Shakespeare sipped the brandy. ‘Forgive me, I am here on other matters. I must visit the Lady Trevail, who has estates in Cornwall.’
‘Lucia Trevail? Then your journey is far from done. Trevail Hall is a good deal west of here, abutting Francis Godolphin’s estates. I saw her recently. She broke her journey, staying with Lady Drake and myself at Buckland.’
‘Who was with her?’
‘A retinue of servants, I think. I paid them no heed.’
‘Was there one called Beatrice Eastley?’
‘Not that I met.’
‘Are you certain, Sir Francis? Forgive me for pressing you, but this is mighty important.’
‘I was there the whole time. Lucia was at Buckland Abbey only one night and she dined with us alone. There was no one else. Why? What is this about?’
‘Nothing that I can reveal.’
Drake laughed loud. ‘You were always one for dark dealings, Mr Shakespeare. As I recall, you are an admirer of beauty, too. Lucia is a perfect delicate example of her sex, I think. A gentle summer flower. .’
Shakespeare did not need Sir Francis Drake to remind him.
‘As for this boy of yours, he shall stay aboard ship with me and start his work this very day.’
The Shakespeare house in Dowgate was dark when Boltfoot Cooper reined in at the courtyard close to midnight. That was no surprise to him at such an ungodly hour, but something about the place chilled him.
He lifted the latch on the door and tried to push it open, but it was locked. He was instantly alert, for this door was never locked when people were at home. Suddenly he felt the touch of a crab-like hand on his arm and he pulled back, his own hand going to his dagger with the speed of an adder’s jaws.
‘They’re not here. They are hiding.’
It was the old woman, the nun from Denham. But even as he realised this, the point of Boltfoot’s dagger was at her chest and his other hand was clutching her throat. He immediately relaxed his grip and drew back the dagger.
‘Why are you here?’
‘I am staying just along the road at the Swan Inn as you ordered, Mr Cooper. I gave my word, did I not? And just now, I saw you passing.’
‘You say my family is not here?’
‘Gone to young Cecil’s great house on the Strand. I watched them go. Gone to hide themselves away like molewarps in a tunnel.’
‘And my master, John Shakespeare? Is he with them?’
‘You had best go and see.’
‘I ask again: why are you here?’
‘Because I may have some matter for your master. I have heard something of the reason for his questioning, and I now believe the Lord God would wish me to help him.’
Shakespeare walked through the back streets of Plymouth searching for a house. He had been here once before, in 1587, soon after Sir Francis Walsingham, the late principal secretary, commanded the place to be set up to watch the movements of foreign spies in this most vital of ports.
As the man with complete responsibility for the security of the realm, Walsingham had considered it prudent to have a permanent intelligence outpost in the town. He had spies and correspondents of varying degrees in all the major cities of Europe and beyond, and in all the great houses of England. But he valued this man in Plymouth above all, for it was infested with spies from Spain and the Low Countries. And with the threat of an Armada invasion looming, as it had been then, he knew how dearly King Philip of Spain would love to cripple Drake and his fleets before they ever set sail.
Shakespeare banged at the door with his knuckles. Three times, a pause, and then once. No one came. He tried again, louder, to no effect.
An old fishwife with a basket shuffled down the street past him, then stopped and turned. ‘You’ll find no one there today, master.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Haven’t seen him in a week.’
‘Do you know who he is?’
‘Agent of the Queen, it is said. I know he has dealings with Drake and the sea captains, and also with the mayor and merchants. I do not know his name, but he is friendly enough and touches his cap. Many messengers come and go, as does the man himself. It is no strangeness for him to be away in such days.’
Shakespeare tried the door. It was locked solid. The woman was waddling away.
‘Wait,’ Shakespeare said. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean with the fleets being fitted. Drake and Hawkins off on another great venture, and now the news from Cornwall that the pestilential Spaniards are circling like sharks around a fishnet.’
Shakespeare walked around to the rear of the house, which stood at the centre of a terrace. There was a high wall but the gate in it was open. He walked through the backyard to a door. It was locked, but it was not strong, and he broke it open with his shoulder. Inside, he came across a pantry, which was no more than a store cupboard with plate and jug and a keg of ale.
He pushed on through into the main room. It contained a table and a straight-backed chair, some books, quills, ink, unused papers, a belt and a threadbare hat. No dead bodies, no scene of mayhem. Only a fireplace with the blackened ashes of burnt papers. Good: that meant he was diligent about destroying all messages sent him from London.
A ladder led up from the room to a hatch, which gave way to a loft. Shakespeare climbed up. The upper room was dark and at first glance he thought it empty, but then he heard a sound, like a pig at its feed. He peered more closely into the gloom and spied the mound of a body beneath blankets. Shakespeare prodded it with his foot. It groaned and turned.
‘Wake up, Mr Trott.’
The man emitted a long, drawn-out snore and turned again. Shakespeare bent down and pulled the man up by his shirt, noting the overpowering stench of liquor. He slapped him hard across the face.
Trott grunted with shock and recoiled, scrabbling against the wall.
Shakespeare withdrew his poniard and thrust it against the man’s throat. ‘If I were your enemy, Mr Trott, you would be dead now. Is this what we pay you for?’
Trott went rigid at the touch of the poniard’s point against his skin. Shakespeare pulled the weapon away and thrust it back in his belt. ‘Get up, man. You are a disgrace.’
Trott stumbled to his feet, shivering and shaking. Shakespeare estimated his age as fifty. He had been in the service of Walsingham throughout the eighties and had passed into Sir Robert Cecil’s employ on the principal secretary’s death in 1590. Shakespeare had met him only once before, eight years ago, when he had looked a great deal sharper. He would have to be replaced. But for the moment, Trott was needed.
‘Forgive me. . the ague.’
‘The ague be damned. You have been drinking too much strong beer.’
The man could not stop his shaking. He bowed his head.
‘Now, Mr Trott, collect your thoughts. There is work to be done. First, I need you to collate detailed and to-the-minute reports of these Spanish shipping manoeuvres and send them post to Sir Robert Cecil before day’s end. Go to Drake and local captains for this. Then you are to inquire into the whereabouts of a woman named Beatrice Eastley, also known as Sorrow Gray. I believe her to be in the train of Lady Lucia Trevail of Cornwall and I will be continuing westward in search of her. But there is a possibility the young woman has not made it that far. Lady Trevail stayed at Buckland Abbey and Sir Francis Drake does not recall meeting Miss Eastley there. So perhaps she has broken away from the retinue near here, for it is said she has relatives in the west country. And, though I doubt this, I cannot ignore the possibility that it is true. I can tell you that she affects to smoke a pipe and has a curious, rasping voice. If you find her, detain her in the town gaol until I return. If you fall down on this, if I find you drunk, I shall have you arraigned on a felony charge of misuse of crown monies and you will be hanged. Is this clear?’
‘Yes, Mr Shakespeare. Please do not tell Sir Robert.’
‘That is in your hands. Find the woman and you may be given another chance.’
Chapter 24
Two days later, Shakespeare arrived at Trevail Hall. He found the old building bathed in late evening sunshine. Its grey stone walls nestled into warm folds of woodland as though it had always been there, placed by God rather than man. It seemed to Shakespeare the most perfectly proportioned house he had ever set eyes on.
He trotted his horse up to an arched gateway, which led into a pleasant courtyard. A groom appeared and took the reins while he dismounted. The groom summoned a serving man, who informed Shakespeare that Lady Trevail was visiting the Godolphins for a few days. It was only a short ride away, or there was an inn close by if he so desired. The hour was late and it would be dark soon, but Shakespeare accepted directions from the footman and rode on.
Godolphin House was only two miles further on and the sun had just dipped below the horizon as Shakespeare made his entrance. It was built around a courtyard, with stables near by. Like Trevail Hall, it was made of granite, but it was larger and more splendid, as befitted the deputy Lord Lieutenant of the county, Sir Francis Godolphin.
He heard music. The leaded windows were lit by the flames of many candles. Shakespeare handed his horse into the care of the stableman and went in search of a servant. A pair of pikemen barred his way and made him wait outside while one of them went to fetch a more senior officer. After a few minutes a grey-haired man appeared in black clothes and a crisp white ruff, inquired after the nature of Shakespeare’s business, then asked him to wait in an ante-room.
‘Sir Francis might be a few minutes. He is entertaining guests.’
Shakespeare turned away and examined his surroundings. The room was richly appointed with linenfold panelling. Indeed, the whole house reeked of the great wealth that the Godolphin family had accrued from the mining of copper and tin. He swung round at the sound of footsteps. A man of military bearing with a ruddy face and a good-humoured aspect stood before him.
‘May I inquire who you are, sir?’
Shakespeare gathered that this must be Sir Francis Godolphin and bowed to him. ‘John Shakespeare. I am from the office of Sir Robert Cecil.’
‘Good evening to you, Mr Shakespeare. You are welcome.’ He took his guest by the hand. ‘And you will be pleased to know that you are arrived in good time for the dancing. Come, sir, join the revels for you have come a damnable long way and must need stretch your legs and take wine and food.’
‘If I might just explain why I am here.’
‘Well, I hope you are here because of the hostile Spanish shipping in these waters. I would like it all the more if you could tell me that you have brought a company of fighting men with you, but I fear from your face that you have not.’
‘Have there been more sightings?’
‘Spanish ships-of-war have taken an English merchantman in the Channel and it is possible they have captured more fishers, six men of Newlyn, whose craft has not returned to safe harbour. The Spanish galleys have also been spotted off the north shore of Cornwall, past St Ives and close by St Eval. That was three days ago. I am informed that Grenville raised a militia, armed them with calivers and manned the beach; the Spanish did not attempt to land. Of course I have sent messengers with all this to my lord of Essex and to Cecil, but it would be well if a voice such as yours were to press our case to the Council, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘I will take back your reports and recommendations to Sir Robert. But I am also here to talk with a guest of yours, Lady Trevail. A private matter, Sir Francis, but one of most potent concern to the realm.’
‘Sir, it is not my way to inquire into other men’s secrets, so I will not ask you to explain yourself. All I will say is that Lucia is among my oldest friends, and I would wish you to treat her with courtesy and respect, whatever your business with her. Do I make myself clear?’
Shakespeare bowed again. ‘Indeed.’
‘Good man, then come and join the merry-making. We will talk more of hostile Spaniards on the morrow.’
Lucia Trevail had shrugged off her modest court attire and replaced it with a dazzling gown of gold and silver threads that caught the light and made her the centre of attention for every man and woman in the room. In the light of the candle flames, Shakespeare thought her sublime.
There were about fifty guests in the hall, talking and drinking in little groups to the sound of viols and lutes. Shakespeare stood at the entrance as Godolphin clapped his hands for silence. The music ceased, and all eyes turned to him.
‘Lords, ladies and gentlemen, we have an unexpected guest, Mr John Shakespeare. Please do me the courtesy of extending him a warm Cornish welcome.’
The guests all nodded their heads in acknowledgment, but Shakespeare’s own eyes were fixed on Lucia. She smiled and left her group to step towards him.
‘Mr Shakespeare, what a marvellous surprise.’
He took her small gloved hand and kissed her fingers. ‘My lady. .’
‘Am I so irresistible that you travelled this far to see me?’
He laughed. ‘I would, of course, traverse the Straits of Magellan and swim the Pacific Ocean for the honour of kissing your hand.’
‘I should hope you would, for such bounty is bestowed on few and is as precious as nutmeg. Now then, sir, why are you here? Yet again, you are most mysterious.’
He scanned the room. There was no sign of Beatrice Eastley.
‘Are you looking for something, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘Could we repair elsewhere to talk? I have questions to ask.’
‘Why, yes. Let us take the night air. And I should be pleased to have a few answers myself.’
Outside in the gardens, the air was warm. With their way lit by burning cressets of pitch, they wandered through arbours, across a lawn to a bank of yew, where they were well away from eyes and ears.
‘It is about Lady Susan’s companion, Beatrice Eastley,’ Shakespeare said. ‘Is she still with you?’
‘No, indeed she is not. Why?’
‘I had expected her to be here with you.’
‘So had I, Mr Shakespeare, so had I, for we left London together. Along the way, she decided she did not like me or my company, though I am still puzzled as to what exactly happened. I do not lie when I tell you that I have never been spoken to in my life the way that hussy addressed me.’
‘What happened?’
She began walking again, slowly, into the darkness where only the moon and stars lit her path.
‘We were at an inn, just before the leg of the journey towards Buckland Abbey. I was expecting to go to see Elizabeth Drake and from there we would take a little detour to the relatives of whom Beatrice spoke. At the inn, we were in our room and somehow the talk came around to matters of religion. I do not know why, but I had always assumed she was of the same persuasion as me, but it appears I was wrong. In my bags, I had a small copy of sections from Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, telling the horrific yet chastening tales of our brave English men and women who died in the fires of Bloody Mary’s inquisition. Have you read it, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Well, Beatrice suddenly turned into a wildcat. She snatched the book from my travelling bag and tore out the pages, one by one, and threw them on the fire. “Let their memory turn to ashes,” she said, “for they were all heretics and will burn in hell for all time.” I was shocked to my soul and perhaps did not react as quickly as I might. She picked up a cup, threw it at me and called me a heretic whore and worse. Despic able words that I cannot repeat. I shied away from her, for I suddenly wondered whether she might have a dagger, but she merely stood her ground and laughed at me. My fear turned to anger and I told her to get out. She made an obscene gesture, Mr Shakespeare, then spat at the ground by my feet and was gone. I have not seen her since, and I thank God for it.’
‘I need to find her. Exactly where did you part?’
‘A village called Bickleigh, by the bridge over the Exe. Mr Shakespeare, I cannot tell you how distraught I was. Though I did not count Beatrice a friend, yet I had always thoug
ht she must have the makings of a gentlewoman, otherwise why would Susan have taken her on as she had? And, certainly, Emilia always thought well of her.’ Lucia Trevail stopped beneath the spreading branches of a cedar. The music from the hall had faded to a distant hum. ‘I find myself agitated to think of it still.’
Shakespeare touched her arm and his fingers lingered a moment.
Her hand clutched his and held it. They were a quarter-mile from the house and the light cressets.
‘Now you must talk to me, Mr Shakespeare. What exactly is your interest in Beatrice and why have you come so far in quest of her? The last time we met you were engaged on a hunt for Thomasyn Jade. Now it seems you have switched your attention to my erstwhile companion. I believe you owe me some explanation.’
‘Very well. Beatrice Eastley is not her real name. She is Sorrow Gray, the daughter of the late keeper of Wisbech Castle.’
Shakespeare told her all he knew about her conversion and the suspicions now raised against her.
‘Sir Robert Cecil and I had great fears for you, Lady Trevail, for you are close to the Queen.’
‘Are you suggesting you suspected me of something?’
‘I did not say that, but you were in the company of an impostor. We need to be certain: did she insinuate her way into your acquaintance, or was she welcomed?’
She removed her hand from his, sharply. ‘You seem to be calling me a traitor.’
‘You have access to Her Royal Majesty. It is my job to be suspicious.’
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