Shakespeare and the tilt-boat were both being dragged downstream through the teeming shipping lane, past the Tower. With an immense push of both arms, Shakespeare thrust upwards on one side of the boat, trying to upturn it. It swayed slightly, but it was far too heavy to capsize.
The waterman looked down at him. He had the pistol loaded and primed. Their eyes were barely three feet apart. Shock registered as Shakespeare saw the face of the man trying to kill him. It was a face he had not registered when he hired this boat, for whoever looked at a waterman’s face? The face broke into a grin as he pulled the trigger.
The blast of powder rent the air and the ball spat harmlessly into the water. The waterman peered into the smoke. He must have hit Shakespeare, but he could see nothing through the powder-fug. Then he looked back. Shakespeare had somehow contrived to emerge twenty yards behind him and was rapidly receding.
Shakespeare clung to the chain of the buoy and gazed at the tilt-boat disappearing downstream. One moment he had been about to die, the next the buoy had hit him and he had thrown his arms about it and held on.
He was not far from the southern bank of the Thames, just east of Horsey Down. But in this ebb tide, he had no chance of swimming ashore. If he let go of this buoy he would be swept downriver until death took him.
A small wherry was approaching. Shakespeare waved at it. With great skill, the two oarsmen came alongside and threw a mooring rope around the wooden buoy.
‘We saw that,’ one of the young oarsmen said as they hauled Shakespeare aboard. ‘You’re lucky to be alive; he was trying to do for you.’
Shakespeare nodded. He knew he had been most fortunate. But why, he wondered, as he slumped, drenched, into the oarsman’s arms, had Richard Baines been trying to kill him?
The three black-clad Scots had a long, three-inch thick branch of ash. It was strong young wood. They thrust it between Boltfoot’s bindings — arms and legs — so he was like a whole pig ready to be spit-roasted over the fire.
On one side of the fire, which was low in flame but scorching in intensity, they had driven a stake into the ground. At the top there was a deep notch. They lifted Boltfoot and put one end of the ash branch into the notch. The man and one of the women gripped the other end, close to Boltfoot’s head and began to chant as the other woman danced around the fire playing a Jew’s harp.
Boltfoot was breathing more easily now. He felt like laughing out loud at these preposterous people, but he was not at all sure that was wise given his precarious position at their mercy.
Suddenly the woman with the Jew’s harp shuddered, fell to her knees and threw up her gown to display her naked arse, like an animal in rut. It was like a cue at the playhouse for the other two to chant louder and begin to bring Boltfoot around across the fire. They held him there, slung low so that his back was no more than a few inches above the red, fiery heat. Involuntarily he tried to arch his back away from the unbearable burning pain, but to no avail. He was held there for ten seconds that felt like ten minutes, his teeth clenched against the scream that his throat and very being longed to utter.
They moved him on, to the other side of the fire. The fire had caused agony such as he had never felt before. And he knew that it would come again. Nine times across the fire, they had said. Nine times. He exhaled a long, straggling breath. In front of him the woman with the Jew’s harp was on all fours on the ground, her gown clutched up around her waist so that her pink nakedness was exposed. It seemed to him that her grunting and panting was the hunger of a bitch in heat. She was offering herself up, to some unseen presence. Begging to be taken by the devil himself.
Shakespeare was still soaked through when the wherrymen landed him at Greenwich. He wondered, vaguely, whether the involuntary drinking of the putrid Thames water might do for him. For the present, however, he had more pressing concerns.
The races were all done with. If Baines was here, there was no sign of him. As for the Queen and her courtiers, they had long since departed back to the confines of the palace. Only the common folk were still in the park, eating, drinking and enjoying the entertainments in the late afternoon sunshine.
Shakespeare found the Vidame de Chartres near the palace stables. The French nobleman was ensuring that Conquistadora was well looked after for her journey back to the stables at Wanstead, where she was now to be housed. The vidame held up the golden spur he had won for his victory. ‘Given me by your Queen’s own fair hand. I told you the horse was no nag, sir.’
‘I am looking for Dona Ana.’
‘I have not seen her since the race, Monsieur Shakespeare. But I imagine she will be at Essex House this evening. There is to be feasting in honour of a famous victory. Come — and bring my woman with you.’
‘You have heard all I will say on that matter.’
‘Her Majesty the Queen has other ideas. She agrees Monique is my property and has granted me her return.’
‘I believe the courts will not accede to your demands. Certainly, I will not. Slavery is repugnant to God and humanity.’
‘Have you told that to Mr Hawkins, your great slaver?’
Shakespeare said no more. He went to the servants’ quarters at the palace, where he stripped naked so that his clothes could be hung up to dry in front of an open fire. As he waited, he sent a messenger to request a meeting with Sir Robert Cecil.
Chapter 29
The prickles rose on Shakespeare’s neck. He was in Sir Robert Cecil’s richly appointed apartments, at a table with Francis Mills and the kilted Rabbie Bruce. Cecil was cold with anger.
‘How will we beat Spain if we cannot work together?’ he demanded.
‘Blame him,’ Bruce said, jabbing a finger at Shakespeare. ‘He has kept the man Glebe from me. Give Glebe to me and I will twist the truth from his miserable English mouth within the hour.’
‘Is this true, John?’
‘He means he would kill him, Sir Robert. How many more witnesses do you wish to lose?’
‘This is the problem of which I speak. There must be common cause here. It is in no one’s interest for this prince of Scots to remain undiscovered. If he is in England, he has been brought here with but one purpose in mind — to usurp a throne. Now, John, I told you to take Glebe to Newgate, but Mr Bruce says he is not there. So where is he?’
‘Safe, and being questioned, though I believe I have all the information he has to give.’
‘Then speak it here and now to Mr Bruce and Mr Mills. But be clear on your aim. You are to find this Scots prince. The court talks of nothing else and the Queen… well, let us just say that I have never seen her so angry. And I am one of those who saw her tempestuous rage when Ralegh married Bess Throckmorton. It took all my powers of persuasion to get her to the courses this day. The calm that the world saw turned once more to wrath when she returned here. Do I make myself plain?’
Shakespeare and Mills nodded.
‘Good. Then I will leave you, gentlemen. You will sit around this table and devise a plan by which to proceed. I care not what you think of one another — personal difficulties will be set aside.’ He nodded brusquely, then departed before any of them had a chance to speak.
Bruce leant back, feet on the table. ‘He thinks to include me with you two flunkeys. One day, he will be my servant.’
Shakespeare fought to calm himself down. He could see the truth in what Cecil said. This inquiry was proceeding slower than a twenty-year-old mule. He took a deep breath and rested his forearms on the table. ‘Very well, I will detail all that I have uncovered. Firstly, this is nothing to do with Perez. He never had the secret. It all came from the woman, Ana Cabral, the old nurse and, perhaps, Perez’s secretary. But the Cabral woman is now missing. She has slipped us.’