saw her leave?’
‘No.’
‘And what belongings did she leave behind?’
‘We found her purse with two pennies and a farthing in it, a comb, and the night garments I had given her. That is all. She took nothing but the clothes she wore.’
‘Can you describe her to me? Was she tall? Fair? Plump?’
‘Mousy red, I would say,’ Lady Susan said. ‘Not especially pretty, but fair enough. She was thin, but I don’t think she had eaten properly for weeks on end. She did not like to meet your eye.’
‘She might look very different now,’ Shakespeare said, musing aloud.
‘Indeed she might, if she has recovered from her madness.’
The woman on the floor said something too. Her voice was low and rough with smoke, and he could not make out the words. He leant forward. ‘Miss Eastley?’ he asked, hoping she would repeat her observation, but she did not.
He would have asked them more, might well have enjoyed passing the day with them, but he was learning very little and there was too much to be done elsewhere. He bowed. ‘My ladies, I will take up no more of your time, for the present.’
Francis Mills accompanied Captain Roberts in the barge downstream to Gravesend. He asked little and heard almost nothing; his head was filled with crashing waves of noise, like an incoming tide on a pebble beach.
‘Who was this dead mariner, Captain?’ Mills asked, like a child repeating its numbers by rote.
‘His name was Franklin Smith. He was an ordinary seaman. The ship’s master, who you will meet on board The Ruth , says Smith approached him when we were in Bordeaux. He was looking to work his passage home. From what the master tells me, he was no more than a bilge monkey, useful for loading of goods or hauling of cables but nothing more. Lower than the rats in the scuppers.’
‘And what is your cargo?’
‘From Bordeaux? Wine, of course, Mr Mills. Well, here we are, sir.’ The barge pulled into the quayside near the smoking chimneys and massed masts of Gravesend. Captain Roberts lifted his chin in the direction of a large carrack, at anchor with its sails furled, a little way from shore. ‘And there she is, The Ruth . The sooner this is all over, the better. The men are becoming restive, penned in like livestock, and we must discharge our cargo. The investors will not allow another day’s delay. Mr Mills? Mr Mills . . .’
Francis Mills did not move at first, but then rose from his bench seat and disembarked with Roberts, who hailed a ship’s boat. Through the surging roar of his mind, it occurred to Mills that he really should have heeded Sir Robert Cecil’s instructions and brought someone with him to help interview the crew of this vessel. Alone, it was a daunting prospect. No, it was impossible. He could not do it this day. He was not thinking aright. Not thinking right at all. He wasn’t really here. He was in a bedroom, dank with lust and sweat and skin. There was a blade in his hand and he was wondering how it would slip through flesh.
Suddenly he was caught short of breath. He closed his eyes and grasped the captain’s arm.
‘Mr Mills, you do not look well, sir.’
He couldn’t move. He felt his knees would give way and that he would fall. The rushing in his head was a storm. His breathing was fast and shallow. A pain assailed his heart. He bent forward and clutched at his chest. He was going to die; he knew he was going to die.
‘Mr Mills . . .’
Mills turned and stumbled back towards the barge, still holding his chest, fearing his heart would burst from his body. He had to get home; he had to get back to London.
Chapter 7
‘H E LOOKS A little better, Jane,’ Boltfoot said, staring at his two-year-old son who lay in the small wooden cot he had made for the boy. ‘Do you not think he looks more lively?’
‘I do so think, Boltfoot. I pray it is so, leastwise.’
‘And is he taking more food?’
Jane nodded. ‘A little more.’
‘Did I not tell you it would be so? We have no
‘No.’
‘And what belongings did she leave behind?’
‘We found her purse with two pennies and a farthing in it, a comb, and the night garments I had given her. That is all. She took nothing but the clothes she wore.’
‘Can you describe her to me? Was she tall? Fair? Plump?’
‘Mousy red, I would say,’ Lady Susan said. ‘Not especially pretty, but fair enough. She was thin, but I don’t think she had eaten properly for weeks on end. She did not like to meet your eye.’
‘She might look very different now,’ Shakespeare said, musing aloud.
‘Indeed she might, if she has recovered from her madness.’
The woman on the floor said something too. Her voice was low and rough with smoke, and he could not make out the words. He leant forward. ‘Miss Eastley?’ he asked, hoping she would repeat her observation, but she did not.
He would have asked them more, might well have enjoyed passing the day with them, but he was learning very little and there was too much to be done elsewhere. He bowed. ‘My ladies, I will take up no more of your time, for the present.’
Francis Mills accompanied Captain Roberts in the barge downstream to Gravesend. He asked little and heard almost nothing; his head was filled with crashing waves of noise, like an incoming tide on a pebble beach.
‘Who was this dead mariner, Captain?’ Mills asked, like a child repeating its numbers by rote.
‘His name was Franklin Smith. He was an ordinary seaman. The ship’s master, who you will meet on board The Ruth , says Smith approached him when we were in Bordeaux. He was looking to work his passage home. From what the master tells me, he was no more than a bilge monkey, useful for loading of goods or hauling of cables but nothing more. Lower than the rats in the scuppers.’
‘And what is your cargo?’
‘From Bordeaux? Wine, of course, Mr Mills. Well, here we are, sir.’ The barge pulled into the quayside near the smoking chimneys and massed masts of Gravesend. Captain Roberts lifted his chin in the direction of a large carrack, at anchor with its sails furled, a little way from shore. ‘And there she is, The Ruth . The sooner this is all over, the better. The men are becoming restive, penned in like livestock, and we must discharge our cargo. The investors will not allow another day’s delay. Mr Mills? Mr Mills . . .’
Francis Mills did not move at first, but then rose from his bench seat and disembarked with Roberts, who hailed a ship’s boat. Through the surging roar of his mind, it occurred to Mills that he really should have heeded Sir Robert Cecil’s instructions and brought someone with him to help interview the crew of this vessel. Alone, it was a daunting prospect. No, it was impossible. He could not do it this day. He was not thinking aright. Not thinking right at all. He wasn’t really here. He was in a bedroom, dank with lust and sweat and skin. There was a blade in his hand and he was wondering how it would slip through flesh.
Suddenly he was caught short of breath. He closed his eyes and grasped the captain’s arm.
‘Mr Mills, you do not look well, sir.’
He couldn’t move. He felt his knees would give way and that he would fall. The rushing in his head was a storm. His breathing was fast and shallow. A pain assailed his heart. He bent forward and clutched at his chest. He was going to die; he knew he was going to die.
‘Mr Mills . . .’
Mills turned and stumbled back towards the barge, still holding his chest, fearing his heart would burst from his body. He had to get home; he had to get back to London.
Chapter 7
‘H E LOOKS A little better, Jane,’ Boltfoot said, staring at his two-year-old son who lay in the small wooden cot he had made for the boy. ‘Do you not think he looks more lively?’
‘I do so think, Boltfoot. I pray it is so, leastwise.’
‘And is he taking more food?’
Jane nodded. ‘A little more.’
‘Did I not tell you it would be so? We have no
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