earlier?’
The man turned her way and clasped his mouth to her young breast. He felt himself stirring once more. He did not really have time for this, but some things were more important than war and religion, and Ana Cabral’s remarkable body was one of them.
She pushed his face away. ‘Speak to me, sir.’ She beat his chest in a sudden squall of fury.
‘Maybe two days, more likely three… I am not certain. There is much heavy lifting, without benefit of cranes or derricks. We are short of trustworthy men.’
‘And the powder? Do you have all the powder?’
‘It is safely stored and ready. Twelve thousand pounds of finest corned English gunpowder.’
As quickly as her storm rose, it subsided. Ana circled her arms around him and resumed her ministrations. ‘Make it twenty. Our masters in Madrid have recalculated. They now say twenty thousand pounds. Enough to make the loudest roar the world has ever known. Enough to make God himself wish he could make thunder as great. Do you understand, Mr Laveroke?’
‘Yes, I understand, Dona Ana.’
‘Good, then you shall be well paid, for little Robertus Diabolus has provided me with gold. But you must keep your useful Scottish friends about their business. More powder, more powder, more powder.’
Chapter 20
‘ Who is behind this?’ Cecil demanded, slamming the broadsheet down on the table.
Shakespeare had never seen Sir Robert so agitated. ‘A villain named Walstan Glebe,’ he said. ‘I believe I know a way to him.’
‘Well, bring him in. Why is such a man at large to disseminate this? If word of this reaches the Queen, her fury will know no bounds. Give your information to Mr Mills.’
‘No. I want Glebe alive…’
Mills went white. ‘Sir Robert, this is a calumny!’
‘Morley died under your watch, Frank,’ Shakespeare put in. ‘I cannot risk another such death.’
‘He killed himself! It was none of my doing.’
‘Indeed, yet you did not ensure his safety. Nor did you discover the knowledge he would have imparted to me.’
Mills turned to Cecil. ‘Sir Robert, this is intolerable-’
Cecil’s small, feminine hand rose. ‘Stop this. We do not have time for such brabbling. You will work together, not against each other. Do you understand me? God’s wounds, we have enough to deal with. What I say is this — if Glebe can print news of gunpowder and a Scots prince, then we are dealing with a conspiracy monstrous in scope and compass. It does not take a great wit to imagine that the powder is the means by which they would put their princeling on the throne of England — or Scotland — or both. Now, Mr Shakespeare, find this Glebe and bring him to Newgate, where we shall question him. If need be, with the rack.’
Shakespeare nodded, his jaw set grimly.
‘Whatever your qualms, Mr Shakespeare. Do you understand me?’
Shakespeare looked Cecil in the eye, but said nothing. Cecil turned away and addressed Mills.
‘Frank, you will find this clockmaker. If need be, you will bring every clockmaker in London to the Tower. That, surely, cannot be beyond your wit.’
‘It is not so simple, Sir Rob-’
‘Then make it simple. And John — ’ he turned back to Shakespeare — ‘find out where your man Cooper is and what he has discovered. In the meantime, we shall await word from Perez and his diabolical crew of intrigants. But we shall not wait long. I will have the whereabouts of the pretender prince torn from his mouth. If necessary, along with his tongue…’
At times, Beth Evans wondered where life might have taken her had she not broken up with John Shakespeare. Could there have been more to their innocent summer frolic? Might he have married her and given her a family and a home, in place of barrenness and whoredom? Inevitably, she shook her head and smiled wanly to herself, for the answer, always, was no. They would have ended up hating each other. With babes at her feet, he would have resented her for thwarting his ambition.
She laughed at her own musings. The truth was he had not even recognised her. And when he had failed to turn up for their planned meeting to seek out Glebe, he had not even sent word.
Naked, her long fair hair hanging loose, she washed herself, vigorously, squatting over a bowl of cold water with a soap ball in one hand. Her client, an archdeacon from St Paul’s, dressed slowly beside the chamber window, gazing out at a grey summer’s day. She wished he would hurry up and leave, for he had done his business and she had his shillings. She wanted to erase every trace of him from this room and from her body. Beth could be as accommodating as the next whore — and many men sought her out specially, for the years had treated her well — but when it was done, it was done. She could not bear the ones who wanted to linger and talk, perhaps to assuage their guilt or shame, as though they were engaged in innocent discourse at home with their goodwife.
There was a discreet double knock at the door. It was code from her maid. The hour was up and another client was waiting. If no client was waiting, there would be no knock and she could tarry and dally with the man as long as she wished.
Beth smiled at the archdeacon. ‘Duty calls, venerable sir.’
The clergyman caught her eye and nodded gravely. ‘Of course, my dear, I was in a dream. For a moment there I quite forgot that you were a working girl.’
‘Will I see you next week?’
‘Indeed, God willing.’
Still naked, she hustled him out of the chamber as best she could without physically pushing him, smiling inside at the way he invoked the will of God to assist him in his wanton perambulations. As he disappeared down the stairway, Beth’s maid appeared. ‘You have a visitor, Beth.’
‘Who is it this time?’
‘Not a client. Your friend Mr Shakespeare.’
Her body stirred like it had once as a girl. She grinned broadly at the maid. ‘Then you had better help me dress myself.’
‘It is possible he might prefer you as you are, mistress.’
‘Oh I think not. No, indeed, I am sure he would not.’
Shakespeare was taut with impatience, waiting in the hall below the gallery. His mind was elsewhere. Cecil had spoken of a monstrous conspiracy — gunpowder to blow a usurper on to the throne — but other thoughts crowded in, too: what was Topcliffe’s interest in his brother? Had Will been right in thinking the death of Marlowe was in some way connected to a purge against the theatre world? And was that death really not linked to the events at the Dutch church and in the Dutch market?
He looked up at the tapestry depicting Black Lucy without emotion or wonder. The last time he had been to this whorehouse, he had threatened without a great deal of conviction to have all its occupants hauled off to prison. Now, if he did not get an immediate response to his questioning, he was minded to do just that.
At last Beth arrived. He nodded to her stiffly.
‘Mistress Evans,’ he said.
‘I must now have the whereabouts of Walstan Glebe.’
‘John, what happened to you? You did not come…’
‘There were other matters. Now I must get to Glebe.’
‘And I shall be happy to take you, for he paid me only half the agreed fee when last I was sent to him.’
Shakespeare ignored her. ‘Is your mistress here… Mistress Lucy?’
‘She is. But John, I must tell you, you look in dire need of rest and food. Your visage, your attire — it is as though you have not eaten nor slept in a week. Forgive me for speaking plain.’
‘My appearance is of no consequence. I have ridden hard. Be pleased to fetch Mistress Lucy, and then, within the hour, we must depart to find Glebe. I take it you still know where he is?’
