Rory Clements - Prince

‘No, not the sums you talk of. So that means there is no other bidder. Which must weaken your position.’

Perez suddenly became agitated and rose, naked, from the bed. Shakespeare was surprised to see how short he was, perhaps five foot at the most. His head atop his distended and ageing body looked like a purple-brown watermelon thrust on a short-hafted hoe. Yet somewhere in that grotesque figure was the distant memory of a handsome young man who had made love to half the court of Spain, men as well as women, if spies like Standen were to be believed. The years of excess had wrought much damage.

The Spaniard scrabbled about on the floor then rose triumphantly, clutching a small golden box. He lifted the lid. Inside, Shakespeare could see little glass vials — potions and preparations of some sort. Perez took the stopper from one of the vials, threw back his head and poured the contents into his gaping mouth. Then he sighed and closed his eyes.

He sat back down on the edge of the bed, his balls and prick hanging heavy and loose between his thin legs. ‘I have much pain, Mr Shakespeare. My bones. My head. I had wanted food. Where is that food and ale Ana promised?’

‘I am sure it will be here soon.’

‘Do you know, Mr Shakespeare, I was once the most powerful man in the world. Do not sneer when you look at me now, for there was a time when I could make the King of Spain do my bidding. The King of Spain — emperor of half the world, an empire greater than that of Rome or Persia. The Pope himself had to treat with me if he wished anything of Spain. With a snap of my fingers I could have had you arrested by the Inquisition, or, if I liked you, I could have given you letters of introduction to my old friend Titian, who was the greatest painter that ever lived. So when you talk to me of money, do not offer me a carpenter’s wage, for I have a secret worth a king’s treasure chest.’

‘Forgive me, Don Antonio. I can assure you I do not sneer at you. I hold you in the highest esteem and have the greatest admiration for your remarkable career. But I am here to discover a price which is acceptable to you and to Sir Robert. It is a matter of finding some middle way.’

Perez, still naked, went to the door and shouted in Spanish for his food. ‘Do you want me to starve!’ He returned to the room and found a crumpled chemise and netherstocks and pulled them on. ‘Mr Shakespeare, if you want tittle-tattle about the Spanish court, I will give it you for nothing. I will tell you everything you wish about the mouselike king who whispers so quiet that his courtiers cannot hear him and who makes sure he takes the same number of mouthfuls of food at every meal and chews each morsel the exact same number of times — twelve. Yes, twelve chews for each bite; I have counted them a thousand times and thought I would go mad myself in doing so. I can spend all day with you and tell you ten times a hundred such titbits. Or I can tell you what you have come for: information that will rock this little realm to its foundations. And I promise you this, Mr Shakespeare, it were better you knew the secret now rather than later. For if you leave it much longer, it will be too late for you to act upon.’

Shakespeare believed him. He knew this man for a dissembling, cunning, murdering, degenerate poisoner. Yet he believed him on this. He had some information which Cecil had to know. And quickly. ‘A thousand pounds,’ he said, going way beyond his brief. ‘But I would have to confirm that. I am not authorised to pay such a sum.’

‘That is a long way from twenty thousand, Mr Shakespeare.’

There was a knock at the door. A serving man appeared with a silver tray of food and drink, followed by Ana Cabral. Perez waved them away, then turned to Shakespeare. ‘Go now. We will talk again later, when you have had time to reflect a little more. This talk has wearied me. I must sleep.’

Reluctantly, Shakespeare bowed and took his leave. There was a gulf here. He was not at all sure how he would build a bridge.

Outside the room, Ana was waiting for him. ‘Did he take some tincture, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘Yes, he drank from a vial.’

‘It is a spirit of opium. He has much pain, you know. They used him ill in prison.’

‘I understand.’

‘He will drift into sleep now. Come, sir, why do you not ride with the vidame and me? We have fine horses. Unless you have other pleasures in mind…’

Catherine Shakespeare busied herself preparing Susanna for their short journey across London. Her adoptive daughter, Grace Woode, fished a good summer dress from her clothes coffer and held it up to the Sluytermans’ serving girl.

‘Would this suit, Mama?’ she asked Catherine. ‘Do you not think it would fit her?’

Catherine laughed. The gown was far too small. Grace was ten and small for her age; Susanna was twelve and tall. ‘I think one of my own would fit a little better, Grace. Let us see what we can find.’

They eventually found a serviceable outfit of light-brown linen that would not look out of place on a well-to-do townswoman’s daughter. Catherine stood back and looked at the girl admiringly. ‘ Voelt dat goed aan, Susanna?’ She had learned a little Dutch from her friend, Berthe Haan.

Susanna smiled. ‘ Het past goed, Vrouw Shakespeare. Dank U.’

Both carried baskets and wore respectable lawn pynners as they set off up Dowgate. Catherine wore her brightest summer dress, saffron and green. To avoid the suspicion of any watchers, they kept their eyes straight ahead or looked at each other and chatted as if they were merely a mother and daughter off to market on a fine summer’s morning. By the time they were halfway up the road they had the confidence to look about them. On their right they gazed at the Erber, the great mansion where Vice-Admiral Sir Francis Drake lived when he was in London. Susanna asked about it and Catherine tried to explain in her faltering Dutch. The words ‘Francis Drake’ had the required effect.

Susanna smiled. ‘Ah, Drake, de geweldige zee kapitein. De veroveraar van de Spaanse Armada.’

‘Well done, Susanna. Remember, the English people are your friends, as is the Queen. Men like Topcliffe twist the law to their own ends. You will be safe now.’

The girl nodded uncertainly. They continued on due north, taking in the sights, smells and noises of the city. Susanna seemed to lose her nerves and became increasingly exhilarated by all she saw. Instinctively, she put her hand in Catherine’s as they passed the stocks market. They then turned a little eastwards into the wide avenue of Threadneedle Street, before heading north again into Broad Street.

Catherine squeezed the girl’s hand. She always liked to visit Berthe Haan. She had sent Jane to her last night with a written message about Susanna. The reply had been instant: yes, of course, they would be happy to take Susanna in. They were entitled to have a Dutch servant girl, so she would be safe there and legal.

As they turned across the street to the Dutch market, the place was alive with colour and noise. Susanna’s eyes opened wide with pleasure at the sound of so many voices in her own language. Catherine decided there was enough time to look around; it was a good opportunity to buy some of the Dutch cheese that John enjoyed so much with his breakfast bread and ale.

‘Well, Mr Curl, where shall we park our wagon?’

‘We are spoilt for choice, Mr Laveroke. One cannot move for Dutch dogs in this market. I cannot abide their strange attire — the bonnets of lace, the clogs of wood. Let us see how many we can kill. It will be better than a show of fireworks organised by the Fire Master of England.’

‘Indeed, Mr Curl. I do believe it will be. And who knows what fire may fly to the heart of this foul regime and scorch the Queen’s treacherous pseudo-ministers. We need rioting. That is your task, Mr Curl. Rage from the pulpit and the street corner. Get the apprentices out; tell your followers to take to the streets. We need you to do your business, Mr Curl. England needs you.’