From the outside, the Burning Prow looked like a large alehouse, set into the centre of a woodframe house without windows. The street was largely deserted, for this was Sunday, but a few men were making their furtive way towards it. Shakespeare was painfully aware that he had no plan, nor any strength of arms against Cutting Ball’s men. But nor could he simply wait and do nothing. He had to confront Em Ball, whatever the risk.
Inside, the main hall was busy and stank of perfumes from the Orient. A young black man sat on a stool, playing a ballad on the lute. Men drank and sized up the women, of whom there were about ten, deciding which one they wished to buy. The room itself was decorated in shades of red and black, with commonplace tapestries and painted cloths on the walls, depicting scenes of bawdiness: satyrs with pricks like Priapus, fleshy women with no clothing but welcoming smiles, devils with forks chasing bishops into the fire.
‘There she is,’ Bathsheba said as soon as her eyesight had adjusted to the candlelit interior. She nodded towards a good-looking woman talking with a pair of girls at the left side of the room. ‘Don’t be fooled by her comely face and manner, Mr Shakespeare. She is pretty like the falcon, but with sharper talons.’ And with a squeeze of his arm, she slipped unseen into the crowd.
As Shakespeare approached Em Ball, she turned to him and smiled in welcome. He did not smile back.
‘Well, sir, and who might you be?’ she said.
‘John Shakespeare, master to Mr Boltfoot Cooper.’
If she was surprised, it did not register on her handsome face. ‘Then it is my pleasure to welcome you. Indeed, I had been expecting you.’ She swept her hand around the room to indicate the scantily clad women. ‘Is there one you like? I would offer the very finest to a Walsingham man.’ She pointed to the far corner where a young woman with fair hair was seated all alone. ‘That is Kristina. She came stowed away aboard a carrack from the Swedish lands. Is she not a faerie princess, all pale and smooth? She knows tricks that even the French have not yet learnt. Take her, she is yours for the night.’
There was a hardness in Em Ball’s bright eyes that Shakespeare had not noticed from the other side of the room. This was a woman of ruthless intelligence.
‘I want to speak with your brother, Miss Ball.’
‘Ah.’ She feigned disappointment. ‘That will not be possible, I fear. He has gone to the country to recover from a summer sweat. Forget him. Kristina will soothe you, sir. Both soul and body. ’
Shakespeare bent his head to her ear and spoke slowly and clearly. ‘Do you wish me to bring this empire of yours crashing down around your ears? Do you wish to be brought to the scaffold for being accessory to murder? Take me to your brother, now. I want to know what he has done with my man Cooper, God damn your filthy, rotten soul.’
Em Ball widened her eyes. ‘Why, sir, he has gone to sea! My brother found him a berth aboard a great vessel.’ She shook her head and tutted. ‘But fret not, he will be back by year’s end. Gone fishing to the Grand Banks, I do believe. A long voyage, but a profitable one.’
‘You lie. Mr Cooper would not take ship if he had the choice.’
‘But I do know for certain sure that he has gone to sea, and I will happily swear it to you. Think of it as a favour to you and the esteemed Mr Secretary. Come, Mr Shakespeare.’
Without waiting for him, she turned and pushed open a door into an inner chamber. He followed her into a functional room with dark panelling, very unlike the bawdy, colourful den beyond.
‘Take a seat, Mr Shakespeare. Can I bring you refreshment? I have some fine apple brandy.’
‘I want none of your ill-gotten produce. Nor do I want to sit down. I want Boltfoot Cooper – and I want him alive.’
‘You have nothing to fear. He will come back from his voyage a wealthier man. My brother would do nothing to harm any man or woman close to Sir Francis Walsingham.’
‘This has nothing to do with Walsingham.’
‘Oh but it has, Mr Shakespeare. It has everything to do with the Principal Secretary. Why else do you imagine I allow you the services of Beth and Eliza Smith?’
For a moment Shakespeare was speechless.
‘Did you not know they were my creatures? Every profession needs a company or guild, even night-workers. And so you may think of me as their warden.’
‘Warden? You are a grubby bawd, madam. You trade in flesh and disease.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘And you and your master are among my finest customers.’
‘And do you think then that Walsingham would protect you?’
‘He protects us all, does he not? England, Queen Bess and all her true subjects are safe thanks to the vigilance of Mr Secretary and the work of good men such as yourself.’
‘No.’ Shakespeare’s voice was cold with fury. ‘He would hang you, and all your villainous crew. And I would fashion the noose for him.’ Should he cart this woman to gaol? See how she fared under hard questioning with her hands and legs in irons.
She seemed to read his mind. ‘Do not even think of it, Mr Shakespeare. There are four strong men out there, each of them armed with blades and pistols. You would not get me past the door.’
It was true. For a moment he considered his options and realised they were exceedingly limited. ‘Damn you, madam, I will be back – and with a squadron of men-at-arms, if necessary from the Queen’s own guard. They are not in your pay.’
She tutted again. ‘Oh, Mr Shakespeare, there is so much that you seem not to understand. You rail against me, and yet it was I who saved your man. He was set on a path to self-destruction and I rescued him.’
He slammed his fist into the oak-panelled wall. ‘Saved him? Rescued him? You abducted him and I know not what else. You say you esteem Walsingham and all who work for him, yet Boltfoot Cooper worked for me and, in so doing, served my master, too.’
‘Which is why he is still alive.’
Shakespeare forced himself to calm down. He cursed himself for his impetuosity. Where was the cold logic Walsingham so prized? He had barged in here with no thought except to rescue Boltfoot and now he had no way of knowing if this woman spoke the truth, although it was an elaborate tale for a lie. Maybe Boltfoot was indeed on some wretched fishing vessel headed for the Grand Banks across thousands of miles of ocean.
‘And so if you are done with me, good sir-’
‘No.’ There was still time to take control of the encounter. ‘There is the other matter. The reason Mr Cooper first came to you. What do you know of the death of Nicholas Giltspur? My man had discovered something, had he not? That was why he was made to disappear. So tell me about Giltspur and your foul confederate Will Cane. Tell me what you know about his liaison with the lady’s maid Abigail.’
‘I think it is time for you to leave, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘I want answers.’
‘You are swimming in dangerous waters. There are matters here that do not concern you.’ She tapped on the door and two men immediately appeared, powerfully built men with bare arms carved with snakes, and weapons at their belts. ‘Mr Shakespeare is leaving.’
They stepped forward, but he was already moving. He had no intention of giving them the satisfaction of slinging him out onto the street.
‘I will return, madam.’
‘Then you will regret it.’
Chapter 33
As he walked through the dark streets into the city, Shakespeare attempted to connect everything he knew:
Nicholas Giltspur had been killed by Will Cane; his widow Kat had been implicated by Cane, but denied any part in the murder; Kat’s lady’s maid, Abigail, was mistress to Cane and was now pregnant – probably by him; Cane was a member of the villainous crew run by Cutting Ball and his sister Em; Em was bawd to the Smith sisters, now being used by Shakespeare to keep Gilbert Gifford happy.