‘This is all on account of the King, isn’t it?’ said Nick. ‘Everyone knows of his interest in witchcraft and devilry. He collects books on the subject. Why, he even wrote a book on demonology many years ago.’
‘It may be so,’ said Henry Ashe.
The man’s guarded answer indicated to Nick that he was right. The order to lay hold of this dangerous manuscript – the Oseney text – must have come directly from Secretary Cecil, who in turn would have been given instructions by King James. Perhaps the King wanted it for his book collection. Perhaps he wanted it for some darker purpose.
‘Are you telling me all you know?’ asked Ashe.
‘I know nothing.’
‘You see, Christopher Dole assured me that he too knew nothing about it. I might have questioned him again but now he is dead. Yet you are still here, Mr Newman.’
Nick felt sweat break out on his forehead. It was not because of the warmth of the room or the wine, which suddenly tasted bitter on his tongue. He was aware of the rumble of the river below, although he had not noticed it for many minutes.
‘Prince Henry’s or the Admiral’s Men, you said?’ said Ashe. ‘And to confirm it, you provided me with a string of names, a little too eagerly, perhaps. Suppose I summon a member of the company now to confirm that you are who you say you are, Mr Newman.’
Nick shrugged. Do as you please, the gesture said. He was thinking, the Admiral’s are based in the Fortune theatre just outside the city walls. It will take a little time to lay hands on someone from the company and to bring them to Nonesuch House. A lot could happen in a little time. He might still be able to talk his way out of this.
‘As it happens,’ said Henry Ashe, ‘I believe that Philip Henslowe is dining at another of the houses on the Bridge tonight. I’m sure he won’t object to being interrupted at his table and coming along here to identify you. Not if he knows that he will be assisting the Council. I can see the idea makes you uncomfortable, Mr Newman, so I don’t think I should leave you in here while I fetch Henslowe. Let us see if you can be lodged somewhere more secure.’
The sweat started to run down Nick’s face. His beard itched. Henslowe was not a player but someone much more important: a builder of playhouses and a shareholder in the Bear Garden. He was closely associated with the Admiral’s Men, now Prince Henry’s. He would be familiar with every player on their books. He would not recognise the name of Richard Newman. More to the point, he would probably recognise Nick as one of the King’s Men, despite the dye on his face and the lamb’s-wool beard.
Henry Ashe got up, indicating that Nick should rise too. He stood aside to let the player go first through the door. It crossed Nick’s mind to make a run for it. But immediately outside stood two of the caped men from the original group. Ashe, who seemed to employ gestures rather than words when giving orders to his underlings, nodded towards a second and smaller door to one side of the chamber they had just exited.
Once again Nick was grasped by the upper arms and, with more force this time, guided towards the second door. It was opened and he was shoved inside. On the threshold he stumbled and fell to the floor. Behind him the door was closed, a key turned. He heard footsteps striding away, squeaking on that well-polished floor. Henry Ashe, no doubt, off in search of Philip Henslowe. There was some talk from the other side of the door, inaudible because of the background sound of the river, but it meant that the two men were remaining outside as guards.
Nick sat up. After the dazzle of the large chamber it took some moments for his eyes to adapt to what was an unlit, narrow area made more confined by piles of boxes and heaped-up sacks and bags as well as barrels.
He pushed himself to his feet. More by touch than sight he made his way around some obstruction in the centre of the room and across to a window. This was no more than an aperture giving a view onto a narrow slice of river and sky, though it was too dark to see the point where one became the other. The window was glazed but it seemed to have no catch, no means of being opened. Its function could only be to allow a little light into this side room.
The function of the room itself was clear to Nick. He could smell spices. There was a faint odour of fish. One of the smaller bags contained what felt like nuts – filberts from their size. An upright and open-topped barrel gave off no tang apart from a faint whiff of the river: water therefore. This was a storage area and sited here on the ground floor of Nonesuch House so that goods might be drawn straight up from the river rather than being brought to the Bridge on a long roundabout journey by road. Indeed, for a couple of items – fish and water – the river was the nearest and most convenient source. You might even catch your fish directly by dangling a line straight down.
As Nick’s eyes grew more used to the gloom he could see that the obstruction in the centre of the room was some kind of hoist, a sturdy wooden frame complete with a ratchet-wheel and handle, together with cords and a wicker basket. He got down on his hands and knees and fumbled for the trapdoor, which had to be close to the hoist. It took him only a few seconds to locate a metal ring, cold to the touch, and then the square outlines of the trapdoor itself, which stood slightly proud of the floor where it was embedded. He estimated it was about three feet on each side. The hinges were opposite to the hoist which meant that the door opened upwards and in the direction of the slit-like window over the river.
Nick was about to take hold of the iron ring when he heard noises outside the door. The handle rattled. Surely it was not Ashe come back with Henslowe so soon? No, for the rattling ceased almost immediately and Nick guessed that it was one of the guards testing that the door was fast. He would have to beware of noise, although the rumble of the river provided some cover. Fortunately, it seemed to be getting louder. The tide must be turning. Nick reached out for the ring and pulled at it. No movement. Making sure his feet were clear of the trapdoor itself, he craned over it and, using all the strength in his shoulders, tugged hard. The trapdoor came free so suddenly that, had he not been grasping the iron ring, he would have fallen over backwards. Even so, he put out his arm for balance and struck a pile of boxes, which toppled over with a crash.
He froze, still crouching and holding on with one hand to the ring on the trapdoor. No response from outside. No door flung open. He waited for as long as he dared and then gradually eased the trapdoor all the way open until it lay flat with its edge against the outer wall. There was an uprush of cold air and the noise of the river grew more insistent. Nick kneeled down and, with fingers curled round the planking at the edge of the square hole, he peered below. What took his breath away was not the chill night air but the fall to the river. From this angle, it seemed an impossible, dizzying distance through the dark.
Nonesuch House, although built almost entirely of wood, was too heavy to rest on a span of the Bridge and so was set firmly on one of the great piers that thrust up from the boat-shaped foundations. The storeroom where Nick was imprisoned was on the north-west corner of the building and therefore half over a foundation, half over the water. Nick couldn’t see them but he knew that there would be mooring rings on the wooden piles that held in the stone and gravel of the foundation-blocks. Here suppliers could tie up their boats while provisions were winched up to Nonesuch House. He glimpsed white flecks where the water broke against the pier. That, and the deep roar, showed the tide was ebbing. This was when the river was at its most turbulent since all of its upstream expanse was squeezed between the many arches of the Bridge, causing a dangerous, tumbling drop down to the far side.
For Nick, making a descent from the house on the Bridge was a frightening enough prospect. But a yet more frightening one was to stay and wait for the man calling himself Henry Ashe to return with Philip Henslowe. All too soon the Privy Council agent would discover that his prisoner wasn’t Dick Newman, as he’d claimed to be. He would start to wonder what else Nick was concealing. The whereabouts of that item known as the Oseney text, for example. Ashe had already threatened Nick with a less comfortable conversation in a less agreeable place. That meant real imprisonment, and probably worse. The Council could authorise torture. Nick would have given up the secret of the Oseney text as easily and willingly as dropping a feather. They wouldn’t even have to resort to torture. The trouble was that he had no idea what Ashe was talking about.