Shakespeare’s path before and he had not liked him then. He could not bring himself even to read what the worm had written about the blast that killed Catherine. He knew it would dredge up her Papist past and his own failings.
‘I will give you a name.’
Shakespeare said nothing.
‘Mr Shakespeare, you must let me down from here. I beg you, not the Tower. Not Little Ease. I will tell you everything you wish to know. God’s death, I could kill that whore-bitch Beth Evans.’ He began coughing uncontrollably.
Shakespeare looked at him in silence.
‘Give me at least a chance,’ Glebe said when the coughing fit subsided.
‘Why?’
‘Because I can give you what you want.’
‘You will give me what I want in Little Ease, and I will trust your answers more when you are there.’
‘I pledge it, by all that is holy. I swear on my life and my mother’s soul.’
‘Holy? I have heard such words from you before, Glebe. They were as ash and aloes in your mouth.’
They were near Leadenhall, a few minutes’ walk from the Tower. Around them, the world passed in a noisy clattering of hooves, creaking of wagons and calling of wares. No one paid them heed. Another felon taken in to face justice — who should care about that?
‘Very well. His name is Laveroke. Luke Laveroke.’
‘The name means nothing. I have not heard of him. Tell me more.’
‘Do you pledge to free me? I have already told you enough to cost my life.’
‘Free you? You still fancy yourself the jester, I see.’
‘Anywhere but the Tower and I will talk.’
Shakespeare hesitated a few moments, then slapped the mare into a slow walk once more. He leant over to Glebe and whispered in his ear. ‘Very well. I have just the hole for you. But if for one moment I do not feel you are cooperating — if I feel you are holding anything back from me — think on this: it will be but a short hurdle ride to Little Ease…’
Boltfoot did not fear for his own life, yet he was aware enough to know that he was in a perilous place. Every so often another man, or a pair of men, came into the workshop to converse with Warboys. Their voices and language were guarded and Boltfoot found it difficult to follow what they said. They spoke of deliveries, trainbands and, most confusingly of all, a sieve. But they spoke in low voices and their conversations seemed deliberately to be couched in terms that made their meaning indecipherable. Boltfoot affected to pay them no heed and carried on with his work, chiselling and planing with precision. Warboys, meanwhile, drank pint after pint of strong ale.
On several occasions, men came from other parts of the house and simply nodded in acknowledgement on their way through, or stood awhile, watching, before retreating into the depths of the tenement.
At last Boltfoot was finished and stood back from the workbench. Warboys put down his jar of strong ale and held up the old arquebus in the slanting light from the window. His hands were surprisingly steady, given the amount he had drunk. ‘A fair piece of work that, Mr Cooper. A serviceable stock you have crafted there. We do, indeed, need a man like you.’
‘Good. That is what I desire. I will help in any wise I can.’
‘ Any wise, Mr Cooper? Do you have no reservations?’
‘None.’
‘That is good. Faint-hearts do not fare well with us. What do you believe?’
Boltfoot frowned, not comprehending the nature of the question.
‘Do you believe in one God? Do you believe in the devil? Do you believe the dead will rise when called on?’
‘No, not necromancy, though I had thought I saw things — spirits — in storms at sea. And yes, of course I believe in God.’
‘Of course. What man would not…’ Warboys’s nostrils dilated and he spoke with such scorn that Boltfoot gained a clear impression that this man did not believe in God. ‘And yet, Mr Cooper, though I know that there are many dark things man does not know or understand, I also know that he needs solid things in the here and now — weapons of war. Hagbuts and halberds.’
‘What would you have me do?’
‘You will find out soon enough, Mr Cooper. Barrels, certainly, but there are other requirements, too… Have patience.’
‘First, I must attend to certain matters. I will leave you now and be back here soon after dawn.’
Warboys’s laugh came from the depths of his throat and would have intimidated a lesser man. There was humour in it, but only the humour of a cat that has a rat with which to amuse itself.
Boltfoot’s whole body stiffened. He looked at his cutlass and caliver in the corner of the workroom, on the floor against the wall; they were useless to him in these circumstances. ‘I have things to organise, a horse to see fed and stabled.’ More than anything, he had to get word to Master Shakespeare.
‘You are not going anywhere. You are one of us now, an apostle of the Free English Trainband. We must stay together. You may be a volunteer, Mr Cooper, but I must advise you to consider yourself one of us. Once a man is with us, there is only one way for him to leave.’
There was no point in arguing. He could not appear reluctant. ‘I have fought for England before, Mr Warboys, and I will happily venture my life again. But what of my horse? I think he deserves his feed and a stable for the night.’
‘Where is he?’
‘By St Botolph. If I see to him now, I could be back within an hour or two.’
Warboys clapped him on the back. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Cooper. We’ll see to the nag on our way.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘You will find out all you need. Now pick up your fine weapons, and let us be gone. Men are waiting for us, each and every one of them with a common complaint — their livelihoods have been stolen from them and they and their families have been left to starve.’
‘God’s blood, John, this is a terrible pass,’ Henbird said.
Shakespeare pushed Glebe down roughly on to a settle. ‘I wish you to keep this miserable churl safe, Nicholas. Question him with me, then lock him away. You have a cellar?’
‘Beneath a concealed trapdoor. It’ll hold this fellow safe enough. And I have information for you.’
‘Hold it until we have dispensed with Glebe.’
They were in Nicholas Henbird’s pleasant solar room. The sky was dull, but even on such a day, light flooded in through large windows. Glebe, his arms bound behind his back, sat on a settle by a window. He looked as disconsolate as the sky.
Shakespeare glared at Glebe with contempt, then turned back to Henbird. ‘He has mentioned a name. Laveroke. Have you heard of him, Nick?’
Henbird shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Perhaps he is an invention of Glebe’s gong-house mind.’
‘I swear it, Mr Shakespeare. He is all too real, though I wish I had never met him.’
‘Tell us all you know. Who is this man, where did you meet, why is he using your broadsheet?’
‘I was approached by him,’ Glebe said in a quavering voice. ‘In a tavern.’
‘Which tavern?’
‘The Swan in Gray’s Inn Road. I go there often, to listen to the lawyers talk, to garner what news I may. This man, this Laveroke, approached me and asked if I would publish a goodly tale. He said he knew of me from friends. He told me he could give me stories that would sell the Informer by the wagonload. Not only that, he said, but he would pay me two pounds in gold for each story I published. How could I refuse such an offer, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘So you became Tamburlaine’s Apostle?’
‘No, that was Laveroke. He was the author of the stories: he put that name at the end. And they were good stories, Mr Shakespeare, the news the people wished to read.’
Henbird stood still by his great desk. ‘You must have realised you were delving into treacherous waters, Mr
