Revenger

by Rory Clements

  “Possibly. It all depends whether Eleanor has made contact with them. Tell me what you know.”

  Starling grinned broadly, delighted with her information. “You can talk to Mr. Foxley Dare yourself-he stands in the pillory less than two furlongs from here, on the corner between the Clock and St. Magnus Cross.”

  “His crime?”

  “Wanton use of a goose. He was to have been placed in the pillory for seven hours, beginning at eight of the clock, and will be in a poor state in this heat. Take a blackjack of ale to wet his parched throat and he will surely tell you all you wish to know, including the goose’s name. It seems Foxley Dare is well known among the whores of Southwark as an habitual frequenter of their services, which is how he was brought to my attention. He tries to gain credit by saying he will soon have his brother Ananias declared dead and inherit property as his nephew’s legal custodian.”

  The maid arrived with Shakespeare’s food. He tucked into the herrings with vigor, licking the succulent juices of the fish from his fingers and tearing at the fresh white bread with his teeth.

  “You seem not to have eaten in days, Mr. Shakespeare.”

  “Not this well, that is certain. One more thing, Mistress Day…”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you heard of a woman named Lady Le Neve-Cordelia Le Neve? I believe she has a past, and I would like to know what it is.”

  “The name means nothing, Mr. Shakespeare, but I shall find out what I can for you from the stews of Southwark. And then you shall owe me another favor!”

  F OXLEY DARE WAS a man of large appetites. His belly was of such prodigious girth that it made the pillory a great deal more uncomfortable and painful than it would be for a man of leaner build. He had been standing there on the plinth, his hands and neck clamped into the holes of the wooden frame, for almost four hours and still had more than three to go. His belly was pressed hard against the pillar and his feet were splayed fully six inches further back than they should have been, increasing the pressure on his neck and spine. It was his lower back and the bones in his cruelly restricted neck that caused him the greatest agony. Yet it was the fierce heat of the midday sun, blistering his face and arms, that threatened to kill him. Pinned to the pillory in front of him was a sign that read simply Did occupy a goose-and not even married.

  A crowd of a hundred or more people had gathered around him, enjoying his agony and humiliation, laughing at him, yelling insults and jests, pelting him with horse-shit, bad eggs, and the occasional stone.

  By the time Shakespeare arrived, the sun was full on Foxley’s face and there was a very real danger he would not survive.

  A tipstaff stood at the convicted man’s side, protecting him from the worst of the crowd’s displeasure. “No large rocks, please, ladies and gentlemen,” he declaimed now and then, holding up his thumb. “If a stone is bigger than this, the thumb on my left hand, then I don’t want you throwing it, for this is not a sentence of death.”

  The crowd jeered all the more and pelted Foxley with a new barrage of dung.

  One woman strode up carrying a live duck that she had just bought at market and held it out so that its beak was just in front of Foxley Dare’s nose. “Give us a kiss, give us a kiss,” the woman said in a voice that was meant to sound like a duck’s quack. In a flurry of feathers, the duck struggled to flap its wings and defecated on its owner’s kirtle, and the crowd roared with laughter.

  Dismayed by the scene, Shakespeare went up to the tipstaff. “I would speak with the prisoner. I am here as an officer of the Earl of Essex.”

  The tipstaff was impressed, especially when handed a sixpenny coin, and allowed Shakespeare closer to the pillory. He stood face-to-face with Foxley Dare, though it occurred to him that he might find the back of his own head to be an interesting alternative target for the jeering mob.

  “Mr. Dare, my name is John Shakespeare. I need to talk with you.”

  The prisoner’s eyes were closed in his red-burned and splattered face. His mouth was open, drawing in rasping, shallow breaths, almost panting like a dog. Shakespeare had a blackjack of ale with him. He poured a little into his left hand and held it to Foxley’s mouth. “Here, sup this.”

  Foxley’s tongue lolled out, all dry and crusted, and touched the liquid. Slowly at first, then more greedily, he lapped at it like a cat. Shakespeare kept pouring more into his hand until he felt the man had had enough. “Can you speak yet?”

  “I need a hat. Please, give me your hat, or a scarf to cover me.”

  Shakespeare took the felt hat from his head and perched it as well as he could on Foxley’s head, covering his forehead and ears and shading his nose.

  “What is the time? Has the noon bell rung?”

  “Soon.”

  “Three hours more. I will die here. I need dung. Coat my face and hands with dung, if you would, sir, to protect me from the sun. I shall not survive else.”

  Most of the horse dung from the center of the road had already been thrown at him and lay in splodges at the base of the pillory. Shakespeare gathered what he could and smothered it over the exposed areas of flesh, to the crowd’s great amusement; they evidently thought Shakespeare’s decoration of the prisoner was part of the entertainment. He gave Foxley Dare more ale from the blackjack. “You know, Mr. Dare, I have to say that she must have been a very pretty goose to make this worthwhile.”

  Dare groaned agonizingly. “It’s all a bloody lie, sir. Those dog-wife, pox-putrid, cross-biting whores made it up when I refused to pay for the use of their lice-infested cunnies. The only goose I’ve ever had was roasted on a platter.”

  “Well, perhaps, then, you should have paid the whores.”

  “Why should I pay for the clap? I will do for them all when I get out of here.”

  “Mr. Dare, I am investigating a matter on behalf of the Earl of Essex. I believe you are the guardian of a boy called John Dare, your brother’s son.”

  “I can’t talk. I can’t even think. Give me more ale, sir, and I will talk with you when I am free of this infernal contraption.”

  “Just tell me this. Is that correct, about the boy?”

  “Yes, yes, and a finer nine-year-old you never met, but I will not talk more.”

  The church bells of St. Magnus clanged out their toll of noon.

  “Four down, three to go, Mr. Dare. I shall return to you anon. Don’t go anywhere in the meanwhile.”

  Shakespeare handed another coin to the tipstaff. “Keep him alive, tipstaff. Make sure he is here for me when I return, and there will be yet another sixpence for you.”

  I T WAS A SHORT distance to Dowgate. Shakespeare walked his gray mare home with some trepidation, wondering what sort of reception he would have from Catherine.

  In the stable block, he handed the reins to the groom, then walked into the deserted courtyard. Two figures emerged from the shadows. McGunn and Slyguff.

  “God’s balls, you have kept us waiting,” McGunn said irritably.

  “I cannot find Eleanor Dare sitting about at home.”

  “Nor by consorting with the Searcher of the Dead, I would suggest.”

  “Have you been watching me, McGunn?”

  “What do you think, Shakespeare?”

  “And what did you learn by watching me take a drink with my good friend Joshua Peace?”

  “I learned that you are straying from the path, prying into matters that are no concern of yours.”

  “I decide what is my concern, McGunn.”

  “And why should you be concerned by a pair of deaths that have nothing to do with Roanoke or Eleanor Dare? Do you think me a coney to be caught and used at your will, Shakespeare? I want to know what game you play at my expense. I want to know why you went missing after seeing Peace, and where you went.”

  “If I know of any murder, McGunn, it is merely by hearing of it in converse with Mr. Peace. Our meeting was arranged long ago. And you say the deaths of Amy and Joe had nothing to do with Eleanor Dare, but I am not certain
that is so.”

  McGunn had a petronel heavy pistol slung over his shoulder. Swiveling it out, with the butt into his chest, he leveled the muzzle at Shakespeare’s face. At his side, Slyguff was alert and silent.

  Shakespeare looked at the barrel and turned away. He began walking toward the door of the school building.

  “Do not turn your back on me, Shakespeare. Men have died for less.”

  Shakespeare glanced over his shoulder. He was angry now. “Then do not threaten me in my own home, McGunn. You think me afraid of you? You are wrong. I consider you a cheap prigger, a base roarer and bully. I have no idea what hold you have over my lord of Essex and nor does it concern me. But you have no hold over me. I will carry out my mission for the Earl in my way and in my time. And if that involves looking into the circumstances of Joe Jaggard’s death, so be it. For was he not seeking Eleanor Dare when he died? If the Earl does not like my methods, then he can find another man.”

  McGunn laughed, but his face showed no signs of mirth. “I will have to teach you fear, then, Shakespeare. Yes, find Joe’s killer and I will reward you. But cross me and you had best look out for your pretty goodwife and your dainty child. In the meanwhile, you will keep us informed of everything you discover, as you discover it. We will not wait long.” His fleshy eyes held Shakespeare’s for two or three heartbeats, then he snorted disdain and strode to the entrance gate, Slyguff at his side.

  Shakespeare was still shaking with anger as he entered the school and encountered his deputy, Jerico, who appeared nervously from a side door, looking downcast. “I thought it best to keep out of their way, Master Shakespeare,” he said.

  “You did the right thing, Mr. Jerico. Are you alone here? The place seems empty.”

  “Plague or no plague, the school has been closed already, sir. I had to turn the boys away this morning.”

  “What?”

  “The bishop’s men arrived last evening, sir, with Rumsey Blade, and brought an order for our immediate closure, citing blasphemous teaching and sedition.”

  “What bishop’s men were these?”

  “Pursuivants bearing the Queen’s escutcheon. Their leader said his name was Topcliffe. He had a foul tongue, master. He said I must leave immediately and threatened me with torture and death. I confess he scared me half witless.”

  Topcliffe and Blade. Shakespeare ground his teeth in anger. He was beyond fear. He was raging with a blood-fury he had never before experienced. He could happily kill these men.

  “Where is my wife?”

  “She and Jane are with the children at the Royal Exchange, for the music.”

  “And Jack Butler?”

  “I have not seen him, sir. But a Mr. Peace came with a message. He asked me to tell you that he had released the bodies and that he believed there was to be a funeral at Wanstead. He said you would understand what it means.”

  “Indeed, I do. Thank you, Mr. Jerico. And fear not, we will save the school.”

  Shakespeare went through to his solar. On the table in the center of the room, he spotted the bundle of papers he had brought back from Essex House. He had left them there, unread, but now, with some peace and quiet for two or three hours while waiting to return to speak with Foxley Dare at the pillory, he found himself flicking through the pages sorted for him by Arthur Gregory in the turret room.

  The main document was written in the hand of John White, the father of Eleanor Dare. It was a report to Sir Francis Walsingham, written on his return to try to secure supply vessels at the end of 1587. It spoke of the hardships of the long voyage across the great ocean to the Carib Sea and, from there, up to the Virginia coast. There had been severe shortages of food and drink. Shakespeare scanned the document with interest, for it filled in gaps in the account he had already read. In particular, he noticed that one name appeared time and time again-Simon Fernandez.

  Fernandez had been pilot on the earlier expeditions and was now commander of the three small ships carrying the colonists. He was Portuguese and was, from what White had to say on the matter, more concerned about playing the pirate and preying on Spanish treasure ships than in getting the colonists safe ashore in Virginia. White spoke of constant battles with Fernandez and of his deep distrust of the man, even calling him “malevolent.” In one margin, close to the name “Fernandez,” Walsingham had written, “What are his true loyalties?” The question did not seem to have been resolved.

  Shakespeare glanced briefly at the other papers. There was a deposition from Fernandez himself, dated November 1588, refuting White’s allegations and calling him “a lying dog.” It added, “Who could trust a man who would abandon his own daughter and grandchild to save his neck?” As a final postscript, it said, “Mr. White complained when we moored at Saint Croix, because there were savages there. This should tell you all you need to know about the white-livered wretch.”

  There were more papers to look at, mostly of only tangential interest. He spent a few minutes studying two torn and faded drawings that he found among the documents. He assumed they had been crafted by John White, who was known as an artist. One showed a strong-muscled warrior with a breechclout covering his waist and privies. He had markings on his skin and feathers in his hair and carried a bow as long as an English archer’s, and a quiver of arrows. At his side was a woman, presumably his wife, bare-breasted with a fringed short skirt and beads about her neck. The other picture showed a native village, protected within a palisade. There were houses and barns and, at the center, a great fire where the men of the village gathered.

  Shakespeare was packing them away when a letter caught his eye. It had a broken seal. He unfolded it and smoothed it flat on the table.

  The letter, a short note from Bess of Hardwick, was addressed to Walsingham and was merely signed “Your constant friend, Bess.” It thanked Walsingham for finding a tutor for the lady Arbella, “one who will teach her well in the arts of becoming a prince of the blood royal.”

  Shakespeare’s jaw tightened. Whatever Walsingham did, there was always a hidden purpose. If he had found a tutor for Arbella Stuart, one thing was certain: the man-or woman-was no mere schoolteacher. He would be employed by Walsingham as an intelligencer. And he would be tasked with reporting every little detail about Arbella and her life back to Walsingham: when she sneezed, what she ate for breakfast, when she came into her time of month, the secret vices of her other tutors and lady’s maids, her reading matter and passions, the attentions of putative suitors.

  So Walsingham had placed a spy at the heart of Bess of Hardwick’s household. And that intelligence might now be known to Essex.

  Shakespeare looked again at the letter and cursed. There was no name. Bess had not mentioned the tutor by name.

  His heart pounded. So this was what Cecil wanted: the name of this tutor.

  One question nagged at him. It could not have been by accident that this letter had come to be here, among documents dealing with the lost colony of Roanoke, which meant that someone within Essex’s household had placed it there for Shakespeare to find. The obvious name was Arthur Gregory, his old friend, who had assembled this packet of papers. But anyone with access to the turret room could have slipped this sheet in with the other documents while they were awaiting collection by Shakespeare. Francis Mills? Thomas Phelippes? Shakespeare did not really trust either of them, but nor could he discount the possibility that they had their own reasons. There were the Bacon brothers, too-Francis and Anthony-both playing delicate political games within Essex’s employment in their quest for high office. And what of McGunn himself-whose side was he truly on?

  Shakespeare folded the paper and thrust it safely inside his shirt. There was a knock at the open door. He looked up and was relieved to see Boltfoot Cooper standing there.

  “Boltfoot, come in. What news?”

  Boltfoot looked disgruntled and hot. He came in, dragging his left foot across the wooden floor. “Nothing,” he said shortly. “A waste of my time and yours, master. And now I cannot fin
d Mistress Cooper.”

  “Jane is at the musical concerts with Mistress Shakespeare, Boltfoot. I know you are worried, but she would not be out unless all was well.”

  Boltfoot looked relieved.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Looking for a Portuguese gentleman. Fernandez.”

  Fernandez: the sea captain whose loyalties had been questioned by Walsingham. “Have you found him?”

  “No. I was given an address in Gravesend, but he was not there. It is a tenement and they said he had most likely gone to sea again. He only ever stayed there while fitting out vessels at the docks. They had not seen him in a year and never knew when to expect him. I have wasted much time on this.”

  “Who told you of him?”

  “A Dutch cooper named Davy Kerk. He was on the Lion. It was an unhappy place to be.”

  “How did you find Kerk?”

  “Through a seafarer in a boozing ken. Cost me six ounces of sotweed. My last six ounces,” he added ruefully.

  “Do you think there is anything to be gained in going back to this seafarer? What about going back to the cooper?”

  On the long barge journey back from Gravesend, Boltfoot had been wondering about Davy Kerk. Had he deliberately sent him on a useless errand to find Fernandez? There was something not right about Kerk, something he couldn’t nail down. He wanted to find out more about Dutch Davy. Boltfoot growled, a sign that he had made a decision. “I will. You are right-I’m not finished, Master Shakespeare. I’ll go back to cooper Kerk at Hogsden Trent’s.”

  Shakespeare clapped Boltfoot about the shoulder. “Don’t worry about Jane. She is in good hands and will soon be out of this murrain-infested city. If we go in haste, I will leave word for you. And God speed your inquiries.”

  The truth was that Shakespeare did not really expect Eleanor to be found, because he did not believe she was alive, let alone here in England. But for now, however, it was expedient to be seen going through the motions of the Roanoke inquiry with vigor and purpose. He needed every excuse he could muster to inveigle himself into Essex’s circle and stick to him like daub to wattle.