prisoner. He pushed onwards, through its myriad rooms of gloomy, dark-stained panelling. Topcliffe emerged as they reached the entrance to the torture chamber. The door was sturdy, fortified with thick straps of beaten iron.
‘Open the door, Topcliffe.’
‘I am the Queen’s servant!’
Shakespeare nodded to the soldier nearest him. ‘Open it, sergeant.’
Topcliffe moved forward and tried to bar the door. The powerfully built sergeant, his body protected by a studded leather cuirass, brushed him aside and pushed it wide open.
‘Queen’s servant, Shakespeare! Injure me and you injure the body of the Queen!’
Shakespeare strode in. The room smelt of stale sweat, smoke and old, dried blood. He shuddered at the thought of all the men and women who had suffered here, their agonies licensed by the Privy Council with the full backing of Elizabeth. It was the dreadful paradox at the heart of all Shakespeare’s work. Though he could not abide the use of torture, he was well aware that he was the instrument of a power that employed it. His only comfort? The thought that the enemy, Spain, with its dread Inquisition, was infinitely worse.
‘Search the place,’ he ordered the sergeant. ‘Send your men elsewhere in the house. Tell them to break down any doors that are barred. Use whatever force is necessary.’
The sergeant-at-arms barked an order at his men, then busied himself in the torture chamber, immediately spotting the cresset in which the coals were still hot. ‘Someone has been here, Mr Shakespeare.’
Shakespeare joined him and kicked over the cresset, sending the coals flying across the straw-strewn floor. He indicated with his head to another door. ‘There is a smaller room through there, a cell.’
Topcliffe put out an arm to try to stay the soldier. ‘Do you know who I am, sergeant? I am the Queen’s servant.’
The sergeant ignored him and pushed open the cell door. The room was empty.
From outside, they could hear shouting. Nicholas Jones, hand still clasped to his burnt and injured face, arrived breathless. ‘They are breaking up your house, Mr Topcliffe. Your tables, your settles, even the panelling.’
Topcliffe turned on Shakespeare. He swung at him with his blackthorn cane, but Shakespeare easily parried the blow with his sword. Topcliffe’s face was as white as his hair. His teeth were bared and his voice was a feral growl. ‘You will pay dearly for this. The Queen will hear what you do here this day.’
‘Save your threats for someone else. Your mind is diseased. How can you live with such instruments of evil in your home? The place stinks, like you. You are an obscene old man. Now produce her for me, for until you do, this search will continue.’
‘Produce who?’
‘You know who: Dona Ana.’
‘Why, Mr Shakespeare, you should have said. You have no need to break up my humble home to find my honoured guest.’
Shakespeare touched the point of his sword to Topcliffe’s chest. ‘Take me to her.’
‘But she has gone, Mr Shakespeare. I gave her fine wine and sweetmeats and we conversed politely in my withdrawing room, but she has now departed.’
Shakespeare’s sword point hovered. He raised it a few inches so that it was close to Topcliffe’s throat. His hand was itchy. He could thrust forward now, rid the world of this malign presence for good.
One of the soldiers returned and saluted his sergeant. ‘There is no sign of any Spanish woman. Five servants and that creature.’ He indicated Jones, who skulked behind his master. ‘That’s all.’
‘Where have you taken her, Topcliffe?’
‘I have told you all I know. She left of her own free will.’
‘Keep these two here, in this strong room, sergeant. I will talk with the servants.’
As Shakespeare left the room, he caught sight of Topcliffe from the corner of his eye, whispering close to the soldier’s ear. ‘Queen’s servant, sergeant. I shall have your entrails in my blazing cresset for what you have done this day.’
The sergeant whispered back with equal venom. ‘We’re all Queen’s servants here, Mr Topcliffe. Now stow you unless you want my sword up your arse.’
Shakespeare found himself smiling.
Half an hour later, convinced by the servants that Ana Cabral had, indeed, left Topcliffe’s house, Shakespeare despatched the guard back to Greenwich Palace with a message for Cecil. He left one of their number outside Topcliffe’s door.
Shakespeare mounted his grey mare and headed for the city. He felt a bitter satisfaction at the damage and humiliation he had inflicted on Topcliffe. It had been good to see the defiant courage of the sergeant, uncowed by Topcliffe’s threats, where others trembled merely at the mention of his name.
It was almost dark as Shakespeare rode, but he needed to see Henbird.
He found him in bed at his fine home in St Nicholas Shambles, nursing two yellowing black eyes and a mass of other bruises about his face and body.
Shakespeare looked at him aghast. ‘What happened, Nick?’
‘A Mr Bruce, a noxious Scotsman, came here, said he was a friend of yours… asked me the whereabouts of Walstan Glebe.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told him nothing. He seemed most discontented. He said he had heard from certain intelligencers that I had him. I rather felt Mr Bruce might have killed me, here in my own home, had my servants not intervened.’
‘I am sorry, Nick. I feared he might be led to you. Where is Glebe now?’
‘Safe in my cellar still, locked beneath the trapdoor. Is that why you’re here?’
‘No — unless he has told you more.’
‘He has said nothing. I suspect he has nothing more to tell, for you have wrought great fear in him. I am sure he would squeal like a piglet if he had aught to squeal about.’
‘I’ll deal with him in good time. It’s Baines I want for the moment. Do you have a way to him? I must tell you, he is not what he seems.’
Henbird attempted to laugh, but winced and thought better of it. ‘Who is what they seem in this world we inhabit, John? Here.’ He tried to rise from his bed. ‘Help me up. I need more brandy.’ With Shakespeare’s assistance, Henbird struggled up from his sickbed and waddled to the door, where he bellowed for liquor. With great effort he went across to his table and sat down beside it on the bench, which creaked beneath his weight. ‘So, what have you discovered about Rick Baines?’
‘He’s also known as Laveroke.’
‘Ah, the man you mentioned before. The one who spoke with Glebe about this prince of Scots. Was that really Rick Baines?’
‘He took us all for gulls, and we fell for it.’
‘Baines always had a talent for being someone else. Who told you this, John?’
‘Our Scots friend, Rabbie Bruce. I would not trust him on much, but I believe him on this. I have reason enough…’ He grimaced, thinking back to the deep, turbid waters of the Thames, the gulping in of foul river water as Baines, or Laveroke, tried to drown him. He shook his head to dispel the memory. ‘The question now is — how do we get to him?’
‘The only way is to put word out on to the street.’
‘Do it. Let it be known you must have his whereabouts — without his knowledge. Offer ten pounds. I will find the money from Cecil.’
‘As you will, John. There is no harm in trying.’
The servant brought brandy. He poured a large measure for Henbird and, at his own insistence, a far smaller one for his guest. Shakespeare looked out the window. It was late. Night had fallen. ‘There is also the matter of the merchants and Oliver Kettle. Did you discover more?’
‘Nothing. I told you. They are rich, powerful men. They close up like English footmen on the field of battle. There is nothing there and will be nothing unless you have them all arrested and brought to the Tower for questioning. Would Sir Robert like that?’
Shakespeare knew the answer to that well enough. This realm was dependent on trade; no minister would
