up and guests began scrambling for the great doors at the front of the hall.
Shakespeare did not hesitate. He seized Drake by the arm and pressed his hand into Lady Elizabeth’s back. “Come with me. I know a better way out. This fire will have been laid by the killer. He will make his attempt in the confusion…”
A rush of flame took hold of a gold-and-red French tapestry that hung from a wall. Fire leapt from it into the drapes and up to the beams. Black smoke billowed in the narrow confines of the hall. The scramble of bodies toward the door turned to panic. Women and men coughed and screamed and pushed and trampled.
Drake pushed Shakespeare’s hand away from his arm. He grabbed a silver salver from the table and banged it hard repeatedly. “Hear me! Hear me!” he shouted. “Gentlemen stand aside and let the ladies go first. With some order, we will all get out safely. Hear me!”
Suddenly the undisciplined charge for the doorway halted. Even in the most intense heat of fire, men obeyed Sir Francis Drake. Most men did stand aside and those few that didn’t were hauled out of the queue by others. The women then proceeded to exit at a brisk pace.
The fire was growing fast, gobbling up paintings and furnishings, setting light to the beams in the ceiling. Cooks and serving maids began running in with pails of water. Shakespeare realized a few pails was not going to be enough. This was going to be a hard blaze to bring under control. Boltfoot and Diego had emerged from the crush of people and were now back with Shakespeare and the Drakes.
“We really must go, Sir Francis.”
“Mr. Shakespeare, we are in your hands. Kindly take us your secret way.”
They moved forward. Shakespeare suddenly realized the way he had intended, through the kitchens, was blocked by flames. He turned to the west side of the building, to the corporation’s council chamber. There had to be a way through there. The smoke was getting worse; sounds of coughing and choking filled the hall as the fire raged out of control. As soon as they were in the chamber, Shakespeare slammed the door behind them to keep out the flames and the worst of the fumes. They stood a moment, catching their breath, trying to clear their lungs. The faces of eminent Plymouth burghers looked down on them from portraits around the walls.
“How do you fare, my lady?” Drake asked of his wife, touching her arm tenderly.
With her hands, she tried to brush the black soot from her dazzling gown. “It is a great excitement, Sir Francis. I begin to understand why you men are so quick to go to war.”
“You have a fine spirit! Think how brave our sons will be.”
“And our daughters, sir.”
Shakespeare pushed open the door into the council antechamber and stepped through in front of Drake and his wife. Boltfoot followed. At the far end of the room, he could see the side entrance to the building. A group of men was standing around the doorway-serving men and ostlers. “Is the way clear?” Shakespeare called.
“Aye, sir,” came a reply. “Come through. We are setting up a pail chain here.”
If I were a killer, thought Shakespeare, this is where I would make my move. This is where I would expect Drake to make his exit and I would attack now. He drew his sword and signaled to Drake to do the same. “Come, sir, beware. He will be hereabouts. Boltfoot, have your caliver primed and ready.”
Drake strode ahead, disdainful of Shakespeare’s caution. “Home, Lady Drake, to bed. I have had my fill of this nonsense of Walsingham. I love him as a friend, but I will not be wet-nursed by his nannies.”
They moved out into the street. Shakespeare could see now that flames were licking the sky. A great crowd had gathered outside the Guildhall, all standing agog at the blaze. It seemed the whole town had risen from their beds to watch the spectacle or help with the pail chains. Drake ignored them. “You will see better fireworks when I put flame to Philip’s galleons,” he said to no one in particular, striding through the chill night air.
The walk to Looe Street, where Drake had his town house, took little more than five minutes. Two roistering mariners, who had consumed too much brandy on this their last night ashore, whistled and called at them. “Here, sweets, leave them dodderers and come with us. We’ll fill yer cunny with honey!” Then they spotted their Vice Admiral and dashed down a side street.
“I recognize that voice,” Drake said. “He’s bosun on the Dread nought. I’ll have him flogged on the morrow for lewdness!”
Chapter 42
The Drakes’house was surprisingly modest compared to his majestic mansions and estates in other parts of Devon and London. It was a tall structure, built of stone to withstand seaborne gales. Above the ground floor, jettied chambers overhung the narrow street. Clearly, the crucial thing to the Vice Admiral was its convenience, being so close to the mouth of the Plym and the dockyards, where he had to spend so much time repairing and provisioning his ships.
Drake stood at the steps to the house. “Well, Mr. Shakespeare, you have brought us safe home. You can tell Mr. Secretary that you have accomplished your task like a true and faithful servant. Good night to you, sir.” He was about to push open the door when Shakespeare stepped in front of him. He addressed Elizabeth: “Might I just ask you, my lady, did you tell the Huguenot, Pascal, about this house?”
Elizabeth Drake looked flustered. “It is… possible. I might have mentioned it. I cannot recall.”
Shakespeare lifted the latch to the door. “If it please you, Sir Francis, I will go first. Boltfoot, come with me.”
Suddenly Drake’s good humor vanished. He thrust Shakespeare angrily aside. “No one but the Queen commands me what to do, Shakespeare. Remove yourself from my way. Lady Drake, let us go inside.” He opened the door for his wife. She hesitated, but knew her husband’s moods well enough to realize this was no time to try disagreeing with him. Smiling sweetly at Shakespeare and mouthing a silent “Thank you, Mr. Shakespeare,” she stepped forward into the house.
Drake followed her and was surprised to find the hallway empty and in darkness.
“I think the staff are out watching the fire, Sir Francis,” Eliza beth told him. “Perhaps we might ask our companions to set some lights about the house for us.”
“By God’s faith, what sort of staff is it that leaves its post to watch a little bonfire, madam? I think you must look to our domestic arrangements before I am next home.”
Taking her cue, Shakespeare and Boltfoot entered the building behind the couple. Boltfoot produced a tinderbox and began lighting candles. Shakespeare pushed on into the house. He had been convinced Herrick would strike at the banquet. And now? If there had been a Huguenot called Henri Pascal who just happened to turn up at Buckland Abbey, why had he not been at the banquet to introduce himself to Drake?
The blow came as Shakespeare entered the Drakes’ private chamber on the second floor. It came out of the darkness, a crack to the back of the head that felled him instantly. He slumped awkwardly to the floor, his head hitting the foot of the bed as he went down. He felt himself losing consciousness, but he fought the sensation and thrashed out wildly with his arm, which still clutched his sword. Dimly, he heard a sound like a grunt or cry. He rolled sideways across the room and felt the reverberation of a heavy blade stabbing down into the boards where, a second earlier, he had been sprawled.
Shakespeare scrambled farther from the assailant, clawing his way to the other side of a large oaken bed. In the gloom he saw a flickering light, a candle flame, and then heard a gasp. Elizabeth Drake had stepped into the chamber. In the dim, shadowy light he saw a face appear: Herrick. It had to be Herrick. In horror, he saw him grab Elizabeth, his muscled arm encircling her neck and forcing her back. The candle fell from her grasp and the room was plunged back into darkness.
Shakespeare jumped to his feet. His clubbed head felt as if gunpowder had exploded within it. He felt blood trickle down the inside of his ruff collar. He still had his sword in his hand, his grasp firm on the hilt.
Another light appeared at the door. Drake. “What is this?” And then he saw his wife, her neck twisted back, the point of a poniard blade at her exposed throat, pressing into her flesh, blood dripping down onto her velvet gown. “My lady?”
Shakespeare was at Drake’s side now.
“Out.” Herrick said the word quietly to Shakespeare. He stood scarcely five feet from Drake. “Out or she will die. Not you, Drake-you stay. But the other one, leave now or you will see such a gush of blood from this woman’s
