Shakespeare was surprised to detect an edge of awe, even fear, in Boltfoot’s description. Had he perhaps encountered some of Cutting Ball’s men during his time as a ship’s cooper? There must surely have been times when he was docked in the reaches of the Thames where the outlaw held sway. But Boltfoot afraid? No, that could not be so; Boltfoot was frightened of nothing under heaven.
They were in the kitchen, which already seemed a lot less dusty and more polished in the few hours since the arrival of Jane Cawston. She opened the door, looked in and saw the two men at the table, bowed quickly, then scuttled away like a startled rabbit.
Shakespeare followed Boltfoot’s gaze. ‘A comely girl that, Boltfoot, would you not say?’
‘Comely enough, master,’ Boltfoot growled as though the words were torn from him with a hot iron. He raised his eyes with mild defiance. ‘But take a look in the larder for that’s where you’ll find her true worth. She’s been to market and brought home food.’
Shakespeare held up his tankard of ale. ‘And a fresh keg, too. Perhaps you were right after all.’
Boltfoot grunted and took a quick draught of his own ale.
‘I have a task for you, Boltfoot. I want you to go to the taprooms and hovels where Cutting Ball rules and find out what you can about a felon named Will Cane, who was hanged yesterday.’
‘The one who killed the merchant? It’s the talk of London. The wife paid Cane to kill her husband so she could inherit all his wealth.’
‘So it is said. And do you know the wife’s name?’
‘No, master.’
‘Katherine Giltspur, born Katherine Whetstone.’
Boltfoot had known Kat as long as had Shakespeare, and he had been here during the years she shared Shakespeare’s bed in this house. The blood seemed to drain from his weather-worn cheeks and his brow furrowed in bewilderment and disbelief. ‘Kat . . .’
‘Yes, Kat Whetstone. Our Kat.’
‘But how . . .’
Shakespeare shook his head. ‘It is all as much a mystery to me as it must be to you. She married him two months ago and is now a widow, in hiding, wanted for his murder.’
‘Not Kat!’
Shakespeare shrugged. ‘I want to agree with you, and so I would like to discover more – especially about Will Cane, who was a known associate of Cutting Ball. Find his haunts and talk to those who knew him or knew of him. What sort of man was he? Had he killed before? Who were his friends? Was he married? Listen to tittle-tattle; sometimes there is a semblance of truth there. But bear in mind the hard possibility that the truth may be as simple as everyone believes: that Kat paid Will Cane to murder her husband.’
‘No, Mr Shakespeare,’ Boltfoot said stoutly. ‘No, I will not believe that.’
‘Then find me a better explanation. For if we do not, our Kat will surely die with a noose about her pretty neck.’
Anthony Babington gazed through the clouds of tobacco smoke at his assembled friends and felt a surge of pride. They were here, at this feast in an upper room at the Plough Inn on the south side of Fleet Street, near Temple Bar, because of his presence. He was their leader and their inspiration.
He rose from his chair, hammered his tankard down for silence, sending up a spray of strong beer, and called the gathering of young men to order. As their hubbub subsided to a murmur, he raised his tankard.
‘Raise your cups! The death of usurpers!’
The sixteen other men around the table all stood up, held their own tankards aloft, roaring their approval. ‘Death to usurpers! Death to usurpers!’ They threw the contents of their drinking vessels down their gullets then brought the empty tankards onto the tabletop with an explosion of banging.
‘Now charge your goblets and tankards and let us drink to the Pope’s White Sons!’ Once more they shouted and drank. Babington sat down and the other men followed his lead. He looked about once more. At his right hand sat John Shakespeare, one of the newer young gentlemen, recommended by Goodfellow Savage as a fellow of influence and secret knowledge; just the sort of man they needed. Was he to be trusted, though? He knew the mass well enough, but any spy worth his salt could learn that. On the other hand he was too valuable to be dismissed. He had already brought information about the inner workings of Sir Francis Walsingham’s intelligence network and promised more. Well, they would watch him carefully. And use him ruthlessly. Walsingham might think himself cunning, but Babington knew that he was a great deal cleverer. If Shakespeare was a spy, he would find out soon enough.
Shakespeare was becoming more than a little drunk, yet even through the fog of smoke and alcohol he could not rid himself of the tautness in his neck that came with playing a part. An hour earlier he had betrayed his religion to hear mass with these men at a house nearby. Now he was seated at Babington’s right hand, drinking to the death of the Queen he had sworn to serve loyally.
Through the haze of his inebriation, he studied Anthony Babington: the doublet of gold and silver threads shining in the candlelight; the long, carefully tied hair, so soft and clean; the small gold earring; his puffed-up pride. The word popinjay might have been coined for him.
A sudden hubbub of hail and welcome made Shakespeare look towards the door. Two late arrivals were entering – Edward Abingdon and Charles Tilney. Shakespeare knew them well and a sudden chill crept over him. Abingdon and Tilney were courtiers with access to the Queen, honoured members of the Queen’s Guard. And here they were among a group of malcontents and putative traitors with insurrection and assassination in mind.
He put his fears aside for another day. For the present, nothing must be said or done to raise alarm in the minds of those gathered here. Instead Shakespeare raised his tankard to the two men. Tilney came and clapped him on the back and pushed his way onto the bench on his right side.
‘Well, well, Mr Shakespeare, I had not expected to meet you here.’ His voice boomed.
‘Nor I you, Mr Tilney. It seems we both have a taste for interesting company.’ He moved a little way further from his new companion, who was known as ‘Roarer’ Tilney with good reason.
‘Does Mr Secretary know you are out?’ Tilney shouted.
Shakespeare grimaced. ‘Mr Secretary may own my body, but he does not own my soul. And what of you, Mr Tilney? Does Her Majesty know that you are here? I had thought you to be a Gentleman Pensioner with care for her safety. Should you not be guarding her royal body with your life?’
‘Why, she does not need me! She has God on her side!’ Tilney bellowed with laughter at the preposterous notion that a Protestant God could protect anything or anyone. Eyes turned his way and then, seeing who it was, turned away again.
‘You speak so loud, I suspect you are heard at Greenwich, Mr Tilney. Watch your roaring lest you ruin us all.’
‘They are looking for men who huddle and whisper, Mr Shakespeare. When I roar, the spies know I can have nothing to hide. And what of you? You talk in hushed tones here, but are you not heard at Seething Lane?’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Shakespeare’s senses sharpened, despite the ale he had drunk.
Tilney shrugged. ‘It was but a jest. I have come for ale and good roasts with fine company, no more.’
‘It was no jest. I do not like your insinuation.’
‘Insinuation?’
‘You know why I work for Walsingham. I will not be defamed by you or anyone else.’
Tilney shrugged. ‘I meant nothing by my remark. If you inferred anything, examine your own conscience.’
‘Damn you, Tilney, I will not listen to this.’ Shakespeare turned away, as though nursing hurt pride.
Anthony Babington had evidently been listening to the exchange. ‘Pay him no heed, Mr Shakespeare. The likes of Tilney are a mischief that must be endured. We need such men.’