At his left side, Sarjent was running his hand through his black hair and saying something about the thunder of cannon and the taste of hot blood, words that every farm boy and villager for a mile about must have heard, so loud was the man. Boltfoot dug his heels sharply into the side of his long-suffering steed and rode ahead, wishing himself rid of this infernal braggart with his hunting-horn voice. He was not certain he could stand another day of this ceaseless roaring in his ear.
As he rode back towards the city, Shakespeare knew he was being watched. He knew well enough how to lose a following horseman, but instead he slowed down.
The day was dull and windless. He thought again about Henbird; had he misunderstood him or had he, indeed, been suggesting that Topcliffe was linked to Robert Poley and to the death of Marlowe? Do not underestimate Queen’s servants.
But why would Topcliffe and Poley have conspired to kill Marlowe? Topcliffe said he shared the playwright’s antipathy towards London’s population of foreigners — so why kill him? And why tell Shakespeare he believed Marlowe was murdered? Shakespeare rode his grey mare across the busy six acres of Smith Field, then into the broad sweep of Little Britain, cutting in towards the city. He casually reined the horse to the right and into the labyrinth of narrow streets close by City Ditch. He walked on down a lane of overhanging houses, then turned left. Seeing that no one was about, he quickly dismounted and waited. He heard the follower before he saw him; the soft clip-clop of hooves on cobbles.
As his pursuer rode into the street, Shakespeare reached up and grasped at his arm and leg, wrenching him clean from the saddle. The man grunted in shock as he flew sideways and fell heavily to the ground. As he landed, he let out a cry of pain, his elbow and the side of his head cracking against the flagstones. Shakespeare was on him in an instant. In his hand he had the wheel-lock pistol he had taken from the three trugs close to Black Lucy’s bawdy-house. He sat astride the man and held the muzzle of the unloaded gun to his face.
‘One wrong move and you die here.’
‘Please — wait.’
‘Who are you?’
‘You know me.’
Shakespeare did, indeed, know him. He knew that soft, oily voice. He knew that slender, serpentine frame with the shoulders that were almost as one with the neck and he knew that contemptible, self-satisfied expression. It did not seem so smug now.
‘Morley…’
‘Mr Shakespeare, I must talk with you.’
Shakespeare held the gun back a few inches but it was still trained on Morley’s face. ‘If you want to talk to me, come to my door. Follow me like an assassin and you are like to die.’
‘I could not approach you at your house. I might have been seen.’
‘Well, you are seen now, and will pay for it.’
‘Please, Mr Shakespeare. I have followed you to Clerkenwell and now here. Had I wished to harm you, I could have done so before now. Will you not hear my story?’
Morley. Christopher Morley. One-time tutor to the Lady Arbella Stuart, claimant to the throne of England, in the household of Bess of Hardwick; one-time spy for Walsingham, but not to be trusted by any man; one-time confederate of the Earl of Essex in a high treason that had nearly cost both men — and others — their heads. Morley had crossed Shakespeare’s path once before — and that had been one time too many. He had hoped never to see the man again.
‘I should kill you here, in this street, like a plague dog.’
‘Then you would never hear the intelligence I have for you.’
‘Five seconds, Morley. Five, four-’
‘I know the name of the powderman…’
He was still in the scarlet velvet doublet and breeches he had worn when last they met, little more than half a year ago. Now the once fine velvet was dirt-stained, torn and threadbare, as if he had been living wild. His hair was uncombed and had grown longer; his wispy, dark moustache and the few strands of hair that constituted his beard had not been trimmed in weeks. He looked like a vagrant.
‘Indeed. Then tell me before I fire.’
‘I cannot — yet. But I will tell you.’
Shakespeare looked into his eyes, then withdrew the gun and stood up. Roughly, he pulled Morley up by the front of his filthy doublet. From his own saddlepack he took a length of cord, then thrust the wheel-lock under his arm, seized Morley’s arms and lashed his wrists together in front of him, knotting them tightly. He left a lead of about six feet, which he secured to the stirrup of the mare. It all happened so fast, Morley scarce had time to protest. Shakespeare clambered aboard the grey mare, leant across to take the reins of Morley’s horse and prepared to ride, dragging Morley behind.
‘Wait, there is more,’ his captive managed to say at last. ‘This is to do with Marlowe. They meant to kill me, not Kit. They are after me, Mr Shakespeare.’
Shakespeare looked down at him with disdain. ‘This street is not the place to discuss such things. We are going to Newgate. You will be very comfortable there, I am sure.’
‘Not Newgate…’
Shakespeare ignored him and slapped the grey mare’s flank.
Morley pulled back on the cord, his heels trying to dig into the ground. ‘No, not Newgate — your home — anywhere but Newgate. I will be known there and killed.’
‘Look at the place, Mr Cooper. It is a disgrace.’
Boltfoot surveyed the Three Mills. The palisade was too low and, in places, the stakes had fallen. A man could get in there with ease. No, he thought, a squadron of men could enter undetected.
In the distance he saw a group of idlers leaning against the side of the main mill building. They were dressed in jerkins and hose like workmen, but they were drinking, not working, and seemed engaged in chatter like denizens of the taproom.
Boltfoot shook his head in dismay. Sarjent’s verdict was true enough. It was easy to imagine powder disappearing from this place; from this distance, on a bridge over the Lea some six hundred yards away, it looked as watertight as a malkin’s colander.
‘They should have stayed with flour milling,’ Sarjent said.
Boltfoot looked at his companion curiously. ‘What do you know of this place, Mr Sarjent?’
‘It was a flour mill. There were three of them here, hence the name. Then two. Now one of those two is a gunpowder mill, founded five years since at the time of the Spanish Armada. See how she straddles the Lea? The river is tidal here, and it is the ebb that drives the wheels.’
‘Have you been here before?’
‘Aye,’ Sarjent said, his voice quieter now. ‘I was deputed here in ’88 when it was converted by the Knaggs. That’s Thomas Knagg and his father, who is now dead. But we fell out. I did not like their methods. They were not military men and seemed unaware — uncaring — about the dangers of powder.’
Boltfoot said nothing. He shook the reins of his mount.
Sarjent kicked on after him. ‘Come, Mr Cooper, let us go and pummel a few skulls.’
The keeper of the Counter prison in Wood Street was pleased to accept two shillings in his hand from Shakespeare. ‘Don’t you worry, sir,’ he said. ‘Mr Morley will not escape from here.’
‘Leave us now, master keeper. Send a turnkey with ale.’
The keeper, a bony-handed ancient with a long, ash-grey beard, bowed and backed out of the small cell. Morley sat hunched on a pile of clean straw, his back to the damp wall. He had the cell to himself, but there were no comforts other than this straw and the weak light that slanted in through a barred window high up in the thick stone.
Shakespeare stood by the door and eyed his miserable captive. He was surprised to see real fear in his face; he was used to the curled lip of sneering contempt from this man. ‘Well, Mr Morley,’ he said at last. ‘You are a shambles of a human being. Not one of the creator’s finest works, that is certain.’