‘If you are seeking to find Nicholas’s enemies, then you are indeed on a hopeless mission. He was known for his charity, honesty and kindness, a faithful Christian of the reformed Church but with no animosity towards the old faith in which I was raised. A man of old-fashioned virtues, not often seen these days when men will crawl over each other for a few shillings. He treated those who worked for him with decency and allowed them their dignity. He would accept no cruelty aboard his vessels, and when a ship was lost he paid generous recompense to the fishers’ wives and children.’
‘Did you know much about the trade he pursued?’
‘How should I know about such things’ The old lady laughed, and then began to cough. Her grandson went to her side, but she brushed him away. ‘Water, Arthur. A sip of water. Don’t fuss so.’
He stood up from the bed. ‘Abigail!’
The maid, a plump and pretty young woman, came scurrying in. ‘Yes, Mr Giltspur?’
‘Bring a cup of water,’ Giltspur said.
‘And laudanum. I would have laudanum.’
The maid curtsied quickly. ‘Yes, Mistress Giltspur.’
When she had hastened away to fulfil her mistress’s demands, Shakespeare turned again to Giltspur. ‘Is that the Abigail who was Katherine’s lady’s maid?’
‘Yes. Grandame’s own maid is in a wretched way and will most likely go to God within a day or two. Abigail has taken on her duties.’
The old widow raised her hand. ‘It is my curse, Mr Shakespeare. I am doomed to outlive everyone I love, even my maid.’ Her cough was easing, but her voice still rasped a little. ‘I sometimes wonder whether God has forgotten about me. Do you know how old I am?’
‘I would not care to hazard a guess for fear of offending.’
‘Eighty-one, Mr Shakespeare. I am eighty-one. Sixty years ago I danced with the Queen’s father. He was charming to me and I knew he was trying to win me to his bed with pretty words, but I would have none of it, for though he had not then become the great killer that we now know him to have been, yet I saw the darkness in him and knew him for a cruel and capricious man.’
Abigail returned with water and a tincture of opium in a small silver goblet, which she handed to her mistress with great care.
The old woman sipped some water, swallowed the opium, then let out a great sigh of contentment. ‘Nicholas always told me I should refrain from laudanum, that it would be hazardous to my health. But to me, it is a blessing that relieves all pain. And you know, Mr Shakespeare, there really is very little danger of me dying young.’ She attempted to laugh again, but this time it was more a soft tinkle than the cackle of before. ‘Now, you asked me about enemies . . .’
‘One man in particular interests me, though there may be others. A man known as Cutting Ball.’
‘Oh yes, we have heard of him, haven’t we, Arthur? Abigail? Is he not a Robin Hood or Jack Cade?’
Shakespeare studied the lady’s maid. She was a remarkably well-favoured woman with milkmaid skin and large breasts. How would she have got on with Kat? Shakespeare tried to imagine the two of them together; mistress and maid. Somehow it didn’t work.
‘There are exciting tales told of his exploits, mistress,’ Abigail said. ‘I have heard that men often admire him.’
How had Cutting Ball become a folk hero? ‘There is nothing valiant about Mr Ball. He does not steal from the rich to help the poor; nor does he seek to improve the lot of the labouring man. He steals from everyone to enrich himself and he murders and maims those who stand in his way.’
There was silence in the room and Shakespeare realised he had revealed himself a little too clearly. He looked at the woman in the bed. She was becoming drowsy, but there was something in her eye that told him she was playing with him. She knew very well who Cutting Ball was and what he did.
And then it struck him: she was not simply the doddering matriarch of this family. She was the very heart of its trading empire. If the Giltspurs had ever paid money to Cutting Ball to protect their ships from his malicious attentions, then she knew all about it. She knew everything. Arthur’s father and uncle had not built the clan’s great riches; they had merely worked for their mother, done her bidding, been the public face. Mistress Giltspur – Grandame – was the power in this household.
‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘I would value your opinion. Do you believe your daughter-in-law paid Will Cane to murder your son?’
Her breathing was more pronounced, almost a snore. A few words seemed to escape her lips, but Shakespeare could hardly discern them.
‘She will be asleep any moment,’ Giltspur said. ‘I think your questioning is at an end, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘Did she say something? I could not catch the words.’
Arthur Giltspur smiled. ‘You will get nothing more from her now. When she is awake she is usually lucid. But then the laudanum plays games with her . . .’ He paused. ‘She wants the diamond. Sometimes she sleeps with it. She says it brings her comfort.’
‘The Giltspur Diamond?’
‘It is famous, I think. A rare piece. A diamond of one hundred carats, brought from the Africas. It hangs as the centrepiece of a necklet.’
‘Is it here with her now?’
Giltspur affected a puzzled expression. ‘Your questions go in remarkable odd directions, sir. She either has it with her or it is locked away in the strongroom. It is hers, so I know not.’
For a few seconds more, Shakespeare gazed upon the ancient, lined face and thought he saw the beautiful young woman whom Great Henry had held in his deadly arms. He imagined her wearing her great diamond about her neck, its brilliance catching the light and dazzling all eyes. He saw something else, too: Kat Whetstone, now Katherine Giltspur, fugitive and widow. Though separated by two generations, Kat and the old grandmother shared beauty, immense ambition and unstoppable willpower. When Nicholas Giltspur fell for Kat, he had found a replica of his mother.
‘Are you done with us, sir?’
‘I am, Mr Giltspur.’
Arthur Giltspur touched Shakespeare’s arm. ‘Grandame had hoped that Katherine would give her another grandson, to carry on the family enterprise. She despairs of me. The truth is, I have no interest in ships and the sea. Nor fish.’
‘You have never explained how you were freed from the Fleet gaol so early, Mr Maude. I was told that you were sentenced to three years for extorting money from the archbishop, yet it seems you served little more than half that time.’
Harry Slide was taken aback by the sudden turn of Ballard’s questioning. They had been consoling themselves with a well-earned meal after another fruitless day trying to extract pledges of support from Catholic gentry. No one in Nottinghamshire was interested. The lords and knights and burghers had land to be farmed, mines to be dug and, anyway, they all had seminary priests in residence to attend to their spiritual needs. The last thing they wanted was insurrection and civil war. Memories of the 1569 Northern Rebellion and the 1536 Pilgrimage of Grace were all too fresh. Each had ended in ferocious reprisals.
‘What a curious question, Captain.’ Slide’s knife, with a fine slice of beef attached to it, hung in the smoky air, halfway to his mouth.
‘I had a dream last night, Mr Maude. It seemed to me that something was not quite right about you.’
Slide shrugged, pushed the beef into his mouth and chewed. He had a mighty hunger from the day’s wasted efforts.
‘Do you hear me?’
He put down his knife, pointedly. ‘Yes, I hear you. A dream, you say? Are you a sorcerer that you take note of such things?’
‘It was most vivid. I saw you cloaked in treachery, come to us with a knife behind your back. A winged angel swept you away and dropped you into the pit.’
Slide picked up his knife again and held it towards Ballard. A red drop of beef juice dribbled down its sharp edge. ‘This knife, Captain Fortescue? Was this the knife that I held behind my back? Take it. It’s yours if it worries you.’