‘Essex House, perchance?’ Mills suggested.
‘He just tried to kill me, on the river.’ Shakespeare ran a hand across the swelling on the crown of his head.
Cecil smiled thinly. ‘Well, I am pleased to see he failed. Let us pray he fails at all else he attempts.’ He paused a moment. ‘But I bring you back to the main point. Put this talk of a Scots prince to rest. That is your task. Your only task.’
‘We were discussing whether there might be a link with the powder outrages. And the name Baines must bring us back to Marlowe…’
‘Mr Shakespeare, you are like a hound with a dead fox. You have done enough. Unclench your teeth. There is no link to Marlowe.’
‘You seem very certain, Sir Robert.’
‘I am. I grant you, however, that a connection to the powder conspiracy is most likely. It has all the bitter tang of Spanish intrigue. I am told that Knagg, the powder-master of Three Mills, is still missing. As is five thousand pounds or more of powder. What I would like to know is what they are planning to do — an attack with such an amount placed well could cause much consternation. Have you heard yet from Mr Cooper?’
The name chilled Shakespeare like an icicle sliding down the neck of his shirt. He had been so preoccupied with thoughts of Catherine, he had scarce given a thought to his faithful assistant. Shakespeare looked at Cecil blankly, but said nothing.
‘John, there is something I believe I should now tell you about William Sarjent, the man sent to accompany your man. He is not quite what he seems.’
The cold began to freeze the blood in Shakespeare’s veins.
‘He is not a common Tower powder-master but an intelligencer in my father’s service. I did not tell you before now, for you know that I would only ever reveal one of my spies as a last resort. But I think it only fair to set your mind at rest by telling you that he has served us for many years, both here and in the Low Countries, keeping a close watch on the movements of gunpowder. He is a good man. Mr Cooper could not be aligned to a better.’
A pistol shot rent the air. Boltfoot opened his eyes. He lay by the fire in desperate pain. His back and arms had been scorched by the flames like meat on a spit. The hair on the back of his head was singed away. He had been passed nine times across the fire. Each time had been more agonising than the last, searing into his flesh and turning his clothes to blackened shreds.
He looked up. So did the two women and the man who held him prisoner. They had been copulating shamelessly before him, like wild animals, squealing and screaming, calling on the devil to join them. Now, of a sudden, they were silent.
Boltfoot twisted his body to try to see where the shot had come from. He managed to turn and edge further away from the fire. William Sarjent was standing there, smoking wheel-lock in hand. His nose was bruised and swollen and his eyes yellow-blue from Boltfoot’s vicious head-butt at the Three Mills powder plant. Sarjent thrust the pistol into his belt and removed another gun, which he pointed at the three rutting Scots. What were they, Boltfoot had found himself wondering as he drifted in and out of consciousness, satanists, anabaptists, witches, what? They had been singing or chanting. Strange words that held no meaning for him: ‘ Kimmer, go before, kimmer go. If you will not go before, kimmer let me… ’
The three froze at the discharge of the gun. They looked like startled hares. Their black gowns were up about their waists and they were naked below, in rude obscenity. As if suddenly realising their shameful discovery, they disengaged their parts from one another and began scrabbling away, first on all fours in the dust and grass, gathering their skirts about them, then up and running, running, running, sliding down a bank of dusty earth through the copse until he could see them no more.
Boltfoot heard William Sarjent laugh. Unhurriedly, he sauntered over to Boltfoot, put down his gun, took a dagger from his belt and began to saw through the ropes that bound the prisoner.
‘I think it fair to say I gave them the devil of a scare, Mr Cooper,’ he said. ‘The devil of a scare!’ He roared with laughter at his own jest. ‘Now then, sir, let me have a look at you.’ As he freed Boltfoot from the ropes and sat him up, he shook his head. ‘You are in a mighty poor way, Mr Cooper. I think I arrived just in time to save your hide, for you do seem cooked to a turn.’
Sarjent lifted Boltfoot with astonishing gentleness and strength and carried him out of the woods. Boltfoot could see more clearly now where he was. They were on the side of a small hill that rose from the estuary plain of the Thames. He knew this stretch of the great river, not far from where the Thames met the North Sea, having sailed it under Drake. From the low sun to his right, he deduced they were on the northern, Essex bank. In the distance, across the water, lay the county of Kent. There were no people here. This bleak land was given over to wild birds and rabbits. The low sun sparkled on the water and highlighted the billowing sails of dozens of ships of many different shapes and sizes, sailing with the wind or tacking against it.
Boltfoot winced even at the light touch of the man’s hands on his back, so severe were his burns. Sarjent carried him up to the brow of the hill, which was not far, and then Boltfoot saw the ghostly remains of an ancient castle. He also saw, in a creek below, a sea vessel, leaning at an angle and stuck fast in the low-water mud. From this distance he guessed it to be a pinnace or bark, perhaps for fishing, though it was large enough for trading. A group of men, ten or so, were working on it, perhaps careening her. Who were they, fishermen?
‘Well, Mr Cooper, I think this ruin will do for shelter.’
‘Just get me home, Mr Sarjent.’ Boltfoot’s voice was weak, no more than a whisper.
‘I fear you are in no condition to journey. You need food and rest. I have seen men with burns on the field of battle. You will need lotions — oils and the like — to soothe you so that your body may repair itself. The old tower will at least give you protection while you regain strength.’
‘Give me water to drink. I can ride. I must get to Mr Shakespeare.’
‘Take it easy, Mr Cooper. We must restore you to health.’
‘My weapons… where are my caliver and cutlass?’
Sarjent carried Boltfoot through the litter of old ragstone blocks and brought him into the remains of what must, once, have been the south tower of a fortress intended to defend the gaping mouth of the Thames.
The tower was broken open on its eastern flank, so that a man might step in and look up through its echoing emptiness to the sky above. The floor was mere dirt. With exquisite tenderness, Sarjent lay Boltfoot down by the stone wall, so placing him that his back was not touching anything. He looked down at him. ‘You may be only a mariner but, by God, you bear your pain with fortitude. And I forgive you my broken nose.’
‘My weapons…’
‘I do believe they are near by, for I saw some stores and armaments as I approached the thicket. I will fetch them and bring you food.’ He nodded in salute, then left.
Boltfoot closed his eyes. He breathed deeply; just the movement involved in filling his lungs was excruciating, yet he had enough presence of mind to know that, whatever his agony, this could not be a safe place to stay for long. His captors, wherever they were now, might well return and he knew they had well-armed comrades. Boltfoot was also alert enough to wonder how Sarjent had found him here, and he was not at all sure that he liked the answer.
He turned on his hands and knees and began to pull himself up, inch by painful inch.
Chapter 30