smacking into the stone. Sprawling on the ground, he tried to climb back to his feet, but a rough-edged boot caught his ribs, then a hobnailed toe smacked into the side of his head.
‘Papist vermin. Pope’s dirty son!’
He cried out, more in bewilderment than pain, and scrabbled backwards. There were three of them; spotty youths in apprentices’ blue tunics and aprons. He reached towards his belt for his poniard, but one of them kicked it out of his hand, and then brought his own dagger close to Shakespeare’s face.
‘Let’s carve something pretty on you.’
Shakespeare smelt his fetid breath through the fug of his own alcohol-laden senses.
‘A cross? A picture of the scarlet whore? What’ll it be, vermin? What shall I carve?’
Shakespeare grasped the knife-hand and twisted hard at the wrist. The attacker yelped, but his friends moved forward, their eyes angry beneath their flat caps. One of them wrenched Shakespeare’s hand away; the other put his boot on Shakespeare’s chest and thrust him backwards, so that he fell against the wall.
‘Let’s do the filthy boy-priest!’
‘Slit the verminous rat’s throat! See the blood all scarlet like the Pope’s rotten robes!’
One of them grasped Shakespeare’s throat in a shovel-sized hand and squeezed. ‘Give us the dagger,’ he growled at one of his fellows. ‘I want to burst his eyes.’
‘Here.’ The blade was handed over. ‘And then you can stick it up his arse. That’s what these foul boy-priests like. That’s what they do with each other in their rancid beds a-night. Christ’s fellows every one.’
Had he been sober, Shakespeare would probably have fought them off, for they were not strong, but he was floundering and couldn’t focus clearly enough to fight or reason with them. The point of the dagger was coming closer to his right eye. ‘I have money,’ he rasped, the grip tightening on his throat. ‘My purse . . . take my purse.’ He tried to fish for the purse at his belt.
‘We’ll have your glazers and your purse.’ An unpleasant sniggering, breath like a dunghill dog’s.
And then the hand was no longer gripping him and the dagger fell away. For one terrifying moment he thought it was being pulled back for the final plunge into the watery heart of his eyes. He closed his lids tight, but immediately opened them again and saw three other shapes behind his attackers, pulling the youths away. He heard a groan as a punch connected with a stomach, then an oath followed by an anguished groan and the sound of running footsteps.
Shakespeare put his hand to his throat and gasped for breath. He rested his head back against the wall, desperate to dredge up some strength.
‘Mr Shakespeare?’
It was Anthony Babington, holding a lantern and peering down at him.
‘I drank too much . . . they set on me . . .’
‘Have they hurt you? Let me see.’ He gave the lantern to one of his comrades, then knelt down beside Shakespeare’s trunk and began to examine his head, holding it this way and that with soft, gentle hands. Satisfied with what he saw, he turned his attention to Shakespeare’s body and limbs, moving them to test for fractures.
‘I’m not hurt. I must ride home.’
‘Your head has taken a blow.’
‘It’s nothing. A kick by a boy. Please, help me up and I will trouble you no more. Thank you for assisting me, Mr Babington.’
Babington and one of his companions took Shakespeare under the arms and lifted him slowly to his feet. ‘No bones broken?’
‘Maybe a bruise or cut, that’s all. I thank you again.’
‘It was nothing. We are brothers in Christ, are we not? Who were they?’
‘Apprentices, curpurses, I don’t know. They called me papist vermin, so they clearly had an idea who I was.’
‘Ah.’ Babington shook his head. ‘Maybe someone in the Plough alerted them to our presence. It would not be the first time something like this has happened. A group of them beat poor Chidiock here outside the Three
‘Papist vermin. Pope’s dirty son!’
He cried out, more in bewilderment than pain, and scrabbled backwards. There were three of them; spotty youths in apprentices’ blue tunics and aprons. He reached towards his belt for his poniard, but one of them kicked it out of his hand, and then brought his own dagger close to Shakespeare’s face.
‘Let’s carve something pretty on you.’
Shakespeare smelt his fetid breath through the fug of his own alcohol-laden senses.
‘A cross? A picture of the scarlet whore? What’ll it be, vermin? What shall I carve?’
Shakespeare grasped the knife-hand and twisted hard at the wrist. The attacker yelped, but his friends moved forward, their eyes angry beneath their flat caps. One of them wrenched Shakespeare’s hand away; the other put his boot on Shakespeare’s chest and thrust him backwards, so that he fell against the wall.
‘Let’s do the filthy boy-priest!’
‘Slit the verminous rat’s throat! See the blood all scarlet like the Pope’s rotten robes!’
One of them grasped Shakespeare’s throat in a shovel-sized hand and squeezed. ‘Give us the dagger,’ he growled at one of his fellows. ‘I want to burst his eyes.’
‘Here.’ The blade was handed over. ‘And then you can stick it up his arse. That’s what these foul boy-priests like. That’s what they do with each other in their rancid beds a-night. Christ’s fellows every one.’
Had he been sober, Shakespeare would probably have fought them off, for they were not strong, but he was floundering and couldn’t focus clearly enough to fight or reason with them. The point of the dagger was coming closer to his right eye. ‘I have money,’ he rasped, the grip tightening on his throat. ‘My purse . . . take my purse.’ He tried to fish for the purse at his belt.
‘We’ll have your glazers and your purse.’ An unpleasant sniggering, breath like a dunghill dog’s.
And then the hand was no longer gripping him and the dagger fell away. For one terrifying moment he thought it was being pulled back for the final plunge into the watery heart of his eyes. He closed his lids tight, but immediately opened them again and saw three other shapes behind his attackers, pulling the youths away. He heard a groan as a punch connected with a stomach, then an oath followed by an anguished groan and the sound of running footsteps.
Shakespeare put his hand to his throat and gasped for breath. He rested his head back against the wall, desperate to dredge up some strength.
‘Mr Shakespeare?’
It was Anthony Babington, holding a lantern and peering down at him.
‘I drank too much . . . they set on me . . .’
‘Have they hurt you? Let me see.’ He gave the lantern to one of his comrades, then knelt down beside Shakespeare’s trunk and began to examine his head, holding it this way and that with soft, gentle hands. Satisfied with what he saw, he turned his attention to Shakespeare’s body and limbs, moving them to test for fractures.
‘I’m not hurt. I must ride home.’
‘Your head has taken a blow.’
‘It’s nothing. A kick by a boy. Please, help me up and I will trouble you no more. Thank you for assisting me, Mr Babington.’
Babington and one of his companions took Shakespeare under the arms and lifted him slowly to his feet. ‘No bones broken?’
‘Maybe a bruise or cut, that’s all. I thank you again.’
‘It was nothing. We are brothers in Christ, are we not? Who were they?’
‘Apprentices, curpurses, I don’t know. They called me papist vermin, so they clearly had an idea who I was.’
‘Ah.’ Babington shook his head. ‘Maybe someone in the Plough alerted them to our presence. It would not be the first time something like this has happened. A group of them beat poor Chidiock here outside the Three
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