Rory Clements - Prince

All this was known; what more could Cecil want?

As if hearing Shakespeare’s thoughts, Cecil said, ‘He has a secret to sell. You speak enough Spanish. You will negotiate a price, then bring him to me.’

Shakespeare felt distinctly uneasy; the word from intelligencers in France was that Perez’s secrets were rarely of any real value. He had been away from the Escorial court too long. And there was another problem here — Essex. ‘Sir Robert, you know my history with the earl. He is Don Antonio’s host — he will not allow me into his presence.’

‘Essex is here at court, attending on Her Majesty. You have the field to yourself. Perez is in the country clutching his confounded box of potions and amusing himself with his little group of friends. There will be no better time. It is a difficult mission, John, and it will require your most delicate touch. He will try to extort a high price. I must tell you, too, that you are unlikely to enjoy these people’s company. One of them is Pregent de la Fin, son of the French ambassador. Be wary of him, yet do not make a foe of him, for we need to keep peace with France in these hard days. I fear you may not enjoy the stench of debauchery among this Spaniard and his train, but stop up your nose for the sake of England. Perez has got word to me that he wishes to sell me his secret, otherwise, he will dispense it elsewhere. I cannot allow that.’

Shakespeare wanted to ask why this was considered more important than the gunpowder inquiry. But he knew the answer. This might be no more than some inconsequential and ancient piece of tittle-tattle from the Spanish court, but it would be Cecil’s tittle-tattle, not Essex’s.

Cecil shook his head briskly, a short, sharp move from left to right and back as if fending off a wasp. ‘I know what you are thinking. That this will amount to nothing — a scraping of horse dung upon the road. But I am sure there is something here and it pertains to the succession. Nothing in this realm is more important than that. I pray I am wrong, but I very much fear that he will disclose something bad, some rotten stink. It is something we must know. Find out what it is. Bring it to me.’

Shakespeare bowed in deference. ‘Very well, Sir Robert. I shall do as you command. What may I offer to seal the secret?’

‘He will demand an impossible sum. It is his way. He has been accustomed to a life of immense wealth and great extravagance and is reduced to living off the charity of Essex and other noblemen. He will want many thousands of pounds. But I wish to pay no more than five hundred, less if possible. Above all, you must ensure that we do not pay a preposterous amount for intelligence that is without worth. There must be a proviso that the secret is both significant and true. Otherwise, let him know, we will have our gold back by any means. Now go.’

Shakespeare bowed again and turned to leave.

‘And remember,’ Cecil added. ‘Perez is hid away because Philip of Spain wants him dead.’

Mills stooped his crowlike frame over the table and scratched a note of everything Christopher Morley had told Shakespeare. ‘And you say he is in the Wood Street Counter?’

‘And most unhappy about it. He is in mortal dread.’

‘Good. He is a fly to be squashed.’

‘He came to me in good faith. I have as little time for him as you, Frank, but do not apply torture. Sir Robert has agreed there will be no racking, no Topcliffe. Offer Morley ten marks for the powderman’s name. Tell him the alternative is a charge of treason if he withholds it.’

‘As you wish,’ Mills said without conviction.

Shakespeare looked closely into Mills’s eyes and knew he was lying. He would have Morley racked as a first rather than a last option. ‘This is no jest, Frank. You have crossed me before — do not betray me on this. I will not forgive you twice.’

‘This is a matter of state, John. Bishops may fuck their fill and not be married. Secretaries of state may tighten your body with ropes and not be crossed. I will be guided by the wishes of Sir Robert. If, as you say, he forbids torture, then there will be no torture.’

There was no more to be said. The question left hanging was whether Cecil would change his mind. Shakespeare knew that Cecil did not like the use of torture, but he knew, too, that if it was the only way, he would authorise it. The only hope now was that Morley would take the ten marks and provide the name — or that Shakespeare’s mission would be completed in short order, allowing him a quick return to the Dutch church investigation.

Boltfoot Cooper was with Thomas Knagg in the powder-mixing room. William Sarjent was at the vault, inspecting the stores.

‘Happy, Mr Cooper?’ Knagg said. He was a stone-faced young man, not more than thirty years of age, and wore a pair of wire-framed spectacles perched at the end of his nose.

‘The stockade is very poor.’

Knagg was sitting on a three-legged stool with his booted feet upon a workbench. ‘The palisade is under bloody repair. And at least we have one. Look at Faversham. They have no stockade. And Godstone is so full of holes that a Roman general might march an elephant in unseen.’

‘Your guards stand idle. Who looks after this place?’

‘Those men are carpenters, not guards. They are repairing and improving our defences. Even carpenters must be allowed ten minutes now and then for a pint of ale and nourishment. And there are guards enough. You were stopped as you came in, were you not?’

Boltfoot murmured. Yes, they had been stopped — and Sarjent had straightway got into a dispute with the guard, a broad-shouldered bull of a man with an agitated, slightly timorous look that belied his great size and seeming strength. Boltfoot had had to pull Sarjent off the man.

‘He’s a bad lot that William Sarjent,’ Knagg said. ‘I did not like him when he was here in ’88 and I still do not. Sniff him next to a turd and you would not tell them apart.’

‘He says much the same about you.’

‘Aye, he would.’

‘What came between you?’

‘His manner and his opinions. His soldiering gave him ideas above his rank. I was his master, yet he believed he could command me through his knowledge of powder, which was no more than mine.’

The door opened. Sarjent strode in. His gaze was piercing, aimed directly at Knagg, who pushed his spectacles up closer to his eyes, tilted his head and gazed back with ill humour. Sarjent turned to Boltfoot. ‘We must close down this mill, Mr Cooper. Powder has gone missing. Knagg has been engaged in illegal trades. The place is a midden of villainy and rotten practice. One man had a tinderbox in his pocket.’ He held up the offending object. ‘We will take Knagg into custody and send pursuivants to take the place under proper control.’

Boltfoot looked at Knagg. ‘What do you say, Mr Knagg?’

Knagg shook his head slowly. ‘I say you should bring the man who supposedly had that tinderbox, for I do not believe any of my men has been so foolish. And I would ask Mr Sarjent for the poxy so-called evidence of missing powder, Mr Cooper. For I pledge on my word as a Christian gentleman that none is gone from Three Mills unaccounted for.’

‘The devil you do!’ Sarjent said, his body stiff with rage. ‘Let us show you the rack, then we shall hear the truth — and we shall have the powderman’s name from your dissembling lips.’

Catherine Shakespeare answered the door. There had already been two callers this evening — one a messenger from Cecil, the other a servant from someone called Henbird with a roasted turkey cock. Well, John was not here to share it, so it would have to wait.

Now, Jan Sluyterman was on the doorstep. He looked distressed. ‘Mistress Shakespeare,’ he said, a pleading note in his heavily accented voice. ‘Is your husband at home?’