‘But the risks . . .’
Beth smoothed her hands down her bosom and purred. ‘We know all about the risks. We know how to avoid the pox and how not to come with child. When necessary, we have the strength and wit to calm the ferocious beast that resides in some men’s hearts. And above all, we have the secret of giving pleasures unknown, learnt at our mother’s knee. We choose our clients with great care. You, sir, would most certainly fit our requirements and as a Walsingham man, we would wink at the reckoning.’
‘It is a most gracious offer, but one that I must decline.’ If, for one single moment he was tempted, he did not wish to let them know. But they knew.
Chapter 14
No one could have told what was inside the building. From the outside it looked exactly what it once must have been – a tithe barn. He and the watchman, Potken, had walked along farm tracks into the countryside north of Whitechapel. For the last half-hour Boltfoot had walked blindfold.
He had been reluctant to do so, for no man likes to be so vulnerable and at the mercy of a stranger. But he had finally conceded when Potken told him that without it they could proceed no further.
The going was slow, each step tentative and reliant on Potken’s assurance that the ground was flat and nothing was in their way. Boltfoot tried to count the steps and remember the turns and the sensation of the sun on his head and brow; anything to discern their direction.
Now Potken removed the scarf from his eyes and Boltfoot blinked up at the enormous brick and oak construction that confronted him. He looked around. There was no sign of the highway, nor any sound of life save for birdsong and the lowing of cattle. With woodlands on three sides, there was no recognisable landmark for him to gauge his position. This place was well hidden despite its immense size.
Livestock grazed in the fields. In the air, crows and gulls savoured the warm summer breeze. Then, from inside the barn, they heard the deep ringing of men laughing. Potken waited, seemingly afraid to go in. He whispered in Boltfoot’s ear.
‘Ask no questions.’
Almost immediately two men in working clothes – guards who looked like farmhands – emerged from the great double doorway. Without a word, they nodded their acknowledgement to Potken and allowed the two newcomers to go in. Boltfoot followed in the wake of the watchman. He expected to see hay and sacks and farm equipment. But his assumption was immediately proved false. This building might once have been a barn, but its purpose had been changed. It was now a great hall with tables that would seat a hundred people if so required. There were no more than a dozen here now, which only served to emphasise its great size.
As he stepped onto the stone floor, complete with rush matting like a comfortable house, he tried to take in what he could see by the light from the door and the dozen or so candles that burned on the tables. His eyes quickly adjusted to the echoing gloom. The only people apart from themselves and the two guards were a group of men and women, who did not look up from whatever it was they were doing at the head of the main table. He heard a man curse and throw down a playing card. Another man laughed. Then one of the women pointed at Boltfoot and he was suddenly aware that she was Em, the bawd from the Burning Prow, the woman who had sent Potken after him. The eyes of the other players followed her finger and stared at Boltfoot.
‘Walk forward, Mr Cooper, walk forward,’ the watchman said, his voice low and his manner even more brittle than before as he urged Boltfoot on with a push in the small of the back. ‘Mr Ball wishes to see you. Be sure to answer his questions directly and fully for he will most certainly know if
you dissemble.’
‘Ball? You mean-’
‘Yes, but do not call him by that name.’ His voice even quieter now, yet somehow too loud in this vast space. ‘Mr Ball will suffice. And do not meet his eye, Mr Cooper. Do not challenge him in any way, nor seek to interrogate him.’
Boltfoot grunted but said nothing. His shoulders were taut. He wondered about his cutlass, surprised that it had not been removed by the men at the door. But it was surely a hopeless implement here, among such lawless men as these were reputed to be.
One of the group stood up and beckoned Boltfoot and the watchman to approach.
‘That’s Mr Ball,’ the watchman whispered, barely moving his mouth. ‘He will kill you without flinching if you displease him.’
Boltfoot had no intention of displeasing Cutting Ball. It was clear to him that there was no way out of here alive if he did not comply absolutely with the wishes of these people. He approached the table.
‘What is this, Potken?’
‘This is Mr Cooper. You said you would like to talk with him.’
‘The man asking about Will Cane? Is this the man, Em?’ He turned to the woman.
‘That’s the worm. Lame in foot and head.’
Boltfoot tried not to meet Cutting Ball’s eye. He was man of the world enough to know that such men often took eye contact amiss, as though it showed a lack of respect. Boltfoot had no fear of the man, but nor did it make sense to sacrifice his life without purpose; Mr Shakespeare would not thank him for that.
Ball stood with his broad shoulders rigid and straight. His gaze was both merciless and amused. In his hands he played with a bollock-dagger, turning it this way and that, running the blade along his palm. He thrust out his chin, and his long, forked beard pointed at Boltfoot like the tongue of a viper.
There was something about the man that almost made Boltfoot think he knew him. No, he had never seen him before, he was sure of that; but he had seen a man very like him. Someone with an air of command, born of natural authority and intimidation. The sort of man that others respected and feared, automatically, without quite knowing why.
And then Boltfoot realised where he had seen such a man before: Cutting Ball had the demeanour of a sea captain. But not just any sea captain – Drake himself. He could have been Drake upon the quarterdeck, ordering men about on matters of life or death with no discernible alteration of facial expression or tone of voice. Always loud, always full of bluster, but no true emotion. Extra brandy for the men at Christmas, a whipping for a cabin boy, three hurrahs when they passed into the wide Pacific ocean, the lopping of a dissenter’s head. All as one and always puffed up like a southern squall. Harsh orders or favours for the crew; never flinching from dispensing whatever measures he considered necessary to maintain order and obedience.
‘Why are you lame, Mr Cooper?’
‘I have a club foot, Mr Ball. With me since birth, I am told.’
Ball’s eye descended to Boltfoot’s left foot. ‘Yes, I see that now. Sit down, Mr Cooper, take your weight off it. Have you had a long walk here?’
Francis Drake, Cutting Ball. In men’s eyes, one was a hero and the other was a villain. To Boltfoot, they were cut from the same cloth; two men who thought themselves beyond the ordinary boundaries of civilised life and society and did what they damned well pleased, irrespective of the destruction they wrought.
Boltfoot sat on the bench, as bidden. He noted the others around the table; there were nine of them, including the woman from the Burning Prow, most of them villainous and staring at him. One of them, eyeing him with amusement, had the soft skin of a gentleman though he wore the rough attire of a working man. Boltfoot ignored them and returned his gaze to Cutting Ball. ‘Mr Potken asked me to come,’ he said. ‘I was seeking some assistance.’
‘You were looking for someone to tell you about my friend Will Cane, I believe.’