‘But you fear it might be true.’
Cecil shook his head. ‘I do not know. But you believed the old nurse, did you not? What I do know is that he might exist — in which case we cannot rest until he is found and discredited. The world must be very clear that he is an impostor, part of a Spanish plot.’
‘And the gunpowder conspiracy?’
‘I told you, John, Mr Mills is-’
Shakespeare’s cold grief suddenly exploded into hot fury. ‘Yes, but what exactly has he done? What has he achieved except to drive Morley to take his own life, or worse? There are leads I must follow, Sir Robert.’
‘And have you told Mr Mills these leads of yours?’
Shakespeare glared at his chief.
‘You know I have my doubts about him.’
‘I sometimes wonder whether you doubt me, John.’
‘I do believe-’ He was about to say that he believed Cecil too often held back intelligence from him, to his detriment, but he stopped himself. ‘Sometimes I do not know what to believe, Sir Robert.’
‘Which is one of your great strengths.’ Cecil picked up the flask of wine and poured a small goblet for Shakespeare. ‘A man who knew exactly what to believe — a man who never asked questions — would be useless to me. As to the powderman, what of your man Cooper? Have you heard aught from him? I am told he has slipped away alone.’
How typical of Boltfoot to go his own way. But nonetheless, Shakespeare was concerned that he had not heard directly from him by now. If this Mr Sarjent had discovered the source of the powder, why had Boltfoot not stayed — or returned to Dowgate with news? He would trust Boltfoot’s judgement against any man’s. And yet, he was worried, for Boltfoot was not immortal. No man or woman was, as he knew too well.
Topcliffe was at Dowgate when Shakespeare returned home. He was alone, lounging against the door, smoking his pipe, leaning on his blackthorn and perusing a broadsheet.
Shakespeare drew his sword.
Topcliffe took the smoking pipe from his mouth and held it at arm’s length. ‘Hold fast, Shakespeare, I know of your loss. I am not here to gloat.’
‘Get out of my sight.’
‘I’m not here for you. I want your maggot of a brother.’
‘Go now or I swear by God that I will run you through where you stand.’
‘I mean him no harm, though he deserves it. Tell him I need him to help me resolve the Marlowe killing. A little cooperation with me could save him much misery.’
‘What do you care about Marlowe’s killer, Topcliffe?’
‘More than most. I told you — we were as one in our dislike for the filthy strangers corrupting this city.’ He tossed his white head in the direction of the Sluytermans’ house and beat his cane against his palm.
‘What has this to do with my brother?’
‘Did he not know Marlowe better than most? He must have some idea who was behind this foul deed. Would he not wish to help Uncle Richard send his friend’s killer to Paddington Green with a hempen neckerchief?’
‘I do not believe a word you say, Topcliffe. You care not a turd about any man’s death, unless you are drawing the blood yourself. Why would a man such as you inquire into Kit Marlowe’s murder?’
Topcliffe suddenly laughed. ‘Well, you are doing nothing to solve it, are you, Shakespeare?’
This was true and it still rankled, for Shakespeare was certain it was murder, not self-defence.
‘Where has your wet-arsed brother gone so suddenly? Taken his girl-boy players touring the towns of England, has he? Or perhaps he cowers and shivers in Warwickshire with his Papist father. When you see him, tell him I shall find him soon enough… and give him the reward he deserves.’
Shakespeare thrust his sword forward so that its point touched Topcliffe’s doublet at the heart. ‘If I knew the whereabouts of my brother — or any other honest man — do you think I would tell you?’
Topcliffe stood his ground and met Shakespeare’s gaze full on. Their eyes locked for two or three seconds, then Topcliffe turned aside and nonchalantly tossed the broadsheet on to the dust at his feet.
‘As you will, you Papist-grovelling milksop. You can put your little sword up. But think on this: stranger or player — one of them killed Marlowe. Nothing else makes sense.’ He kicked the sheet of printed paper towards Shakespeare. It blew up in the breeze, then floated down to the ground. ‘I had thought you might wish to see that.’ With another laugh, the grizzled rackmaster strolled off, pipe in his mouth, fumes billowing behind him.
Shakespeare watched him go, the hilt of his sword tight gripped in his hand. He looked down and noticed he was shaking with rage. He realised then that if Topcliffe had not walked away, he would have killed him. At the corner of the street, Topcliffe untethered his horse and climbed up into the saddle. He looked back and called out. ‘Whoever did for your grubby Romish dogwife saved me a job. One down… you next.’ He spat into the dust, dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks and rode away hard.
Shakespeare thrust his sword back into its scabbard and stepped forward towards his door. It was immediately opened by Jane, who must have been watching the exchange from a window. Something made him turn back and pick up the broadsheet that Topcliffe had brought. It was yet another edition of The London Informer. He glanced at it, and was about to throw it back down when the words writ across the top stopped him dead. Half in, half out the doorway, he stood and read it with horror and incomprehension. How could Walstan Glebe possibly have garnered this piece of intelligence?
He read it twice, three times. Under the heading ‘Pretender to the Thrones of England and Scotland’ the broadsheet proceeded to relate the story that the old nun had told him at Gaynes Park — in almost every detail. It ended: Good readers, I am now in a position to tell you that this selfsame princeling is to be found here in the city of London, harboured and comforted by Popish traitors and conspirators, waiting to snatch the thrones of England and Scotland. We trust that he will be discovered and despatched without delay, for no Spanish pretender must ever be allowed to lay claim to the crown of England.
After the third reading, Shakespeare tucked the broadsheet into his doublet, strode from the house, threw a saddle across the back of the grey mare without waiting for the groom’s assistance, then wheeled her out from the stable-yard and rode at a reckless canter through the streets, knocking water sellers, traders and goodwives out of his way. This sheet of paper changed everything. He had to consult Cecil without delay. He had been used by Ana Cabral, perhaps by Perez too. Gold had never been the main issue here; they had simply wanted the information out in the public domain, for how could a man claim a throne if no one had ever heard of him? These were the first shots in a campaign to have their prince recognised by the world as the heir to King James VI of Scotland and to Queen Elizabeth of England.
Secondly, the connection with Walstan Glebe and his London Informer raised another possibility, one that he had not even considered until now. How did Glebe have knowledge of both the gunpowder campaign and the supposed lost prince, unless there was some connection? Both conspiracies shared one common intention: the destabilising of the realm. And who would wish that but Spain? There was no time to lose. He had to bring in Glebe and discover all he knew. He was the key to everything.
‘It has been too long,’ Ana Cabral said, running a finger sensuously down the man’s hairless chest to his bare abdomen and moving her open mouth closer to him as she did so. ‘I have missed you.’
The man leant forward and kissed the nape of her neck, then laughed. ‘Are you addressing me or my prick, senorita?’
‘Both of you, sir. I like you both, for between you, you satisfy me body and soul.’ She lay back on the sheets, stretched out, abandoned to the erotic moment of warm bodies and cool sheets.
He swung his legs away from her and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Reciprocated. But we have things to talk on. The ship is ready. She stands moored in a remote inlet of the Thames. With dark humour she has been christened the Sieve by my Scots friends, but I promise you she is seaworthy enough for any passage. The building of the machine is well under way.’
‘When will she be ready?’
‘The work is arduous and must be carried out discreetly. A shepherd boy or a fisherman might note something, so great stealth is necessary — and that slows us.’
‘Within two days?’
‘I hope — yes, I am sure. Though much still depends upon the clocksmith. His device must be perfect.’
Ana lay back on the warm linen, all rumpled and aromatic from their energetic cavortings. ‘Can that be a little
