‘And yet He is with us, John. He is with you…’
The quiet unnerved Shakespeare. His ears still rang from the deafening blast of the hellburner, yet all else descended into silence. Cecil had sent messages to Scotland, but no word was received back of any attempt on the King’s life. Luke Laveroke, alias Richard Baines, seemed to have disappeared into the ether, as had Rabbie Bruce. Nor was there any sign of Dona Ana.
While Boltfoot lay, face down, on his bed, his back slathered with ointments brought from the apothecary, Shakespeare followed what leads he could muster. He went again to Henbird and together they stepped down to his cellar to talk with Walstan Glebe. Shakespeare came to realise there was some value in the man. ‘Work for me, Mr Glebe,’ he said of a sudden. ‘And I will ensure your press is licensed. But I vow that if ever you do a trade of the sort you did with Laveroke, I will personally drive the tumbrel that carries you to the gallows. Everything you hear, you will pass to me, however small. Do you understand?’
Glebe, happy to be alive and pleased at the chance of release from his piss-acrid cell, accepted the offer. Shakespeare knew he could never be trusted, yet he knew, too, that he could not function without the services of such doubtful men.
‘What I most want from you, Glebe, is any word on the whereabouts of this prince of Scots.’
‘Thank you, Mr Shakespeare. I pledge I will keep my ears open.’
‘Good, for if you do not, they shall surely be sliced off by order of the court. And in the meantime, I will have a little task for you to perform with your confounded press. There is a matter that needs to be set straight.’
In Privy Council, Sir Robert Cecil demanded information from the Earl of Essex. ‘You know whom we seek, my lord, where is this woman? I ask this, for it is known that she was at your house.’
Essex, irritated at being asked such a question in a way that seemed to accuse him of collusion with Ana Cabral, bridled. ‘I do not know what you mean, Sir Robert…’ But he did know what he meant, and he knew, too, that Cecil had the Queen’s backing in asking it. He tilted his proud chin and gazed down his nose at his little rival. ‘All I can tell you is that I have not seen the wretched whore since the day of the Golden Spur. Nor has Don Antonio, who resides with me still. In truth, I believe him glad to be rid of her.’
On Cecil’s orders, the trials of those captured in the skirmishes around the city were heard with little ado and at speed. Six men were found guilty of insurrection and riot and were sentenced to be hanged at the places they had been taken: three by the bridge, two by the Dutch church and one, Curl, in Westminster. Cecil insisted they be spared the godly butchery of drawing and quartering, ‘For the Queen will not have martyrs made of these so-called apostles.’
On the day of execution, Shakespeare rose at dawn and went to the refectory. Jane followed soon after, with Mary and Grace, and set about preparing food and drink for their breakfasts.
Shakespeare did not feel like eating, but he sipped some small ale. He was surprised that Andrew was absent. ‘Is he still abed, Jane?’
‘I shall go and fetch him, master.’
‘No, no. Leave the boy. He needs sleep.’
After a few minutes, Shakespeare went to Andrew’s room. The boy was not there.
Andrew Woode fought his way through the heaving crowd close to the Gatehouse at Westminster. At twelve years of age, he was nimble enough to duck under people’s arms but tall and strong enough not to be easily elbowed aside. He had the fair hair of his long-dead mother, and something of her solemn aspect. He could not remember her. All he knew of her was her portrait, in which she wore a black gown, a white coif about her hair and a cross at her slender neck. In truth, Catherine had become more of a mother to him.
The morning was bright. There was a carnival air. Street sellers shouted their wares. ‘Saffron cakes!’ ‘Kent strawberries!’ ‘Broadsheets here!’
The boy found a place at the front of the throng, with a clear view of the scaffold, not fifteen yards away. His heart pounded like the beat of a war-drum.
At seven of the clock, just as the bells of St Margaret’s began to chime, a cart came into view. In the back, arms bound tight, Andrew could see the pathetic creature who had come here to die. He was a man with amber hair, amber freckles and amber eyes; strange, piercing eyes that flickered here and there through the crowd of onlookers as though seeking someone he knew, some help or comfort in these last minutes on earth. For a moment, Andrew felt the man’s eyes meet his, then they turned away.
‘Do you have anything to say?’ the hangman demanded.
‘I beg forgiveness of Her Majesty, to whom I never meant any harm. All I did, I did for England. And if there is a God, I pray for His mercy.’
‘That’s enough.’ Without ceremony, the hangman tried to thrust a hood over the man’s head, but the condemned man shied away from it. ‘No, not the hood.’ The hangman shrugged carelessly, put the hood aside and went straight to the noose. He looped the rough hemp cord about the man’s neck, then tightened it and stepped down from the cart. For a few moments, the condemned man stood on the cart, staring ahead with terror in his eyes, then the hangman lashed the horse away.
Holy Trinity Curl swung violently. He kicked and choked. His death dance lasted twelve minutes. No one stepped forward to pull his legs and hasten death.
The crowd drifted away, bored. They had hoped for more of a speech, perhaps a jest or two from the condemned man. All London had heard of his paltry attempt at insurrection and considered it laughable. Had he really thought they would take up arms and join him? The apprentices could organise better riots at Bartholomew Fair. The real talk of the city was the hellburner. That had been some bang, some thunder.
Andrew stayed and gazed at the grotesque tableau. The distended tongue lolled out. The amber eyes, open and bulging, stared without sight. Blood from the ears streaked the beard. A dark patch on the breeches betrayed the last humiliation, pissing himself in public. Andrew breathed deeply to prevent the bile rising in his throat, then turned away. The frantic beating of his heart had calmed. The killer of the woman he loved as a mother was dead.
‘You look as if you need food and drink,’ Shakespeare said when Andrew arrived home.
‘I have no appetite, sir.’
‘No. Nor would I. But at least sup a little ale. Here.’ He handed him his own cup.
Andrew took a few sips, then thirstily downed the whole half-pint.
‘Better?’
The boy shook his head. Suddenly, he looked old beyond his years. ‘No. Not better. Empty. I had expected some kind of elation, but there was none. My hatred seeped away into nothingness.’
Shakespeare held the boy to him. ‘You are a man now,’ he said. ‘A good man. We will talk of your future, soon.’ As he spoke, there was a knock at the door, and he heard Jane’s soft-shod feet scuttling through the hall to answer it.
‘Will, it is good to see you.’
‘I would have come sooner. There were… difficulties.’
‘Well, you are here now. Welcome.’
‘I am lost for words.’
Shakespeare smiled. ‘There is a first time for everything, Will. Say nothing. It has all been said.’ He embraced his brother, whose clothes were dusty and stained.
‘In truth, John, as well as bringing my condolences, I come with another purpose. I fear I was not wholly open with you the last time we met. I knew more about the death of Kit Marlowe than I told you. I thought it safer to avoid London for a while. I believe I am still in grave danger.’
Shakespeare stood back from his brother and looked into his eyes inquiringly. ‘You are safe here, Will. Come to my solar. Let us talk in comfort. You look as if you have been dragged here from Stratford. Jane will bring us refreshments.’
In the quiet of Shakespeare’s sunlit room, his brother unburdened himself.