‘No. There was nothing else.’
‘Then say your prayers for his soul.’ And I will pray for Kat’s.
‘No, sir. I will not pray for his soul. I will pray for his eternal damnation, in the fire of pain, for ever, with the she-devil who paid him.’
In the morning, Shakespeare came down from his chamber and discovered a woman with a broom sweeping up the rushes in the parlour. She bowed to him nervously. It was not the maid he had told Boltfoot to hire, but the other, younger woman. He frowned at her, and she scurried away.
‘Boltfoot!’
His assistant limped in from the kitchen, dragging his club foot. ‘Master?’
‘That woman is not Mistress Rymple.’
‘No, master. It is the other one, Jane Cawston.’
‘And yet I told you to hire the Rymple woman and send Miss Cawston on her way with a shilling.’
‘As I recall, Mr Shakespeare, you told me to hire Mistress Rymple if she could start without delay. When I asked her, she told me she would need a week, which I considered to be a delay.’
‘And so you told her the job was not hers? You took this decision on yourself?’
Boltfoot did not look at all unnerved. ‘What was I to do? You were engaged with the lawyer Mr Tort, master. I thought you would not thank me to disturb you with such a trivial matter. And then you raced out as though pursued by the hounds of hell . . .’
Shakespeare wondered for a few moments whether to sack Boltfoot. At the very least he had to be severely rebuked. ‘You have done this deliberately, flouting my authority. You knew very well I wanted the older one. She would know what was required of her and would need no instruction in organising this household.’
‘You are right, master. And yet it did seem to me Miss Cawston had great merits too.’
‘Merits? You mean she was prettier and younger.’
‘But, master, whereas the older one would do things her way, I believe that Miss Cawston will learn to do things our way. Forgive me if I have erred, sir.’
‘You have indeed erred! This is flagrant disobedience. My order was clear . . .’
‘Then I offer my heartfelt apologies, master. But I would say that Miss Cawston will work until Lady’s Day for two pounds all found, whereas Annis Rymple had hopes of five pounds.’
Other men would take a birch rod to a servant who displayed such insubordination, and yet Shakespeare found himself scarcely able to stifle a laugh. He dared not let Boltfoot see the smile playing treacherously around his lips, so he turned his back. ‘Send Miss Cawston to me,’ he ordered. ‘I suppose I had better welcome her to our household.’
Jane Cawston stood before him nervously clutching the handle
of her broom.
‘Tell me once more about yourself, Miss Cawston.’
‘As I said yesterday, sir, I am the eldest of twelve girls. My family lives in the north of Essex near the town of Sudbury. My father is in service to a yeoman farmer.’
‘And what has made you seek work in London?’
‘My sisters are all growing. They need the space – and one less mouth to feed. Nor is it easy for my father without any sons. My wages will help, too, master.’
He guessed her age at about eighteen or nineteen. Her face was round and pretty, framed by soft auburn hair. She was strong enough and healthy and had a warmth and serenity that would add cheer to this house. Boltfoot had probably been right in his choice. She would learn quickly enough.
‘And you believe you can organise this household in the way we require? Floors cleaned, mattresses turned, food on the table, ale brewed, livestock in the yard, our clothes laundered by and by, the front step swept, lanterns lit at dusk, management of the housekeeping allowance?’
‘Yes, master.’
‘And you will be expected to take messages if Mr Cooper and I are not here.’
She nodded hurriedly, like a hen pecking.
He thought she seemed a little uncertain. ‘Miss Cawston? If you are going to live here with two men, you must be able to do these things. And if you have troubles, you must bring your concerns to us.’
‘That is it, sir. Two men. I had expected to find a family with women and girls. I am not used to the ways of menfolk. I have heard stories-’
Shakespeare smiled at her. ‘You have nothing to fear, I promise you. There will not be any beatings in this house, or any other unchristian behaviour. That is my word. Now, what are we to call you?’
‘Jane, if it please you, master. I like to be called plain Jane.’
‘Well, Jane. Perhaps you would make me eggs – two eggs – boiled until hard, with some manchet bread and butter. And some milk, if we have any. I have an important day ahead of me.’
Chapter 5
In all the eight years that Shakespeare had worked for Sir Francis Walsingham, he had never experienced a meeting such as this. Usually, the Principal Secretary kept his briefings small and intimate with no more than two or three present across a table: the fewer privy to a secret, the less the seepage. But today five men were here in this airless little room at the rear of Walsingham’s Seething Lane mansion.
Outside the window, the clouds were as dark as gunpowder. Inside, the atmosphere was brittle. They talked in snatches, watching each other furtively, restive and suspicious.
At last the door opened. Walsingham entered. At his side was a tall man whom Shakespeare recognised as Sir Robert Huckerbee from the Lord Treasurer’s office. The room fell silent. The Principal Secretary’s face was sombre and gaunt, as always, but his dark eyes were alert, skipping from John Scudamore to Arthur Gregory and Frank Mills, then to Nicholas Henbird. Finally they came to rest on John Shakespeare, and lingered.
Each of these men had his own role in Walsingham’s extensive spy network. Each had his own special skill. Each was trusted as much as he trusted any man.
‘Gentlemen,’ Walsingham said in his grave, insistent voice. ‘Be seated.’
There was a scraping of wood on stone. The noise jarred. When all was quiet again Walsingham tapped the table with the hilt of his quill-knife.
‘I think you all know Sir Robert Huckerbee. He is here to ensure financial rigour and to report directly on our operations to Lord Burghley. Without his purse, none of what we do would be possible.’
Huckerbee bowed in acknowledgement. Whereas Mr Secretary was dark-browed and zealous, Huckerbee had the light patrician air of one born to a life of public service with great rewards expected in return. He had served Lord Treasurer Burghley as comptroller for many years and was renowned for his loyalty and diligence.
‘Now,’ Walsingham continued. ‘I have called this rare meeting because the time has come. Listen with care, for if you do not know the whole truth, you will trip over each other. If we do not work as one, then our efforts are doomed to failure.’
He paused. The room was silent.
‘We have one aim: to save this realm and our beloved sovereign from forces that would destroy us. To do that, we must have the head of the Queen of Scots. She has plotted against us too long.’
He had spoken the thing that all men knew but refrained from saying. This was Walsingham’s ambition: the death of Mary Stuart.
The Principal Secretary paused to allow the enormity of the mission to sink in, then resumed his address. ‘Every man here must know that the Scots devil has conspired ceaselessly to snatch the throne of England. She would murder our Queen – her own cousin – to achieve her aim. This is fact; there can be no argument.’
Shakespeare felt Walsingham’s eyes alighting on him once more.
‘John, do you believe this?’
The sweat dripped at Shakespeare’s neck. Yes, he knew it well enough. Mary’s conspiracies had plagued the country these past decades. Any one of these plots could have cost the Scots Queen her head, deservedly. She had tried to murder Elizabeth Tudor and would do so again given the chance.