took many tons of powder from Rotherhithe. They were in league with Baines and a rabble-rouser called Curl — and they nearly did for poor Boltfoot.’
‘My father will be mortified. He never suspected Sarjent. If such a man betrays us, then who is to be trusted?’ He shook his head gravely. ‘Much has happened, John. The palace has been in uproar. The royal guard has been engaged in a skirmish with a band of renegades within this past hour. Seven of them, all now dead. They came upon Greenwich with stealth, thinking to storm through the palace unhindered. The guard was ready and killed them like dogs.’
‘They must have been Curl’s men.’
‘Indeed. And a man identified as this same Curl tried to march through the city to the bridge. I am told his militia stopped in its tracks, open-mouthed with horror when they came close to the bridge, as if they had seen a spectre. Clearly, they had expected to see it destroyed and hoped to garner support among the people of London. Little did they realise what affection our London folk hold for Her Royal Majesty. When no one joined their band, they seemed unsure of what to do next. They were milling about like lost sheep when a detachment from the Tower found them and engaged them. Most of Curl’s men tried to turn tail. Two or three escaped, but the others were either killed or captured. That is not all: there was another disturbance, at the Dutch church. But it was already heavily guarded and the rebels were driven off, excepting two dead, one of them their ringleader, a Mr Kettle.’
‘What of Curl? Was he taken?’
Cecil shook his head briskly. ‘No. He was recognised in the skirmish but escaped. What I want to know, Mr Shakespeare, is what in God’s name is going on? Do we have a civil war on our hands?’
‘It seems we have quelled the first wave, Sir Robert.’
‘But?’
‘But there is still this prince of Scots. Somewhere. We must find Baines and the Spanish woman. They hold the keys to this.’
Cecil looked grim. His hand tightened around his crystal cup of wine. ‘This is not over — will never be over — while the Papists of this realm believe such a prince exists. Get to him before it is too late.’
Chapter 38
Shakespeare trod through the acrid dungeons of Newgate gaol. At his side, struggling to keep up, was the keeper, a stout fellow with a red beard and well-fed belly, whom he knew well.
‘Tell me, master keeper, who brought him here?’
‘The constable of Westminster, Mr Shakespeare, sent by the sheriff.’
‘Where was he found?’
‘He had sought refuge with the Member of Parliament, Mr Topcliffe, sir, but was immediately arrested by that gentleman and handed over to the constable.’
Shakespeare laughed bitterly. ‘Mr Topcliffe was always good at protecting his back.’
‘Indeed, master.’
They found Holy Trinity Curl sullen and silent in Limbo, Newgate’s deepest pit. What little air was to be had in this lightless hole was putrid with stench and disease. This was a waiting-room for death, the place men came when the only journey left was the ride to the scaffold.
Shakespeare held a candle in his hand and looked at the miserable figure without compassion. ‘I have some questions for you, Mr Curl. You are about to meet your maker. I cannot promise this, but you may think it possible you will receive a less hostile reception in the hereafter if you cooperate with the forces of the law in the here and now.’
Curl said nothing.
Shakespeare could see that the man had been injured. He had an untreated gash on his temple and blood caked his strange amber hair and beard.
‘You have nothing to lose by talking, and I can make your last hours easier by having food and ale brought to you. Tell me this, at least. You knew one Christopher Marlowe, yes?’
‘Tell him, Curl.’ The voice of another condemned man came from the darkness. ‘If you don’t want ale, there’s others here that do.’
Shakespeare looked into the shadows at the man who had just spoken and felt a sudden surge of pity for him. This cell was filled with humankind brought to its lowest ebb. There were twenty men here waiting the noose for various crimes. He determined to send them ale, whatever the outcome of his talk with Curl.
‘Well, Mr Curl? Talk.’
‘I knew of Marlowe. Who didn’t?’ Curl spoke with a surprisingly firm voice.
‘And you sought his death?’
‘No. Why should I?’
‘So you did not have him killed by Poley and Frizer in Ellie Bull’s house in Deptford.’
Curl shook his head. ‘I heard of that death, but that was nothing to do with me. He was nothing to us.’
‘But you signed your poster Tamburlaine. And you had Glebe write broadsheets signed Tamburlaine’s Apostle…’
‘I never knew what that was about.’
‘Who suggested it? Baines?’
Curl looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Never heard the name.’
‘How about Laveroke?’
Curl nodded.
‘They are one and the same. Laveroke is Richard Baines, a notorious intelligencer.’
‘So? Many people use different names. Many more earn a crust of bread selling secrets to men like you.’
‘And would it surprise you to learn that Mr Laveroke, alias Baines, is an ordained priest and that he was working for Spain?’
Curl blanched. He seemed to gasp and almost shrink. He was silent a moment, then he struggled angrily against his fetters. ‘You lie!’
‘No, Mr Curl, I do not lie. He worked for Spain — as did you, though you never knew it. Had you succeeded in your designs against the strangers of the Low Countries and against the Crown, you would have brought strangers here of an altogether different cast: the steel morion and blade of the Spaniard. You would have opened the floodgate to Philip’s murderous yoke and the Pope’s Inquisition.’
‘No.’
‘Yes, Mr Curl. They thought you a convenient tool. I see you as nothing more than an inconvenient fool. Tomorrow, I will bury my wife because of your unholy deeds. It is as much as I can do not to cut your throat here, but I will let the law run its course.’
‘Your wife was an accident. We wanted to kill the Dutch…’
‘It was no accident. It was murder. But there is still one thing that puzzles me: who were those Scots, the ones in the black gowns? What was your cause to them?’
Curl laughed. ‘A strange lot. They were Laveroke’s. He brought them down. They were kin of the witches burned by King James. Laveroke promised them vengeance and death to the King in return for building and manning the hellburner.’
‘Why not use Englishmen?’
‘Because we knew there would be spies among the English — spies like your little friend Cooper. There would be no such spies among the Scots. We could not afford to have word get out about the hellburner, so they were the ones that carried the powder there and fashioned her.’
Shakespeare nodded. It showed the diabolical range and extent of this conspiracy. Whether any other than Baines understood it to be a Spanish plot, they might never know. But where was he now? Clearly Curl would not know.
‘And where is this Scots prince?’
‘That’s nothing to do with us. That’s just broadsheet tittle-tattle. Why would we care about a Scots prince?’
