‘I need more than that. You have made accusations against another powdermill. Tell me the detail.’
Quincesmith stepped forward and took Boltfoot’s hand. ‘Let me shake you by the hand, Mr Cooper, for you are a stubborn stump of man and I want to help you. Others might wish to shake you by the throat, but, in truth, I think I would have been pleased to have had you as a soldier. Here, look at this before you go seeking out warrants.’ He produced a paper. ‘I received this not an hour since from Mr Bedwell at the Tower, brought with Mr William Sarjent here. It says I am to do all in my power to assist you with what knowledge I have — and that I am to show you the inner workings of my fine mill. It says, too, that Mr Sarjent is to accompany you during your investigations.’
‘I know that,’ Boltfoot said, declining to look at the paper.
Quincesmith grinned and revealed his teeth, a few of which were missing. He put the paper aside. ‘Now then, Mr Cooper, what more can I tell you? Allow me to explain the making and storing of gunpowder to you in small detail, as if I was talking to a simpleton or a child. Then Mr Sarjent will take you on your way. You will find him a stern companion, I have no doubt, but he is a brave fighting man and knows as much about the safekeeping of gunpowder as any man in the realm. I pray you find the source of this powder without delay, for it does none of us any good to have such things happening…’
Chapter 7
As John Shakespeare approached the ancient nunnery of St Mary at Clerkenwell, the birdsong was suddenly silenced by the crack of a gunshot. Shakespeare reined in his grey mare. A pair of boys in ragged clothes wrestled furiously on the dusty path in front of him, oblivious to everything but their fight.
He looked about. It seemed the firing had come from within the former convent. Kicking on again, he stepped the mare around the boys and walked on past the well where the parish clerks once performed mystery plays. Ahead of him was the great entrance door to St Mary’s. The spring sun streaming through the leaves of a pair of silver birches dappled the grassy verge with light.
Shakespeare tethered the mare to a post, then strode on foot to the convent entrance. The great arched gateway was open and untended. He called out, but no one came. He walked in towards the central courtyard, from where he heard voices, then another volley of gunfire and cackling laughter.
Through clouds of powder smoke, he saw that the courtyard was a wide open, arid place, uncared for and thick with weeds. Had the Benedictine sisters still been here, they would surely have been aghast at the vision they beheld. Or perhaps they wouldn’t, he thought wryly; it depended whose version you accepted of what went on in the Catholic monasteries.
Three women were at one end of the yard. Two of them sat against the wall, flagons of some liquor or ale in their hands. The third one, a fair-haired woman in her forties who must once have been pretty, was on her feet, a smoking wheel-lock pistol hanging loosely from her fingers. Her top was bare, her breasts pendulous over a belly of loose skin and fat. The two sitting women were scarcely more decent, sitting with their legs apart and their cheap kirtles hitched up to reveal their thighs and more. Their hair was awry and their chemises open. One scratched at a pustule on her haggard face. The other, a dark-haired girl no older than seventeen, would have been comely if she had combed her hair — and if she had looked less hard and villainous. She had unmarked skin, like a milkmaid, and puffed at a clay pipe.
At the far end of the yard, tied by a cord to a hook in the wall, was a small dog, lying in a pool of its own blood. It was moving, but slowly, close to death from the pistol balls that had pierced it.
The women turned as Shakespeare entered. The bare-breasted woman raised the pistol and pointed it at him. Her friends burst out laughing once again.
Without hesitation, Shakespeare walked forward and wrenched the spent firearm from the woman’s grasp. She seemed unconcerned. ‘A sovereign and I’ll fire your pistol, dove. I know how to fire a man’s pistol…’
Shakespeare ignored her and went to the listless dog. He removed his dagger and cut its throat as an act of mercy, then returned to the women.
‘I am looking for Black Lucy. I believe she has premises here. Do you work for her?’
‘Work for Luce? The maggoty Moor wouldn’t look at us. And nor would we work for such a greasy drab.’
‘But you know where she is?’
‘What’s it to you — and what’s it worth?’ She grasped hold of one of her breasts and tried to push it into Shakespeare’s face. But she was unsteady from the drink and her knees buckled, sending her toppling forward. Shakespeare could have reached out and held her up, but he stepped back and let her fall to the cobble-stone ground. Her friends laughed. Shakespeare turned to them.
‘Do either of you know where she is? I’ll give you threepence.’
‘You done for our dog, mister,’ the young one said, blowing out smoke. ‘That little bitch was worth a lot to us. We saved her from the plague men and loved her like she was our kin.’ The woman began coughing.
Shakespeare knelt down and took the flagons from them. They were both about half full of strong ale. He started pouring one away. The women bridled and reached out their hands as if they were birds’ talons, but he easily evaded their grasp. ‘Well?’ he demanded as the last drop fell to the ground.
‘Sixpence,’ the young, hard-faced one said.
Shakespeare took out three pennies and held them up. ‘One each and you can have the rest of the ale back.’
‘Give them to us, then we’ll tell you.’
‘Tell me first.’
She threw back her knotted hair and gestured vaguely to a small passageway leading from the courtyard to the northern precinct of the old nunnery. ‘Back there. But you’d do better with us. Swive the three of us for a crown and we’ll use alum to make us virgins. She’ll charge you three sovereigns for just one of her loose-cunnied whores.’ The girl pulled her kirtle up past her bare belly and thighs and displayed herself to him.
Shakespeare put the flagon down, tossed them the three pennies and walked away.
‘Here,’ one of them called. ‘That’s our pistol you got there.’
‘It’s safer with me.’
A sign hung over the doorway of the old dorter where once the nuns had their plain beds and sparse living quarters. The sign was painted in gold on a black background and said simply Vespers.
Unlike the dust-strewn courtyard, the area here was well kept; the ground swept, the mortar and woodwork maintained in good repair. The door beneath the sign was newly crafted from oak and inviting.
Shakespeare saw that it was ajar and pushed it open. It gave on to an open hall with wood panelling. On the far wall, beneath a gallery, hung a long, brightly coloured tapestry. Shakespeare glanced at it, expecting its subject to be religious, perhaps the Virgin Mary, or some hunting scene. But then he saw that it was an exquisite needlework respresentation of a naked woman, dark-skinned, with chains of gold about her throat, her slender waist, her wrists and her ankles.
‘Good day to you, sir.’
Shakespeare turned. He frowned. She was a fair-faced woman in her early thirties, with a warm smile. The voice and face were vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place them. She seemed to have a clearer idea, for she stiffened, as if she recognised him.
‘I am seeking Lucy, whom I believe to be the mistress of this establishment.’
The woman, who wore good clothes, though bordering on the immodest with a low-cut bodice, regained her composure and bowed to him. ‘Please wait here, sir. There is a settle in the hall. Would you like the maid to bring you beer or wine?’
‘Beer would suit me well.’
‘It will be with you straightway.’ She began to walk off.
‘Do you not wish to know my name?’
The woman looked back and smiled conspiratorially. ‘We do not often deal with names at Vespers, sir, though you may invent one if you desire.’