The Queen was old and fragile. She moved back to her throne and slumped on to her cushions. Above her extravagant starched ruff, her face was coated in white paint of ceruse that clung to her age-lines like marl in the furrows of a field. Her nose was hooked like a hawk’s beak, her lips thin. Shakespeare could not but note that her red wig was the slightest margin askew. And yet her black eyes had lost none of their vigour or perspicacity. When she spoke, her voice was not as firm as once it had been, perhaps afflicted by her reluctance to open wide her mouth and reveal the blackness of her teeth. And yet she demanded attention and even the proud and scornful Essex could not escape the force of her words.
‘We do not recall such days as these,’ she said. ‘Even when Parma and Medina Sidonia threatened our very existence, we suffered no Spaniard on our beaches.’
Her courtiers remained silent. There was nothing to say.
‘Were I a man, I would not have moved from that Cornish beach though I were alone, standing against an army one hundred thousand strong that had sailed in from the sea with all the world’s cannon and shot. And yet, we are told, our Cornishmen fled before a mere four galleys and four hundred soldiers. It is a stain on their county for all eternity, and shames England. What men were these to surrender our realm without laying down their lives? Call them not men, but craven pups who roll over and expose their soft underbellies to their Spanish masters.’
Her voice had risen in the intensity of its fury, but it was not loud, which somehow made it the more terrifying.
‘Mr Shakespeare.’ Suddenly she turned to him. ‘You were there. Why did you not give your life for your sovereign and your country on that beach?’
Shakespeare caught Cecil’s eye and the barely discernible shake of the head. Don’t try to defend yourself, he was saying, ride the storm.
‘I humbly beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty.’
‘Have you nothing to say in your defence?’
‘No, ma’am. All I can tell you is what happened. I cannot say we were right. We fought, but we were greatly outnumbered and outgunned. Sir Francis Godolphin believed a tactical retreat would serve England the better and I agreed with him, for we were a dozen and they were four hundred. We battled our way back to St Michael’s Mount. If Your Majesty believes we were in the wrong, then I cannot disagree.’
‘God’s blood! Now they know what mettle our men are made of – and it is base, sir, base! What now will deter them from launching waves of invasion along our southern coasts, safe in the knowledge that the defenders will flee at the sight of them? This was cowardice, Mr Shakespeare. My father would have had your head for this.’
Shakespeare felt the breath of fury and rather wished he was back on the beach at Penzance, being shot at. He hung his head.
‘Your Majesty—’ Cecil began.
‘Do you interrupt me, little man?’
‘Forgive me, ma’am, but I would speak in Mr Shakespeare’s defence, for I know he will not do so himself.’
‘Defence! What defence is there for cowardice?’
‘I know that Mr Shakespeare hazarded his life in a most perilous mission that may yet prove invaluable to the safety of your realm.’
‘Mr Shakespeare, what was this mission?’
Shakespeare looked at Cecil, who nodded. He drew a breath and began his tale.
‘I scouted the enemy positions, ma’am. I counted their strength and spied out their armaments and formations. Perhaps most vitally, I saw an Englishman with the Spanish commander.’
‘Is this the pilot Burley, the traitor I have heard of in letters from Godolphin and others?’
‘No, this was another man and, from descriptions I have, I believe I know his name. I believe, also, that he is still in the country and that he is among a group of enemy mercenaries and assassins who have been wreaking havoc and death among our own. I fear they threaten your secret networks, ma’am, and perhaps the very future of England.’
‘Who is this man?’
‘I believe his name is Regis Roag.’
As he spoke, he saw the Earl of Essex stiffen.
‘Continue.’
‘Mr Mills, who is presently in Newgate awaiting sentence of death to be carried out, tells me he has been known to certain intelligencing circles for some years. Until now, however, he has worked on our side. It seems he is a turncoat and a cold, ruthless killer. He is also a man who feels deeply aggrieved, believing himself of the blood royal.’
The Queen, for a moment, seemed lost for words.
‘Let me explain, ma’am,’ Shakespeare continued. ‘Mr Roag is so deluded that he thinks himself the son of your late brother, King Edward. He believes he was begotten by him of a young serving maid. No one takes these claims seriously, of course, but it is said he clings to them as a terrier holds a fox in its lair. It is possible he seeks revenge on England for a perceived slight. I think he or his confederates killed a man of ours in Plymouth, one Trott, and tried to kill my man Mr Cooper. It is possible, too, that he is responsible for the murder of Anthony Friday, the playmaker and intelligencer.’
Elizabeth turned to Essex. ‘Have you heard of this man Roag, cousin?’
‘No.’
Shakespeare looked at Essex in astonishment. Why was he lying? He read, too, the subtle smile of Robert Cecil. Go for the kill, Mr Shakespeare. Do your worst, for you have nothing to lose. Indeed, he did have nothing to lose. He had crossed the Earl of Essex before and knew that he would be an enemy to death. Nothing he could say would make matters worse between them.
‘Forgive me for speaking out of turn, ma’am, but it does seem strange to me that Regis Roag is unknown to his lordship, for Mr Mills told me he was for a time in the earl’s service at Essex House. I understand that the earl is an exceeding busy man and has many retainers, so perhaps he was not acquainted with Mr Roag. Perhaps Mr Phelippes knows more than I do.’
Thomas Phelippes pushed nervously at the nosepiece of his metal-framed glasses. He was as brutishly ugly as ever, yet Shakespeare knew that his pock-marked face and lank yellow hair were but the external trappings of the man, and that his head housed a brain as fine as a pearl concealed within the rough husk of an oyster.
The codebreaker nodded hurriedly, avoiding his master’s merciless gaze, then spoke with extreme caution.
‘There was such a man, ma’am – for a while. I took it upon myself to employ him and there was no reason for the earl ever to have met him or to have known of his existence. He seemed useful, for he inhabited the world of the playhouses where treacherous men such as Marlowe and Kyd plied their trade. But I dispensed with his services when it became obvious that he was insane and dangerous.’
‘Did he tell you this story of being our brother’s son?’
‘Constantly, ma’am. I believed it my duty to make some inquiries. What I discovered was that his mother had, indeed, been a drab in the household of the late king, but she had been dismissed for incontinent lewdness with one of the guards. This tale of your brother being Roag’s father is egregious nonsense. But there are many such claims made, as I am sure you are aware. If such tittle-tattle were to be believed, you would have a hundred or more half-brothers and -sisters. But these stories are scurrilous, ma’am, all of them – and no one believes them.’
The Queen turned to Anthony Bacon. ‘Cousin, you are in command of the earl’s intelligence network. Do you have knowledge of Roag?’
Bacon shifted uneasily. He was unhealthy-looking, his face pasty and wan. Finally he nodded, so suddenly and sharply that it might have been a tic rather than a signal of affirmation. ‘I agree with everything Mr Phelippes has said, Your Majesty.’
It seemed to Shakespeare that these men were like children before a stern parent. The Queen surveyed them with her all-seeing eye, then turned to the most difficult son, Essex, the sullen, defiant one whom she loved but could not control.
‘And you say you knew nothing of this man, cousin? We are surprised that you were kept in the dark so. Do you not re
quire reports from Mr Phelippes and Mr Bacon?’
‘I have more important matters than the wild imaginings of some lowly intelligencer. That is why I employ Messrs Bacon and Phelippes. And if our men are dying, I think we should look where our enemies are gaining their knowledge.’ He pointed with menace at Shakespeare, then Cecil. ‘I say there is a traitor in their midst, ma’am. Look there to find the enemy within, I say. Ask Mr Shakespeare why he let Garrick Loake die. Ask him why he did not bring the treacherous Jesuit Weston to the Tower for questioning under torture.’
It was a common tactic to deflect criticism. Simply move the attack on to someone else. It mattered not that the attack was unjustified; for men such as Robert Devereux, second Earl of Essex, all was fair in court politics. Shakespeare understood this, and yet the words stung, for there was an element of truth in them; he should not have let Garrick Loake die without learning his secret.
Cecil stepped in again, showing no anger. ‘Your Majesty, this is all getting away from the true matter, which is that England is under attack from within.’
‘What say you, Thomas?’ Elizabeth addressed Heneage.
‘Your Majesty, it seems to me that Sir Robert is correct. We are under attack. To defend ourselves, we must join forces, not bicker like children.’
‘Our thoughts, too,’ the Queen said. ‘Mr Bacon, what do you say?’ She gazed at Francis Bacon, brother of Anthony and a failed contender for high office.
Bacon looked slightly taken aback, as though unprepared for such a question. ‘I would agree, Your Majesty, that we are under most grievous attack.’
‘But what do they hope to gain?’
‘The destruction of our secret army. Like the late Sir Francis Walsingham, they are learning that knowledge is power, so they wish to do away with our intelligence-gathering capability.’
‘Good. You speak well, cousin. So now that we know the enemy, you can all slay him together. Spare us the detail of your investigations but work out between you your strategy to protect our realm, for we believe you must have brains enough.’ She turned to Essex. ‘And we tell you this, cousin, you will cooperate fully with Sir Robert Cecil and Sir Thomas Heneage. Your men will all work with one another and share intelligence. I will tolerate no politicking among you.’
The men all bowed. The Queen rose.
Shakespeare found himself stepping forward. ‘Your Majesty—’ he began.
‘Mr Shakespeare, sir, do not try our patience. We have heard what you have said and we accept that you have shown some valour, but this audience is now over.’
‘Forgive me, but I would crave your indulgence on one other matter.’
‘Very well. Are you going to tell us that you have found Thomasyn Jade as we commanded?’
‘No, ma’am, I am afraid not.’
‘Then why do you think we would be interested in what you have to say? You are a man of remarkable contradictions, Mr Shakespeare. One moment, you seem a fine defender of our realm, the next you are running from the beach or failing in a simple mission.’
Shakespeare refused to be daunted. ‘It is the case of my colleague Mr Mills, ma’am. He faces the hangman in a matter of hours, and yet he has done great service to the realm and, more to the point, I have grave doubts as to his guilt.’
‘What was his crime?’
‘He was convicted of killing his wife and her lover.’
‘And was there evidence enough to hang him?’
‘I fear there was, ma’am.’
‘Then he must hang.’ And with those words, she swept from the chamber.
Six men sat around a table in the Earl of Essex’s sumptuous apartment. On one side, stiff and serious, Sir Robert Cecil held his position beside his chief intelligencer, John Shakespeare. Ranged against them were the Bacon brothers and Phelippes. The Earl of Essex took the head of the table, as if by right of seniority, his tall figure dominant even though sitting. Heneage had remained behind with the Queen.
‘Well, gentlemen, it seems you are to work with me,’ Essex said, looking at Cecil pointedly, then at Shakespeare with distaste.
From the way he said ‘work with me’, it was clear to Shakespeare that he meant ‘work for me’. It was clear, too, that Cecil would have none of it.
‘We know who they are,’ Essex continued. ‘This man Roag, the slithery fat serpent Ovid Sloth, the woman Sorrow Gray or whatever she calls herself, and various others unknown, conveniently allowed into England by Mr Shakespeare and the craven trainbands of Cornwall. What we do not know is their plan. What say you, Francis?’
It was clear to Shakespeare that Essex’s intelligence team had not been sleeping. When he had called in Phelippes to help with the documents and letters seized from the priests, Cecil had told them about the Wisbech situation and Sorrow Gray. Essex would certainly have had letters from Godolphin concerning Ovid Sloth; but had Cecil told him about his disappearance?
He wondered, too, about Topcliffe. The white dog was out of gaol now. He would most certainly wish to help Essex if it could do Shakespeare damage.
‘It must be an attack on the Queen’s person. It is what Spain and that scarlet whore the Pope have attempted time upon time these past thirty-seven years.’
Essex slammed his fist on the table. ‘God’s wounds, Shakespeare, you bear responsibility for this. You saw Roag when he landed. Why did you not kill him then? You let him go, sir! Thanks to your negligence, they will now have a small army of assassins landed in England. Nay, a large army! They did their utmost to abduct and kill Mr Phelippes here.’
Shakespeare looked across at Phelippes. ‘You seem remarkably healthy for one who escaped narrowly from such a heinous foe. What did they do, Mr Phelippes, hit you with their toy rattles?’
‘I was saved by the quickness of my lord’s guards. Do you doubt my word?’
Shakespeare smiled and raised a sly eyebrow. ‘Indeed not. Never have I met a less devious man than you, Mr Phelippes.’
‘Enough!’ Essex ordered. ‘Anthony, have your say.’
Anthony Bacon, more sickly and more studious than his brother, sipped at a cordial of herbs prescribed by his apothecary for one or other of the dozen chronic complaints that assailed him. ‘What I would like to know, my lord, is the true nature of all this nonsense from Wisbech. Why were we not kept informed while Mr Shakespeare delved there? And why did he not bring the stinking Jesuit Weston to the Tower for more stringent questioning?’
Shakespeare was not listening. He had much to do this night. He still had in his hand the note from Lucia Trevail. It told him the position of a room in the depths of the palace. She would meet him there.
‘Have you found the Gray girl yet?’
‘I may be about to make some progress,’ Shakespeare said. ‘When I have found her, she will be presented to you and the Council for questioning.’
Essex was not satisfied. ‘What is this progress?’
‘That I cannot say as yet.’
‘God in heaven, Shakespeare, you always were a treacherous cur, but this is beyond treason. You heard Her Royal Majesty. We must share information. Would you disobey your sovereign?’
‘When I have the intelligence, I will share it. As yet, I do not have it . . . my lord.’ He loaded the words my lord with as much scorn as he could muster.
‘Sir Robert, take your man in hand if you will. We must know everything if we are to fight and destroy this diabolical conspiracy. Is this man up to the task? Why, he has even managed to let Ovid Sloth slip from his grasp!’
Cecil smiled and nodded and listened. Occasionally he contributed a platitude. Shakespeare watched him with admiration, for he knew that inside he seethed. He knew, too, that Essex had shared no secrets of his own, and would not do so, whatever the Queen commanded.
At last Essex had had enough. He stood up from the table. ‘We will convene tomorrow evening at Nonsuch Palace. One thing is certain: we must protect Her Majesty at all costs. Double the guard along the route and double it again at Nonsuch. N
o weapons, particularly pistols, will be allowed anywhere near the Presence Chamber or within a hundred yards of Her Majesty when she is out walking or at the hunt. No one but her innermost circle of courtiers must be admitted to the palace without my written authority as Master of the Horse, countersigned by the Lord Chamberlain. Ensure that all relevant officers understand that, Sir Robert. I will discuss the matter with Lord Hunsdon. And so I bid you goodnight, gentlemen.’
Essex nodded to Cecil then turned to Francis Bacon. ‘Francis, come with me. I have a small task for you.’
Chapter 35
THE CRANES OF Vintry Wharf stood stark against the darkening sky. The aroma of wine and aged oak hung like an intoxicating pall over the river bank where the great barrels were unloaded from the carracks to be taken into storage.
Boltfoot Cooper watched the men leaving work for the evening. He stood idly by in the shadow of a doorway like a crippled beggar hoping for alms. The dockers avoided him; they earned a shilling a day and had no intention of parting with a single farthing of their wages, however heart-rending a beggar’s story might be.
One of the men was about to walk past when he looked again at the ragged beggar. He stopped, grinned and put out his hand.
‘Well, well,’ he said cheerfully, ‘of all the ungodly creatures of the deep, if it ain’t Boltfoot Cooper. Put it there, Mr Cooper.’
Boltfoot smiled from his battered face and shook the proffered hand. ‘The pleasure is all mine, Mr Sands. I was hoping to find you alive and well.’
‘Never been better, Mr Cooper. Can I buy you a gage of ale?’
‘No, sir, you cannot, for I wish to buy you one. And see if I might pick some information from your brain.’
‘To the tavern then, you old pirate. Handling casks of Frenchie wine all day has given me a great thirst for honest English ale.’
They found a private booth in the King Hal and, after ten minutes’ talking about old times and old friends from the days when they had sailed the western sea together, Boltfoot got down to business.
‘I’m looking for a fellow named Ovid Sloth, a wine merchant who, I am told, has a counting house at Vintry Wharf.’
The Heretics (John Shakespeare 5) Page 27