‘But you believe this man has the skill necessary to make a timing device?’
‘Oh yes, most certainly. He has learned enough.’
‘His name, Mr Gulden, give me his name and where I may find him.’
‘His name is Walter Stacker. Like me, he has moved from Goldsmiths Row. You will find him near St Paul’s in Knightrider Street, to the east of the Doctors Commons. It is a poor house. You will know it by the clock on its wall. The time is always wrong.’
Chapter 32
Shakespeare waited in the dark shadows on the other side of the road from the house, observing it, waiting. He was neither tired nor hungry, but alert and expectant. For the first time in days, he felt he was moving, that he might be drawing close, that he would find a way to the men who had killed Catherine.
The occasional flicker of light through the drapes showed that the house was not asleep. Something was happening. Something would happen soon. He could feel it in his blood and in his tingling flesh. He was suffused with energy and a dreadful rage.
The street was almost deserted, save for the occasional night animal, crying for a mate. A pair of late-night revellers in the gowns of lawyers traipsed by but did not see him in the darkness. He was as still as stone, his eyes fixed. At last he saw a light by the window closest to the front door, then the door opened and a figure stepped out. The figure was that of a man. The man hesitated, looked up and down the street, then set off eastwards. Shakespeare followed him, softly, keeping his distance.
He could take the man at any time, but he wanted to see where he was going.
The rented warehouse by the glassworks in Crutched Friars was empty now, save for a drying heap of dung and the two people who stood by the great double door. Laveroke, also known as Baines and by a dozen other names, held a pitch torch and looked about him. All the gunpowder was gone. The air was thick with dust.
‘How many barrels in the end, Mr Laveroke?’
‘Two hundred and ten. Each of a hundred pounds. That must be more than twenty thousand pounds, Dona Ana.’
Ana looked at Laveroke’s handsome face. His teeth shone white. When would she see him again? Another month, another year, five years? It was always pleasant when their paths crossed. He was full of energy, clever, merciless. She was the chief and the thinker, Laveroke the foot soldier and killer.
‘And is it now packed tight in the vessel?
Laveroke laughed. ‘As tight as a bull in a cow. There are no holes in this Sieve.’
Ana did not laugh. ‘We need to be clear now,’ she said. ‘We need to be precise on our roles. Timing is everything. No one must fail. It is a simple plan: an assassination in Scotland, a powder blast, an uprising in London. If each of these three parts succeeds, this tinder-dry island will blaze like a dead oak… and fall.’
The two of them stood in silence a moment. Ana said this was simple, but they both knew the plan had been long in the devising. These two people were the only ones outside the Escorial who understood it in its entirety. Its success depended on no one else understanding it.
Neither Curl and his band of English malcontents, nor the Scots, understood what they were engaged on. Curl and his men believed they were staging a commoners’ revolt, rising up against the hated foreigners and their noble sponsors. The Scots believed they were taking revenge against James for the roasting of their kin. They were all dupes.
‘How fares our Prince Francis Philip?’
Ana Cabral drew a short draught of smoke through her ebony pipe. ‘He is… as well as can be expected. His every need is catered to, as befits a prince of the royal blood of Scotland, England and France.’
‘And yet?’
Ana shrugged her shoulders. ‘What can I say? He is not like other men.’
‘Would it not be better to move him to Scotland now?’
‘No. He must stay here. We will do nothing but build up his name. Let his legend grow while the fires rage. The prince’s hand must remain clean, unstained by blood. The moment will become clear. When blood and fire rain down on Scotland and when England’s Roman Catholic faithful take arms against the dog-spittle Cecils. That is when the prince will step forward as saviour.’
‘If ever I settle down to a quiet life farming some orange grove in Castile, I think you would make a perfect wife, Dona Ana.’
Ana smiled and performed a light curtsy. ‘I am flattered, Mr Laveroke, though I fear I will never be the marrying kind. Now, sir, let us kneel and pray for God’s benediction on our enterprise, done in His name. Then you must ride. By the time the Sieve blows its hole you should be halfway to Edinburgh, for I believe you have an appointment with the King that you must not miss.’
It seemed to Boltfoot that William Sarjent slept. He had been watching him through narrowed eyes for the best part of half an hour and had seen no movement. Sarjent had done with his incessant tales of his own heroism in battle, but was he really sleeping?
Boltfoot ached in every bone and sinew. The skin on his back was on fire with pain from the burning, yet he had to move, and move with stealth. Now. There might be no other time.
He rose to his feet. It was dark save for a guttering tallow candle. He was a little stronger now. He looked down at the still figure of William Sarjent, and his eyes immediately went to the man’s wheel-lock and dagger. He looked about at his surroundings. There was nothing here to hold him in, yet could he move soundlessly enough to escape? If Sarjent awoke, Boltfoot would never outrun him. Sarjent had the weapons. Boltfoot had to take control before he could get away. He took a pace forward. He was within three feet of the man. If he could prise the dagger from the belt, he would have Sarjent at his mercy.
Sarjent exhaled, then drew in a deep breath that rattled in the back of his throat. He was snoring. He must be asleep. Boltfoot went down on one knee and reached out for the hilt of the dagger. Sarjent’s hand flashed out like the head of a snake; his fingers clasped on Boltfoot’s hand, like hissing jaws.
With his other hand, Sarjent took the wheel-lock from his belt, and pushed its muzzle into the centre of Boltfoot’s face.
‘Dear me, Mr Cooper. I told you mariners were no match for a soldier. Sit yourself down, if you would.’
Boltfoot gritted his teeth in frustration and sank back in his place close to the tower’s wall of stone blocks.
‘Now where was I? Ah, yes, I was telling you about the Scottish lads and lassies. They were witches, you see, Mr Cooper. Mighty riled by their king, I do believe. Do you not know the tale of the witches of North Berwick?’
Boltfoot said nothing.
‘It is a tale of much dancing, cannibalism and fornicating with the devil. But let us start at the beginning. Three years ago, King James of Scotland sailed home from Copenhagen with his new young bride, Anne of Denmark. And a mighty anxious time he had of it, by all accounts, for a great storm blew up, sinking one of his fleet and endangering his own life. It was said that his ship was the most badly buffeted save the one that perished. No one could explain this strange, unexpected weather, for the sea had been calm. What you may ask, Mr Cooper, had this to do with witches? All became clear a year later. A coven was uncovered by a lord’s bailiff in a village near Edinburgh.’
Sarjent quaffed some ale and offered the flagon to Boltfoot. He took it and drank, for his throat was as arid as a stone.