Revenger

by Rory Clements

  Bess frowned, and though the smile was ever present she was obviously put out. “Mr. Marvell, I would have you know that I ensure my granddaughter is safe at all times, wherever we are. When we are at court, I never let her out of my sight. She is constantly chaperoned. And here at home, she is either with me or with my maids or her tutors. She is no more in harm’s way in Chelsea than she will be in Derbyshire.”

  He bowed and said nothing.

  She raised a hand. “But I have said I will do Sir Robert’s bidding. Let that be an end to it.”

  Shakespeare began to understand how, from relatively humble beginnings, this woman had accumulated such wealth and power. He had one more question.

  “May I ask about your household staff, my lady? I think it would be well if you were to re-examine all credentials and letters of recommendation of those close to her. I know that such a course of action would set Sir Robert’s mind at ease.”

  “Then yet again I shall do as he wishes. And if I see one word in Spanish, or even the semblance of a Spanish name, I will dismiss them on the instant.”

  Shakespeare found himself laughing. She was mocking him, but he supposed it was earned. He guessed, too, that she would do as he asked. If she had ambitions for her granddaughter, it was as much in her interest to keep her safe as it was for Cecil.

  Shakespeare bowed low, thanked her once again for her forbearance, and the bluecoat appeared and escorted him out.

  At the postern gate, he turned briefly and looked back at the house, with its intricate patterns of brickwork, its soaring chimneys, and its tall windows. He saw a girl at one of the windows. A girl in a cream and yellow dress. Her face was serious before its time. Her large, unblinking eyes seemed to be gazing into the distance, across the fields and woods, as if looking for someone or something. It was a face of the most unutterable sadness. As he looked, her eyes turned down and met his. Briefly, for two heartbeats, their eyes locked. Her expression did not change, but she looked away and moved from the window, back into her cavernous prison.

  S HAKESPEARE WAITED in a private antechamber at the palace of Whitehall. He wore artisan’s clothes and a cowl, having changed from his formal attire in a spinney on the common land at Chelsea; he could not afford to be recognized in this vast palace of gossips.

  At last he was shown through to the office where Sir Robert Cecil was busy planning the Queen’s annual progress west. Concerned by the plague, she had insisted plans be hurried along so that she might be away from the city as soon as possible.

  Cecil was issuing instructions to an assistant on the route to be taken and the provisions required. Elizabeth’s luggage would be carried on four hundred wagons. She would need stabling and feed for her two thousand five hundred horses on each stage of the journey. She would be accompanied by hundreds of guards, knights, courtiers, and other dignitaries, many with entourages of their own. It would be like a town on the move.

  It occurred to Shakespeare that Cecil’s office was the sort of room Walsingham would have favored: austere and businesslike. Yet this was more ordered than Walsingham’s office had ever been. Tables were bare save for the document Cecil was working on at that moment; files of correspondence were neatly stacked on shelves. The neatness told much about the precise workings of Cecil’s mind. Also telling were his quiet, though costly, clothes. On his feet he wore elegant pantoufles, slippers faced in dark blue velvet with a gold braid.

  He did not seem pleased to see Shakespeare. “I trust you were not followed here,” he said abruptly.

  “I was not, Sir Robert.”

  “Be wary, Mr. Shakespeare. If you are seen to be evading their watchers, they will become suspicious very quickly.”

  “I needed to speak with you, Sir Robert.”

  “The masque?” Cecil picked up a paper and read aloud. “Two monkeys, one with a long white beard, the other with a crookback.” He looked up and smiled bleakly. “It must have all been exceedingly mirthful. For myself, it is of no significance; I have been pricked with such barbs all my life. Yet making sport of Her Majesty is another matter. I wish I were surprised by it, that is all.”

  So Cecil did have someone else reporting to him from Essex House. Shakespeare said nothing.

  The young Privy Councillor shuffled the paper away into a file, then brought down another, which he kept folded. “Let me emphasize, Mr. Shakespeare, this is not about me or my feelings. I say to you just this: Essex has worn a crown in his heart all his life.”

  “But he lacks organization.”

  “He has powerful friends. He is brave in battle. Soldiers flock to him, for he is one of them. Look who surrounds him-Sir Roger Williams, Gelli Meyrick, Le Neve, Danvers-martial men, quick to take sword and fiercely loyal to their chief man.

  “His family shares his ambition and urges him forward. You saw his mother last night, Mr. Shakespeare. It is with good reason that the Queen calls her cousin ‘She-wolf,’ for the lady Lettice has sharp teeth as well as great beauty and sees herself as every bit as regal as Her Majesty. It is not just for marrying the Queen’s beloved Leicester that Lettice was banished from court. It was her arrogance, her presumption. What did she think she was doing riding to court in a coach drawn by four white stallions, attended by four footmen in black velvet, and all followed by her knights, friends, and retainers in great coaches? Did she think her cousin would be pleased to be so eclipsed? Or was she then-as now-so proud and assured of her own royal blood that she thought nothing of trying to out-glory her sovereign?

  “Nor has it stopped with her banishment. She merely creates her own court and thinks to mock and surpass Her Majesty. She rides in her gold carriage around London and waves to the crowds who think she must be the Queen herself. Her daughters are the same. They are a coven, Mr. Shakespeare, and they will not cease casting their spells until they have wed Essex to Arbella and have the throne within their grasp.”

  Shakespeare knew he spoke the truth. He had seen what they were doing to Frances, Countess of Essex.

  “Come, Mr. Shakespeare, you seem quite drained. Let us take a little walk in the central court and you can tell me more. We will be undisturbed there. Are you hungry?”

  They went outside into the intense heat of day. Cecil summoned Clarkson and ordered ale and boar pie. There was a small table and chairs in the shade close to the southern wall, and Cecil led Shakespeare there. “I like to work here. The open air and a warm day are good for the soul.”

  “I have just been to Shrewsbury House, Sir Robert.”

  “And?”

  “The Countess of Shrewsbury listened attentively but revealed nothing.”

  “But she has agreed to go north?”

  “Not as soon as you might wish. Two weeks, three…”

  “That is something, at least. The girl will be away from court. She is a curious young lady. She does not help herself with her haughty ways. Many among the Queen’s courtiers despise and shun her for demanding precedence over them, which serves Essex’s purpose well, for he is the only one to pay her much heed. I have watched him this summer courting her with little smiles and touches, which he thinks no one sees. In any other man, it might seem a Christian kindness for a girl in need of friends, but I know Essex too well. I have seen, too, the way she looks at him-with the adoring eyes of a lovesick calf.”

  Clarkson arrived with the pie and ale. Shakespeare ate hungrily and brought the subject around to the turret room at Essex House. “He has some of Walsingham’s old staff there-Phelippes, Gregory, Mills. And you were correct about Mr. Secretary’s papers. It seems they are all there. One section commands my especial interest, but I have not been able to study it unobserved.”

  Cecil nodded gravely. “That is good to know. Very good. I knew that Mills and Gregory were there. I had not realized Mr. Phelippes was also employed by Essex. He came to me asking employment after Mr. Secretary’s death, but I had no use for him then. Perhaps I should have taken him on.”

  “The brothers Francis and Anthony
Bacon are involved with the Earl.”

  “Oh yes, I know all about that.” Cecil laughed. “They do not know which way to turn. Francis Bacon would have the Principal Secretaryship and he ties his fortune to the mast of the Essex ship, but he flaps in the wind. Watch him and marvel how he turns and bends. Pay the Bacons no heed. The others interest me, though. I would know more about Mills, Gregory, and Phelippes. Do you think they might work for me?”

  “Mr. Gregory, I would think. As to the others, I cannot say.”

  “And what do you make of Mr. Charles McGunn?”

  “You know of him?”

  “How could I not, Mr. Shakespeare?”

  Shakespeare weighed up his words carefully. “He seems to hold powerful sway in the Essex household,” he said. “I have never met his like before.”

  “Do not underestimate him.” An expression of distaste flickered momentarily across Cecil’s face. “I believe he funds Essex’s ambitions. Essex requires a great deal of gold. Even with his income as Master of the Horse and the considerable customs duties he receives from sweet wines, he is deep in debt. He lives like a king and I am certain McGunn is paying for it. That is one reason he cannot wait for the crown.”

  “But what does McGunn get in return?”

  “That is for you to discover.”

  “I am certain McGunn would demand much. He is a dark, villainous creature.”

  Cecil finished his small slice of pie and unfolded the paper he had been carrying with him. “This is a letter, in cipher, from an intelligencer in Spain, one that used to correspond with Walsingham. He says that McGunn has been there in Madrid ‘with the displaced Irish nobles and is much respected and feared by them, so much so that they will not betray him for twenty ducats. They shy away at the very suggestion of talking about him, as if he has some secret which would be death for them to speak on. What little I have heard comes to me in hushed voices. He affects to be a merchant and flits here and there at will-England, France, Ireland, Spain-but it is whispered that he trades in flesh and gold. I know not where his sympathies lie, but he is not the common villain you might suppose. He has supped with King Philip at the Escorial Palace and has the benefit of whatever he requires from that quarter. I believe him to be presently in London.’ ” Cecil looked up from the paper. “That must give us all pause for thought, Mr. Shakespeare.”

  Shakespeare shook his head uncertainly. “When was this letter sent?”

  “Eighteen months ago. I would bring in McGunn for questioning-but he would tell us nothing and we would merely stir up a hornet’s nest in Essex House. It is said he has the manner of a Hackney cutpurse, but the contacts and riches of a courtier.”

  “Yes, I would say that is the measure of the man.”

  For the first time, the strain showed in Cecil’s face. His brow was tense and the corners of his neat mouth twitched. “Is he working for Philip or for Essex, or both? Or neither?”

  “Perhaps he offers them each different things. If he funds Essex’s ambitions, he will certainly help Philip, for his actions will destabilize the English realm.”

  “That is possible. Perhaps he sees it as a stepping-stone to removing the English from Ireland. Anyway, we must take him seriously. Find out what you can. And I say again, fetch me the proof I need that Essex is wooing Arbella, for only that will give us the power to stop him in his tracks. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Sir Robert. There is one other thing I must mention in that regard. The Countess of Essex has some strange sickness-of body and mind.”

  “Poison?”

  “Yes. I am certain of it.”

  Cecil nodded. “I am not surprised, Mr. Shakespeare. I will ensure she is protected. Find out what you can. Take what you know of her condition to one well versed in such things and report to me. Here, this is for you.” Cecil handed him a book, The Profitable Art of Gardening. “This is a fine volume. I am sure you will find it excellent reading one day when you have more leisure. But for the moment, I am giving it to you because I do not want you coming to me again; it is too dangerous. Use this as a cipher book. Just mark the page, the line, and the number of each letter on your paper, and I will be able to find the corresponding letter in my own, identical copy of the book. Every fourth letter should be a null. It is a simple cipher, but only breakable if the code-breaker has the book. Keep it safe. Do you have a trustworthy servant to bring me messages, one that can move about unseen and make himself disappear when followed?”

  “I have a servant called Jack Butler. I trust him.”

  “Good. I shall be at Greenwich until the Queen’s progress begins. Be strong, Mr. Shakespeare. I am depending on you.”

  Shakespeare put up his hand before he could be dismissed. “Might I talk of one more matter, Sir Robert?”

  “Be quick. I have a Council meeting to attend.”

  “It is the question of Father Robert Southwell.”

  Cecil’s mouth turned down in displeasure. “You can do nothing to help him. He knew when he arrived in England as a priest that he was committing treason. He has brought this on himself and will perish for his stubborn foolishness.”

  “But in the meantime, Sir Robert, must he be held in the private strong-room of Richard Topcliffe, where he is subject to wanton and un-Christian cruelty? If he were to be removed to the Tower, his examination would at least be scrutinized.”

  Cecil’s face displayed no kindness, no compassion. “This was your undoing before, Mr. Shakespeare. Learn from that and keep away from it now. I know you are not a Papist, but you are too lenient with those like Southwell who would subvert the state.” His eyes lightened a little. “I am doing what I can. The Queen curses Topcliffe as a fool for his unsubtle examinings, so I have already had Father Southwell removed to the Gatehouse Prison. For what it is worth, I have met him and think him an impressive man. He is my cousin, you know. There is a torture which it is not possible for a man to bear, hanging against the wall. And yet I have seen him hanging by his hands in the iron gyves and no one is able to drag one word from his mouth. No wonder the Papists trust these Jesuits with their lives.”

  “Thank you, Sir Robert.”

  “But Mr. Shakespeare, I beg you, take no more interest in Southwell’s fate. It is out of all our hands now-and crossing Topcliffe can do you and yours no good. No good at all. Even with my protection.”

  Chapter 15

  J OSHUA PEACE STOOD BACK FROM THE TWO BODIES laid out before him on the slab of stone in the crypt beneath St. Paul’s. Their flesh was bloated and ruptured and gnawed by animals, yet he could see that they had been a handsome, well-formed couple. Even for a man as used to death as he was, it was sad to see two young human beings come to this. On the floor nearby stood an earthenware flagon, which had been found beside their bodies on the edge of a stream in the woods.

  The stench of moldering flesh would have overpowered a lesser man. Yet as Searcher of the Dead, Peace was accustomed to the smell and went about his business, examining the bodies, looking for curious-shaped cuts that could have been made by a blade, examining their mouths for the telltale signs of burned lips or bitten tongues, sniffing them to determine the date of death. From years of experience, he was able to tell whether they were dead a day, a week, or a fortnight, depending on the season of the year.

  Even in the heat of this blistering day, it was cool down here beneath the great cathedral. Peace worked alone and in silence, his soft shoes padding silently across the stone floor. He heard the creak of the oaken door being pushed open and turned to see who was there. He smiled in welcome.

  “John Shakespeare. Well, well.”

  Shakespeare gagged at the smell and covered his mouth and nose with his hand.

  “Why, John, I have not seen you in a year or more. Do you not say good-day? How goes the world of learning?”

  Shakespeare could scarcely breathe. He backed out of the room.

  “Come on,” Peace said, laughing. “Let us leave these two unfortunate souls and go outside. I don
’t want you bringing up your luncheon over my floor.”

  Peace covered the bodies with their winding sheets, then took off his surgeon’s apron, hung it on a hook, and together they wandered over to the Three Tuns for a tankard of ale.

  “So what brings you here, good friend John?” Peace was a little older than Shakespeare. His head was almost devoid of hair, save for a rim of fine brown locks along the sides and back. His face was questioning and full of wit. Amusement played around his eyes.

  Shakespeare gulped in the fresh, warm air, trying to rid his lungs and nostrils of the foul stink from the crypt. “Why, the thought of a pint of ale with an old copesmate, Joshua,” he said.

  “What else?”

  “What else, indeed. I know you better than that, John Shakespeare.”

  “Let us drink first to clear our throats and cleanse our souls.”

  They settled down in a booth, away from the noisy chatter of lawyers and clerics and booksellers doing deals. As a taproom wench brought them ale, Shakespeare came to the point. “It may not be within your reckoning, but I thought to try you anyway. And if you cannot help, perhaps you might point me toward one who can.”

  “I will do my best.”

  “Would you be able to tell, Joshua, whether someone was being poisoned?”

  “If you were to tell me that a man was doubled up in pain and convulsions beyond enduring, and that he was puking blood the color of dark rusty filings of iron, and shitting a flood, then yes, I could tell you that he might well be suffering poisoning, especially arsenic. But it could just as well be caused by some miasma in the air, or by bad food or water-particularly if others were similarly afflicted. A foulness or blockage in the bowel could cause similar effects to poisoning-the pain, the vomiting, the wish for death.”

  “And what if the symptoms were more general and lasted for weeks?”

  “Yet more difficult to say, for the poison may be delivered in small doses to give the impression of natural causes. As the patient wastes away, a physician might think it to be some strange disease or an evil in the blood. As Paracelsus said, ‘The dose makes the poison.’ He meant, of course, that everything will kill you if you take too much of it. What sets a poison apart is that it will kill in relatively small amounts-perhaps small enough to slip into food or drink without the intended victim noticing.”