have confided that they hear things in the taverns and ordinaries about rabble-rousing. Some speak of a new Wat Tyler or Jack Cade, feeding off the fears of the merchants and the resentment of employed men whose wages have been cut, or whose jobs have been lost. My instinct is that there is something in this, some organisation bubbling up into insurrection. If you asked me to guess, I would say Kettle was collecting for them and that the merchants who gave their gold knew very well what it was for. Distressed mariners be damned. The money is buying gunpowder to blow up Dutchmen.’
‘Then this is even bigger than we feared. This is not merely the usual mob of apprentices spoiling for a fight.’
‘A great deal bigger, John. That is my honest worry.’ He paused. ‘Drink your brandy. You have suffered most grievously, and I am sorry
…’
Shakespeare nodded stiffly, then downed the spirit in one shot. There was, for a moment, silence in the room. At last he spoke. ‘Do you think it worth going back to the two merchants, Bookman and Weaver?’
‘Possibly.’
‘I think you should go. Appeal to their God-fearing natures. Explain that if they don’t help you, they could end up in something so deep it will unsettle their comfortable lives. And find Oliver Kettle for me.’
Henbird enjoyed the smooth heat of the brandy slipping down his throat. ‘I shall also ask about if anyone has heard of a Laveroke…’
‘Do that, Nick, do that.’ Henbird was right, Shakespeare thought as he refilled his brandy. There was a fever in the air. ‘Does this all come from the Escorial?’ he said, expressing his reflections aloud. ‘I know what Mr Secretary would be thinking…’
‘He would be thinking that we are under attack.’
‘And I would have to agree with him.’
It was early evening, a fine evening now that the grey cloud had moved away. The sun was high and the land was warm. No more than a few white clouds drifted on the light breeze.
Boltfoot left his horse at a livery stable, all the time closely watched by Warboys, so that he had no hope of slipping away or getting a groom to take a message for him. Then they doubled back to Brick Lane, where they were joined by eleven other men, all of whom he had seen in the workshop and none of whom were introduced to him. They seemed a strange group, men of different ages and sizes. The only things that united them were the old hagbuts and pikes they brought, their common working men’s clothing of leather and wool jerkins, and their obvious deference to Warboys.
Together, they marched north and east, skirting the fields that fringed the urban areas outside the city wall. Now they were in the countryside to the north of Houndsditch.
Boltfoot heard the distant boom of a cannon. As they drew nearer, the intermittent crack of musket-fire grew louder. They were approaching the long brick wall surrounding Artillery Yard, to the west of Spital Field.
‘Now we’ll try your mettle, Mr Cooper. Now we’ll see whether you have the eye of a hawk or the fumbling eye of a mole.’
Boltfoot mumbled in a non-committal way. He knew his worth in the heat of battle. He had staked his life on many an occasion when ships came broadside and the grappling hooks lashed them together for hand-to-hand fighting. He would fear no man in armed close-quarters combat.
There were other trainbands in the area. Hundreds of men were out this day with the militias of the great livery companies. These were the men who would defend London should Spain ever invade. Slightly apart, keeping themselves to themselves as if looking down on the Londoners, were troops raised by the noble families from the shires, all identifiable by their bright tabards and fluttering pennants. Outside the yard, pikemen and halberdiers rehearsed their deadly craft — parry, thrust and chop. Archers, too, reminded those who thought the longbow had had its day that the whisper of an arrow could be every bit as deadly as the bang of a musket-ball. Within the yard, a few artillery men were working on an array of cannons. Also in the yard, a hundred or so arquebusiers stood idly talking, awaiting their turn to step up to the mark, rest their matchlock muskets on notched props and fire half a dozen balls at a range of targets.
There were others here — food sellers with bushel bags of fruit and bread, whores, alemen — all trying to earn a few pence from this ritual, which had become so much a part of London life since King Philip first threatened to send an invasion armada back in the 1580s. All this army of part-time English warriors required was good leadership and cohesion, for they had fighting spirit in great measure and were rapidly acquiring martial skills.
As they arrived in the yard, Warboys nodded to a group of a dozen men, who came over and mingled with the group he had brought. He turned to Cooper. ‘Do you want to show me your skills with a matchlock hagbut or are you content with your caliver?’
‘What I would most like, Mr Warboys, is a little more information if I am to hazard my life with you. This is a ragged band. I do not mind fighting for England, but I do not wish to have my belly slit open and my trillibub spilled into the Tyburn dust for a group of worthless vagabonds.’
‘All in good time. All will become clear. But I can tell you there is nothing treasonable here. You are risking nothing by training with us. No man who sees us could think us anything but another of the many trainbands honing their aim. What true Englishmen is not out at the targets on such a fine summer’s evening? What man would not defend his country from enemies without and enemies within?’
For the next two hours, Boltfoot took his turn to fire at the targets, along with the other men. They did not talk with him much. Finally, Warboys handed him a tankard of ale. ‘Here you are, Mr Cooper. You have earned that. Not only are you a good craftsman, but you are a fine shot, too. What else do you know? Have you dealt with ordnance, with powder?’
‘Aboard ship, aye, I was proficient enough, but there were plenty of men who knew more than me.’
‘Well, go now and sup, then later, you shall make acquaintance with Mr Curl. I think he will like you well. In the meantime, I have other work I must attend to.’
Chapter 22
Cecil’s man Clarkson was waiting for Shakespeare at Dowgate. He was on horseback. ‘I have never seen Sir Robert so agitated, Mr Shakespeare. He awaits word from the Perez faction and none comes. He says you must go to Essex House and bring the Spaniard forth.’
Shakespeare was incredulous. ‘Sir Robert knows well that I cannot go to Essex House. I would not be admitted.’
‘He is adamant that you bring Perez to him. I think he does not care how you do it.’
‘He demands the impossible.’
Clarkson smiled with resignation. He was one of the Cecils’ oldest retainers, having worked for Sir Robert’s father, the Lord Treasurer, Burghley, before being taken on by the son. Shakespeare had always liked him and could not be angry with him; he knew he was only relaying a message.
‘Well, come in and take a little wine with me, Mr Clarkson. Let us think about this.’
‘I fear I must hasten back to Sir Robert to tell him that I have communicated with you.’
‘Tell him my reply, if you will. And tell him, too, that I have apprehended Glebe and have him in safe-keeping. He talks of receiving information from a man named Laveroke. Ask Sir Robert if he knows this name, for I do not…’
Clarkson bowed, shook the reins and was gone.
Shakespeare watched him go, then stepped inside his house. He stayed just long enough to take sustenance, kiss the children and try to reassure Jane that she would be hearing from Boltfoot soon. Then he rode for the Strand.
Ellington Warboys waited outside the Tower. It was almost ten of the clock and the curfew would start soon. At last the constable, fat and plodding, approached him furtively. He looked about to make sure he was not observed, then stretched out his greedy hand. Warboys placed two angel coins in his palm. ‘There’s your pound, master constable. Free passage this night.’
‘Three angels. It’ll cost you three angels. The price is up.’
