Rory Clements: Prince

‘I will tell you what I like best, Shakespeare. I like to see the fear in their eyes, close up. When a man dare not look away from my eyes, though he cannot abide what he sees there, for it is his own pain and death reflected.’

‘And what do you see in the looking-glass?’

Topcliffe hesitated, as if pondering the question. Against one wall of the room was a tall glass, darkly mottled by age. He walked to it and smashed it with the heavy, cudgel head of his blackthorn. The glass splintered into countless shards. ‘Now then,’ he said, standing back from the glass and addressing the whole hall. ‘That all seems in order. Except that I have counted one servant missing.’ His humour darkened considerably and he hammered his blackthorn against the floor. ‘We have information that there is a Dutch serving girl here who was hidden from the Return. You know the law, Mr Sluyterman — for every stranger employed, you must employ one English servant. I tell you this, if you fail to tell me where she is hiding, you will all be considered accessories to treason, secretly harbouring an agent of a foreign power — and you will suffer the might of the law. Your children will be taken to Bridewell and broken like horses on the treadmill. You and your wife will be detained until such time as you are flung out of the country or worse. Do you have enough English to understand what that all means?’

Shakespeare had had enough. He strode forward. ‘Call off your pack, Topcliffe. You have clearly been misinformed. Let these people go back to bed. You will find no one here. Any more of this, and I will hand a full report on your egregious deeds to my lord Burghley.’

Topcliffe spat on the floor. ‘Burghley! Do you think I fear that gout-ridden shipwreck? There is a Dutch serving girl here, Shakespeare, brought in from Flushing not six weeks since. I know it. There is more — I know this Sluyterman to have a secret chamber for the making of fine leather stuffs, where none but prentices work. He cares not a sheep’s cut bollock that English journeymen do starve. He is a usurer and a deceit and I will have him in Bridewell.’

Shakespeare was standing directly in front of a pursuivant. In one swift movement, he stepped backwards hard on to his foot, turning and thrusting his left elbow high into the man’s face. As the pursuivant grunted and fell back, Shakespeare wrenched the pistol from his grasp and put it to Topcliffe’s head.

‘I do not know about this family’s understanding of the English language, Topcliffe, but it is you that does not seem to comprehend your mother tongue well. I said you have done enough here. Even if what you claim about the maid is true, it is a matter so trivial that Her Majesty would be enraged to hear of your actions. Does she not employ many strangers herself — including her personal physician? As for the leather work, it is a matter for the Worshipful Company of Cordwainers, not you. Now go, Mr Topcliffe and take your vile dogs with you, before I do England a favour and blow off your head.’

Topcliffe laughed out loud.

Shakespeare moved closer to him, so that his mouth was at his temple. All the anger of the day was ready to explode in one little press of his trigger finger. ‘Do you think I don’t know what this is about?’ he whispered harshly in the torturer’s wizened ear. ‘Now walk, or I will happily do for you, and trust in the rightness of my action and the protection of Sir Robert Cecil.’

Topcliffe laughed again. Five pursuivants had arrived in the hall from various parts of the house. Shakespeare was surrounded.

Sluyterman stepped forward. He had removed his nightcap and was clutching it in front of him. His head was bowed. He was shaking. He went down on his knees in supplication to both Topcliffe and Shakespeare. ‘Please, I beg of you, do not let there be bloodshed…’

‘Oh, there will be blood shed, Mr Sluyterman,’ Topcliffe snarled. ‘You can be certain of that. There will be Dutch blood aplenty.’

Shakespeare thrust his hand into Topcliffe’s thick white hair and pushed him down. He was stronger than Shakespeare expected and did not fall to his knees, but took a faltering step forward, then turned with a vicious wrench of his shoulders and pulled himself clear. But the primed gun was still trained on him, pointing full in his face.

‘Get up, sir,’ Shakespeare said to the Dutchman. ‘This is nothing to do with you. It is about me. I am afraid you and your family were simply in the wrong place, living so close to me.’

An explosion rent the air. Topcliffe’s men shied backwards like startled horses. One or two dropped flat to the floor and scrabbled for safety. Someone screamed.

As the smoke cleared, all eyes turned to the front doorway. Boltfoot Cooper stood there, a smoking wheel-lock pistol hanging from his hand. He dropped it to the floor, kicked it away and, with practised ease, unslung his ornate caliver from his back and cradled it in his arms, the octagonal muzzle pointing this way and that. He had another loaded wheel-lock thrust into his belt and his cutlass hung menacingly at his thigh.

‘Very good to see you, Boltfoot,’ Shakespeare said. ‘Very good, indeed.’

Topcliffe might not have been certain whether John Shakespeare would blow his head apart, but he had no doubt that Boltfoot Cooper would. He was not going to put his life on the line for a matter as insignificant as this.

Reluctantly he ordered his pursuivants out and as he himself turned at the door, he tarried a few seconds, cursing Shakespeare and Cooper to hell and threatening to spill the last drop of Sluyterman’s blood, and that of his family. Boltfoot pushed the hoary old rackmaster in the chest with the muzzle of his primed caliver, until he had forced him out and away from the house. Topcliffe shook himself angrily and strode off towards his fellow pursuivants and their tethered mounts, spitting a vow of vengeance into the night.

Shakespeare made sure he had gone, then watched as the Sluyterman family fell into one another’s arms, sobbing and shaking. He wondered briefly what this family had endured in the Low Countries at the hands of the Spanish. Many souls had lost their lives there, and many more had been thrown out of their homes into exile by the Duke of Parma and his steel-clad horde. All that, and then to come to this.

He walked across to the line of servants. They still stood in line and some were trembling. He avoided the gaze of the one who had shown no fear, though his instinct was to grasp him by the nape of the neck, pull him to the door and kick him out after Topcliffe, with whom he was doubtless in league. No, better to observe him; he might be made use of yet.

Sluyterman thanked the servants and dismissed them to their quarters. He kissed his children and asked his wife to take them to their beds.

‘I must thank you, sir,’ he said to Shakespeare when they were alone.

‘I told you, Mr Sluyterman, this is about me. It can be no coincidence that he chose your home. I would say, however, that you have a treacherous servant in this house. The Englishman with black hair and a downturned mouth…’

‘His name is Oliver Kettle. I have not felt happy about him. We had some argument. He spoke to my daughter Marthe without respect. I think he had unhealthy interests in her. Also, my wife caught him most importunely with one of the serving girls, his hands on her… I do not like to say more.’ Sluyterman shook his head, his eyes drifting around the destruction wrought by the intruders on his comfortable home.

‘Well, do not dismiss him, but watch him. I may have a purpose for him. Be careful. If you have more problems, I will have him consigned to Newgate. As for the serving girl that Mr Topcliffe sought…’ Shakespeare paused to see the effect of his words and saw something akin to shame in the Dutchman’s eyes. ‘I believe she is safe. I saw a figure in the shadows outside.’