twice the price of the fish you have there, in gold.’
‘We’ll get a pound for this lot.’
Shakespeare didn’t believe him, but he wasn’t going to haggle. ‘Two pounds, then. Here.’ He spilt coins from his purse into the man’s palm. ‘Take it.’
The elder fisherman looked at the money in amazement, then glared into Shakespeare’s eyes. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Queen’s business. I am in a hurry and have no time to explain. You must take us down the river… to one of the islands.’
The old fisherman hesitated, then laughed. ‘Yes, master, I’ll take your gold.’ He winked at his companion. ‘Robert, you get that fish to market and get them nets mended. I’ll sail these gentry coves wherever they want. Go to the New World for that kind of gold, if so they please.’
Within two minutes the remainder of the catch was landed and Shakespeare and Gulden were in the sailing boat with the fisher, tacking out to mid-stream, where they caught the best of the ebb tide and began the race downstream. ‘We’ll make more’n ten knots an hour with this tide, master. But then it’ll turn and we’ll be like a sea snail. Now tell me, which of the islands is it you want?’
‘Well?’ he said to Gulden.
‘I do not know its name. I wish I did. It is nothing but mudflats and creeks, beyond Gravesend, well beyond it — towards the northern shore of the river.’
‘Sounds like Canvey or Two Tree Island,’ the fisher said.
‘I’ll know it when we see it,’ said Gulden.
‘How?’ Shakespeare demanded. ‘There is nothing to be seen in this darkness.’
The only light was the lantern the fisher kept by the tiller. There were few lights from the riverbank, yet he steered a course with the confidence that only a man who has been out on this stretch of water night after night all his life could have done. ‘It will be light soon enough,’ he said, addressing Shakespeare. ‘If I’m sailing into danger, master, you might tell me what to expect.’
It occurred to Shakespeare that he might need the fisher’s assistance before this day was done, so he explained briefly.
The fisher laughed. ‘Should have asked for four pounds, not two.’
Shakespeare settled back towards the rear of the boat. The water became increasingly choppy as the river broadened. He had his sword across his lap, in case Gulden suddenly learnt courage. They travelled an hour or more in silence, all soaked through by the constant spray. The only sounds were the slapping of the waves and the occasional barking of a dog from somewhere on land, to the south or north. ‘Well, Mr Gulden,’ he said at last. ‘It’s time to hear your sorry tale.’
‘How did you know?’
‘That you were the clockmaker I sought? Instinct, Mr Gulden. Instinct is a powerful force. It is what Sir Robert Cecil pays me for. The ability to spot a deceiver. I suggest you try telling me some truths.’
Gulden was desperate to tell his tale. He had been at Antwerp in ’85, had helped the clockmaker who set the timing device for the Hope. ‘When Parma captured the city I fled, thinking the Spanish would hear of my part in the deaths of so many of their soldiers. My wife and children remained and I told them I would send for them. I had thought they would be safe, for Parma had pledged free passage to all Protestants. That was a terrible error on my part, for I fell into the hands of two English soldiers — soldiers who had already sold their honour to Spain.’
Shakespeare could see, even in this poor lantern light, that tears were streaming down the Dutchman’s face. ‘My wife and children were taken hostage and I was told to seek refuge in England. I would have to perform certain tasks for the Spanish and my family would be safe. If I did as I was told, I would, in time, be reunited with them. And so I came here and met up again with Signor Giambelli and worked with him on the English hellburners plan, all the while giving details of our progress to the Spanish. I must say that Giambelli knew nothing of my double-dealing. I kept begging the Spanish to let my wife and children join me, but to no avail. And now… now I have destroyed your family, Mr Shakespeare, with my infernal clocks, and I fear I will soon have aided and abetted in a plan to kill many, many more. I would take my life, hurl myself into this river. I have thought of such a course of action often enough, but I do nothing. I am a coward.’
‘You spoke of two English soldiers?’
‘Yes.’
‘What became of them?’
‘They are here in England. They were my contacts. They are the ones who gave me my orders and made me work for Laveroke and Curl.’
‘Their names?’
‘William Sarjent and Jeremiah Quincesmith. In the Low Countries, they were armourers and gunpowder men with Captain-General Norris and the Earl of Leicester. But they dealt treacherously, communicating secrets to Parma and others on the Spanish side. I always believed their motive was gold, not religion.’
‘Did you say Sarjent?’
Gulden nodded grimly and wiped a sleeve across his bloody, tear-stained face. In the distance, directly ahead of them, Shakespeare caught the first glint of the rising sun. He felt a cold knotting in his entrails. Sarjent — the man the Cecils believed to be their intelligencer. Boltfoot had been handed to him, like a tethered sacrifice in an arena of lions.
Chapter 34
A flock of seabirds, waking with the dawn, drifted across the bows. The dirty, off-white canvas of the sail billowed in the following breeze. The cloud had gone, and it was becoming a bright, sun-filled morning.
The river narrowed as they passed the ferry port and shipyard of Gravesend, bustling with dozens of great vessels. Tall cranes of oak and elm reached out their arms across the wharves. Dominating it all were the battlements of Gravesend fort, built earlier in the century by Elizabeth’s father, to deter any enemy who might think of attacking London from the Thames. Then the river broadened out again and the signs of humanity ashore diminished, though the waterway was still decorated by the slow-changing scape of dozens of sails. On another day, a man might have found himself captivated by the raw beauty of this wild stretch.
Shakespeare saw none of it and wished to hear no more of Peter Gulden’s treachery. He turned to the fisher. ‘How far have we come?’
‘Twenty-five miles, but the tide is turning.’
‘Do you recognise any landmarks, Mr Gulden?’
‘Only the Gravesend docks. I have been this way twice before. I would say there is an hour to go if this current holds, perhaps less.’
‘No, we have had the best of the tide,’ the fisher said. ‘It’ll be slow going now.’
The Thames began to curve northwards in the last great bend of the river before its gaping mouth opened into the North Sea. The waters were becoming rougher as the tide turned. A swell of waves pushed hard against the bows of the fishing boat. The turbulence and the stench of fish began to turn Shakespeare’s stomach, but he refused to submit to nausea, unlike Gulden, who puked over the side. The fisher had to use all his experience and knowledge of the wind to keep the craft on its downriver course.
‘There will be islands soon,’ the fisher said. ‘Canvey, Two Tree and Incular to the north, in Essex. A few others, too. Then Grain and Sheppey to the south, in Kent. Bleak, inhospitable places all of them, fit for nothing but sheep and outlaws.’
A high-masted square-rigger rode the tide past them, on its way upriver. From the poor state of its sails and rigging, a man might have deduced it was returning from a voyage halfway around the world.
‘There,’ Gulden said tersely, pointing northwards as the vessel finally straightened out eastward once more. ‘The tree.’
Shakespeare scanned the northern bank. He saw a few squat trees dotted along the land a mile or so up ahead, but none that stood out in any way. ‘Mr Gulden?’
‘The dead tree. It has the shape of a bull’s head. The two branches stick up like horns. I noted it before. That
