The firefighters quenched their thirst with tankards of ale, while Shakespeare and Boltfoot picked through the half of the house that was saved. Even the part of it that stood was damaged by water and smoke, and would need extensive repairs before it would be habitable again. They found their weapons and some coin, but little else of use.
At last, Shakespeare had a moment to speak with Boltfoot.
‘Now tell me. What happened? Who was it?’
‘I heard a noise downstairs and went to investigate. I spotted instantly that the front door was open, broken. Then they were on to me from the shadows. Three of them, master. They knew exactly what they were doing, binding and gagging me in moments, without a word spoken. I did not stand a chance. All I could do was watch them as they went from room to room, setting the fire, laying trails of powder and kindling all along the walls, beneath the drapes and hangings.’
‘Did you recognise them?’
‘No, they were masked in cowls.’
Shakespeare gritted his teeth and swept a hand through his soot-thick hair. He knew exactly who had done this, even if he had not been here in person: Bartholomew Ickman. Joshua Peace had been right to fear him.
And not only Ickman, but Topcliffe, too. His malign presence cast a dank, heavy cloud across this whole affair. London was a great distance from Oxford, but the foul Topcliffe was a monster with a long reach. He should have seen it …
You will burn for your temerity, he had said.
Shakespeare’s hand went to his hip, seeking a steel haft. He was still in his tattered nightgown, but he had fastened his seared sword belt about his waist. His hand gripped the hilt with unreasoning ferocity. He uttered a rare profanity. He wished very much to kill a man this day. Or, better, two men.
Will had two rooms above a cobbler’s shop in Shoreditch.
‘They are not much, John, but you are welcome here as long as you wish. I shall stay at an inn.’
John Shakespeare looked around the rooms. Papers and books and broken quills were everywhere. Inkstains dotted the floors. The rooms were both of a size, about eighteen feet by twelve. There was enough space for the seven of them; many families lived like this all their lives. But it would be a great imposition on his brother.
‘This is where you work.’
Will glanced at his guests: Jane, Boltfoot and the children stood awkwardly at the wall closest to the doorway. All wore clothes borrowed from neighbours. They must have looked a motley group, riding through the streets of London on the horses from their stables. He smiled at them.
‘Your need is the greater. Besides, John, you have done much for me.’
Shakespeare shook his head. ‘One day and night, Will, that is all we require. On the morrow, we will find other lodgings, more suitable to small children.’ He turned to Boltfoot and Andrew. ‘Are you armed? Then let us ride.’
Skirting the city along well-used, rain-sodden tracks, the ride to Westminster was no more than four miles, but took them an hour and a half. The dark, baleful stone of Richard Topcliffe’s house rose in the shadow of St Margaret’s church. It was a house that John Shakespeare knew all too well. A house that stank of sweat and blood. A house where torture was licensed. A house with its own chamber of iron and fire, and a rack that was its owner’s pride. A house that stained England.
Shakespeare hammered at the heavy oak door with the haft of his poniard. Boltfoot stood to his left, caliver loaded and ready. Andrew stood to his right, hand gripped on the hilt of his sheathed sword.
The door opened. A young heavy-set man stood there, his straggle-hair slicked with grease. He looked at the three visitors with unconcealed loathing. Shakespeare knew him welclass="underline" Nicholas Jones, apprentice in cruelty to Topcliffe.
‘Where is your master, Jones?’
‘You won’t find him here.’
He made as if to close the door, but Shakespeare was ahead of him. His hand grasped at the young man’s throat, pushing him back into the hallway. Jones stumbled backwards under the onslaught and fell to the floor. Shakespeare, Boltfoot and Andrew looked down at him. The muzzle of Boltfoot’s caliver was trained on his face.
‘Where is he, Jones?’
Jones spat and Boltfoot pushed the muzzle down harder so that the cold steel flattened his nose. Jones wrenched his head sideways.
‘Shall I blast his head away, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘All in good time, Boltfoot.’
‘Court of Chancery,’ Jones spluttered. ‘He’s at the Court of Chancery!’
Shakespeare brushed Boltfoot’s caliver aside and dragged Jones to his feet. He held him against the wall by the lapels of his leather jerkin.
‘What is this? What is Topcliffe doing at Chancery? It is a civil court; there are no poor creatures to persecute there.’
‘He has brought a suit for non-payment of contract.’
‘Tell me more!’
‘There is no more.’
‘Finish him, Boltfoot.’
‘Please, wait.’ Jones could see the rage of death in these men’s eyes. He had never before believed Shakespeare capable of cold-blooded killing: he did now. ‘He is suing Tom Fitzherbert.’
Shakespeare could not disguise his astonishment. How could this square with his theory that Tom Fitzherbert and Topcliffe had conspired with James Fitzherbert falsely to accuse Andrew? Why, if they were co-conspirators, would Topcliffe be suing him in Chancery?
‘What is the debt?’
‘Five thousand pounds. Fitzherbert promised Mr Topcliffe five thousand pounds.’
‘For what?’
Jones hesitated. Shakespeare slammed his head into wall, hard.
Jones cried out in pain, then cringed away. ‘Hell’s turds, Mr Shakespeare, I’ll tell you. It is no secret for it will be heard in court. Tom Fitzherbert pledged to pay Mr Topcliffe five thousand pounds to bring his Papist father to his death so that he might inherit his lands and properties. Old John Fitzherbert has died in the Tower – and yet Tom Fitzherbert will not pay. Mr Topcliffe wants his money. He wants his five thousand. That is what this is about. Go to court yourself and you shall see.’
Shakespeare stared with astonishment into Jones’s eyes and saw fear, not dissimulation. Could it be true? Could an Englishman sue a man for non-payment of a contract to kill?
Suddenly, he flung the wretched Jones down the hall, turned on his heel and marched a hundred yards in the direction of Westminster Hall, with Andrew and Boltfoot close behind.
Chapter 50
SHAKESPEARE STRODE INTO the ancient hall, past the Common Pleas. The Court of Chancery was at the upper end, at the left-hand side. This was where Lord Keeper Sir John Puckering presided, with Master of the Rolls Sir Thomas Egerton at his side. It briefly flickered through Shakespeare’s mind to wonder about some link between this court and Egerton’s recent role as commissioner inquiring into the death of Lord Derby in Lancashire. At times, he felt, a man could be strangled in the myriad interconnecting twines that linked the great men of England. He shook his head as though to sweep aside the entangled briars; such things might be a matter for another day. This day he wanted but one thing: to find Richard Topcliffe.
A hand touched his sleeve. He turned sharply, as though bitten, and stared into the familiar face of Clarkson, Sir Robert Cecil’s most trusted retainer. Shakespeare was about to pull away but Clarkson’s grip tightened.
‘I must speak with you, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘I have no time for talk, Mr Clarkson.’
‘Sir Robert Cecil wishes to see you. He is close by, at Whitehall Palace.’
‘How did you find me here?’
Clarkson smiled. He was, as always, formally attired in black doublet and hose.