Read Prince - John Shakespeare 03 - for Free Online Page A
Authors: Rory Clements
Dutch church? Your task is to discover the source of the powder. It was almost certainly bought or stolen from a mill. Question the mill-keepers and workers. They will not admit selling powder illegally and will be reluctant to admit their safeguarding is so lax that a thief could gain access to it. Start with Rotherhithe. If you do not discover inconsistencies there, head for Bromley-by-Bow and the others. You will not be alone. The Royal Armoury is arranging assistance; a powder expert named William Sarjent. I am told he is a good man. He will meet you at Rotherhithe. I have full details here.’ He handed over the paper Bedwell had passed to him. ‘Ask them this, too: have cargoes gone missing en route by road or river? Has any man been dismissed or charged for dishonesty? Demand assistance on pain of arrest.’
Boltfoot grunted. ‘What of the Royal Armoury itself, master? There is gunpowder aplenty there.’
‘I am assured from the highest level that it is not the source. If all else fails I will go there. But in the meantime I have other inquiries to make. Set forth at dawn – and go armed.’
In bed, Catherine was tender. She enticed him in with soft words and practised movements of her belly and thighs, but tonight Shakespeare was a different animal to her, frenzied and ungiving, hard and dispassionate.
They made love twice. Her yielding warmth soothed him and her fondling words and whispered kisses drew much of the anger out of him. Yet there was still tension there, and she sensed it.
He lay back, sated, on the downy cushions and gazed into the black night. Their breathing subsided.
‘I keep thinking of Poley,’ he said. ‘I know him too well. Marlowe’s death smells like six-day fish.’
‘Tell me of him, John.’
‘No. You need sleep.’
They lay there a minute. Neither of them would sleep soon.
‘Death and deceit follow him like a pair of hungry dogs,’ Shakespeare said quietly. ‘Walsingham used him to incriminate the Babington plotters in their conspiracy to murder the Queen and free Mary of Scots. But whose side was he really on? I never knew. I don’t think Mr Secretary was certain either. Even when Poley was imprisoned in the Tower, it is said he was employed to kill a bishop with poisoned cheese. But who was the paymaster?’
Catherine curled up against him, her dark hair across his chest. Shakespeare stroked her head.
‘Is he Catholic or Protestant, or neither?’ he went on, as much to himself as to her. ‘He was poor but now he lives in splendour, though he has no honest trade. I think he has won gold from all sides. What is his connection to Marlowe – a shared interest in intelligencing or the common bond of coining?’
‘Coining, John?’
‘Marlowe had already been implicated in forging coin in the Low Countries; is Poley in the same line? Is that what this is about? Was the widow Bull’s room a den of counterfeiters? Was the death nothing but a falling-out among thieves? A brabble and brawl about the proceeds of some crime? Or something yet more sinister …’
He knew Catherine was happy to hear him out. She would employ her wit and learning to make some sense of all he said. These were the times when they were at their closest, when they worked as confederates to solve a puzzle.
Yet not this night. A sudden noise shattered their peace. It came from the street outside their chamber. A splintering of wood, then shouting and hammering.
Shakespeare was up from the bed in a second and throwing open the shutters to look out of the window down on to the road. There were men there with pitch torches, storming through the broken front door of his neighbour’s house.
Catherine was up, too, at his side. ‘What is it, John?’
‘Pursuivants.’
Quickly, he threw on his doublet over his bare chest and pulled on breeches. ‘Stay here, Catherine.’
Barefoot, he ran down the oaken stairs, through the hall, into the courtyard and out into Dowgate. Two armed men with
Boltfoot grunted. ‘What of the Royal Armoury itself, master? There is gunpowder aplenty there.’
‘I am assured from the highest level that it is not the source. If all else fails I will go there. But in the meantime I have other inquiries to make. Set forth at dawn – and go armed.’
In bed, Catherine was tender. She enticed him in with soft words and practised movements of her belly and thighs, but tonight Shakespeare was a different animal to her, frenzied and ungiving, hard and dispassionate.
They made love twice. Her yielding warmth soothed him and her fondling words and whispered kisses drew much of the anger out of him. Yet there was still tension there, and she sensed it.
He lay back, sated, on the downy cushions and gazed into the black night. Their breathing subsided.
‘I keep thinking of Poley,’ he said. ‘I know him too well. Marlowe’s death smells like six-day fish.’
‘Tell me of him, John.’
‘No. You need sleep.’
They lay there a minute. Neither of them would sleep soon.
‘Death and deceit follow him like a pair of hungry dogs,’ Shakespeare said quietly. ‘Walsingham used him to incriminate the Babington plotters in their conspiracy to murder the Queen and free Mary of Scots. But whose side was he really on? I never knew. I don’t think Mr Secretary was certain either. Even when Poley was imprisoned in the Tower, it is said he was employed to kill a bishop with poisoned cheese. But who was the paymaster?’
Catherine curled up against him, her dark hair across his chest. Shakespeare stroked her head.
‘Is he Catholic or Protestant, or neither?’ he went on, as much to himself as to her. ‘He was poor but now he lives in splendour, though he has no honest trade. I think he has won gold from all sides. What is his connection to Marlowe – a shared interest in intelligencing or the common bond of coining?’
‘Coining, John?’
‘Marlowe had already been implicated in forging coin in the Low Countries; is Poley in the same line? Is that what this is about? Was the widow Bull’s room a den of counterfeiters? Was the death nothing but a falling-out among thieves? A brabble and brawl about the proceeds of some crime? Or something yet more sinister …’
He knew Catherine was happy to hear him out. She would employ her wit and learning to make some sense of all he said. These were the times when they were at their closest, when they worked as confederates to solve a puzzle.
Yet not this night. A sudden noise shattered their peace. It came from the street outside their chamber. A splintering of wood, then shouting and hammering.
Shakespeare was up from the bed in a second and throwing open the shutters to look out of the window down on to the road. There were men there with pitch torches, storming through the broken front door of his neighbour’s house.
Catherine was up, too, at his side. ‘What is it, John?’
‘Pursuivants.’
Quickly, he threw on his doublet over his bare chest and pulled on breeches. ‘Stay here, Catherine.’
Barefoot, he ran down the oaken stairs, through the hall, into the courtyard and out into Dowgate. Two armed men with