Rory Clements - Prince

Boltfoot had observed him closely. The man was distressed and afraid. But that did not make him guilty. ‘Do you have lawyers, Mr Knagg? I know nothing of such things, but I think it were to your benefit to consult them.’

‘You will speak for me in court, will you, Mr Cooper? You and Sir Robert Cecil? You will be gone like dust in the wind.’

Boltfoot had shifted uneasily. He must ride on. There was much to be done and little time.

‘A lawyer, Mr Knagg,’ he said. ‘Either bring a lawyer here to defend you — or make haste to disappear. And take your family with you.’

‘Are you suggesting I leave my post, Mr Cooper?’

‘That is for you to decide. Good day, Mr Knagg.’

Boltfoot had ridden away with a heavy heart, heading south and west towards the county of Surrey. Now, twenty hours later, he reined in his horse and gazed across the fields towards the village of Godstone and saw the familiar spirals of smoke from the charcoal pyres in the coppiced woods of alder and willow. He was glad to be rid of Sarjent and his infernal bragging. He had had enough of such vanity under Drake, and wanted no more. But what of Knagg? Boltfoot’s years of close-living with men in the confines of a square-rigger had taught him much, but in this case he felt distinctly uncertain. Sarjent insisted Knagg was guilty, but Boltfoot’s instinct suggested otherwise.

Ana Cabral took Shakespeare to the withdrawing room. ‘Wait here,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘Don Antonio will make himself available to you soon. Servants will attend on your requirements.’ She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘I would enjoy spending more time with you — but I have other matters that must be attended to.’ As she walked from the room, her hips moving in a rhythm like dance, he could not take his eyes from her.

He was brought cold meats and ale, which he consumed. Irritably, he paced the room. He opened the door and looked out. A guard was there, watching him.

‘I need the gong-house.’

The sentinel grunted and gestured with his head towards the far end of the hall. Shakespeare found the hole close by the eastern end of the building, by a boot-room. He had a much needed piss. Adjusting his breeches, he spotted a small, winding staircase. Without hesitation, he ascended to the first floor and found himself in an ill-lit passageway. For a few moments, he looked about him, then crept forward. The passageway led into another. He came to the gallery by the main staircase, near Perez’s chamber. He hastened along it. Further down the passageway he came to the door of another chamber. He stopped; he could hear noises from within. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it gently and it glided further open, soundlessly. He peered into the room. The curtains were drawn closed but enough light penetrated for him to see two naked figures on the bed: Ana Cabral and Perez’s secretary.

Very proud and insolent for a mere secretary. Indeed, he was, if this was the way he served his master’s mistress. And what of her, betraying her lord in the same building where he slept?

Ana lay back on the cushions. Her eyes were open, uncovered by the black patch, staring straight into Shakespeare’s. So the patch was nothing but an affectation, perhaps for Don Antonio’s pleasure, to remind him of his tragic princess. The secretary lay between Ana’s legs, low down, moving slowly, unaware that he was being observed. Ana caressed her breast and smiled at Shakespeare, forming her lips into a kiss.

Shakespeare stepped back, pulling the door silently closed behind him. He stood a moment, his blood thudding from his heart to his yard. He wanted to look again, but he turned away. At the far end of the passageway, he thought he saw the stooped figure of an old woman coming his way, hobbling with a walking stick; then he felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder and turned to see the burly figure of Edward Wilton, the chief of guards.

‘You’re a long way from the house of easement, Mr Shakespeare. Got lost, did we? Let me show you back to the withdrawing room.’

A table had been set for five in the great hall.

‘I believe you owe Monsieur le Vidame a favour, Mr Shakespeare,’ Perez said. He was wide awake and full of vigour after his long hours of rest. ‘I am a generous man. He has told me what favour he desires. So I say to you this: grant him his favour, arrange for me to be presented to the Queen at the royal court, and pay me some token sum — say ten thousand sovereigns — and you shall know my secret. This is information known to none but King Philip and his closest advisers. I promise you this: it is a secret that will drain the blood from those wizened faces on the Privy Council and shock even the Basilisk herself.’

Shakespeare balked at the insult to Elizabeth. ‘Don Antonio, if you have a mind to go to court and to be presented to the Queen, you would do well to think on how you refer to Her Majesty.’

Perez smirked. ‘My humble apologies. Old habits… it was always the way of King Philip to refer to his former sister-in-law thus. I never liked it. A basilisk is a foul-hissing serpent with a gaze that will strike you dead, whereas I believe your queen to be a soft-purring kitten with a gaze that casts golden balm on all she surveys.’

Shakespeare did not laugh, though the others in the room did.

‘My secret comes from the distant past,’ Perez continued. ‘More than twenty years ago. And like good wine, it improves with age and the price must continually rise.’

Perez was at the head of the table. In the background — far enough away that they could not hear the conversation — a trio with viols played a soft, lilting ballad. Perez had been indisposed all day, rising only with the onset of evening. The small gold box from which he had taken the opium spirit lay on the table before him, under his watchful eye. The Vidame de Chartres sat to his right, Shakespeare to his left, with Ana at his own left side. The place beside the vidame was empty, but set with knife and napkin. Would Perez’s secretary sit there? If not, then who?

Shakespeare felt the eyes of his fellow guests upon him. Amusement still played around Ana’s unpatched eye; the vidame stared at him with bored curiosity, though his mouth had the semblance of a smile.

‘In truth, of course,’ Perez continued, ‘it is Philip who is the basilisk. Less than a basilisk, for at least a hissing snake is a fearsome thing. Philip is timorous and cringing. By birth, he is a king, but by nature he is lower than a slurry-man in a pig yard. His mind is feeble.’

‘Oh, I believe him to be a basilisk,’ the vidame said. ‘Do snakes not eat the dirt of the earth and slink into holes?’

‘Hush now,’ Ana said. ‘Mr Shakespeare is here for a serious purpose. He must talk with Don Antonio about matters of state. Without his help, I fear we will be consigned to this pleasureless dungeon forever.’

Shakespeare felt hot and uncomfortable. This dining table was no place to talk with Perez. ‘I would rather negotiate in private, Don Antonio,’ he said brusquely, ‘but I can tell you that the sum you request is too high. It will not be countenanced.’

Servants arrived with platters of roast venison, dainty curlew breasts, suckling pig and a peacock dressed in its feathers. The table was laden with fine Spanish wines rarely seen in England these days.

Perez waved his hand dismissively. ‘We will talk in due course. But you must ensure, Mr Shakespeare, that we go to court without delay. We shall all die of tedium if we have to stay in this wretched backwater a week longer.’

Shakespeare smiled diplomatically. ‘I know that this secret, should you divulge it, will smooth your path to the presence-chamber.’