own voice now. She had always been able to make herself heard. Now, she knew, she had to make as much disturbance as she could: anything to delay Young and alert Catherine. “You will have to kill me first. How will that look when Mr. Secretary and the Queen hear of it? Or will you fabricate treason against me, too? Maybe you will even hang, draw, and quarter a girl of four years for high treason. Show me your warrant!”
Agitated, the magistrate drew his sword. He was a man in his late forties, much lined by weather and cruelty, but without the raw physical strength that his confederate Topcliffe possessed. He was a spindly man with a stoop. It was easy for him to inflict torment on men-or women-when they were presented to him in chains. This was another matter. He was painfully aware of the need for subtlety in this arrest, and he lacked Topcliffe’s confidence. This serving wench was making things difficult, if not impossible. He looked again at the pursuivant for some kind of support, but there was nothing there. The man would do what he was told, but would not engender any ideas or course of action and might very well balk at the thought of carrying off screaming children.
“Mistress Cawston, I will give you one last warning. You will produce the children now or I will return in force and remove not only the children but you as well. Do you understand? I have the power not only of arrest, but arraignment, and you will be consigned to hard labor in Bridewell. I will see to it.”
“Well, sir, take me… if you can. But you will not take those children while I draw breath.”
Justice Young rose to his full beanpole height. Jane could see that he was shaking with anger, just as she was. But she knew now that he could not kill her. Not here, not this day. This was political and he was afraid of the consequences of the arrest not proceeding smoothly. He was afraid, perhaps, of Master Shakespeare or Mr. Secretary.
“Damn you to hell!” he exclaimed, quivering with rage. “I shall see that you suffer for this.”
“And I shall ensure that Mr. Secretary, our neighbor, knows what you are about, sir.” Even as she said it, she knew it was an idle threat; she could not possibly call on the Queen’s Principal Secretary and lay this tale before him; but Justice Young did not know that.
Young turned and marched to the door, swinging his sword, slashing a tapestry, knocking a good flower vase crashing to the ground. At the doorstep he swiveled his head and looked back at Jane with eyes full of menace. Without a word, he buried his sword in its sheath and went off into the night, his assistant trailing in his wake.
Shakespeare woke abruptly, suffused by a feeling of dread. He felt sure he was not alone. The night was dark and the window was draped. He might as well have been blind. Jumping up from the mattress, he tried to gauge his bearings. Recalling vaguely where the door was, he stumbled toward it and pushed it open. Light trickled into the room from a glimmering wall sconce in the hallway beyond.
He looked back into the parlor. Nothing. Nobody. Just the mattress on which he had been sleeping and some items of furniture, all pushed to one side to make way for him. He shivered and wrapped his arms around his body. Leaving the door open, he went back to the mattress and climbed back under the blankets. He unsheathed the poniard at his belt and clutched it by the hilt in his right hand. It gave him a sense of security. On the floor beside the mattress lay his sword belt. Something did not seem right, or was he just imagining it?
Lying in the flickering gloom, he could not get back to sleep though his body cried out for it. His thoughts whirled around visions of Catherine Marvell and Isabella Clermont. Their faces melded into one and the scent of lust hung over him like an overripe apple in autumn, still moldering on the tree long after the leaves have fallen. He could not wait to see Catherine again, take her again into the sheets of his bed, yet nor could he dismiss the events surrounding the Davis witch and her French whore. Why take an eyebrow? What sort of spell did a witch cast with the short, wiry hairs of a man’s brow?
He must have slept again, for he eventually woke with the landlady’s hand on his shoulder.
“Master Shakespeare, wake yourself. It will be daybreak soon. Will you take breakfast?”
Shakespeare felt a moment of panic. In his dream he had been at home in Stratford with his mother as she made raspberry tarts-a long way away from all this. And then he recalled where he was. The landlady opened the drapes and the first whisper of daylight etched the glass. He got out of bed and stretched his arms above his head. “I will take some warm milk, if it please you, mistress. And I would be grateful if you would prepare some bread and cold meats to go with me, so that I can be on my way.”
Within ten minutes, he was ready to settle up with the landlady and ride on. Through the windows he could see that it was thick with fog outside. He could not wait for it to lift. Herrick might be well ahead of him by now. He reached for his purse at his belt. It was not there. His hand scrabbled for it without effect. So that was what had disturbed him in the night. An intruder had cut his purse away while he slept. All his coinage had been stolen. He looked in dismay at the landlady.
She deduced immediately what had happened. “You have been robbed?”
He put a hand to his forehead. “All my gold and silver.”
Her brow creased. “Are you sure?”
“Unless it came away while I slept. It would be in the sheets.”
They went back into the parlor and searched in vain among the bedclothes. “I am afraid I cannot pay you, mistress,” he said at last. He was quickly seeing the extent of his predicament. Would she demand something in place of money? His coat or sword, perchance? Would she call the constable? Any delay could be critical.
She touched him reassuringly. “Sir, do not think of the reckoning. I am deeply embarrassed that such a thing should happen under my roof.”
“Do you know who might have taken it?”
“Just me and my son, Jake, live here. I would swear on the Holy Bible that it was not Jake. He is a fine boy. I fear it must have been one of the drinkers. Shall I call the constable?”
“I cannot afford to wait. Time is not on my side. But if you will let me go, I will settle the bill with you as soon as I can. This I swear to you. I will pass this way again and you will be recompensed.”
The landlady smiled and shook her head. “I will not hear of it, Mr. Shakespeare. Take your food and a little money-what little I can afford-and God speed you.”
Chapter 39
Harper Stanley lay on his cot, alone in his cabin, in an agony of indecision. Herrick had let him down. If he were to kill Drake, he had to do it now, on this ship, before she docked at Plymouth. There might never be another chance, for when the fleet sailed, he would be assigned a command of his own, away from Drake’s flagship. But here, on this vessel, he could strike while the Vice Admiral slept. The problem was the constant presence of Boltfoot Cooper and the black-skinned Diego. They would have to be killed first. A sword to the heart of the one on watch, then a blade to the throat of the one that slept. Inside the cabin, he would first cut Drake’s throat, and afterwards he would have to put Lady Elizabeth Drake to the dagger, too. He could not be squeamish about killing a woman, even one as beautiful as Elizabeth. The seventy thousand ducats beckoned…
But could he bring himself to do it? If he was discovered, it would be the end of everything. If only Herrick’s bullet had not missed; Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador in Paris, had assured Stanley that Herrick was the best. Well, he had failed thus far.
The night was cold, but Harper was wet with sweat. His cabin was close to Drake’s. That was crucial, for he would be drenched in blood and would be found out unless he could clean himself before the deed was discovered. Nor could he allow his clothes to be bloodied: he would have to go naked to the murder.
He clenched his teeth together. He had not come this far to back out now. His father, his mother, every forsaken member of the Percy family, living and dead, cried out to him for this act of vengeance and restitution. Quickly he stripped himself from his clothes. He had a pail of water in his cabin to wash himself after the deed was done. It could be done. It had to be done. And there must be a culprit, one of the mariners first on the scene, quickly put to death so that his protestations of innocence should die with him.
The hour was midnight. On the main decks, the watch scoured the horizon for the lights of other shipping. But here, belowdecks, almost all were asleep, many having had their fill of brandy. He had his play all worked out.
Naked, his body hunched forward and hairy like an ape’s, he stepped into the companionway. Ahead of him, he saw the black, familiar face of Diego, lit by candles outside the door to the great cabin where Drake and his wife slept. Diego was awake, staring straight at him. That was good; it meant Boltfoot was asleep. Stanley smiled at
