measured tones, then it raged like a tempest and his lips were flecked with spit. Finally, he turned to his vision of an England in which all men were landowners and free, where the nobility had been cast down and set to the yoke.
Curl shook his clenched right fist. ‘There shall be such an explosion of sentiment in this city that none may withstand it. Tread on a worm and it will turn. I say to stranger and treacherous noble alike, fly! Fly now or die! The time is almost here…’
For a full two minutes he stood erect, fist raised, accepting the frenzied applause of his followers. Some men came up to him and kissed his feet, others shook their hagbuts and daggers in the air. Then he stepped down from his stool and shook the hands of those clustered close to him, including Mr Warboys.
Warboys leant close to Curl and seemed to whisper a few words in his ear, at which Curl nodded. Warboys then looked across to Boltfoot and signalled with his hand for him to come over.
Boltfoot pushed through the mass of men towards the front of the room.
‘This is Mr Cooper,’ Warboys said. ‘He says he is eager to serve you.’
Curl smiled gravely and took Boltfoot by the hand, his amber eyes delving deep, as though looking for his soul. ‘I want no man to serve me, Mr Cooper,’ he said. ‘I want these men to serve England. Drink a gage of good English booze tonight and prepare to pay the blood price when you are called. Are you with us, Mr Cooper?’
Boltfoot grunted. He would rather eat his own balls than fight alongside this man.
‘Mr Warboys tells me you are a skilled woodworker. We have need of such men.’
‘It’s what I do, Mr Curl, and I don’t want to be doing it for no Dutchman.’
‘Then we are as one. Now drink ale and get sleep.’
Curl shook Boltfoot’s hand again, then turned away.
‘There is a dry palliasse for you upstairs, Mr Cooper,’ Warboys said. ‘With the other men. You will be up at dawn and there will be food for you, then work.’
It occurred to Boltfoot that he was indeed a pressed man, if not a prisoner. He could as well get out of this house as he could have removed himself safely from a ship-of-war in the middle of the Western Ocean. At least at sea, he had a vague notion of where he was headed. Here, in this house, trapped, he had no idea what might be waiting on the morrow.
He picked up his blackjack of ale and drank a deep draught. His eyes over the lip of the jug caught another man’s eyes. Their eyes locked. Suddenly a door was opened and a breeze came into the room blowing out half of the candles. Boltfoot’s skin crept with dread. The way the man had looked at him. Did he know him? If so, Boltfoot could not place him. He was a cold-faced, unremarkable man, with dark hair, thick as a horse’s mane, and a mouth so turned down that it was impossible to believe he had ever in his life smiled. Boltfoot looked away.
Had he seen that face before? Had they once been crewmates under Drake? He struggled to find a memory, but could discover none. He gazed again in the direction of the man to seek some clue in his face, but the man had vanished.
Chapter 25
Boltfoot’s dormitory was near the top of the house. Eight straw palliasses were laid out, taking up most of the floor space. At the end of each mattress was a hopharlot, rolled up to use as bedding.
He did not undress but lay down, his caliver and cutlass at his side. All the men had their arms with them. They did not talk much, but took to their beds. One or two smoked pipes as they lay in the dark, awaiting sleep.
Boltfoot was by the wall beneath the window. Ranged alongside him was the man with whom he had eaten his repast.
‘Well, Mr Cooper,’ the man said. ‘What did you make of Mr Curl?’
‘He was as I had thought he would be.’
‘A mighty impressive man, would you not say?’
Boltfoot did not reply. He was wondering how high the window was, whether there was any possibility of climbing out this night. He guessed he must be twenty to twenty-five feet above the level of the street outside. A fall from there would do for him.
‘Well, good night to you, Mr Cooper.’
Boltfoot said nothing. He was thinking of the face among the crowd of men. The more he thought of it the more he began to fancy that he had seen it before. But where? He needed to remove himself from this place without delay.
Jane was still in her daywear and waiting for Shakespeare at the door. ‘Not in bed, Jane? It is near midnight, I believe.’
‘You have a visitor, master.’
‘Who is it?’
‘His name is Mr Bruce. I believe him to be a Scotch gentleman. He invited himself in. He is in your library, sir… I could not prevent him.’
Shakespeare’s hand hovered by the hilt of his sword. ‘Bring us wine, Jane.’ Upstairs, he pushed open the library door. A man lay across the settle, his dusty boots crossed and resting on a red velvet cushion. He had his hands behind his head and was staring idly up at the plasterwork. He turned his head on hearing the door open, but made no effort to rise.
‘Ah, Shakespeare,’ he said. ‘You have kept me waiting.’
Shakespeare’s hand stayed close to the hilt of the sword. ‘Who are you?’
‘Bruce. Rabbie Bruce.’
‘That tells me nothing. Why are you here?’
Bruce swung his legs from the settle and rose languidly to his feet. He was wearing a clan tartan kilt, wound around his shoulder and down to his knees as a skirt. He had a belt about his waist with an animal-skin purse hanging from it. In his stocking there was the haft of a dagger. ‘Take your hand away from your wee sword, Shakespeare. We’re on the same side. Did little Cecil not tell you I would be here?’
‘I still have no idea who you are…’
Bruce raised an eyebrow and looked at Shakespeare as a university tutor might sneer at a doltish student. ‘From the Scots embassy. I am an envoy of King James. We are to work together. Do you English not communicate one with the other?’
Jane arrived with a tray of wine. She was clearly unsettled by Bruce and gave him a wide berth. She put the tray down on the table quickly before bowing to her master and hurriedly making her way out. Shakespeare eyed the man. He was an inch or two shorter than Shakespeare was, yet he looked stronger. He was lean and muscular and seemed to be about Shakespeare’s age — mid thirties — with an air of relaxed assurance. He was clean-shaven with short brown hair. His eyes were dark and seemed to smile, but closer inspection revealed that there was no smile, just a trick of the lines that had started to gather around his high cheekbones.
‘Work together on what, Mr Bruce? Knitting kilts?’
‘You are droll, Shakespeare. We are to find this man who claims himself as the King’s half-brother. The sooner he is rendered dead, the happier I shall be. For while he is at large, every Popish assassin from here to Rome and Madrid will make it his business to kill James and make their impostor king in his place.’
‘It is not my mission to kill any man, Mr Bruce.’
‘Is that so? Well, you do the boy’s work and I shall do the man’s. I shall see this princeling skewered, parboiled and spit-roasted.’
Shakespeare moved his hand from the sword. He poured two cups of French wine, sprinkling a little sugar into each measure. He handed the drink to Bruce, who put it down untried.
‘No time for wine. Work to be done. I am told you were seeking Glebe, the printer of the broadsheet. Have you found him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then let us go to him. Where is he?’
‘Under lock and key. But it is midnight, Mr Bruce, and I have already questioned him. We will not go to him
