“Maggie Maeve found herself trapped, along with the Spanish and Italian soldiers and two hundred Irish men and women who had joined them to fight the English. She had no way back to me, for the English laid siege to their makeshift fort with artillery. All escape was blocked off. After three days of bombardment, it was clear the situation was hopeless and so the besieged Spaniards and their Irish allies hung out the white flag of misericordia. They then surrendered, believing their lives were to be spared.”
“What happened?”
“What do you think happened, Mr. Shakespeare? The English slaughtered them. Every man-excepting the few Spanish nobles that might raise a ransom-was disarmed, bound, and cut to pieces one by one by the English soldiery. Butchered like oxen: a hack of the sword to the neck, sometimes severing the head, sometimes not, then a thrust to the stomach to make certain. Hew and punch. That was what they did to the men. First, though, they saw to the few women that they had caught. Nor was Maggie Maeve the only one with child. They hanged them by the neck until they were dead. They strung up Maggie Maeve like a common criminal, though she was nothing of the sort. She was a beautiful fine girl with a smile and laugh that would light a room brighter than a thousand beeswax candles. They strung her up and killed her and my unborn child. She looked a lot like your wife, Shakespeare. Long dark hair, blue eyes.”
“I’m sorry,” Shakespeare said.
“Well, it’s a grand thing to be sorry. But I didn’t want your apology or your pity. I wanted your blood, and your wife’s blood, and I wanted it to flow and flow until the whole world was washed red. Because nothing you can do or say can bring Maggie Maeve back to me. Mr. Slyguff was the same as I, an honest tanner, until the English took his tongue and cut it from him with his own shears, then set about snipping his brother’s fingers as if they were manicuring his nails.”
Shakespeare’s stomach turned. “But what had the Roanoke colonists to do with all this? I recognize King Philip’s thirst for vengeance for the defeat of his Armada. But what were those people to you?”
“Ah, now, that’s the story, isn’t it? Let me tell you this. The English force was commanded by one Arthur Grey of Wilton. I care nothing for him. He is a mere stain on the world. The one I wanted was the one that oversaw the killing field, who took delight in kicking away the ladder from beneath Maggie Maeve’s feet and who watched her die, though she was heavy with child. The man who waded in the blood of men who had surrendered in good faith that they would be shown English mercy. He is the man I have pursued all these years. He is a man revered by your stinking nation, Mr. Shakespeare, and you know him.”
Chapter 45
R ALEGH?”
“Of course Ralegh. He was the butcher, and I have dogged his steps ever since. I have piled treasure upon treasure on Robert Devereux of Essex to increase his favor and reduce Ralegh’s. I have gone to the ends of the earth to destroy his ambitions and plans for a New World colony. I have killed his soldiers and his mariners, one by one. I made sure Essex dripped word in the ears of your sovereign when I heard of Ralegh’s new marriage so that he now languishes in the Tower. And I have told him about it all. He knows what happened at Roanoke. Oh, he knows it, for I wrote it for him plain. Everything I have done has been done to hurt Ralegh. Bit by bit, piece by little piece, I have cut the flesh from his reputation, bringing him ever closer to ruin and despair.”
“Why not simply kill him?”
“That would be but a moment’s pleasure. I wanted him to live long and be haunted until the end of his days. I wanted him to be married so I could destroy his wife and his child. He had to know that I would traverse the world to destroy him and all that was his. Vengeance without end.”
Shakespeare felt sick in his stomach. Could a man pursue vengeance with such relentless persistence down through the years? “But how do you know it was Ralegh? Were there survivors?”
McGunn laughed bitterly. “No, there were no survivors. But there was one there unseen: Maggie Maeve’s young brother was hidden behind a rock. He saw it all and described the man to me, though he was but six years old at the time. And later, years later, in the year 1585 when first we came to England, he pointed him out to me wide-eyed with horror and there was no doubt. I saw the terror and revulsion in his eyes and I knew for certain that it was Ralegh who had done this thing to my wife. It was as certain as if it had been printed on his eyes with a press. My vengeance burns now as bright as it did the day I learned what the English had done at Smerwick.”
“And Essex?”
“I was in England making my fortune, for I had a great need of gold. I gave your filthy people what they wanted and exacted my price. When I learned of the enmity between Essex and Ralegh, I knew that Essex must be my friend. And a good friend I have been to him, giving him gold aplenty. I asked nothing in return, for I knew that, enriched, he would give me what I needed: humiliation for Ralegh. It was a simple trade, though I doubt Essex ever had the wit to understand its workings.”
“But you speak of Ralegh’s wife and child as though you would even take vengeance on them…”
McGunn’s lips curled down in the humorless likeness of a smile. “His child is already dead, Mr. Shakespeare. Poor little Damerei Ralegh, damned and dead in the night.”
“This cannot be so.”
“Oh, can it not? Well, you shall see. And you shall know who has done it.”
“Well, McGunn, it is over now. There will be no more killing by you.”
“Just the one more…” He nodded to the flagon of ale and Shakespeare put it once again to his lips. “No. No more.”
“You must surely have deduced the name of Maggie Maeve’s brother, Mr. Shakespeare?”
“Joe Jaggard.”
“I had him brought up here in England, with a cousin, but he was always my boy. Do you think I could die with his death unpunished?”
“His killer is dead. He took a blow intended for me. He was a murderer, but he died honorably, saving my life.”
McGunn’s brow creased. “Do you still think Sir Toby Le Neve killed Joe and Amy?”
“I know it to be so, McGunn. There can be no doubt.”
“Then you know nothing. If you want the killer, go to London town, to a house on the corner of Beer Lane and Thames Street, by the gun foundry, and there you shall find your murderer.” McGunn burst out laughing, even though it hurt him greatly.
As he laughed his eyes strayed past Shakespeare, but the humor never left his face, even as Eleanor Dare stepped silently into the room, picked up Boltfoot Cooper’s loaded caliver wheel-lock from the floor where Shakespeare had placed it, reached forward with the octagonal muzzle full in McGunn’s thick-set, fighting-dog face, and fired.
E LEANOR HAD WAITED and watched as Catherine’s eyes grew heavy. Finally, when Mr. Shakespeare’s wife could no longer stay awake, she rose quietly from the makeshift palliasse of blankets. Her throat was agony. A dark-bruised weal ringed her tender skin and her windpipe was so constricted that her rattling breathing was shallow and strained. She struggled to contain the noise as she walked barefoot from the little room to the other room, where she saw Shakespeare and McGunn and the wheel-lock on the floor.
She knew how to use a pistol as well as any man. All the women at Roanoke had been trained in their use. As she came into the room, her eye caught McGunn’s. He was laughing at something. That was good, because it distracted Shakespeare long enough for her to pick up the pistol. McGunn was still laughing at the point of death, as she thrust the infernal weapon close to his face and fired.
The recoil knocked her back. The ball gouged out the center of McGunn’s face, throwing him back against the wall.
As Shakespeare grabbed the smoking weapon from Eleanor’s hand, she was shaking. Tears were flowing from her eyes like the rain that battered the land outside. Through the fog of her tears, she gazed upon the gaping red cavern that had appeared in the triangle between McGunn’s eyes and the bridge of his nose, leading deep into the remains of his b
rain.
“That was for Virginia,” she whispered, her hoarse voice barely audible. “And for Davy and all the others.”
Chapter 46
T HE SOUND OF CHILDREN’S LAUGHTER DRIFTED UP from the garden to the open window of the second-floor chamber where Shakespeare lay naked beneath the sheets on an old oaken bed.
He opened his eyes and gazed up at the canopy above him. It was threadbare, but had once been a fine hand-woven fabric patterned with roses, all entangled like lovers’ limbs.
The light that streamed in at the edges of the curtains told him it was daytime; other than that, he had no idea whether it was morning or afternoon, nor which day. All he knew was that he was back at the home of Catherine’s parents, and had collapsed, exhausted, on this bed, falling straightway into a deep slumber.
His shoulder, now cleaned and bandaged, throbbed where he had been skimmed by the musket-ball. He breathed deeply and caught a heady, musky scent. He reached out his right arm; she was there, beside him. His hand lingered on the soft warm skin just beneath her left breast. His fingers traced her ribs. She did not shy away from him.
Without a word, she nestled closer to him in the warm pit of this comfortable cot. She wrapped her legs around his and her hand went to his yard and caressed it with exquisite tenderness. It needed little encouragement.
She kissed his neck. “Hello, husband,” she said in a quiet voice. “I have missed you.”
He lay still on his back, stretched out, enjoying her touch and willing it not to stop. She was pushing herself against his side as her hand stroked him and teased him. He turned half toward her and his hand caressed the base of her spine and the curves of her buttocks.
“I swear you have the finest arse in Christendom, Mistress Shakespeare.”
“Have you sampled them all, sir?”
She kissed his mouth, deep with longing. Her legs parted more, she moved across his body, and her hand guided him into her. They gasped together at his entry and filling of her.
“Mistress,” Shakespeare whispered, aware that the house was full and sound traveled, “you part your legs like a wanton.”
“And you prance up like a satyr, sir,” she breathed into his mouth. “Now, if it please you, stop your talking and get about your business.”
They rose to ecstasy together, then lay joined for half an hour, holding each other, saying not a word, until he began to rise again inside her and moved his body once more, turning her and twisting her. She responded with eager abandon and they took their fill of joy. And so the afternoon wore on, to the accompaniment of birdsong, the rustling of leaves in trees, and the hopeful notes of children’s laughter.
H E LEFT THE NEXT morning for London, leaving Boltfoot to bring them all down south to him when he sent word that the plague had eased.
On his return to Masham, Shakespeare had spoken at length to the constable and coroner and had sent a sealed note to the lieutenant of the county. No word of this was to come out until Sir Robert Cecil had been consulted and decreed what was to be done. In the meantime, Eleanor Dare was to stay in the house of the Marvells on pain of arrest if she tried to leave. Catherine and her mother would bring her soothing broths and lotions for her injured neck. There was no question of any charges against her at present; Shakespeare had removed the bindings from McGunn’s corpse before the constable arrived with Boltfoot at the shepherd’s cottage. It was clear, he said, that McGunn had been killed in self-defense. The sole survivor of his band of mercenaries, a sallow, taciturn forty-year-old of little wit, was charged with attempted murder and had no defense. He would be hanged for his crimes by week’s end.
Shakespeare and his wife had talked and made love all afternoon and most of the evening, only rising from their chamber for a cup of wine and some pigeon pie to replenish their strength and to give some supper to the children. She understood that her husband had to see Cecil, but she was loath to let him go.
“I fear I have been a poor wife to you, John,” she said as he prepared to mount his gray mare and ride south.
“There were faults on both sides. Let us put it behind us.”
“I had thought there was no crossing our religious divide. It seemed to me you did not understand that there are worse things than dying, that you can starve from spiritual hunger, that Anne Bellamy’s fate is more wretched than anything Topcliffe could devise for his torture room.”
“You must think me a man of little faith.”
“No, not that. I knew all along that your only thoughts were for my welfare. But you asked too much of me.”
“I am sorry.”
“Do not be. You did your duty, trying to protect those you loved. Yet, I must confess to you that before I came here I had decided to ask you to grant me a separation. It seemed to me that we could never live together in peace.”
“And now?”
“Now I cannot bear to be without you.”
He had tried to smile and say he loved her, but emotion constricted his throat and mouth and rendered him speechless. He averted his eyes and patted his horse’s neck rather than meet his wife’s gaze.
“The same old John Shakespeare,” Catherine said, laughing lightly. “Too sentimental for his own good; too sentimental to be an intelligencer, that is certain.”
“But that is what I am.”
“I know. You have been a schoolmaster too long. Leave it to Mr. Jerico. He will make a fine job of it. Work for Cecil.”
Shakespeare nodded.
“And John, when you are in London, find out what you may concerning Father Southwell. I pray for him every day, but I fear his suffering must be truly terrible.”
“I will ask Sir Robert what may be done.”
T HE RIDE SOUTH took four days-days of intermittent rain, gray skies, and brisk winds. He arrived at Theobalds to be told by Cecil’s manservant Clarkson that his master had departed for the West Country on urgent royal business. A Portuguese carrack named the Madre de Dios had been taken off the Azores and brought in triumph to the port of Dartmouth. It was said that the vessel was the richest ever seized by English privateers, heavy laden with spices from the East Indies, along with chests flowing over with gold, silver, silks, and gems. But triumph was quickly turning to disaster as mariners and merchants plundered the cargo. The Queen was in a rage, for a large portion of treasure should have been hers by right. Cecil’s task was to protect what was left and recover what had been taken.
“It is said that mariners in the ports of Devon are all drunk, night and day, and are easily known for they all stink of rare Orient perfumes. They sell pearls and amber for the price of a tankard of ale, Mr. Shakespeare. The roads west are packed with merchants, hurrying to buy the treasures from the pillagers. Sir Robert is so concerned that he has summoned Sir Walter Ralegh from his cell in the Tower, to go west to help him in his task of bringing order to the region; the Navy’s treasurer, Sir John Hawkins, believes that if the men will listen to anyone, it is Ralegh.”
“Sir Walter is a free man, then?” So much, thought Shakespeare, for McGunn’s vengeance.
“Not exactly. He is kept under the guard of keepers all the while and will return to the Tower when his mission is done. As for his wife, Bess Throckmorton, she remains in the Tower at the Queen’s will.”
“What of their baby?”
Clarkson shook his head sadly. “The boy Damerei? He has died. The child was born sickly.”
Shakespeare shivered. “Was there any suggestion of foul play, Mr. Clarkson?”
“Not that I have heard, sir.”
Shakespeare arched his aching back and winced. It seemed to him that he had spent two weeks on horseback. His shoulder was healing well but his saddle-sore inner thighs were as ill-used as a Southwark whore’s. Now another ride beckoned.
“If I may prevail upon you, Mr. Clarkson, I would be grateful for food, a bed, and a fresh horse for the ride west. My gray mare has done more than enough these past days.”
Clarkson stopped him with his ou
tstretched palm. “Do not think of going down there, Mr. Shakespeare. Sir Robert received your message from Hardwick Hall and commanded me to tell you that he will see you on his return.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“He says that he trusts you have the evidence. That is all.”
T HE STREETS OF LONDON were overgrown with weeds. Flies buzzed around the dogs that lay dead on every corner. Rats scuttled unhindered along the clogged drainage kennels. Rosemary and other herbs had been scattered about in a pathetic attempt to cleanse the air of the plague miasma. The pestilence was doing its foul work regardless. People still went about their daily business, but in fewer numbers. Those who did not have to leave their homes didn’t. Those who had enough gold had left for their country estates long ago. And each day the plague men dragged more cartloads of corpses to the mass graves.
Shakespeare found Simon Forman in remarkably good spirits at Stone House in Fylpot Street. He seemed tired, but otherwise healthy. The astrologer-physician welcomed his visitor with a warm shake of the hand.
“It is good to see someone who does not have the pestilence, Mr. Marvell. I spend all day every day tending to them and dispensing my miraculous tinctures.”
“Indeed, Dr. Forman. I trust they are more miraculous than your charts, for you were certainly wrong about the death of a certain person of high rank-and you could not have chosen a more inauspicious day for a wedding.”
Forman grinned broadly, his generous red lips creasing apart in the small gap between his bushy golden red beard and mustache. “And I am the happiest man in England that my chart erred concerning the great lady, but nor am I surprised-for is she not the sun itself, and do not the very stars trace their paths about her elegant and stately progress?”
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