow, who wore a tight-fitting leather cap around his head, though this could not conceal the fact that his ears were both missing. What felony had he committed to warrant such punishment? His face had a single, circular scar that cut across his forehead just above his eyebrows and just below the rim of the cap, and which curved down both cheeks and disappeared into his beard, near his chin, where, Boltfoot imagined, the ends probably met. Someone must have carved that, for it was not a wound gotten in battle nor by order of the courts. Some enemy did that, slowly and with purpose; a former confederate in crime, perhaps — or someone who wanted repayment of loaned moneys.
‘First, what is your name?’ he demanded, not budging.
‘Call me… king — Mr King. For we are all kings in the hereafter, are we not?’
‘Very well, Mr King. I will follow you.’
Boltfoot left his horse and set off on foot, eastwards along Aldgate street and out into a dark, narrow maze of the poorest housing. These were shabby wood-frame tenements, often six storeys high and so close packed that they blotted out the daylight and seemed to thicken and pollute the very air itself. In every street and alleyway there seemed to be at least one, sometimes two, properties burnt to the ground. Here was a squalor that the wealthy never saw.
‘See that pile of dung over there at the corner of the street? That’s where they toss the babes no one wants,’ King said. ‘They are of no more value than the contents of a midden. God bless the Queen’s Majesty…’
Small, mud-crusted, barefoot children played with sticks and stones in the manure-strewn streets. They looked ill fed and wore tatters. Draggle-tailed women held out hands for alms, though all hope had gone from their eyes. This constantly stirring cauldron, where the meanest of God’s creation teemed and thirsted, stood in cruel contrast to the wealth of the nearby merchant city. Boltfoot, limping and weather-worn, and his ragged companion did not stand out. Only the rare nature of Boltfoot’s weapons — his ornate wheel-lock caliver and cutlass — might set him apart from the common horde in such a place and attract a curious glance.
They came to a door so low that even Boltfoot would have to stoop to enter. He hesitated. Was he about to be robbed or killed? His hand fingered the hilt of his dagger.
‘Afraid, master cooper?’
‘I know nothing about you.’
‘You are well armed. You can afford to trust me. Look at these dark houses. Floor built upon floor like anthills. Five families crowded into each floor. The landlord’s men come with clubs and bats to take their wages and bread in rent. Or a tallow candle is dropped and the whole place goes up in flames. This is the way English men and women live and die, while the Dutch strangers wrap their wives in New World furs, fuck their English maidservants and drink Gascon wines. You know this to be true, master cooper, for that is why you came to St Botolph.’
Boltfoot nodded. ‘Aye, I wished to see Mr Curl. I had heard his name.’
‘Then you have heard well. Enter now. Keep your blades and wheel-lock, though you will not need them as yet.’
The man who called himself King ducked through the doorway and Boltfoot followed him. It was surprisingly clean and well lit after the stink and gloom of the street outside. A series of tallow candles lined the walls and a small window added yet more light.
A thin man in a leather apron was standing at a workbench. He looked up and caught Boltfoot’s eye, then threw an inquiring glance in the direction of King.
‘I have a new friend.’ King took his cap from his head and scratched his hair as though it were a breeding ground for lice. ‘He is what you want, I am sure of it.’
‘Indeed. Well, that is for me to decide.’
Boltfoot noted that Mr King was nervous and ill at ease in the presence of the thin man, who was working on
