Ana Cabral took Shakespeare to the withdrawing room. ‘Wait here,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘Don Antonio will make himself available to you soon. Servants will attend on your requirements.’ She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘I would enjoy spending more time with you – but I have other matters that must be attended to.’ As she walked from the room, her hips moving in a rhythm like dance, he could not take his eyes from her.
He was brought cold meats and ale, which he consumed. Irritably, he paced the room. He opened the door and looked out. A guard was there, watching him.
‘I need the gong-house.’
The sentinel grunted and gestured with his head towards the far end of the hall. Shakespeare found the hole close by the eastern end of the building, by a boot-room. He had a much needed piss. Adjusting his breeches, he spotted a small, winding staircase. Without hesitation, he ascended to the first floor and found himself in an ill-lit passageway. For a few moments, he looked about him, then crept forward. The passageway led into another. He came to the gallery by the main staircase, near Perez’s chamber. He hastened along it. Further down the passageway he came to the door of another chamber. He stopped; he could hear noises from within. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it gently and it glided further open, soundlessly. He peered into the room. The curtains were drawn closed but enough light penetrated for him to see two naked figures on the bed: Ana Cabral and Perez’s secretary.
Very proud and insolent for a mere secretary. Indeed, he was, if this was the way he served his master’s mistress. And what of her, betraying her lord in the same building where he slept?
Ana lay back on the cushions. Her eyes were open, uncovered by the black patch, staring straight into Shakespeare’s. So the patch was nothing but an affectation, perhaps for Don Antonio’s pleasure, to remind him of his tragic princess. The secretary lay between Ana’s legs, low down, moving slowly, unaware that he was being observed. Ana caressed her breast and smiled at Shakespeare, forming her lips into a kiss.
Shakespeare stepped back, pulling the door silently closed behind him. He stood a moment, his blood thudding from his heart to his yard. He wanted to look again, but he turned away. At the far end of the passageway, he thought he saw the stooped figure of an old woman coming his way, hobbling with a walking stick; then he felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder and turned to see the burly figure of Edward Wilton, the chief of guards.
‘You’re a long way from the house of easement, Mr Shakespeare. Got lost, did we? Let me show you back to the withdrawing room.’
Chapter 12
A TABLE HAD been set for five in the great hall.
‘I believe you owe Monsieur le Vidame a favour, Mr Shakespeare,’ Perez said. He was wide awake and full of vigour after his long hours of rest. ‘I am a generous man. He has told me what favour he desires. So I say to you this: grant him his favour, arrange for me to be presented to the Queen at the royal court, and pay me some token sum – say ten thousand sovereigns – and you shall know my secret. This is information known to none but King Philip and his closest advisers. I promise you this: it is a secret that will drain the blood from those wizened faces on the Privy Council and shock even the Basilisk herself.’
Shakespeare balked at the insult to Elizabeth. ‘Don Antonio, if you have a mind to go to court and to be presented to the Queen, you would do well to think on how you refer to Her Majesty.’
Perez smirked. ‘My humble apologies. Old habits … it was always the way of King Philip to refer to his former sister-in-law thus. I never liked it. A basilisk is a foul-hissing serpent with a gaze that will strike you dead, whereas I believe your queen to be a soft-purring kitten with a gaze that casts golden balm on all she surveys.’
Shakespeare did not laugh, though the others in the room did.
‘My secret comes from the distant past,’ Perez continued. ‘More than twenty years ago. And like good wine, it improves with age and the price must continually rise.’
Perez was at the head of the table. In the background – far enough away that they could not hear the conversation – a trio with viols played a soft, lilting ballad. Perez had been indisposed all day, rising only with the onset of evening. The small gold box from which he had taken the opium spirit lay on the table before him, under his watchful eye. The Vidame de Chartres sat to his right, Shakespeare to his left, with Ana at his own left side. The place beside the vidame was empty, but set with knife and napkin. Would Perez’s secretary sit there? If not, then who?
Shakespeare felt the eyes of his fellow guests upon him. Amusement still played around Ana’s unpatched eye; the vidame stared at him with bored curiosity, though his mouth had the semblance of a smile.
‘In truth, of course,’ Perez continued, ‘it is Philip who is the basilisk. Less than a basilisk, for at least a hissing snake is a fearsome thing. Philip is timorous and cringing. By birth, he is a king, but by nature he is lower than a slurry-man in a pig yard. His mind is feeble.’
‘Oh, I believe him to be a basilisk,’ the vidame said. ‘Do snakes not eat the dirt of the earth and slink into holes?’
‘Hush now,’ Ana said. ‘Mr Shakespeare is here for a serious purpose. He must talk with Don Antonio about matters of state. Without his help, I fear we will be consigned to this pleasureless dungeon forever.’
Shakespeare felt hot and uncomfortable. This dining table was no place to talk with Perez. ‘I would rather negotiate in private, Don Antonio,’ he said brusquely, ‘but I can tell you that the sum you request is too high. It will not be countenanced.’
Servants arrived with platters of roast venison, dainty curlew breasts, suckling pig and a peacock dressed in its feathers. The table was laden with fine Spanish wines rarely seen in England these days.
Perez waved his hand dismissively. ‘We will talk in due course. But you must ensure, Mr Shakespeare, that we go to court without delay. We shall all die of tedium if we have to stay in this wretched backwater a week longer.’
Shakespeare smiled diplomatically. ‘I know that this secret, should you divulge it, will smooth your path to the presence-chamber.’
Ana reached across and touched his hand. She no longer wore gloves and the sensation of her fingers surprised him with their sudden heat. ‘You are a hard man, Mr Shakespeare. Don Antonio has come to you in good faith – a little faith from the Cecils in return would not go amiss. I am sure you will learn the secret soon.’ Her hand lingered. And then her fingertips slid away.
Shakespeare bowed his head in apology. ‘I had not meant to imply lack of trust.’ And yet, in truth, he did not trust any person here in this house. His enforced leisure during the afternoon had been frustrating when there was so much to be pursued in the gunpowder inquiry. And what of the miserable Christopher Morley in the Wood Street Counter while he was idling away his time here?
‘The actions of a quarter-century past reverberate down the years, Mr Shakespeare. You must bring me gold.’
Shakespeare sipped some wine. ‘If I am to get close to your position, Don Antonio, you must tell me more. You must give me enough to commend you to Sir Robert with conviction.’
The broken veins on Perez’s purple face creased into a smile. His hand rested on the small box of vials. ‘Let us talk of the favour for Prégent first.’
‘What could a poor officer of state such as myself offer a member of the nobility of France?’
‘Why, what does any man want, Mr Shakespeare? We all wish the same – soft bright gold, hard red rubies and fine pink cunnies. Of the three, I believe Monsieur le Vidame wants a woman.’
Shakespeare’s gaze fell upon the Frenchman. ‘I am sure the vidame does not need my help in that regard.’
‘But this is a most particular woman. She is a black Ethiop. He bought her and she is his. But she was stolen from him by one of Hawkins’s pirate ships en route from Lisbon to Harfleur. She is now here in England. Monsieur le Vidame wishes to have her back.’
The vidame smiled and raised his fine
chin in acknowledgement. Ana Cabral dipped her fingers into a plate of chicken and pulled a piece of crisp, golden skin from the flesh. She put the skin in her mouth and a trickle of juice ran from her lips. Slowly, her pink tongue descended and lapped all but the last drop back into her mouth.
Chapter 13
BLACK LUCY. THERE were few enough dark-skinned women in England, and fewer still of such extraordinary beauty that a man might search the world for her. Shakespeare did not venture her name, however. ‘You will have to tell me a little more, sir,’ he said. ‘I have met one or two blackamoor women in London.’
‘I call her Monique,’ the vidame said languidly, as if it were an effort to talk at all. ‘But she now goes under the name Lucy. Some call her the Black Abbess, for she has her bawdy-house in a former nunnery. You must know of her, Mr Shakespeare. She is much feted.’
‘Yes, I have heard of Black Lucy. Is she indentured to you? I had no idea. Nor had I heard of Hawkins’s part in her arrival on these shores. I had believed her a free woman and a Christian, though sinful.’
The vidame leaned back in his chair and examined his neat fingers with studied nonchalance. He looked up and met Shakespeare’s eyes. ‘In truth, sir, I care not whether she is a Christian or a mermaid. She is mine and I would like England to return her to me. She is stolen property. Sir Robert Cecil could have no objection. He wishes good relations with the new France of Henri IV, does he not? And I am sure you have enough whores in London that you could manage without Monique.’
As he spoke, the candles in the hall guttered at the opening of a door. Shakespeare turned his head and saw the sleek, copper-hued face of Perez’s impertinent secretary. Then his sinews stiffened, for he was closely followed by another man – a man he had no wish to see.
The secretary bowed with a lazy half-flourish, then introduced the newcomer. ‘Monsieur le Vidame, Don Antonio, Doña Ana, Mr Shakespeare, allow me to present Mr Richard Baines. He has ridden hard from London to attend upon you.’
‘Aha,’ Perez said. ‘Our fifth guest. Take a seat, Mr Baines. You are just in time to dine with us.’
Shakespeare eyed him coldly. He knew Baines all too well. Like Robert Poley, he was an intelligencer from the days of Walsingham, yet there the similarity ended. While Poley fished in the murkier estuaries of intrigue for his prey, Baines flew in more elevated company, scavenging for information at court and in great houses, as a kestrel hunts mice. Shakespeare sniffed the air. The man smelled bad. And yet his clothes were expensively cut – a fine doublet of brown and gold brocade, a modest though modish ruff and riding breeches to the knee, cut from good fustian. Why, though, was he here – and why did his name keep surfacing? It had been Baines who wrote that Kit Marlowe’s mouth should be stopped – just a few days before it was stopped forever. Baines the turncoat, betraying a former friend and partner in crime. He and Marlowe had lived together in the Low Countries and had been accused of counterfeiting coin together. But then their friendship had come apart in volcanic fashion, each accusing the other of planning to go over to the forces of Rome and Spain. The final knife jab had been the note delivered to the Privy Council just a few days before Marlowe’s death. Shakespeare had seen this note during his investigations and he had been shocked to the core. The content itself was bad enough, but that a man should write such things about a one-time friend left him feeling sick to his stomach. The devastating note accused Marlowe of saying
That Moses was but a juggler.
That Christ was a bastard and his mother dishonest.
That Christ deserved better to die than Barabbas and that the Jews made a good choice, though Barabbas was both a thief and a murderer.
That the woman of Samaria and her sister were whores and that Christ knew them dishonestly.
That St John the Evangelist was bedfellow to Christ, that he used him as the sinners of Sodom.
That they who love not tobacco and boys are fools.
That all the apostles were base fellows neither of wit nor worth.
That he (Marlowe) had as good right to coin as the Queen of England.
That the Angel Gabriel was bawd to the Holy Ghost.
Shakespeare knew Baines – and yet he didn’t really know him. He flitted and hunted but did not land long enough for any eye to catch his design. One day he was an ordained Roman Catholic priest, the next a spy for Protestant England. He might have been a player at the Rose, so consummate was his skill at trickery. In looks, he was handsome, tall and well formed. He wore his hair long, though not as long as the vidame’s, and his beard was sharply trimmed. But the inner workings of his mind? That was harder to discern. And had Nicholas Henbird not hinted at some diabolical link between Baines and Topcliffe?
Baines greeted each in turn. He bowed and kissed Ana’s proffered hand. She averted her face. ‘Mr Baines, I must tell you that you stink like the bilge of a home-coming galleon.’
‘I apologise. It is the hard ride from London. Sweat and dirt. I shall bathe.’ He moved on to Shakespeare, and allowed himself to be introduced as though they had never met.
Shakespeare was puzzled. ‘I know you well, Mr Baines,’ he said, refusing to play along with his strange and unnecessary deception. ‘I am certain you must remember me, for we were both in the service of Mr Secretary.’
Baines’s brown eyes widened as if in sudden recognition. ‘Of course – Mr Shakespeare. I felt I recognised you from somewhere, but was not certain where. A thousand pardons, sir.’
‘It is no matter. I see your wish came true in the case of Kit Marlowe. His mouth is, indeed, stopped. You must be exceeding pleased.’
Baines laughed. ‘The world is well rid of him. He denied God. Well, he will know the truth by now, as he screams in the eternal fire.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘I believe it was a Mr Frizer that killed him, Mr Shakespeare. Has an inquest not already concluded that?’
‘Indeed, but who ordered the killing? Who was the motion-man?’
‘Mr Shakespeare, I believe you seek something which is not there, a will-o’-the-wisp. The case is clear and closed. Marlowe had a careless hand; he should have thought more closely before he uttered his blasphemies. And do you think old Burghley enjoyed being depicted as the great overreacher Mortimer?’ He turned and smiled at Perez. ‘I fear we are showing poor manners to our hosts with such arcane talk.’
Shakespeare gazed at Baines with a questioning eye. Not for the first time, he tried to divine what lay in that cold, labyrinthine mind.
‘Well, Mr Baines,’ the vidame said languidly, as if the mere effort of speech was too much for him. ‘Do you bring Don Antonio a fine offer of gold from my lord of Essex?’
‘More importantly,’ Perez put in. ‘Have you brought us fresh whores? I swear I will leave England by the next packet if you serve me another milkmaid or taproom girl. We are in exile, Mr Baines. Can the earl really not take me to court where, I believe, there are clean-scrubbed ladies and maids aplenty?’
‘My apologies, but it is the Queen’s way to make envoys wait. She enjoys discomfiting those who would attend on her. I promise you it will not last much longer, for my lord of Essex is with her and he is certain you will be admitted before July.’
‘And the sum, Mr Baines,’ Perez demanded. ‘What sum has he laid on the table?’
Shakespeare went cold. Was Essex bidding for this secret, after all? Had he some access to new wealth? This complicated matters considerably.
‘I am sure you will be pleased with it, but I would prefer –’ Baines looked now at Shakespeare – ‘to talk of this in private. I do, however, bring you tidings of great moment. There has been another powder blast, an atrocity at the Dutch market, this very morning. I believe there are dead.’
Shakespeare half rose from his chair and leant forward. ‘Do you know more, Mr Baines?’
Baines shook his head slowly. ‘Very little. I was told it was a much larger explosion than the one at the church, and was in a busy place where wi
ves traded with stallholders. Who is behind it?’ He turned towards Perez. ‘I fear the Spanish are suspected.’
‘Most likely. Do not attempt to spare my feelings, Mr Baines, for I am as one with the English. In truth, I would petition the Bas—, Her Majesty to sponsor an invasion to liberate my home country. Dutch, Portuguese, French, English, even the Turks should join forces to oust this king whose empire has grown so great.’
Suddenly Shakespeare wanted more than anything to be away from here. It felt wrong, negotiating for some elusive secret when powdermen were blowing up London and its people. He should be there, in the city, where he was needed. He said a silent prayer.
‘It is a most heinous crime, Mr Baines,’ Ana Cabral said. ‘Which of us is safe if powder is ignited in public places?’
Perez banged his gnarled hand upon the table. ‘Let us talk of pleasanter things,’ he said angrily, reaching for his box of vials. ‘Let us talk of gold – and of the glittering court of Elizabeth Tudor.’
Shakespeare lay on the bed, staring into the darkness. The bedclothes were damp and musty and the air was infused with an unpleasant smell of mould. He could not rest. His mind was in turmoil.
Before retiring to his chamber he had spoken briefly with Perez and demanded to know why he had lied over Essex’s interest.
‘Why are you surprised, Mr Shakespeare? Of course I would wish to discuss the matter of my great secret with my host.’ Perez had shrugged his shoulders dismissively. ‘Such things are my source of income these days. How else may an exile earn his keep?’
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