stretched on the rack, her pretty face suffused with fear, her lovely joints beginning to crack, would make him tell all he knew. The information would come flooding out. “A thousand deaths to the Pope and all his acolyte demons, Dick, we must go back there. In force and with speed. If the woman is there-and I believe she is-we must take her before the alarm can be raised and before Walsingham or any other can intervene. We must risk his intervention; it is the only way. Once she is in our hands, no power on earth will prize her loose before we have what we want, I promise you that. We must do it, Dick, and we must do it before Shakespeare returns. Walsingham will doubtless be angry. He will see it as crossing a line, Dick, shitting on his doorstep. But I would rather cross him than the golden virgin. Gather a squadron of pursuivants: our ten best men. We go in before dawn.”
Chapter 40
After Exeter the countryside changed rapidly. Soon Shakespeare found himself on uncompromising moorland. Everywhere he looked, he saw bogs and bleak outcrops of rock. Wild horses roamed free. He passed a gypsy camp where a fire burned with a cauldron perched over it.
He was certain now he was traveling in the right direction. He knew this to be the southeastern edge of Dartmoor, and the beaten track was easy to follow without woodland in which to get lost. At the southern tip of the moor the land finally became more lush and he descended into a wooded valley. He had a choice to make: go directly to Plymouth or first to Buckland Abbey, in case the Vice Admiral had made straight for there.
Where would Drake be most vulnerable? Buckland Abbey might have a large permanent staff of servants who would spot a stranger straightway, but it would be impossible to provide total protection night and day. Herrick could watch from a distance, pick his time and place to kill.
On the other hand, Plymouth was where Drake would spend most of his time. He had a house there, too, in Looe Street, and he would need to be close at hand to oversee the final provisioning and preparation of his war fleet. If Drake was to be at sea within two or three days, Herrick would have no time to lose. Shakespeare decided to head for the old abbey first. He’d alert the servants to the danger and then make for Plymouth, where he could join forces with Boltfoot.
On talking with a parson whom he found striding out beside a river, he got his bearings and turned northwest toward Buckland Abbey, the fine and ancient home Drake had bought from his fellow admiral Sir Richard Grenville with the immense plunder taken from the Spanish carrack Cacafuego in the Pacific in 1579. Elizabeth Drake was in her withdrawing room sewing a tapestry when Shakespeare arrived, and sent for him immediately. When he entered he was struck immediately by her pale beauty; she was bathed in light angling in between the stone mullions of a high arched window.
She smiled in greeting. “Mr. Shakespeare, what a delight to see you. But why, pray, are you in Devon?”
Shakespeare was exhausted. He knew he looked shabby. His clothes were torn and coated in mud like a pigman’s. His leather boots were clogged with soil and soaked through. “Lady Drake, I seek Sir Francis. I must warn him. The killer sent by Spain has followed him here. There is great danger.” He spoke breathlessly, panting with the final exertion of the day’s long ride.
“We shall get the message to Sir Francis straightway, but in the meantime we must not have you catching your death of the sweating sickness, Mr. Shakespeare,” said Elizabeth. “Please, sit by the fire and warm yourself. Do you have a change of clothes? We must fit you out with some.”
Shakespeare ate and drank quickly, for he wanted to get to Plymouth before nightfall. As he devoured the food, Elizabeth Drake told him of Captain Harper Stanley’s death on the voyage from Dover. “It is thought he must have jumped to his death, taken by the melancholy, Mr. Shakespeare. No one believes he could have fallen accidentally. Such a great tragedy.”
Shakespeare was shocked and disturbed by the news. He had liked Harper and he was the last man he imagined would have taken his own life. “It is, indeed, a great sadness, my lady. I knew him well.” Could there have been more to his death than that, though? Shakespeare needed to speak with Boltfoot urgently.
“But life goes on, Mr. Shakespeare. Weather and winds permitting, Sir Francis is resolved to set sail with the tide tomorrow. He says he must go before the Queen changes her mind, which she is certain to do, as she always does. Tonight the town is throwing a banquet in his honor, which you must attend if you are recovered.”
“A banquet? Tonight?”
“Why, indeed. Feasting, music, dancing. Is that such a surprise? The men set sail to do battle with the Spanish tomorrow. I believe they will strike a blow to Spain’s heart-attacking where the King’s great armada is being assembled, in Cadiz and other ports.”
The thought of a banquet filled Shakespeare with dread. Anyone could slip in. And in the milling throng, Drake would be in grave peril.
“If I may ask, my lady, who will be there, do you think?”
“All the great families of Devon, Mr. Shakespeare. The Grenvilles, all the Drakes-and there are many of them-the Hawkins family, my own cousins the Sydenhams, Raleighs, Carews, Gilberts, Sir William Courtenay and his kin. And then there will be the captains and masters and gentlemen officers of the fleet, the corporation of Plymouth, of course, the important shipwrights and chandlers.”
“So everyone will know each other at such an event?”
“Most certainly. And we have another young guest, a charming young Huguenot gentleman from La Rochelle who intends to join the venture. He burns with desire to give the King of Spain a bloody nose.”
Shakespeare felt a sudden chill. “What Huguenot is this, my lady?”
“Now, Mr. Shakespeare, I know you fear for my husband’s life, but you know he is very capable of looking out for himself, as he has proved on many occasions in these past twenty years. This young man is called Pascal. Henri Pascal. He drank wine with me here in this withdrawing room and I believe him to be exactly what he says he is: a Huguenot fugitive from France who wishes to fight for the Protestant cause. What is more, he is a mariner, so he will serve us quite well. I told him to come to the Guildhall this evening for the banquet, where I shall introduce him to Sir Francis, so that he may sail with him on the morrow. I am sure you can find no fault in that. I must tell you he had letters of introduction from Lord Howard of Effingham, the Admiral of the Fleet. Surely there could be no better recommendation.”
“May I see these letters?”
“I am afraid I do not have them. He took them away.”
“What shape of a man is this? Is he beardless, tall?”
Elizabeth Drake looked puzzled. “Why, yes, he is.”
“And his accent? Is it strongly French?”
“Well, no, he speaks exceptionally good English. A slightly clipped accent, perchance, but that is all.”
“Lady Elizabeth, I must ride for Plymouth immediately. I fear you have entertained the man who would kill your husband.”
Drake had not believed for a moment that Harper Stanley took his own life. “Come on, Diego, the truth.”
The Vice Admiral was in his cabin with Diego and Boltfoot aboard the Elizabeth Bonaventure, at anchor in Plymouth Sound, one of Europe’s most sheltered deep-water harbors. In the distance they could see Plymouth, a town of squat mariners’ dwellings and bustling dockyards, which seemed to be burgeoning day by day as England’s maritime ventures grew ever bolder. Drake had been conferring with his captains and had now sent them back to their vessels to prepare for the next day’s departure for the Iberian peninsula. “Not an hour is to be lost, gentlemen,” he said. “Even now a messenger could be riding from Greenwich Palace with orders from the Queen countermanding our commission. Her Majesty has already changed her mind four times in five days. We must be at sea to avoid that happening again.”
It was only with his wife safely out of earshot at Buckland Abbey that Drake felt easy talking of Harper Stanley’s fate; he did not want to worry her more than necessary.
“He was coming to kill you, Sir Francis. In fact he was coming to kill all of us. He was naked so that our blood would not drench his clothes. But we knew he was coming.” Diego glanced at Boltfoot, who stepped forward.
“I had suspected him for a while. When Sir William Courtenay lunged at you with the blade on the way to Dover, I saw something in Stanley’s eyes. He held back, but it was more than that. I could see that he wished you dead, sir. I think he was never what he seemed.”
