‘Did the first blast have such a device?’
‘Not that is known.’
‘Perhaps they were experimenting in the second blast.’
‘It had occurred to me. It had also occurred to me that there must be few enough clockmakers capable of designing and constructing such a thing. Frank Mills is instructed to find the clockmaker but is making painfully slow progress. Do you know clockmakers, Nick?’
As if a key had clicked into a lock, Henbird’s attitude suddenly changed. ‘John, I have had a worrying thought.’
Shakespeare caught his friend’s shift in mood. ‘Does this mean something to you, Nick?’
‘Yes, I fear it does. My mind goes to the hellburners of Antwerp …’
Chapter 31
Boltfoot did not make it beyond the castle boundary before collapsing. William Sarjent found him slumped forward across a broken block of ragstone and helped him back into the tower. Now darkness had fallen and Sarjent was gnawing at a hunk of bread, washing it down with ale. He gave a little meat and ale to Boltfoot, but Boltfoot could not take much before the bile rose in his throat.
Sarjent’s eyes were fixed on Boltfoot, who sat in silence inside the desolate and derelict castle. ‘I think it only fair to tell you something, Mr Cooper,’ Sarjent said slowly. ‘I am an intelligencer working directly to Lord Burghley. I have been operating in secret, investigating the disappearance of gunpowder for some weeks. I had penetrated the secret militia of Mr Holy Trinity Curl and his treacherous band of malcontents long before you blundered in with your club foot. You should have told me what you were engaged on when you rode off from Three Mills. I could have saved you much pain. More importantly, I could have saved my inquiry. They are now alerted. You have done much harm.’
And you should have kept me informed, Boltfoot felt like saying to William Sarjent. But argument used up energy, and he had little enough of that to spare this night. What he did manage to say was, ‘How did you find me?’
‘I knew of this place already from my investigations. They train out here with powder. It is safe for them, for none come here but seabirds, a few stray sheep and foxes. I came here to spy on them — and found you instead.’
‘If you knew of Curl and his band, why have they not been broken up by pursuivants or the royal guard?’
‘Mr Cooper, you have been in this business long enough to know the answer to that: I had to find the source of the powder and I had to identify their chiefest man. Lord Burghley fears that powerful merchants, even men of nobility, are involved in this conspiracy. Knagg of Three Mills was supplying Curl with powder, but that hole has been plugged. Who are the puppet masters, though? How shall I find them now? My work is ruined by your bungling.’
Sarjent’s words had reason. Yet, even in his present weak state, Boltfoot’s instinct was strong. He did not like any of this, nor did he like Sarjent and his swaggering ways.
‘The Scots sorcerers, what have they to do with Curl and his band?’
‘Ah, the witches. They are not the common rump of Mr Curl’s rebellious band. I know something of them. They have another purpose.’ Sarjent took a swig from a flagon and passed it to Boltfoot. ‘I fear they have treated you most cruelly, Mr Cooper. Did you tell them aught?’
Boltfoot looked at him with mild contempt but said nothing.
‘Good. That is good. Then let us pool our knowledge and bring what we know to the Cecils, for I have reason to believe an attack of some nature, some insurrection, is coming, and soon.’
Boltfoot tried vainly to struggle to his feet. ‘Let us requisition a boat and make our way to London… we must make haste.’
‘We will, Mr Cooper. But surely you had already got word to Mr Shakespeare before you were brought here?’
‘Yes,’ Boltfoot lied without hesitation, as he had told the same lie to Warboys and Curl before being brought to this place. ‘Yes, Mr Shakespeare knows all about Curl and his band. And he will be mighty concerned about me by now.’
‘Well, you are safe.’
‘And he will be most grateful to you, Mr Sarjent, for saving me from certain death. As am I…’
Sarjent was silent for a moment. It had not escaped Boltfoot’s notice as he spoke that Sarjent’s hand was close to his belt where he kept his wheel-lock and his dagger. The hand hovered there, like a kestrel fluttering the tips of its wings, as if deciding whether to swoop on a shrew or move on to tastier prey. The hand moved on and took the flagon back from Boltfoot. ‘That is good, very good,’ Sarjent said at last. ‘It is fortunate that I was able to help, as I once saved Captain-General Norris on the field of blood. Did I ever tell you of that day?’
‘No, Mr Sarjent, I do not believe you did. Perhaps you would tell it to me now, while I drift off to sleep, for I need rest.’ There was another question that Boltfoot wished answered, but he would not ask it. He wanted to know why, if there was an imminent threat of insurrection, did they not simply descend this hill to the creek below and enlist the aid of some passing fishermen to get them to London without delay. He did not ask him because he knew the answer. He smiled wanly at his companion. ‘I trust you will understand that I need to sleep, Mr Sarjent. If you must go, leave me here to rest. Otherwise stay and let us move from this place at dawn.’
Shakespeare felt a cloud of fear descend. The hellburners of Antwerp. He knew of them. ‘Nick, this is terrifying to think on…’
‘But it could make sense. You say they have five thousand pounds or more powder. That could be used for a series of attacks like the Dutch market outrage, or one so huge that it would shake England to its very foundations. If Philip wanted vengeance for Antwerp and for the Armada, if he wanted to sow discord and create havoc, what better weapon?’
‘Maybe more than five thousand pounds. How much powder was used in the hellburners?’
‘Seven thousand pounds in each, all topped up with slabs of stone, ploughshares, scythes, sickles, rusting iron and nails, sharpened staves. It was the most deadly weapon ever conceived. A thousand or more Spaniards died in a single blast. The roar was heard fifty miles away. They were still finding the scattered bodies many months later.’
‘God’s blood. If that is what they have planned for us…’
‘It is only surmise…’
‘But as you say, Nick, it makes sense.’
Henbird wiped his nightshirt sleeve across his mouth. The aroma of brandy hung heavy in this fine chamber. A servant arrived with cold cuts of various fowl, slices of manchet bread, some cold beef and kidney pudding. Shakespeare had lost his hunger, but he accepted a platter with good grace.
‘Eat, John, eat. You need strength. Do you know of Federigo Giambelli?’
‘I know of him. We have never met.’
‘But you know he is in England, yes?’
Shakespeare nodded. Giambelli was the engineer from Lombardy who had devised the infernal hellburner machine for the Dutch defenders of Antwerp. He was now in the pay of the English, engaged on various defensive works around London and the south coast. ‘But where — here in London?’
‘Sometimes. I believe he is presently on the Isle of Wight, completing the Carisbrooke earthworks. I am pleased to count him a friend. But more importantly than that, I know with whom he deals. In particular I know a clockmaker who has worked with him and will certainly understand the workings of such a device as was used at Antwerp and, more recently, at the Dutch market. After you were dismissed from Walsingham’s service, Giambelli and this clockmaker were engaged by Mr Secretary to design and build a series of defensive hellburners. Nothing ever came of the plan, for the Queen refused to outlay the money needed, and then Mr Secretary died. But if anyone will know about timing devices, this clockmaker will be the man. His name is Peter Gulden — Gulden of Gutter Lane. That is but a few streets from here. We can go to him at first light.’