Rory Clements - Prince

‘Did you kill him?’

‘I believe it was a Mr Frizer that killed him, Mr Shakespeare. Has an inquest not already concluded that?’

‘Indeed, but who ordered the killing? Who was the motion-man?’

‘Mr Shakespeare, I believe you seek something which is not there, a will-o’-the-wisp. The case is clear and closed. Marlowe had a careless hand; he should have thought more closely before he uttered his blasphemies. And do you think old Burghley enjoyed being depicted as the great overreacher Mortimer?’ He turned and smiled at Perez. ‘I fear we are showing poor manners to our hosts with such arcane talk.’

Shakespeare gazed at Baines with a questioning eye. Not for the first time, he tried to divine what lay in that cold, labyrinthine mind.

‘Well, Mr Baines,’ the vidame said languidly, as if the mere effort of speech was too much for him. ‘Do you bring Don Antonio a fine offer of gold from my lord of Essex?’

‘More importantly,’ Perez put in. ‘Have you brought us fresh whores? I swear I will leave England by the next packet if you serve me another milkmaid or taproom girl. We are in exile, Mr Baines. Can the earl really not take me to court where, I believe, there are clean-scrubbed ladies and maids aplenty?’

‘My apologies, but it is the Queen’s way to make envoys wait. She enjoys discomfiting those who would attend on her. I promise you it will not last much longer, for my lord of Essex is with her and he is certain you will be admitted before July.’

‘And the sum, Mr Baines,’ Perez demanded. ‘What sum has he laid on the table?’

Shakespeare went cold. Was Essex bidding for this secret, after all? Had he some access to new wealth? This complicated matters considerably.

‘I am sure you will be pleased with it, but I would prefer — ’ Baines looked now at Shakespeare — ‘to talk of this in private. I do, however, bring you tidings of great moment. There has been another powder blast, an atrocity at the Dutch market, this very morning. I believe there are dead.’

Shakespeare half rose from his chair and leant forward. ‘Do you know more, Mr Baines?’

Baines shook his head slowly. ‘Very little. I was told it was a much larger explosion than the one at the church, and was in a busy place where wives traded with stallholders. Who is behind it?’ He turned towards Perez. ‘I fear the Spanish are suspected.’

‘Most likely. Do not attempt to spare my feelings, Mr Baines, for I am as one with the English. In truth, I would petition the Bas-, Her Majesty to sponsor an invasion to liberate my home country. Dutch, Portuguese, French, English, even the Turks should join forces to oust this king whose empire has grown so great.’

Suddenly Shakespeare wanted more than anything to be away from here. It felt wrong, negotiating for some elusive secret when powdermen were blowing up London and its people. He should be there, in the city, where he was needed. He said a silent prayer.

‘It is a most heinous crime, Mr Baines,’ Ana Cabral said. ‘Which of us is safe if powder is ignited in public places?’

Perez banged his gnarled hand upon the table. ‘Let us talk of pleasanter things,’ he said angrily, reaching for his box of vials. ‘Let us talk of gold — and of the glittering court of Elizabeth Tudor.’

Shakespeare lay on the bed, staring into the darkness. The bedclothes were damp and musty and the air was infused with an unpleasant smell of mould. He could not rest. His mind was in turmoil.

Before retiring to his chamber he had spoken briefly with Perez and demanded to know why he had lied over Essex’s interest.

‘Why are you surprised, Mr Shakespeare? Of course I would wish to discuss the matter of my great secret with my host.’ Perez had shrugged his shoulders dismissively. ‘Such things are my source of income these days. How else may an exile earn his keep?’

‘I understand, but you said-’

‘One says many things. I am sure that a man who has worked for Walsingham and who now represents Sir Robert Cecil must understand the way of the world. I vow to you, however, that I will not accept an offer from Essex until you have had a chance to better it. I say that as a man of honour.’

‘Ride with me to Cecil on the morrow,’ Shakespeare said suddenly. ‘You will get a good price and Cecil will present you at court. We will seal this once and for all.’

‘You wish to be away from here, I think.’

‘I wish to have this settled.’

‘I shall sleep on it.’

Now Shakespeare lay on this fetid bed, the candle snuffed on a small table at his side. Then he heard footfalls outside his chamber. He had no weapons — they were still in the possession of the guards — but he rose instantly to his feet and grasped the candlestick, holding it defensively as a club. The latch lifted and the door slowly opened, the light of a candle flickering shadows into the room.

‘Mr Shakespeare…?’

The voice was a whisper, but he knew it straightway.

‘Mr Shakespeare, are you awake? It is Ana.’

‘I am here.’ He still held the candlestick ready as a weapon.

‘I must talk with you.’

‘Step inside, slowly, and close the door.’

Ana held the candle in front of her, the flame illuminating her smooth, beautiful skin. She was, Shakespeare thought, like a horse-chestnut fresh removed from its husk and burnished by the autumn sun. She wore a nightgown, which scarce concealed her slender, sumptuous body.

‘Well?’

‘I am come to tell you Don Antonio’s great secret.’

‘And how would you know such a thing?’

‘I know everything about Don Antonio. He has no secrets from me. I know the colour and consistency of his turds. I know when he has swived and with whom. What he eats, what he drinks.’

And you know the pizzle and balls of his secretary, thought Shakespeare, though he did not say so.

‘Why are you here, Dona Ana?’

‘Come with me.’

‘Where?’

‘Just come. If you would wish to know the secret, come with me now.’

‘How much?’

‘You have offered Don Antonio a thousand pounds. I ask only seven hundred and fifty and you shall have exactly the same information.’

‘Why would you trust me to pay?’

‘My whole life has been about learning who to trust and who not, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘And why should I trust you?’

‘Because you are in a hurry. You want this information before the Earl of Essex has it — and you wish to be away from this hellish place.’

‘That is not enough.’

‘Come with me, and then you will believe me.’

Shakespeare said nothing for a few moments. What did he have to lose? ‘Very well,’ he said quietly. ‘I will come with you.’

‘Then tread softly. There are many eyes in this house.’

The old woman wore the coif, veil and black holy habit of a nun. Her shoulders were wrapped in a threadbare shawl of finely spun wool. She sat alone in her room, on a wooden chair beside her bed. Her stick was on the bed. Around her neck she wore a gold chain with the cross and body of Christ. She was still and silent, scarcely stirring at the entrance of Shakespeare and Cabral; no more than a slight inclining of her chin, like a deer that has heard something on the wind or caught a scent.

‘Sister Madeleine, it is I, Ana Cabral.’

‘I know who you are, Dona Ana. I may be ancient and my sight may be failing, but I have not lost my wits. Who is with you?’

They were in a small attic room with sloping ceilings and a single, curtained window. Cabral’s candle was the only light, and it refl ected off the black rosary beads that the old woman twisted through her bony fingers. Though her body looked frail and bent, her voice was strong for her years, which Shakespeare took to be approaching sixty. Her accent was instantly discernible as Scottish.