black horse that Shakespeare recognised as the Barbary filly he had ridden at Gaynes Park.
Seeing the newcomers, the royal officer bowed and moved away.
The vidame made an extravagant gesture with his hand by way of greeting to Shakespeare. ‘Have you come to see Conquistadora, the Barb filly?’ He reached out and patted the beast’s noble black head.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Hazard all your worldly goods on her. I will race her against the Queen’s stallion Great Henry for the Golden Spur. The gamers offer three sovereigns to the one against the Barb. Take it.’
‘Mr Shakespeare does not wish to hear about horses,’ Ana said. ‘He is at his secret work this day. He wishes me to bring Don Antonio to Sir Robert Cecil.’
‘Ana, my dear, I am certain you will work your charms on Don Antonio. But you must also insist that Mr Shakespeare brings forth my prize from the race at Gaynes Park.’
Shakespeare had either forgotten about the favour he was supposed to owe the vidame, or he had deliberately put it out of mind. He took his sword from his belt, laid it across his hands and offered it to the vidame. ‘Take it, Monsieur le Vidame. It is all I have to offer, for I do not have the power or inclination to comply with your demand. Under English law, I believe the one you call Monique to be a free woman.’
‘But you agreed to the wager and its terms, Mr Shakespeare!’
‘Under a certain duress. I said the favour must be legal. How can it be legal to hand a woman into slavery in a land where such bondage is outlawed? Have the sword. It is a poor thing compared to yours, but I have been fond of it. Take it and let that be an end to the matter.’
The vidame did not take the sword. ‘No, sir, I will have what is mine. Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘I cannot help you.’ Shakespeare was curt in his dismissal. He had had enough of these lewd and corrupt hangers-on. While London crumbled before an enemy onslaught, and while a pretender waited to claim the thrones of England and Scotland for Popery and Spain, they twittered of horses and slave girls.
The vidame looked from Ana to Shakespeare and gave a gallic shrug. ‘Then nor, I fear, can we help you.’ He turned away with a last stroke for Conquistadora, and wandered off.
Shakespeare watched him go, then sheathed his sword and looked to Ana. ‘My business here is nothing to do with the vidame. You are the one close to Don Antonio. Bring him to Greenwich Palace this evening, for he must know that Cecil is not the man to cross if he wishes to advance his cause in England.’
Ana brushed a persistent wasp away from her hair. ‘Don Antonio’s interests do not lie only here. He enjoys the patronage of Henri of France and he is well aware that a word from the vidame or his father could imperil his position at the French court. The vidame is not one to be scorned.’
Shakespeare felt he would explode. ‘Then it is up to you, Dona Ana. You must come with me to Cecil this evening. He demands more information from you. If you hold anything back, I tell you that this will become a Council matter, and you will not have the immunity that your master enjoys.’
‘You do not need to threaten me, Mr Shakespeare. I brought you the secret, did I not? Of course I will be there. It will be my pleasure. I may be Spanish but I am no friend of King Philip.’
Shakespeare looked at her hard, wondering where the truth ended and the lies began. He liked her in a curious way, would find her attractive at a different time of his life, but he did not trust her. And there was another matter to be considered: The London Informer. ‘It is true that you brought me the secret, Dona Ana, yet if I had waited a few hours I might have read it in a penny broadsheet. How do you explain that — and what do you know of Walstan Glebe and a man known as Laveroke?’
Ana shook her head with a disarming smile. ‘I have never heard either name.’
‘So how did The London Informer hear of the Scots prince — a story, apparently, known only to you, Don Antonio and an old nurse?’
‘I was as surprised as you to see that broadsheet, sir. But the story was not had from my lips. I sold you the secret in good faith.’
‘I wonder why I do not believe you…’
Ana Cabral sighed. ‘Oh, my dear Mr Shakespeare, how can I convince you?’ She took him by the arm. ‘Come with me,’ she said soothingly, leading him towards the royal enclosure. Suddenly she stopped and turned, as if she had caught sight of something — or someone.
Shakespeare sensed the change in her; a sudden whisper of unease. He looked around sharply. There was no one there but a couple of grooms sharing a pipe of sotweed.
‘Here is your coffin, Mr Cooper,’ Warboys said, running a hand along the smooth wood. ‘Do you approve of its fine lines? I crafted it myself, for that is how I earn my daily bread when not doing my duty with the Free English Trainband.’
Boltfoot had no idea where he was. They had mentioned Canvey, but that meant nothing to him. He had been brought here, blindfold and gagged with rags, his arms bound behind his back with thin strips of rawhide. Tossed like a dead deer on the back of a horse-drawn wagon, his journey had been long and painful along potholed tracks. After a while, he had been transferred to some sort of boat and brought across a stretch of water, a journey which seemed to take some hours, then landed and dragged up to this higher ground. The blindfold and gag had been removed and he saw now that he was in a small thicket of stunted trees, surrounded by tangles of brambles and bracken-bushes. He could hear seabirds. Beyond the spinney, he could make out an endless bleak landscape of tufted grass, dried mud and dark, still pools of water. A few more low trees hugged the skyline. The coffin of good elm lay before him, close to a half-dug hole in the earth. There were four men. Warboys and three others garbed in black, with cowls, who were busy digging into the earth with spades.
‘And there,’ Warboys continued, pointing to the hole they were making, ‘will be your grave.’
There were no beaten tracks here, no way for a man to discover where he was. Why, he wondered incongruously, would they provide a coffin for his body? Why even bother digging a grave, rather than simply throwing his carcass into a creek or leaving it for the birds and wild animals to gnaw on?
Warboys put his mouth close to Boltfoot’s ear. ‘I wish to know what Cecil and your master know. These Scottish sorcerers wish to make merry, and we must keep them happy. Sadly for you, Mr Cooper, you are their entertainment. And as they go about their business, I am assured they will discover the secrets of your soul.’
Boltfoot noted that Warboys’s speech was slurred from drink, but he was not listening to the words. With the blindfold off, he was becoming accustomed to the drear, cloudy light, and was trying to take in all he might about this place and these men, his captors.
Warboys took a swig from his flagon and gasped with pleasure. He put the flagon to Boltfoot’s lips. ‘Drink, Mr Cooper, for it is the last liquid you will have.’ Boltfoot gulped at the raw brandy. It did nothing to quench his thirst. Warboys patted his shoulder, as though taking leave of an old crewmate at the end of a voyage. ‘I must bid you farewell, Mr Cooper, for there is much to be done. But our Scottish friends will weave their spells and summon the truth from your lips. As you lie in your coffin ask yourself this: how do you determine whether a man tells the truth? If I were to pull out your fingernails and ask you a question, you would straightway say whatever I wanted you to say. But would it be the truth? This way, we will have the truth. This way you will tell us exactly what you and your masters know of us, even though you know you will die for saying it. You will beg for sweet death to take you.’
As Warboys strode off, Boltfoot gazed without emotion at the three men in black. They had finished their hole and were busy starting a fire of twigs and dried dead-wood. They said nothing to him. He was bound and they were armed with skenes and firearms. He could see that they had his own caliver and cutlass, too.
With the fire under way, two of the black-robed men strode across. Boltfoot watched, powerless and motionless, as they dragged the coffin into the hole in the ground. It was a shallow hole, and the top of the coffin was no more than twelve inches below the surface. He did not try to struggle against his bonds, for it would merely use up valuable energy; he must stay as still as stone. Without ado, they lifted him up and dropped him with a bone-jarring thud into the coffin, then hammered down the lid with iron nails. Boltfoot was on his back, his face close to the lid. His arms, tied behind him, were pressed agonisingly into the small of his back. The weight of his body drove his wrists hard into the ungiving elm.
There was a grey speck of daylight, a breathing hole, otherwise darkness. A tube of metal was suddenly pushed down into the breathing space, then he could hear the sound of earth being thrown on to the casket above him. After a few minutes, there was silence. He was alone and buried. He could not move. All he could do was struggle for breath through the tube. Or scream. And he had no intention of screaming.
Two members of the royal guard beat a drum roll, then the herald in his royal tabard trumpeted a fanfare and called order. Standing beside him, the Master of the Revels, Edmund Tilney, grey and stooped, rose to his full height
