Free Holy Spy by Rory Clements Page B

of his halberd aggressively into the ground in front of Boltfoot.
    ‘Where you going?’
    ‘Get your pole out of the way. You trying to trip me?’
    ‘I’m Potken, the watch for this ward, and I’ll put my halberd where I like. Down your gullet if I so desire. Now where you going, maggot?’
    ‘Home. Seething Lane.’
    ‘You don’t look like no denizen of Seething Lane. If you want entry to the city, come by day with the carters and wagoners.’
    ‘I’m a serving man. My master’s house is there.’
‘And who would your master be?’
‘John Shakespeare.’
    ‘Shakespeare? Never heard of him.’
    ‘He’s a Queen’s Man. Assistant secretary to Sir Francis Walsingham. Argue with him , if you will.’
    The watchman was not tall, but he puffed up his heavy chest like a cockbird and pushed out his ragged-bearded chin. ‘Is that so?’
    The tactic had no effect on Boltfoot. ‘Aye, and I’ve been on an errand for my master, which is not for your ears, nor anyone else’s. And by now he’ll be wondering where I am, so if you’ll let me pass, I’ll be on my way.’
    ‘Hold fast. What’s your name?’
    ‘Cooper. Mr Cooper to you.’
    ‘Well, Mr Cooper, I don’t trust a word you say. Seething Lane, eh? That’s close enough – second on the right – so I do believe. Perhaps I should accompany you home, maybe have a word or two with your master. And if you’re lying to me, then it’ll be straight to Bridewell and the treadmill with you – and I’ll have your name down for the Friday floggings.’
    ‘A turd in your throat, watchman.’ Boltfoot limped on. He was almost at Mr Shakespeare’s house when he felt a hand clamping his shoulder and swung round, his cutlass out.
    ‘Touch me again and I’ll cut you open like a Spaniard.’
    Potken backed off. ‘Put up your strange sword, Cooper. I’ve got a message for you.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Em from the Burning Prow wants to see you tomorrow. Says she’s got word for you. Come again through the Postern Gate and I’ll take you to her.’
    ‘Why didn’t she tell me this herself?’
    ‘What sort of muttonhead are you, Cooper? Do you think she’d talk with you among witnesses? Come at your leisure and she’ll make it worth your while.’ He laughed and his barrel chest heaved. ‘I’m sure of that well enough.’
    Boltfoot stared at the man, furious with himself. Now Potken knew he worked for Shakespeare – and so, as day followed night, would the woman known as Em. He cursed his loose tongue. He would have to warn Mr Shakespeare.
    The watchman turned away, his laughter ringing in the cool night air. Boltfoot rapped at the door. It was opened by Jane in nightgown and cap, bleary-eyed and ready for bed. Boltfoot nodded to her and turned back again. He had spotted a movement in the shadow of a doorway a little way down the street. The watchman was still watching.
     
     
    Shakespeare awoke on a narrow truckle bed. He opened his eyes but at first he could see nothing. He turned over on his side and groaned at the pain in his head. He could just hear low murmurings – little more than whispers – coming from the other side of the door.
    Delicately, he pulled himself up to a sitting position, took several deep breaths, and forced himself to stand. The events of the night came back bit by bit. The drinking, the attack, and then the short walk here to this modest lodging in a street behind Temple Bar where he had promptly fallen asleep. But perhaps there was still something to be gained. His head might be pounding, but the effects of the alcohol had mostly worn off. He was thinking more clearly.
    He put his ear to the door. He could hear Anthony Babington and Thomas Salisbury, but their words were muffled and indecipherable. Then they went silent. Shakespeare heard soft footfalls and quickly he pushed open the door, scratching his head groggily as he did so.
    Salisbury was standing in front of him. His strawlike hair and the knife in his hand made