a way to escape this place. He was feeling stronger, but Sarjent was a seasoned fighting man and would not let down his guard. He leant against the stone, hands never far from his sword, dagger and pistol, and talked incessantly by the tallow light.
‘But what are we to do with you, Mr Cooper?’ he said at last, as though he had finally come to the moment of truth. He shook his head. ‘I had thought our dark-clad friends would so weaken you that when I rescued you, there would be a little gratitude and that I would discover exactly what your master has been told. But I now know you to be made of sterner stuff, that you will reveal nothing to me even to the point of death.’ His voice turned harsh. ‘There is no more to be learnt from you…’
Suddenly there was a noise outside. The three Scots stood there, three dark shadows against the dark sky. At that moment, a cloud slipped past and the moon cast a weak glimmer so that he could see their blank, cold faces and the dust and dirt stains on their black gowns. Boltfoot looked at his caliver in vain, for it was not loaded. And then he noticed another man behind them. Quincesmith. Jeremiah Quincesmith, the master of Rotherhithe Powdermill, where he had first encountered Sarjent. It could mean but one thing: they were confederates, misappropriating gunpowder together for God knew what purpose. He found himself thinking of Mr Knagg of Three Mills, hunted by pursuivants on Sarjent’s orders. Please God he had not been taken. He gritted his teeth; there was nothing to be done about that now.
Sarjent grinned broadly. ‘Why, Mr Cooper, talk of the devil. It appears our friends have come back for you. And my good friend Mr Quincesmith has arrived, too. They have all had a long day’s toil. And I do believe they wish to hurl you into the sea like a cat and bring forth another tempest…’
Chapter 33
Somewhere in the maze of houses that made up the poorest part of London, east of the city, Shakespeare stopped. His quarry was outside a house, looking up at its dark windows. Tentatively, the man knocked at the closed door, but there was no reply. He lifted the latch and the door opened. The man went in.
It had taken half an hour to reach this point. Shakespeare had followed the man through the dark streets with practised stealth. Now, he moved a little closer so that he could try to see inside the building into which the man had disappeared. There was no light except from a segment of moon, dipping in and out of the clouds. He heard his quarry calling softly inside the building, seeking someone. Still there was no reply. He heard his footsteps on creaking boards, moving deeper into the house. Shakespeare stepped through the doorway after him and found himself in a small empty hall. He could smell fresh wood, as though a carpenter had been at work. He waited in the gloom by the front door, unseen.
The man he had been following was walking up a flight of stairs, for he heard ancient boards bending under feet and a diminishing of the sound as he went higher up through the old building. All the time, there was the same soft calling, but no response. The footfalls began to get louder once more. The man was coming down again. Shakespeare tensed and waited, his poniard in his right hand.
He saw a vague shape. The man was in the front room, not three yards away. He had stopped. Shakespeare’s heart beat faster. He heard a sniff, as though the man was smelling the air. Did he sense his presence? Shakespeare did not wait to find out. He lunged at the shape, knocking him to the ground, hard. The man let out a low moan as the air was beaten from his lungs by the fall. Shakespeare brought his left forearm down hard into the side of the man’s head.
The man grunted with pain and tried to wriggle aside, but Shakespeare had him now, kneeling astride him, pinning him down at the shoulders and upper arms. With his left hand, he grabbed the man’s hair and slammed his head down on to the floor and held it there. The tip of his poniard found the man’s throat and pricked the skin, just enough to let him know that his life was forefeit if he tried anything. He moved his face down to the man’s ear and whispered hoarsely. ‘Mr Gulden, you have one slender chance of avoiding the butcher’s filleting knife at Tyburn. You will tell me all you know. There will be no second chance.’
Peter Gulden was tall, probably as tall as Shakespeare, but he was soft and did not have the strength to resist.
‘I cannot breathe!’
‘If you can speak, you can breathe. And if you wish to continue to breathe, you will speak — and speak plain.’
‘Let me up. I will talk. I will tell you everything, I swear it. I wanted none of this.’
Shakespeare increased the pressure on Gulden’s head. ‘Who were you expecting to find in this house?’ he rasped.
‘I don’t know, please.’
The knife nicked the skin of his throat, a little flick of flesh cut away by the poniard’s fine razor point. Blood ran along the blade and into the hot palm of Shakespeare’s hand.
‘Curl, maybe Curl… Laveroke. I came to find Laveroke.’
‘And they were here?’
‘Yes, in the past. With many others. I thought they would be here, but they are all gone.’
‘Who is Curl?’
‘Holy Trinity Curl.’ Gulden spoke in a rush, his voice high-pitched with panic, as though he could not divulge his secrets fast enough. ‘Curl and Laveroke. Mr Shakespeare, I am sorry about your wife. I beg your forgiveness, sir. I did not know they would do such a thing. They threaten my own family. My wife, my children-’
‘Where are they?
‘In Spanish hands, in the Low Countries.’
‘Not your family, Gulden. Laveroke and this Curl. If they are not here, where are they? You have built them another clock, I know it. Where is it?’
‘I will take you there, Mr Shakespeare. Only spare me, sir. I beg you, spare my life.’
‘Where?’
‘Many miles from here — I do not know the name of the place, but I can take you.’
‘Hellburners, yes?’ The knifepoint again digging into his throat.
‘One — one hellebrander.’
Shakespeare dragged Gulden to his feet and held him against the wall, the poniard close and sharp, his hand so tense it could rip Gulden’s throat out with a single jerk. ‘How far? East, west, north, south?’
‘Eastward, Mr Shakespeare. Please, the dagger — I know it was eastward, perhaps forty miles — I was always taken there.’
‘There must be stables near here. We need horses.’
‘No, we must go by boat, downriver, Mr Shakespeare. An island in the Thames. The estuary.’
Shakespeare could feel the man’s fear as his blood trickled through his fingers. He knew he had him, that he was a broken, terrified man. He took the poniard from Gulden’s throat, wiped the blade on the man’s sleeve, then thrust it in his own belt. He pulled him by the arm and pushed him hard out of the door. ‘Then let us find a boat, Mr Gulden.’
It was no more than a quarter of a mile to the river. Shakespeare walked at a fast pace. Gulden stumbled ahead, saying nothing but clutching his nicked throat as he was pushed along. Shakespeare estimated they were some way east of St Katherine’s Hospital, towards Thames pool. Ahead of them was a wharf. This was what he wanted. He saw a landing stage where fishermen had lanterns lit and were working on their nets. Two men were bringing their catch ashore from a moored, single-masted fishing boat, rigged fore and aft, which he guessed to be a skiff or small smack. He strode up to them.
‘A good catch?’
‘Aye master, fair enough.’ The elder of the two men eyed Shakespeare cautiously, his eyes flicking to Gulden, who was clearly under duress.
‘What will you make from it?’
‘This little lot? I reckon there’s four stone of good herring and salmon there. Got a couple of eels, too. But if you’re buying, you’re out of luck. It’s all spoken for at Billingsgate.’
‘I want to buy your services. One of you take the fish to market — the other sail us downriver. I’ll pay you
