Revenger

by Rory Clements

  Shakespeare held up the palm of his hand. “I really don’t think you and my lord of Essex quite understand-”

  “Oh, we understand, all right. We understand, too, that you are in sore need of funds-funds which we can provide in exchange for a small service that may take you no more than a few days. An old colleague of yours informs me that you are the perfect man for the task.”

  “An old colleague?”

  “You will meet him soon enough.”

  Again Shakespeare demurred. “Mr. McGunn, I still feel as if there is something I am missing here.”

  “Well, let me say just two words to you: Walter Ralegh. Now do you understand my lord of Essex’s interest in the matter?”

  Shakespeare knew, of course, that the Roanoke colony had been Ralegh’s child. That it was he who had won patents from the Queen granting him permission to sponsor the colony and had raised the necessary gold for ships, crews, supplies, and settlers to make it work. It had been a critical investment for the great courtier, for he had persuaded the Queen that the colony-and his plan to found a great town in Virginia grandly called the City of Ralegh-would bring untold riches to her coffers. But what had all this to do with Essex?

  “The point is, Shakespeare…” McGunn said slowly, as if spelling out the obvious to a small boy. “The point is that my lord of Essex and Sir Walter Ralegh are not easy companions. In truth-and I do not care if you repeat this-they would happily plunge red-hot pokers up each other’s arses if in so doing they could cause the other pain and further their own influence at court. For you must know that they see each other as chief rival for the Queen’s favor.”

  “But that does not explain why it is so important to find this Eleanor Dare.”

  McGunn ran a leathery hand over his sweat-dripping bare forehead. He pulled at his gold hoop earring, all the while staring at Shakespeare with an expression on his fleshy, canine face that hovered somewhere between condescension and intimidation. “Because Ralegh is already in bad odor,” he said quietly. “He has impregnated and married the Queen’s lady-in-waiting Bess Throckmorton, and Elizabeth is in a towering rage. She has had them arrested and held under close arrest. Ralegh is on the ground; he will not raise himself up with poetry this time. Only treasure will buy his way back into the Queen’s heart. Treasure from Roanoke. That is why we must find Eleanor Dare-for she alone knows what happened. Is the colony still alive? Does it thrive? Can Ralegh expect a fleet of gold? Or have all perished-and with them his hope of redemption? Do you understand now, Shakespeare? My lord of Essex does not want Ralegh ever to get off the ground again.”

  Shakespeare acknowledged the logic. Ralegh’s fate depended on Roanoke. With the colony not proven dead, he had hope still. With the colony gone, he had none. This was court politics. No one cared about the missing men, women, and children. This was about power and position. Shakespeare understood it all now, and saw too that there was danger here, extreme danger.

  To get caught up in an affair such as this between two of the most powerful men in the land was like finding yourself trapped in a burning attic; do you die by burning or by jumping? This was a deadly game between Essex and Ralegh. Leave them to it. “I am sorry, Mr. McGunn,” he said. “This task you ask of me is out of the question. Please apologize to my lord of Essex on my behalf, but I cannot possibly accept his kind offer.”

  There was no longer any ambiguity in McGunn’s face. His lips curled back and his yellow teeth moved against each other so that Shakespeare could hear an unholy grinding noise, as if they would crack like glass against each other. “Did I mention the twenty sovereigns?” McGunn said as if it were the last offer before a knife under the rib cage.

  “Twenty sovereigns, two hundred sovereigns. I cannot be swayed, Mr. McGunn. The task is not for me.”

  McGunn’s hand flashed out like a serpent’s jaws and clasped Shakespeare by the throat. With just the one hand, he lifted him clear off the floor. Shakespeare’s hands went to his throat to try to dislodge the enormous hand that was choking him, but without effect. McGunn’s hand was rigid and of immense, unmovable strength. He looked up into his eyes and mouthed words that Shakespeare could not hear as blood rushed to his brain. Of a sudden, McGunn dropped him and he fell in a heap to the wooden floorboards. Shakespeare gasped for breath; his hands rubbed his throat. He knew now what a hanged man felt in the moments before death took him.

  “You don’t understand, do you, Shakespeare,” McGunn said, his soft Irish brogue dripping malevolence. “No one-and I mean no one-turns down my lord of Essex. And more than that-no one turns me down, either. In death’s name, this isn’t an offer we’re making you. It’s an order.”

  McGunn relaxed and smiled his easy smile once again. He patted Shakespeare on the back. “There we go. No hard feelings, Mr. Shakespeare. We’re all men of the world. And I am certain we shall work very well together and share a drink or two in the tavern when our toil is done.”

  Chapter 5

  T HERE IS NO COLD LIKE THAT WHICH A MAN FEELS when he is in the midst of an unresolved lovers’ quarrel and yet must try to sleep. Catherine did not join her husband in their bed. When she did not appear, Shakespeare went to the nursery, where he guessed she would be. In the flickering light of his candle, he saw her lying on blankets beside their child’s cot, her face turned away from him. He stood there a minute, watching her, not sure what to say. He said her name, but she did not respond.

  He knew she was awake, perhaps feeling as desolate as he. He sighed inwardly, watched her a few moments more, then quietly left the room, shutting the door after him. In the morning, he decided, he would apologize to her for his intransigence. Whatever the risks, he should have let her accept the invitation of her friend Anne Bellamy to attend the mass, see this Jesuit priest Southwell one last time, hear him say his superstitious words. What harm could a few words of Latin do? All over the country, seminary priests and Jesuits hid in secret places and said hundreds of masses every day in defiance of the laws that branded them traitors. Surely it would be safe enough for Catherine to have gone, just this one time. Did he not owe her that much?

  T HE SUN WAS STILL LOW when the four boys ran out into the meadows near the village of Wanstead in the county of Essex. They had a pig’s bladder from the shambles, blown up tight and tied secure so that it made a football. The first boy, a strong lad of twelve, kicked the ball far into the grass and they all chased after it.

  As one, the three fastest boys fell on the ball, pushing and punching each other to get to it. The fourth of them was close behind and snatched up the bladder from under the pile of laughing, grunting bodies. They lunged for him, but he was too nimble for them and punted it away into the oaks and ash at the edge of the wood. Once more the chase was on and they ran into the wood, hitting and tripping each other as they went.

  The wood was thick with bracken and brambles that scratched their legs. At first they could not find their ball. Then the big twelve-year-old, his nose dripping blood from the sharp elbow of one of his friends, put a finger to his lips for the others to be silent. Crouching low, he crept forward, down a slight incline. He could hear the light babbling of a stream and he could see naked flesh.

  “Over there,” he whispered. “They’re swiving, I’m sure of it. I can see them. Let’s get a look.”

  The boys stifled giggles and followed him silently through the ferns. All were tense with excitement at the thought of catching a man and woman at their business, here in the open air, like rutting farm animals.

  “Look at the tits on that,” the nimble lad said.

  Suddenly the big boy at the front stopped. He sniffed the air. “I don’t like this,” he whispered. “I don’t think they are swiving.” Ahead of him, a startled fox scurried sideways, its ears pricked. It loped off into the darkness of the wood, something in its jaws. The boy took no note of the fox; his eyes were fixed on the naked flesh. He stood up and gasped at what he could see. A few yards ahead of him, half in and half out of the stream, wa
s a pair of entwined human bodies. Their unclothed flesh was bloated and blood-flecked. Flies buzzed around them, and other insects crawled over them and into them. The boy felt bile rising in his throat at the overpowering stink and put a hand to his mouth.

  “God’s bloody teeth,” the nimble one said. “God’s bloody teeth, they’re dead. Both of them.”

  Chapter 6

  S HAKESPEARE HAD BEEN STRICKEN WITH GLOOM all morning. On waking, he had wanted to apologize to Catherine, but she was already up and gone.

  “I believe she went to the market,” Jane, their maid, said.

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “No, but it is the day she likes to go, and she left Mary with me.”

  As Shakespeare picked at his repast of cold beef and onion pie, with a beaker of ale, Boltfoot Cooper brought a message from McGunn. “I suspect it is by way of a warning or threat, Master Shakespeare.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Roanoke calls. Fetch your mangy English arse to Essex House by dusk tomorrow and there shall be gold. Fail me and there shall be penury and pain.’ ”

  Shakespeare laughed without humor. “Yes, it is fair to assume that is a threat, albeit couched in playhouse terms, Boltfoot. Did he not wish to talk with me himself?”

  “I asked him. He said there was no point. He said he was sure you would see things his way.”

  “And what did you say, Boltfoot?”

  “I told him to go piss his Irish breeches, sir.”

  “Thank you, Boltfoot. I could not have put it better myself. However, I fear we have not heard the last of Mr. Charlie McGunn.”

  Boltfoot turned to go, then thought better of it. “Excuse me, master. I wonder whether you have heard the news today.”

  “What news is that, Boltfoot?”

  “The Jesuit priest Southwell is taken. It is bruited all about town. Topcliffe discovered him at a manor house in Middlesex, then brought him in a cart to his Westminster torture chamber this very morning with a guard of fifty pursuivants on horse.”

  Though he sat at the table, Shakespeare felt his legs turn weak as though he would not be able to stand. “Southwell taken in Middlesex?”

  “In the Bellamy house.”

  Where was Catherine? He had seen her curled up beside Mary’s cot late last night-surely she could not have somehow slipped out and gone to that house? Shakespeare was seized by fear, a terror so intense he felt his chest encircled by icy tentacles. There was a hammering at the door and Boltfoot shuffled away, dragging his clubfoot, to answer it.

  Richard Topcliffe stood there, alone, incongruous in his court satin and ruff. Richard Topcliffe-white-haired priest-hunter, torturer, prosecutor, and executioner-a man who had his sovereign’s ear and gloried in no title other than Queen’s Servant.

  “Boltfoot Cooper. What, not dead yet? We shall have to attend to that.” He pushed past Boltfoot into the antechamber and stood a moment, hands on hips, legs astride, looking about him. “So, this is Mr. Shakespeare’s spawning ground for Papist traitors.”

  In the next room, Shakespeare got up from the long oaken table. He knew instantly who it was; that cur-like voice, which he had not heard in five years, would always fill him with foreboding. He went straight through to the anteroom to confront him. “Topcliffe,” he said. “You are not welcome in my house.”

  “Hah, Shakespeare. You did not think I had forgot you, I hope? A pretty pile you have here, pleasingly placed beside the river. I believe this building will be mine one day, when I secure your conviction for treason. And that cannot be long in coming.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Why, sir, I bring you information. There have been complaints lodged against your school. The bishop does fear that you are in breach of your license, teaching of saints and relics and superstitious treason. I am to report to him whether this house of easement should not be closed down.”

  “You lie, Topcliffe. These are nought but lies.”

  Topcliffe put his hand inside his green doublet and brought forth a paper. “You will see. But I have good news, too. News to delight you, I am sure. This very day I have disturbed a hill of Romish ants and plucked forth the chiefest among them, one Robert Southwell, also known as Cotton. And all in a house I believe your Papist wife knows well. Are you not pleased, Shakespeare, that traitors have been apprehended and will be questioned by me?”

  Shakespeare stepped forward, closer to Topcliffe. “What has this to do with my wife? What do you know of her?”

  Topcliffe laughed and tapped his silver-topped blackthorn stick against the dark paneling and the boards. “Why, is she somewhere here, perchance, hid away?” He unfurled the paper he had withdrawn from his doublet. “Do you know what this is, Shakespeare? It is a tree of your dog-mother wife’s family in Yorkshire, sent me by friends. Did you not know that there are Topcliffes in Yorkshire? Your wife, it seems, does come from a veritable litter of dog-mother Papists.”

  Every muscle and sinew in Shakespeare’s body was taut. Topcliffe was here to gloat, but gloat about what exactly? There was nothing new in Catherine’s Catholicism; Topcliffe had known of it for years. Was it the taking of Southwell that he came for or something else? Shakespeare felt a pang for the Jesuit, but his problems were of his own making; he knew the penalty of entering the country illegally, he must understand that in law he was guilty of high treason and would be dealt with by the full weight of Her Majesty’s unforgiving authority.

  There was a movement and the door to the antechamber opened. Suddenly, Catherine was there, in front of him, dressed in a light summer kirtle and smock, clutching a basket filled with fruits and salad vegetables. She glared at him, then noticed Topcliffe and her angry expression deepened to red fury. Shakespeare let out a long breath of relief; so she had been to market, not caught at the Bellamy house.

  “Catherine?”

  “What is he doing here?”

  “Thank God you are safe.”

  She ignored her husband and focused her attention on Topcliffe. “I hear you have taken Father Southwell. You must be proud of yourself. Did my husband tell you I wanted to be there, Mr. Topcliffe, and hear the mass said? I wish I had been there when you called with your band of cowards.”

  “I wish it, too. For certain I had expected you there. But fear not, your time will come, as it will to all the Antichrist’s whores. Southwell, the boy-priest, is already talking, squealing like a pig that is being relieved of its sweetbreads. Why, he can scarce get breath enough to tell me about the treasons of Mr. and Mrs. Shakespeare, and I do not even have him against the wall yet.”

  “And what of Anne Bellamy and her family?”

  “Anne Bellamy?” Topcliffe thrust a pipe of smoldering tobacco between his brown teeth and furled back his aged lips in a corpse-like grin. He drew deep of the smoke, then belched it out in a cloud. “Why, she was the dirty slattern that told us where the sodomite Jesuit traitor was hid, under the eaves. I smelled the greased priest by his farting and plucked him out from his stinking hole. Her Majesty will double up in mirth as I tell her how I tickle his parts in my own strong-room. I will put him down like a plague dog so that he can no longer spread his evil pestilence. As for Anne Bellamy, we shall make a Protestant of her yet.”

  “Get out,” Shakespeare said, pushing Topcliffe in the chest. “Take your stench from my house.”

  “I shall have you all against the wall, too. And then I shall prosecute you in court, and when you go to the scaffold, I will be beside you with the filleting knife in my hand, drawing out your entrails and feeling your blood run through my fingers into the dust where it belongs.”

  Boltfoot Cooper was behind Topcliffe now, wrenching at his elegant green satin doublet, dragging him backwards toward the door as Shakespeare pushed from the man’s front. Topcliffe was laughing all the while, prodding at Shakespeare with his blackthorn. “This house, this maggoty den of Papistry, is no longer protected, Shakespeare. Walsingham is cold in his grave and no
one will look out for you. When you are dead, your child and Woode’s orphan spawn will be taken to Bridewell and handed to the taskmaster to have the Antichrist’s demons flogged out of them forever.”

  Topcliffe was strong, but Boltfoot was powerful, too, and with Shakespeare’s assistance he soon had the intruder out on the front step. Not that he put up much resistance, for he had said what he came to say and he had other business to attend to. Even as he strode away for the barge to Greenwich, his dark good humor was evident in his cruel face; he had the prize he had waited six years to secure and he would bask in his sovereign’s favor.

  Shakespeare watched him walk away along Dowgate, then went inside and slammed the door shut. He was shaking. Catherine eyed him coldly.

  “You see what you have brought us to, Mistress Shakespeare?” he said. “You see what peril you bring to this household?”

  For a few moments, they stood facing each other like two fighting fowls about to be let loose with spurred talons. “Mr. Shakespeare,” she said sharply. “A man whom I am proud to call friend has been taken by that brute and you shout at me. He will destroy his body and use all his power to break his soul, and he will have the full panoply of this heretic government behind him. It is said in the marketplace, where none talk of aught else, that the Queen danced for joy this morning when word reached her of Father Southwell’s arrest.”

  “Then you must see the danger, madam. He had a chart of your family in Yorkshire with their Papist leanings ringed in ink. He meant to snare you. That is what we are dealing with.”

  She pushed a hand back sharply across her long dark hair. “I have had enough of this dissembling, attending your preposterous church on fear of a fine. I will have no more of it. You can keep your pseudo-religion, sir, with its pseudo-bishops and sham ministers and a sovereign who arrogantly places herself above God’s vicar on earth. Why, I expect she will pass an act of supremacy over God himself next. Good-day to you, sir.” Without waiting for a reply, she swept into the house and out of her husband’s sight.