He couldn’t keep up with the news. The London Informer was selling like saffron cakes on a sunny day at Bartholomew Fair. First the death of Marlowe, followed almost immediately by the explosion outside the Dutch church. Then this scarce believable story of the secret child of the Scots devil, Mary (even if he didn’t quite believe it, the story was one everyone wanted to read). He could hardly acquire enough paper to print the copies he could sell, and the type sorts were wearing so thin that many words were becoming illegible. The press itself had seen better days and seemed unlikely to last the month out. But such problems could soon be put behind him if gold kept filling his coffers the way it did. Soon he would have enough to buy a permanent press, with a new set of type, and secure regular premises. This was the future; London could never get too much news.
The door opened and he turned towards it expecting his girl, Bella, back with the ale and pie he had sent her to fetch. Instead, he saw the tall figure of John Shakespeare, with two wheel-locks pointing straight at him.
Walstan Glebe stood there, as if glued to the floor, a damp sheet of paper in his hand. Shakespeare could see the words across the top of the broadsheet: Five are blasted to horrible death at Dutch market. Then the next line: Her Majesty outraged at strangers’ powder plot.
‘Mr Shakespeare-’
‘Still lying, Glebe?’
As if suddenly realising what he was holding, Glebe turned the broadsheet and looked at the headlines. He removed the pipe from his mouth. ‘This is all true, Mr Shakespeare. I swear it. And my press is licensed.’
Shakespeare gazed past him towards the rickety press, upright against the wall. Nearby was a box of type sorts and piles of broadsheets ready for distribution. How did Glebe continually manage to evade the law and find gold enough to replace the presses which the Stationers’ Company made it their business to destroy?
‘Licensed? If that press is licensed, then I’m the Pope. You’ve never had a licence in your miserable life, Glebe.’ Bitterly, he thought back to the words he had seen printed in Glebe’s rag after the church blast. ‘Did enough dogs die for your liking this time?’
‘Mr Shakespeare, please, I was devastated to hear of your sad loss.’
‘Get down flat on the ground, with your hands behind your back. One wrong move and I will discharge both pistols at you.’
‘How did you find me?’
Shakespeare said nothing, but moved closer with the pistols.
‘Some putrid mangy-arsed whore, I’ll wager.’
‘Down!’
Glebe let go the sheet of paper and it fluttered to the floor. Slowly, he dropped to his knees, his eyes all the while fixed on Shakespeare’s guns.
Shakespeare stuck one of the wheel-locks in his belt and shook the coiled cord from his shoulder. The door creaked. He half turned. A dark-haired girl stood open-mouthed in the doorway with a blackjack of ale and a gold- crusted pie.
It was all the distraction Glebe needed. There was unlikely to be a second chance. He flung himself forward at Shakespeare’s legs, knocking him off-balance.
Shakespeare stumbled backwards but maintained his footing. Glebe was faster and launched himself past the girl and through the doorway. The jug fell from her hands, spewing ale across the sawdust-strewn floor. She stood there, mouth agape, pie in hand, as Shakespeare lunged forward after the slippery Glebe, pushing her aside and falling headlong into the street. Glebe was three or four yards ahead of him, running… and then sprawling. Beth Evans had extended her leg and tripped him, sending him hurtling to the ground.
Shakespeare was on his back in an instant, a wheel-lock to his head. He handed the other wheel-lock to Beth, then took the length of cord from his shoulder and tied Glebe’s hands tight behind his back.
The thick thatch of hair atop Glebe’s head was grey now, but he still wore it in a long fringe to cover the L for Liar branded on to his forehead by the courts for fraudulently selling odes written by other poets as if they were his own work. Shakespeare wrenched back his hair and leant down to speak in his ear. ‘We’ll remove your nose this time, Glebe. Try growing your hair to cover that little hole.’
Glebe grunted with the pain of his fall and the wrenching of his head in Shakespeare’s powerful fist.
‘Get up. I am taking you to the Tower and I promise you will tell me everything I wish to know.’
At last Glebe found his voice. ‘You cannot do this. My press is licensed. I have powerful patrons.’
‘Well, we’ll find out. In Little Ease…’
Chapter 21
In the cell known as Little Ease, a man could neither lay his body down fully, nor stand erect. The floor was four foot by four foot and it was no more than four foot in height, like a dice, so that a man of normal height had no room to move, nor rest. He could crouch like a cat or he could kneel or sit against the wall, but he could not stretch his aching limbs or ease the pain in his cruelly bent back by arching it. The very thought of the wretched hole was enough to strike terror and panic into the stoutest heart. The breath came short, the gasping wails of despair rose within the back of the throat. It was a place of madness, a place that would have you pleading for a quick death. After a few days in Little Ease, a man with the strongest of spirits would be fit for nothing but a Bedlam cell or the scaffold.
In his time, Walstan Glebe had suffered the sting of the branding iron and the smell of his own roasting flesh. He had been shackled to the stinking floor of Newgate with scarce enough food to live. He had been whipped for the public’s entertainment at Bridewell and had been threatened with the noose on several occasions. Yet none of those memories matched his fear of Little Ease.
‘Mr Shakespeare, I beg you, not that,’ he whimpered. ‘I have done nothing to warrant such punishment.’
It was not long since Shakespeare had dragged Christopher Morley through the streets towards the Counter prison in Wood Street on a leash linked to his stirrup. It had not been the safest method of taking in a felon, for who could tell when a confederate might dash forward with a razor to slash the cord and free the prisoner. He could take no such chances with Glebe. Instead, he strapped him over the back of his grey mare, his wrists and ankles tied tight by a length of rope stretched under the animal’s belly.
Shakespeare turned to Beth Evans. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Take care in returning to the…’ He stopped, not sure what to say.
Beth laughed as she used to. ‘Don’t worry about my sensitivities, John. I know what I am — and I am not ashamed.’
‘No, of course not.’
Suddenly her smile dissolved. ‘I can only imagine your grief. I am desperately sorry for what has happened. I know you loved her.’
He nodded stiffly and turned away, then shook the reins.
The horse walked with the swaggering gait of the fine mare she was. Her powerful hind quarters swayed with every step along the difficult city roads, sometimes cobbled, sometimes mere dirt and potholes. Each step jolted Glebe, crushing his lungs and turning his belly to mush.
‘Stop a while for pity’s sake. You will shake me to death or make me shit my breeches. I need drink!’
‘Do you think anyone cares about your thirst or even your life, Glebe? Do you think Her Majesty is amused by your pernicious little story about the succession and your involvement in the gunpowder conspiracy? Death awaits you.’
‘None of it was me! I beg you to listen.’
Glebe was having trouble talking. The taut straps and jogging of the beast continually winded him and loosened his bowels.
Shakespeare stopped the horse. ‘So who was it?’
Glebe said nothing for a few moments. Shakespeare shook the rein and the mare walked on.
‘Stop. Stop!’
Shakespeare halted again. He looked at the miserable bundle across the back of his horse. Glebe was dressed in good clothes. A well-made brown doublet and breeches, a cambric falling band around his neck. But he was a villainous, untrustworthy creature who scratched a living out of other men’s misfortunes. He had crossed
