Rory Clements: Prince

‘Thank you, sir. Thank you.’

Shakespeare shook his hand. ‘It is good to meet you properly, Mijnheer Sluyterman — even though these are not the happiest of circumstances. If I were you, I would adhere strictly to the law from now on and keep your head down. Mr Topcliffe is dangerous and relentless.’

Catherine found the servant girl shivering in a corner of their courtyard, half concealed behind an old wagon wheel awaiting repair by Boltfoot. The girl was on her haunches, her arms tight around her tall, slender body, still in her thin nightdress. She hid her face from the light of Catherine’s lantern. Gently, Catherine put a comforting arm around her and whispered soft words. The girl, who looked no more than twelve and wore her hair in two shoulder-length plaits, had the height of an adult woman. She spoke no English, but quickly understood that this was a friend and said her name was Susanna.

‘She can stay with us tonight, Mr Sluyterman,’ Shakespeare said a short while later. ‘And on the morrow you must move her to a safer place. You surely have friends who could take her in.’

Sluyterman bowed his head in thanks and relief. ‘I will do that, Mr Shakespeare, sir. Thank you. You are a good neighbour.’

The Dutchman explained to Susanna what was happening and assured her she would be safe now. The girl nodded nervously but said nothing. Then the Shakespeares bade Sluyterman goodnight and brought her up to the room where their own five-year-old daughter, Mary, lay asleep. Catherine put down some blankets and cushions for the girl and left, quietly closing the door behind her.

Shakespeare and his wife were further from sleep than ever. As they sat together, he sipped at a beaker of rich milk, cool from the larder. ‘This was about me, Catherine,’ he said. ‘I know it. Topcliffe was trying to intimidate me. He wasn’t interested in that girl. It was a warning shot to me.’

‘Something to do with the Marlowe killing and inquest?’

It was well after midnight and his blood was still pumping hard. ‘Yes. But what? At the inquest Topcliffe seemed to suggest he was in agreement with me — that Marlowe had been murdered and that the jury had reached the wrong verdict.’

‘Did he not also make it plain that he thought Marlowe was right to abuse and intimidate the refugees? If so, then that accords with what happened this night. It was said Marlowe did not like refugees. Now Topcliffe has shown himself of similar mind. And so he uses the Return of Strangers and information from a hateful servant to seek out one he thought he could harass. It is his way, John. It has always been his way. Catholics, foreigners, gypsies, all are vermin in Topcliffe’s twisted mind.’

‘True.’ Shakespeare’s deep, hooded eyes shone in the warm light of the single candle on the table between them. ‘But there is something else here. He knew this was my neighbour. This was for my benefit. He targeted Sluyterman because he spotted on the Return that he lived next door to us. But why, Catherine? What game is Topcliffe playing with me?’

In the morning, shortly after dawn, Shakespeare slapped the flank of Boltfoot’s horse and bade him farewell. He watched for a few moments as his assistant rode off at a trot towards the bridge on the first part of the journey to the powdermills. A little later, Shakespeare went back indoors and joined Catherine and the children for a breakfast of bread, eggs, cheese and ale, all served by Jane Cooper. The Dutch girl, Susanna, stayed in Mary’s room and Jane took her some food and drink. Shakespeare had ordered that she be kept out of sight. The servant Oliver Kettle would be waiting for her return to the Sluyterman household; if she came back, he would hasten to Westminster to inform Topcliffe again. Nor would it surprise Shakespeare if Topcliffe had another watcher in Dowgate keeping an eye on both their houses.

At eight of the clock, Shakespeare eased himself into the saddle of his grey mare in the mews stables and headed north and west through the narrow, hurried streets of the city.

He found Nicholas Henbird in a fine house on St Nicholas Shambles, not more than fifty yards from the enormous ancient priory of Christ’s Church.

Henbird’s house stood a little way beyond Stinking Lane. It was one of a number of fair wood-frames built around a pleasant central court with a well. A clerk opened the door and Shakespeare was soon shown through to Henbird’s splendid solar, now filled with the morning sun. The cool, bright aspect lightened Shakespeare’s spirits. He gazed upon Henbird’s girth with wonder and smiled. He had changed a lot since winning the coveted post of Royal Purveyor of Poultry, a good reward for his secret work on behalf of Walsingham over many years. Shakespeare shook his old colleague by the hand. He guessed Henbird must be about fifty. He certainly looked it. He had gained the portly belly and rosy round face that so often came with the fine living of ermine-clad merchants. Yet Shakespeare was not deceived. Those kindly pink cheeks and convivial manner lied; the well-fed body housed a cold heart and dagger-sharp mind.

‘Nick, I had not thought to see you so prosperous.’

Henbird’s face broke into a satisfied beam, like a churchman at the thought of a Sunday sirloin and a quart of beer. ‘The court cannot get enough poultry, John. Swan, geese, chickens, duck. My clerks do it all and the money comes in faster than I can spend it on buxom whores, fine foods and sweet wines. Look at this wondrous belly!’ He patted his middle with pleasure. ‘Has not Mr Secretary done me well? My clerks buy from the shires and arrange the sales and the neck-wringing. All I have to do is pluck the money. Why, the clerks even count my silver for me. Are you acquainted with turkey-cock? I shall arrange one to be killed and roasted for your supper tonight. A succulent white-fleshed bird — I hope you will agree it flavoursome.’

‘Thank you, Nick. But I have come for something else.’

‘You do not surprise me. I would have wagered a month of my warrant on it. So, John, let us talk of secrets. I have heard whispered gossip that you are engaged in that dark and bloody world once more. For little Robert Cecil, I do believe.’

Shakespeare took a seat at Henbird’s intricately carved table. ‘I do indeed work for Sir Robert, a man who has the best interests of his sovereign and his country at heart. Unlike some at court,’ he added wryly.

Henbird laughed and his belly shook like a subtlety of milk jelly. ‘Yes, there are those whose own interests do not always coincide with those of Her Most Royal Majesty.’ He rubbed his ear. ‘Did I not hear in the past year that you had fallen foul of my lord of Essex? A most grievous falling out, I am told.’

Shakespeare said nothing. It seemed that Henbird’s ears were as close to the ground as ever, and his hearing as acute. The memory of the conflict with Essex was not one Shakespeare relished, but nor could he regret discovering the sly and treacherous heart of the Queen’s favourite. One day, he and Cecil would doubtless need such information. In the meantime, he would never be a welcome guest at Essex House again. Nor would he wish to be. He had chosen the path of peace, tied to Cecil’s star; let those who wished war join the Essex camp.

‘Come now, John. Do not deny it.’

‘I am not here for such talk, Nick. But I am glad that you have not lost your talent for discovering men’s secrets, for I would make use of it.’

Henbird clapped his hands and a livery-clad serving man hurried in and bowed low. ‘What will you have, John, honest English ale or good Burgundian wine?’

‘Ale.’

Henbird nodded to the servant. ‘A pitcher of ale. And make haste, man, before we die of thirst. Now, John…’