open and felt inside the lining for secret messages, but there was nothing. ‘Now tell me more. I want to know of all your conversations.’
‘He did not talk much, but there was one thing I recall, master.’
‘Yes?’
‘He asked me where he could get a berth to work his passage from the Thames to the east of England. He wanted to go to Wisbech.’
Wisbech. A papist fastness in the east. The words of Garrick Loake came gusting back. He had said the plot ‘wafts from the papist fastness of the east, gathers force in the seminaries of Spain, but it will blow into a tempest here. A conspiracy the like of which England has never seen.’ Wisbech was certainly a papist fastness, for it was in the castle of that eastern port that the most aggressive of the country’s renegade Catholic priests were interned.
‘Did he say why, Mr Yorke?’
‘He said his home was near there.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I told him I had no idea, master, for it is the truth. I do not even know quite where Wisbech is, though I believe it to be near the Wash.’
‘Did he talk with anyone else about this matter?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Very well.’ He gave the man the remains of the cap, and sixpence compensation for its destruction. ‘Thank you, Mr Yorke. That will be all.’
Chapter 11
O N THE RIVER barge back to London, it became clear to Shakespeare that he must go to Wisbech in Cambridgeshire. The thought of travelling to that remote outpost of England did not fill him with joy, but Cecil would demand it of him, and he would be right to do so. It was almost certain that the letter from Father Persons had been destined for the castle prison there. One name above all came to mind as the intended recipient: the zealous Father William Weston, who sometimes went by the name Edmunds, former superior of the Jesuit mission to England and still highly influential among England’s Catholics, even though he had been incarcerated these nine years.
Shakespeare had met him once before and did not like him much. He would have no qualms about interrogating him hard to discover the truth about this letter. And while he did so, he could question him concerning Thomasyn Jade’s whereabouts.
Ursula Dancer was pushing her handbarrow across the courtyard when he arrived at Dowgate. He hailed her. ‘A good day at market, Ursula?’
‘Surviving, Mr Shakespeare. Just surviving.’
He laughed out loud. Ursula was eighteen years of age and though she had been at Dowgate only since the autumn, she was already part of the family. The children loved her and Jane valued her assistance. Recently, Shakespeare had given her funds to set up a market stall among the booksellers of St Paul’s. He knew some printers and publishers, and had contacts at Stationers’ Hall who had agreed, against their better judgment, to help her make a start. Boltfoot had accompanied her on her earliest outings to ensure she did not suffer violence at the hands of her competitors, but it soon became clear she could look after herself very well in the sharp world of street-selling. And she quickly realised that there were more profitable commodities than books.
‘How much have you sold today?’
‘Every ounce of tobacco I could scour from the ports. And all my pipes.’ She swept her arm across the barrow, which was, indeed, almost empty, save for a few books and some curious artefacts from the Indies. ‘It’s the sotweed that sells, not the books. The lawyers want it and so do the churchmen. I could do the same business twice pigging over, Mr Shakespeare, if only I could find the sotweed to sell!’
‘Well done. But you must also attend to your lessons, Ursula, for if you learn to read and write I do believe you will be a great London merchant one day.’
She screwed her pinched, yet strangely beautiful, face into a smile. ‘Yes, sir.’
He laughed again, for he knew her well enough. When she said, Yes, sir , she really meant, Lessons? Only after I
‘He did not talk much, but there was one thing I recall, master.’
‘Yes?’
‘He asked me where he could get a berth to work his passage from the Thames to the east of England. He wanted to go to Wisbech.’
Wisbech. A papist fastness in the east. The words of Garrick Loake came gusting back. He had said the plot ‘wafts from the papist fastness of the east, gathers force in the seminaries of Spain, but it will blow into a tempest here. A conspiracy the like of which England has never seen.’ Wisbech was certainly a papist fastness, for it was in the castle of that eastern port that the most aggressive of the country’s renegade Catholic priests were interned.
‘Did he say why, Mr Yorke?’
‘He said his home was near there.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I told him I had no idea, master, for it is the truth. I do not even know quite where Wisbech is, though I believe it to be near the Wash.’
‘Did he talk with anyone else about this matter?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Very well.’ He gave the man the remains of the cap, and sixpence compensation for its destruction. ‘Thank you, Mr Yorke. That will be all.’
Chapter 11
O N THE RIVER barge back to London, it became clear to Shakespeare that he must go to Wisbech in Cambridgeshire. The thought of travelling to that remote outpost of England did not fill him with joy, but Cecil would demand it of him, and he would be right to do so. It was almost certain that the letter from Father Persons had been destined for the castle prison there. One name above all came to mind as the intended recipient: the zealous Father William Weston, who sometimes went by the name Edmunds, former superior of the Jesuit mission to England and still highly influential among England’s Catholics, even though he had been incarcerated these nine years.
Shakespeare had met him once before and did not like him much. He would have no qualms about interrogating him hard to discover the truth about this letter. And while he did so, he could question him concerning Thomasyn Jade’s whereabouts.
Ursula Dancer was pushing her handbarrow across the courtyard when he arrived at Dowgate. He hailed her. ‘A good day at market, Ursula?’
‘Surviving, Mr Shakespeare. Just surviving.’
He laughed out loud. Ursula was eighteen years of age and though she had been at Dowgate only since the autumn, she was already part of the family. The children loved her and Jane valued her assistance. Recently, Shakespeare had given her funds to set up a market stall among the booksellers of St Paul’s. He knew some printers and publishers, and had contacts at Stationers’ Hall who had agreed, against their better judgment, to help her make a start. Boltfoot had accompanied her on her earliest outings to ensure she did not suffer violence at the hands of her competitors, but it soon became clear she could look after herself very well in the sharp world of street-selling. And she quickly realised that there were more profitable commodities than books.
‘How much have you sold today?’
‘Every ounce of tobacco I could scour from the ports. And all my pipes.’ She swept her arm across the barrow, which was, indeed, almost empty, save for a few books and some curious artefacts from the Indies. ‘It’s the sotweed that sells, not the books. The lawyers want it and so do the churchmen. I could do the same business twice pigging over, Mr Shakespeare, if only I could find the sotweed to sell!’
‘Well done. But you must also attend to your lessons, Ursula, for if you learn to read and write I do believe you will be a great London merchant one day.’
She screwed her pinched, yet strangely beautiful, face into a smile. ‘Yes, sir.’
He laughed again, for he knew her well enough. When she said, Yes, sir , she really meant, Lessons? Only after I
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