Holy Spy by Rory Clements Page A

coin. I know, too, that he is held in dread, especially in the wharfs and quays east of the bridge. It is said he demands one part in a hundred of all cargoes unladen from the Indies carracks and has some hold over the wharfingers and lightermen. Some say his true name is Ball and that he is called Cutting for his custom of cleaving men’s balls from their bodies, very slowly, before he kills them.’
    Shakespeare was surprised to detect an edge of awe, even fear, in Boltfoot’s description. Had he perhaps encountered some of Cutting Ball’s men during his time as a ship’s cooper? There must surely have been times when he was docked in the reaches of the Thames where the outlaw held sway. But Boltfoot afraid? No, that could not be so; Boltfoot was frightened of nothing under heaven.
    They were in the kitchen, which already seemed a lot less dusty and more polished in the few hours since the arrival of Jane Cawston. She opened the door, looked in and saw the two men at the table, bowed quickly, then scuttled away like a startled rabbit.
    Shakespeare followed Boltfoot’s gaze. ‘A comely girl that, Boltfoot, would you not say?’
    ‘Comely enough, master,’ Boltfoot growled as though the words were torn from him with a hot iron. He raised his eyes with mild defiance. ‘But take a look in the larder for that’s where you’ll find her true worth. She’s been to market and brought home food.’
    Shakespeare held up his tankard of ale. ‘And a fresh keg, too. Perhaps you were right after all.’
    Boltfoot grunted and took a quick draught of his own ale.
    ‘I have a task for you, Boltfoot. I want you to go to the taprooms and hovels where Cutting Ball rules and find out what you can about a felon named Will Cane, who was hanged yesterday.’
    ‘The one who killed the merchant? It’s the talk of London. The wife paid Cane to kill her husband so she could inherit all his wealth.’
    ‘So it is said. And do you know the wife’s name?’
‘No, master.’
    ‘Katherine Giltspur, born Katherine Whetstone.’
    Boltfoot had known Kat as long as had Shakespeare, and he had been here during the years she shared Shakespeare’s bed in this house. The blood seemed to drain from his weather-worn cheeks and his brow furrowed in bewilderment and disbelief. ‘Kat . . .’
    ‘Yes, Kat Whetstone. Our Kat.’
    ‘But how . . .’
    Shakespeare shook his head. ‘It is all as much a mystery to me as it must be to you. She married him two months ago and is now a widow, in hiding, wanted for his murder.’
    ‘Not Kat!’
    Shakespeare shrugged. ‘I want to agree with you, and so I would like to discover more – especially about Will Cane, who was a known associate of Cutting Ball. Find his haunts and talk to those who knew him or knew of him. What sort of man was he? Had he killed before? Who were his friends? Was he married? Listen to tittle-tattle; sometimes there is a semblance of truth there. But bear in mind the hard possibility that the truth may be as simple as everyone believes: that Kat paid Will Cane to murder her husband.’
    ‘No, Mr Shakespeare,’ Boltfoot said stoutly. ‘No, I will not believe that.’
    ‘Then find me a better explanation. For if we do not, our Kat will surely die with a noose about her pretty neck.’
     
    Anthony Babington gazed through the clouds of tobacco smoke at his assembled friends and felt a surge of pride. They were here, at this feast in an upper room at the Plough Inn on the south side of Fleet Street, near Temple Bar, because of his presence. He was their leader and their inspiration.
    He rose from his chair, hammered his tankard down for silence, sending up a spray of strong beer, and called the gathering of young men to order. As their hubbub subsided to a murmur, he raised his tankard.
    ‘Raise your cups! The death of usurpers!’
    The sixteen other men around the table all stood up, held their own tankards aloft, roaring their approval. ‘Death to usurpers! Death to usurpers!’