dagger from his belt and began to saw through the ropes that bound the prisoner.
‘I think it fair to say I gave them the devil of a scare, Mr Cooper,’ he said. ‘The devil of a scare!’ He roared with laughter at his own jest. ‘Now then, sir, let me have a look at you.’ As he freed Boltfoot from the ropes and sat him up, he shook his head. ‘You are in a mighty poor way, Mr Cooper. I think I arrived just in time to save your hide, for you do seem cooked to a turn.’
Sarjent lifted Boltfoot with astonishing gentleness and strength and carried him out of the woods. Boltfoot could see more clearly now where he was. They were on the side of a small hill that rose from the estuary plain of the Thames. He knew this stretch of the great river, not far from where the Thames met the North Sea, having sailed it under Drake. From the low sun to his right, he deduced they were on the northern, Essex bank. In the distance, across the water, lay the county of Kent. There were no people here. This bleak land was given over to wild birds and rabbits. The low sun sparkled on the water and highlighted the billowing sails of dozens of ships of many different shapes and sizes, sailing with the wind or tacking against it.
Boltfoot winced even at the light touch of the man’s hands on his back, so severe were his burns. Sarjent carried him up to the brow of the hill, which was not far, and then Boltfoot saw the ghostly remains of an ancient castle. He also saw, in a creek below, a sea vessel, leaning at an angle and stuck fast in the low-water mud. From this distance he guessed it to be a pinnace or bark, perhaps for fishing, though it was large enough for trading. A group of men, ten or so, were working on it, perhaps careening her. Who were they, fishermen?
‘Well, Mr Cooper, I think this ruin will do for shelter.’
‘Just get me home, Mr Sarjent.’ Boltfoot’s voice was weak, no more than a whisper.
‘I fear you are in no condition to journey. You need food and rest. I have seen men with burns on the field of battle. You will need lotions — oils and the like — to soothe you so that your body may repair itself. The old tower will at least give you protection while you regain strength.’
‘Give me water to drink. I can ride. I must get to Mr Shakespeare.’
‘Take it easy, Mr Cooper. We must restore you to health.’
‘My weapons… where are my caliver and cutlass?’
Sarjent carried Boltfoot through the litter of old ragstone blocks and brought him into the remains of what must, once, have been the south tower of a fortress intended to defend the gaping mouth of the Thames.
The tower was broken open on its eastern flank, so that a man might step in and look up through its echoing emptiness to the sky above. The floor was mere dirt. With exquisite tenderness, Sarjent lay Boltfoot down by the stone wall, so placing him that his back was not touching anything. He looked down at him. ‘You may be only a mariner but, by God, you bear your pain with fortitude. And I forgive you my broken nose.’
‘My weapons…’
‘I do believe they are near by, for I saw some stores and armaments as I approached the thicket. I will fetch them and bring you food.’ He nodded in salute, then left.
Boltfoot closed his eyes. He breathed deeply; just the movement involved in filling his lungs was excruciating, yet he had enough presence of mind to know that, whatever his agony, this could not be a safe place to stay for long. His captors, wherever they were now, might well return and he knew they had well-armed comrades. Boltfoot was also alert enough to wonder how Sarjent had found him here, and he was not at all sure that he liked the answer.
He turned on his hands and knees and began to pull himself up, inch by painful inch.
Chapter 30
Richard Topcliffe had a pipe of tobacco in his mouth and, in his right hand, a branding iron which he was heating in the coals of a cresset.
Ana Cabral had her eyes closed as though asleep.
Topcliffe always enjoyed having guests in this strong room in his home by St Margaret’s churchyard in Westminster. He was proud of his rack, which he had helped design and had paid for from his own purse. Another of his favourites was the pair of high rings against the wall, where a priest might be hung from iron gyves in such pain that he would recant his faith. But today Richard Topcliffe was unsettled. Though he was sixty years of age, his brain was still sharp enough to realise that the presence of this woman meant trouble. He owed much to Mr Bruce for the information he had brought him over the years concerning the location and movements of certain Jesuits and seminary priests, but this could be an unhealthy and expensive way of repaying him.
Topcliffe’s assistant Nick Jones paced the room in hungry anticipation, like a dog awaiting a haunch of prime meat to be thrown by its master. He came closer to the cresset and warmed his hands, then leered at the prisoner.
‘Which instrument shall we use first, Mr Topcliffe?’
Topcliffe looked at Jones with a cold, grim expression as if he was unsure whether to make a merry remark by way of answer or punch him for speaking out of turn. Instead, he did neither, but flicked the branding iron. ‘Always a pleasure to sear a pretty young body.’
Ana was chained to a ring on the floor, her gown splayed about her as though she had just descended in a curtsy. She still wore her eye patch. Without looking at either Topcliffe or Jones, she said, ‘If you touch me with that, I swear I will bring this house down about you. You do not know who you deal with here.’
The problem for Topcliffe was that he was, in truth, painfully aware with whom he dealt. He knew that he could not touch this woman without risking the wrath of the one person in the world he feared — Elizabeth herself. He had told Bruce as much. Bruce had other ideas. ‘Just threaten her, Mr Topcliffe. The woman will tell you everything you need to know before the iron even gets close to her pale flesh.’ Topcliffe was not so sure. The woman seemed less anxious than anyone he had ever brought here, as though she knew very well how powerless he was. She sat on the floor, strangely beautiful with her silver-streaked fair hair, her eye patch and her vigorous, well-formed body. Here, in his strong room, she seemed more like a carefree lady of breeding awaiting a maid to dress her hair than a prisoner fearing the sting of the torturer’s tools. As Topcliffe gazed at her, she opened her uncovered eye and smiled at him.
Topcliffe went cold in sudden realisation that there was only one way for this to end. He turned to Jones.
‘Release her. Unlock her chains.’ The order was harsh-spoken.
Jones, heavy-set, thin-bearded and slick-haired, was taken aback. ‘Mr Topcliffe?’
Topcliffe lashed out with the branding iron, catching Jones on the side of the head. The blow stunned him and knocked him sideways, clutching at his bloody, seared face. Topcliffe moved forwards and grabbed the front of the younger man’s jerkin and brought his smoky breath to within an inch of his nose. ‘Do it. Now. Take my fine guest to the withdrawing room and bring her my best canary wine. Have you no manners to treat this gentlewoman so?’
Jones dabbed a kerchief to his face and scrabbled about for the keys to unchain Ana Cabral. With trembling hands, he knelt before her and thrust the keys into the locks.
‘My lady Cabral, I can only apologise for the poor hospitality offered you by this wretched youth. He will be whipped this day for the way he has treated you. My humble apologies. I will do all in my power to make amends to your gracious person.’
‘Why, think nothing of it, Mr Topcliffe,’ Ana said as her feet were finally freed of the chains and she stood to her full, magnificent height. ‘Your delightful chamber is quite palatial. Quite charming…’
Shakespeare beat at Topcliffe’s door. Behind him stood a squadron of six heavily armed palace guards, supplied by Cecil, who had gone pale with anger when apprised of the abduction of Ana Cabral. ‘Get her out of there, Mr Shakespeare — and bring her to me.’
The door was answered by a woman of middle years wearing the clothes of a serving drab. Shakespeare pushed past her, followed by five of the guards, while one remained outside, sword in hand.
‘Mr Topcliffe told me not to admit anyone,’ the serving woman said helplessly as Shakespeare and his men drove on through the dark hallway.
‘Bring him to me.’
Shakespeare knew where the strong room was. He had been in this house of malevolence before, as a
