In her jewel-encrusted shoes of white kid, she picked her way carefully through the dung and the dust along the narrow confines of Fylpot Street. Bays of shops pushed out into the road and, above her, the jettied chambers of fine houses blanked out much of the light. To her nose, she held a pomander of lavender and rose.
“Which house is it, Henry?”
“I believe it is the next door there, my lady. Stone House.”
She smiled her condescending smile once again. She had met the celebrated Dr. Forman on occasion but never, until now, had cause to use his services and certainly not visit his house. His magic tricks and bedtime services were, however, famed among her friends, the ladies of the royal court. She nodded and the coachman beat with the pommel of his whip at the oaken door.
I NSIDE THE HOUSE, Simon Forman had recently finished a late lunch and was enjoying his third swiving of the day with his new mistress, Annis Noke. He liked to call this pleasant occupation a halek, for he kept a record of his daily doings, his alchemy and his experimentations, and wrote in cipher so that none should steal his secrets or ideas. The word halek, which he had invented, seemed as good a code for intercourse as any and appeared many times in his diaries.
Above him, her eyes closed in bliss, Mistress Noke suddenly screamed in ecstasy and he chose that moment to reach his own heady pitch of excitement. She collapsed, shuddering, onto his hair-matted chest and kissed his yellow-red beard and freckled face all over. Panting heavily, she clenched her sweat-glistening thighs about his waist and shuddered once more, grinding her plump body down onto him. She smiled at him, satisfied in a way she had only ever found in this bed, with this strange, squat, and hairy man. For his part, he knew that this giving of pleasure was a gift to him from God, and one he was happy to dispense liberally to any woman who cared to know what heaven was like without dying.
There was a hammering at the door. With a last kiss, he disengaged himself from Mistress Noke, swung his legs off the bed, scratched his member and his balls, and stood up. The infernal sores were still there; the herbal tincture he had devised for the clap was not working. Still scratching, he ambled to the window, then pressed his naked body against the glass panes to get a better view of the street below. A maid in the house on the other side of Fylpot Lane chose just that moment to look up and got a clear view of his diminishing-but still extraordinarily well-sized-tumescence. Forman waved to her cheerily and she met his eye with an immodest gaze. She would make a pleasant repast one day soon. He looked away from her and his eyes turned down to the street below, where he saw a neatly coiffed head of fair, wavy hair that he recognized instantly. “God’s teeth, it’s the She-wolf’s daughter!” he said. “And she has a blackamoor with her. What’s she doing here? Get yourself dressed, Mistress Noke.”
Hurriedly grabbing a shirt and breeches, he stumbled downstairs to the door, fastening hooks and ties as he went. As he opened the door with a disheveled flourish, she swept past him into his antechamber. She stood for a moment looking about her. Lady Penelope Rich. The most beautiful young woman in England; wife to the fabulously wealthy Robert, third Lord Rich; sister to the great Earl of Essex; daughter to Lettice Knollys; stepdaughter to the great Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester; believed by many to be great-granddaughter to Henry VIII by Anne Boleyn’s sister Mary.
“Well, Dr. Forman,” she said at last. “I seem to have found you quite déshabillé, if not to say in flagrante delicto. ”
He bowed low to her, then looked nervously at her servant. “A thousand pardons, my lady. I was merely couching a hogshead away from the afternoon sun. I had not expected you.”
“Couching a hogshead, Dr. Forman?”
“A little afternoon sleep, my lady.”
“Ah. Well, no, of course you were not expecting me, for that would have spoiled the surprise. I wished to see how you lived, Dr. Forman. And I now know. I have certain friends, ladies of breeding, who speak very highly of your… prowess.”
“My lady?”
“But that is not why I am here, Dr. Forman. I am here because I wish you to prepare a chart for me.”
“Ah, charts, my lady,” Forman said warily in his deep Wiltshire drawl. “Charts are dangerous things. Perhaps some refreshment would be in order while we discuss the matter.” He clapped his hands. “Mistress Noke, would you come, please. We have an honored guest.”
Annis Noke appeared at the bottom of the stairs, took one look at Penelope Rich, and curtsied as low as a penitent at a shrine.
“A flagon of our finest claret, please, Mistress Noke-and some ale for the manservant.”
Forman led Penelope upstairs to his chambers and through to the hall where he did his work. It was a chaos of books and papers, charts and instruments, glass vials and powders-all the strange clutter of an alchemist and astrologer. “My humble hall, my lady. Please accommodate yourself on the settle. You are most welcome. Most welcome, indeed. Shall I fetch cushions?”
Penelope Rich did not sit down. “So this is where you do your work, Dr. Forman. This is where you cast your spells.” Her gaze lighted on a pentacle drawn on parchment and pinned to the wall above a coffer.
“My lady, there is no witchcraft here. I deal only in the ancient and honorable sciences of astrology and alchemy.”
“And what, pray, are you working on at the present time?”
“A cure for the plague. Soon there will be much call for it and it will make my fortune. As well as saving many good Christian lives, of course.”
“And charts?”
“I am wary of charts, my lady. No good tends to come of charts.”
“But I know that you make astrological charts, Dr. Forman. And I am certain that you are just the man to make one for me.”
He bowed. No one denied the She-wolf’s daughter. “As you wish, my lady. I will, of course, require a few details. Let me make a few notes, if I may.” Among the rubble of books and papers, he found a quill, which he proceeded to sharpen. Then he scrabbled around until he found an inkhorn. At last he dipped the quill tip into the ink and smiled ingratiatingly at his aristocratic visitor.
“Is it a new-born babe, my lady? Might I have the birth date?”
“The birth date was September the seventh, Dr. Forman.”
“And the year?”
“Fifteen thirty-three.”
Forman looked up at her from his parchment again. This time, his expression was inquisitive yet fearful. “Do you know what date this is, my lady?”
“Indeed, Dr. Forman, I do. It is the date for which I require a chart. I can also tell you the time of birth, which was a little after three of the clock in the afternoon. And I am sure you needs must have the place, too, which was Greenwich.”
“My lady, I cannot do this thing for you.”
“Cannot, Dr. Forman? Do you say ‘cannot’ to me?”
“I mean I would rather not do it.”
“And if I insist?”
“Then I would have to ask you for a great deal of money. A man might lose his liberty, perchance even his head, for divining such a chart.”
“Shall we say three gold sovereigns, Dr. Forman?”
Forman rubbed his throat beneath his dark, bushy beard and grimaced. “I have great reservations. My neck, my head… I feel the sharp edge of the axe and the rough edge of the rope. This is not the thing for those among us who would sleep well in our beds at night.”
“My information, Dr. Forman, is that you do very little sleeping when you are abed. I hear tell of exceeding energetic nights with much cavorting.”
“My lady, you flatter me. There is much gossip and rumor about in these troubled days. The broadsheets, madam, they print calumnies.”
Penelope threw back her head of blonde curls and let out a great laugh. “It is not the broadsheets, sir, it is my friends that tell me this. Now, let us say five sovereigns and be done with it. You will take this offer, or you are like to have a visit from the sheriff, who may wish to lay a charge against you of necromancy.”
“Of course, my lady, of course. I will produce the chart you require.”
“And would you like me to give you the name of the person whose chart I am asking you to divine?”
“My lady, I would like it very much if you would not give me the name. It would not be at all good for my health to know it.”
Penelope laughed again. “You are a droll little man, Dr. Forman. I like you very much, very much indeed. Perhaps another time you will show me more of your famed trickery.”
Chapter 8
T ELL ME, MR. SHAKESPEARE,” CECIL SAID. “WHY DO you think I have called you here to Theobalds and entrusted you with this information regarding my lord of Essex?”
Shakespeare sipped his wine. He felt distinctly ill at ease. “Well, Sir Robert,” he said at last. “I confess I really do not know what to say.”
Cecil looked at him coolly. “You know, of course, Mr. Shakespeare, that Sir Francis Walsingham felt obliged to dispense with your services because of your marriage, but he admitted to me in his latter days that it had been a mistake. He said his secret operation was never so strong again. That is how highly he valued you. England needed you then-and I believe it needs you again.”
“You flatter me, Sir Robert.”
“I am not here to flatter you. There is a vacuum, Mr. Shakespeare. If nature, as we are told, abhors a vacuum, how much more so does the world of secrets. If I do not fill it, others will, others less scrupulous.”
Shakespeare knew the truth of this. Though he was no longer part of that world, it was the one he understood better than any other.
“I need you for this. There are few enough men of your caliber. Yes, there are many spies, men who can be set to a task with the lure of gold, but are they trustworthy? Can any of them inquire, organize, and pursue as, I believe, you can? With relentless energy and attention to detail. With such talents, you are needed. These are dangerous days.”
Shakespeare nodded. These were the most perilous times since the dark days of the Armada-one hundred and thirty warships wallowing slow and purposeful down the Channel under the weight of heavy cannons, culverins, and thirty thousand battle-hardened Spanish troops, all hungry to descend on England with fire and steel. “Yes, I am sure King Philip burns with desire for vengeance,” he acknowledged.
Cecil smiled thinly. “Good. It is good that you understand. I have firm information that forty great galleons are being built in the ports of Spain-forty fighting ships and each one finer than the best vessels of war that Philip threw at us before. He is strengthening his ports; he is preparing to attack again. The prospect of a second Armada sent against us is very real, Mr. Shakespeare. Like a pack dog, Philip watches England closely for signs of weakness. When he sees us tired, sick, or divided, he will go for our throat.”
“But we are strong at sea.”
“Not as strong as we were. The war chest is bare. Many of the great ships are laid up in port, neglected and in need of refitting; others are sent fishing or trading. At home the country grows weaker. Our crops fail; the plague comes upon us; armies of vagabonds roam the land, bringing terror to villages and towns.”
Shakespeare knew all this. By the same token, he knew that Spain, too, had her troubles. The endless war in the Spanish Netherlands had drained Philip’s treasury. Nor could Spanish morale have recovered from the beating inflicted on the Armada by Drake. But this was no time to argue such points.
“The worst of it, Mr. Shakespeare, is this constant speculation about the succession. This is what makes us seem feeble. Courtiers and ambassadors talk of little else when they huddle in corners or dine together. Maids of honor twitter and gossip and examine the Queen’s face for every wrinkle, every lost hair, the state of her teeth, any perceived diminishing of powers that might signify the end is near. What, they wonder, will become of them when the Lord takes her? It is a contagion of fear. King Philip sees it and plots how he may exploit it.”
“How, then, Sir Robert, does this bring you to your conclusion regarding my lord of Essex?”
“Let me tell you a little about Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex. He is a strong man, valiant in war, formidable at the tilt, charming and amusing. That is why the Queen loves him. That is why so many cluster around him. When a strong man rises up in times like these, he becomes a lodestone that draws weaker men in. Especially when, as in France last year, he personally knights twenty-four of his men, much to the dismay and fury of his sovereign. Why does he do such a thing unless he would build up a power base of men who owe him everything?”
“But he is not of the blood royal,” Shakespeare pointed out. “The Scotch king, James VI, must surely have a prior claim. The young Lady Arbella Stuart, too. Even the Countess of Derby or her son Lord Strange…”
Cecil interrupted. “Many do not want a Scotchman as their king. The Countess of Derby is long in the tooth-or what few she has left-and has no support. Her son is tainted with suspicion of Catholic sympathies. There are those who believe it must, then, be Arbella. She is English-born and has youth and, some say, beauty to commend her.”
“Then Arbella must look most likely to succeed.”
“What would you say if I were to tell you that she is being wooed, secretly, by Essex?”
“I would say that my lord of Essex has a wife. He is married to Frances, daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham and widow of Sir Philip Sidney.”
Cecil stood and signaled to a flunky to take their empty glasses. He began to walk again through the gardens, basking in the dappled sunshine and warm air. Shakespeare followed him, studying him intently. Never since his days working for Walsingham had he met a man so utterly in command of himself and his surroundings. It seemed almost that he did not blink without first weighing up the consequences. He would be a hard man to warm to, but an easy man to respect.
“You are not so innocent, Mr. Shakespeare. You did not work for Mr. Secretary for nine years without learning something about the dark heart of man. Do you think this Devereux family is one that cares for such legal niceties as a mere marriage contract? When Essex’s mother, the regal Lettice, married Leicester, was he not already wed to Lady Douglass Sheffield? He tried to claim it was some false marriage, but no one believed that. And what of poor Amy Robsart, Leicester’s first wife, who had a most unfortunate-yet convenient-fall down the stairs to her death while her husband was trying to win himself a queen for his wife? What is one little life against a matter so great? What is a little fall down the stairs? It cured all poor Amy Robsart’s ills and might have won Leicester the crown. Do you think the Countess of Essex will fare better?”
Shakespeare was thinking fast. He was astonished that Cecil should reveal his suspicions in this way.
“A small thing like a wife is but a minor inconvenience to such men, Mr. Shakespeare.” Cecil’s face was hard-set now. This was no jest. “Let me tell you more about my lord of Essex.”
They approached a wooden bench that stood against a wall of the house beneath a peach tree. Cecil gestured for Shakespeare to sit. Sunlight glanced off his shoulder. Cecil perched himself on the arm of the bench, one foot touching the ground.
“I have known my lord of Essex since we were boys,” Cecil said. “He was my father’s ward after his own father died. We were schooled and brought up together. We never liked each other. Though I was three years the elder, he was always bigger than me and greater at the manly sports. On the tennis court, he was exquisite in his grace and skill, while I could only watch and wonder. And, of course, he taunted me for my physical weakness, as boys will.
“But I also knew that I had advantages over him. He could never hope to match me at the classics, at the languages of our continental neighbors, at law and the study of governance. He lacked rigor. When I was fourteen and he was eleven, he challenged me to a duel. He had made some foul remark about my crooked back being a result of my mother conceiving me at the time of her flowers, and I responded that at least my mother had not poisoned my father. I should not hav
e spoken to him thus, but it was said in the heat of the moment. I tried to laugh off his challenge of a duel, but he insisted and said that it was my right to choose the weapons and the battleground. And so I said, ‘If that is the way it is to be, then I choose chess pieces as my weapons and the squared board as the battleground.’ He became angry, very angry, and said I was a coward. I told him that, clearly, it was he who was afraid to take up my challenge, and I went off to fetch the chess pieces and board. We played and I was beating him with considerable ease. He went away and said he would be back anon. He returned with a morgenstern. Are you familiar with a morgenstern, Mr. Shakespeare?”
“Of course I know of them. I have never seen one.”
“They are maces, much favored by the Habsburg troops. The word ‘morgenstern’ means ‘morning star,’ for they have a heavy iron head, spiked like a star. My lord of Essex took his morgenstern and swung it with all his great might down onto the chessboard, which was a fine piece, cut from marble and brought from Verona. The board was smashed into fragments, as were many of the playing pieces. He then kicked the rubble away with his soft-shod foot and said to me, ‘Checkmate. That is what I shall do to you one day, Robin Crookback.’ ”
Cecil paused for effect. Shakespeare knew that there was no love between the two men, but he had no idea it stemmed from such an episode.
“I spotted something in my lord of Essex that day, some dark ambition that even he could not understand, let alone control.”
Again, Shakespeare said nothing.
“My father has seen it, too, Mr. Shakespeare. The Queen will not see it, however. She takes pleasure in the attentions my lord of Essex pays her and is beguiled by him. He swoons and affects a swain’s devotion to his maiden love, his Queen. So we must protect her without her knowledge.”
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