Rory Clements: Prince

In the north there was subversive action among the Scots: the Catholic noblemen Erroll and Angus had corresponded secretly with the Escorial Palace with the aim of bringing Spanish troops to Scotland against James VI, and from there to march on England.

In the south, the Spanish fleet harried England’s merchant ships in the Mediterranean; in France, the Catholic League promised towns and ports to Spain. Worse, the Protestant king, Henri IV, had announced he would receive instruction in the Catholic faith. It seemed he would convert to Catholicism to unite his country — but what would that mean for England? Elizabeth was grievously put out.

Cecil’s words had been concise and they had hit home, for he had had his way with a huge triple subsidy to raise a hoped-for three hundred thousand pounds for the Treasury.

Shakespeare recalled one other thing Cecil said that day: ‘Her Majesty, to her great renown, made this little land to be a sanctuary for all the persecuted saints of God.’

It was true. England had been a sanctuary for many thousands who had lost their homes and families to the Spanish onslaught on the mainland. Many Englishmen were unhappy, however; one member of parliament, Walter Ralegh, had gone so far as to protest that ‘the nature of the Dutchman is to fly to no man but for his profit’. So what sort of a sanctuary did it seem now, with such hostile words bandied about and with gunpowder exploding outside church doors?

This unrest at home was the last thing England needed as the net drew tighter from outside.

‘And so,’ Cecil concluded, rising once more from his chair at the end of the table in his quiet room, ‘we will find these gunpowder men without delay, and we must show them no mercy. The Queen is clear on that, and I echo her sentiments. John, this is your task. Nothing else. No Marlowe, no Poley — it is the powdermen I want. If you need manpower or funds, they are yours. Frank, you will summon every intelligencer in London and find out what they know. Report everything to Mr Shakespeare, however insignificant it might seem. Good day, gentlemen.’

As Shakespeare and Mills stood from their chairs, Cecil walked with businesslike little steps towards the door. Then he stopped and turned to Shakespeare. ‘But tread lightly, John. You can offend Coroner Danby all you want, but do not walk roughshod over English sensibilities in this matter. We must protect our foreign friends for they have brought great honour to our realm, yet our charity to them must not hinder or injure ourselves.’

After A supper of pike fried in butter, the juices soaked up with fresh bread, Shakespeare and his wife sat at the table drinking Gascon wine and picking at a piece of hard cheese.

‘I think I am getting old, Catherine.’

‘You are thirty-four, John. You are not old, you are angry.’

He poured them both more wine from the pitcher and he drank it quickly. It was true enough; he was angry. But he wasn’t sure why. He had been angry before the meeting with Cecil, even before he saw Topcliffe at the inquest.

‘Be wary with your loyalty, John.’

Shakespeare looked at his wife.

‘I mean a man can be too loyal. A man can offer loyalty to a captain-general and receive no loyalty in return. Many have died for their sovereign. How many sovereigns have died for their subjects?’

Shakespeare laughed and shook his head. ‘Your tongue, mistress. I thank the Lord these walls do not have ears…’

Catherine rose from the table. ‘Wait, I have something to make you yet more discomfited.’ She went through to the hall while he sat with his wine.

The Shakespeares lived in a great wood-frame house by the river Thames in Dowgate. They had turned the house into a school for the poor boys of London, but it was still closed as a result of the pestilence that had taken hold last summer. The city’s mort-bills for the year of 1592 recorded that more than ten thousand souls had been claimed by the plague; this year the city fathers feared it would be as bad or worse. Shakespeare took another sip of wine. Perhaps it was just this decline of England that was getting to him: the rising prices, the unrest, the endless war with Spain, the worry that the school would never reopen, his fears for the future of their daughter, Mary, and for their adopted children, Andrew and Grace.

Catherine returned with a tattered broadsheet for her husband. As she leant over him to place it on the table, he reached out and clasped her breast in his hand. She laughed lightly, let her long dark hair fall about her face and moved her slender body towards him to close her mouth on his.

‘Stirring again, Mr Shakespeare?’ she said as their mouths parted and her own hand came to rest in his lap. ‘Time for bed, I think.’

He tried to smile at her, but it was difficult to shut out the darkness that seemed to envelop him. Her blue eyes held his brown eyes for a moment, then she kissed him quickly once more before pulling away from his clasping hand. ‘Read that, then bed.’

Shakespeare turned to the paper. It bore the title The London Informer and comprised one sheet, written in poor verse. He went cold as he read it. ‘Where did you get this, Catherine?’ he asked at last.

‘Close by the Dutch market, John. I was visiting Berthe. There were two sellers. I thought their proximity to the market deliberate.’

‘This is bad. Cecil will not be happy.’

The broadsheet was a noxious attack on the Dutch and German refugees in London. It accused them of working secretly for Spain, of taking English trade and English work, of seeking to invade and occupy the country by stealth. Worse, it spoke in gloating terms of the explosion outside the Dutch church and said there would be more such attacks — ‘and next time the real dogs will die’. It was signed Tamburlaine’s Apostle.

‘This is Glebe’s work,’ Shakespeare muttered. ‘Have I told you of Walstan Glebe? He is a most villainous purveyor of filth. I thought we had broken up his London Informer press — we should have broken him instead.’

‘I recall you speaking of him.’

‘He has a brand on his forehead — an L for Liar. I had hoped he was dead by now.’ He sighed. ‘But then again, it gives me a start. He knows something. I’ll find him and bring him in.’

Shakespeare had been thinking hard about how to tackle the investigation. The first thing he had done was call his assistant Boltfoot Cooper to the library on the first floor.

As usual, Cooper had looked out of place as he shuffled into the fine room, dragging his deformed left foot. He seemed to be growing shorter and more knotted as he approached forty.

‘Master?’

‘I have a mission for you, Boltfoot. I want you to go to the powdermills.’

Boltfoot was silent. He and Jane had a child, a boy of eight months. He did not like leaving them.

‘I know what you are thinking, Boltfoot. And you are right. This will take you from your family. You will need several days, perhaps a week or more. It is vital work. You know of the powder explosion at the Dutch church? Your task is to discover the source of the powder. It was almost certainly bought or stolen from a mill. Question the mill-keepers and workers. They will not admit selling powder illegally and will be reluctant to admit their safeguarding is so lax that a thief could gain access to it. Start with Rotherhithe. If you do not discover inconsistencies there, head for Bromley-by-Bow and the others. You will not be alone. The Royal Armoury is arranging assistance; a powder expert named William Sarjent. I am told he is a good man. He will meet you at Rotherhithe. I have full details here.’ He handed over the paper Bedwell had passed to him. ‘Ask them this, too: have cargoes gone missing en route by road or river? Has any man been dismissed or charged for dishonesty? Demand assistance on pain of arrest.’