Revenger

talk.”

She laughed lightly. “Indeed, I had not thought of that. What would the gossips make of such a thing? Do come and sit with me. You are so much taller than me and I feel a little too weak to stand. I have not been well. My mouth burns and my bile is bitter. I see little things in the air, flying things, but my physician tells me they are not there. Do you see them, Mr. Shakespeare?”

Shakespeare sat down, two feet or so from her. “Do you mean bees, my lady, or birds? Or butterflies? Moths, perhaps?”

“No, no. These are lovely little things. They have tiny candles in their wings, which are made of gossamer silk.” She patted the settle next to her. “Though I am not at all well, I do not have the pestilence, Mr. Shakespeare. You may safely sit a little nearer to me.”

He shuffled a bit closer. “My lady, I had not thought such a thing,” he said, though her face did, indeed, look worryingly pale and moist.

“No? Well, many other people nowadays do think so when one has a little summer sweat. If it had been the plague, I fear I would be in my grave by now, for I have been feeling weak and sick for some two weeks and I believe the pest is more like to take a mere three days to kill one off.” She swatted at something in front of her eyes with her fan. “You see, they are everywhere.”

“What are, my lady?”

“The little flying things with the tiny lights. You must see them; do you not think them pretty?”

“I do not see them, my lady,” Shakespeare said slowly.

“Oh well, you are fortunate, then, for though they are lovely to look on, I consider them over-familiar. Dr. Forman says they are sprites and has given me tinctures to ward them off.” She broke off. “Mr. Shakespeare, you are looking at me as if you think me quite mad.”

“I am sorry, my lady. I am a little bewildered. I do not see these little flying things.”

“Well, let us say no more about them. As for the plague, you must burn herbs in all the rooms. You must go from room to room with rue and herb of grace and throw water outside the doors and along the street.” She smiled but it seemed a strain for her. “But I cannot bother with it. I might as well have the plague for all the attention my lord and master pays me. You know, Mr. Shakespeare, it is a curious thing, we were all with child together in this year past. My lord’s sister, Penelope, good Bess Throckmorton-now Lady Ralegh, of course, to the Queen’s disquiet-and my lord and master’s concubine, whom I cannot bear to name, though she stands here in this room. Why, tell me, is it that my own little Walter lived but a few days and died in my arms, while theirs lived? Do you think his spirit lives in the flying things?”

Shakespeare did not know what to say. He knew, of course, of Ralegh’s child and illegal marriage; he knew, too, that the ever fecund Penelope had brought forth a new babe into the world, and he had heard gossip of a bastard born to Essex’s amour Elizabeth Sewell. But the fact of Frances’s new child, and its death, had eluded him. In the end, he merely said, “I am sorry, my lady. The ways of God are mysterious indeed.”

“Yes, they are. And now I might follow my little Wat and lie beside him at All Hallows, for I grow more feeble by the day.” They were silent together. Shakespeare would like to have comforted her, but had no way of doing so. She gave another of her heavy, sickly sighs, then spoke a little quieter, as if imparting a confidence. “Tell me, Mr. Shakespeare, what do you make of the revels?”

He tensed. “They are interesting, my lady.”

“The crowd makes my heart beat so fast I can scarce breathe at times. The revels… I do hope you are not uncomfortable with my question.”

“I confess I have not seen their like.”

“My father, if he were alive, would be in a very dark humor indeed to see such drolleries. I pray that no word of this reach Her Majesty’s ears, for she would take it very ill, I fear. I did not like those monkeys. They were malign.”

“I cannot disagree with you, my lady.”

She patted his hand again. “Still, it is harmless, I am sure. No one could be more devoted to the Queen than my lord of Essex. He would not allow anything untoward.”

Shakespeare knew otherwise, but confined himself to remarking neutrally, “Indeed, your good husband is noted for his close attachment and loyalty to Her Majesty.” He watched as Essex hove into view like an ungainly galleon. The Earl’s white silk and gold thread doublet, heavy with diamonds, pearls, and other stones, glittered in the candlelight so that he quite outshone his wife.

“Mr. Shakespeare, I hope the Countess is keeping you well entertained. I am delighted to hear you have joined my merry band of intelligencers.”

Shakespeare rose to his feet and bowed. As far as he was concerned, he had accepted just one commission from Essex, but this was no time to argue the finer points of his employment. “My lord, it is my honor and pleasure.”

“Good man, good man. And how go your inquiries? Have you found Eleanor Dare yet? Where has she landed following her long flight from the Americas?”

“Not yet, my lord. But soon, I hope. If she is here to be found.”

“Well, keep me informed. I shall have yet more important tasks for you soon enough. But tonight, make merry. I fear it is all a little strong for my constitution, but my beloved mother and sisters would have it thus. And I dare not argue with the She-wolf. What man would? If she wants monkeys and hags, then monkeys and hags she shall have…” With that he laughed, and strode away with his curious gait toward his adoring guests.

Shakespeare watched him go and wondered, with distaste, just how long he had been poisoning his wife.

Chapter 12

B Y MIDNIGHT, THE OUTRAGEOUS MASQUE WAS LONG finished (the Queen of the Faeries having been mounted most obscenely by her gibbering monkeys), and the celebrations were spreading from the great hall out into the gardens and even onto the river, where revelers fought mock sea battles from barges and tilt-boats, all lit by pitch torches and blazing cressets planted along the bank. Wherever Shakespeare moved, there was a different group of fiddlers and balladeers playing and singing. In the great hall, the dancing was a riot of galliards and voltas, in which young gentlemen threw their ladies high into the air and hoped to catch them.

Shakespeare watched the gaming in a side room. He had taken very little wine; he needed to preserve his wits.

Southampton and Rutland were betting large sums of gold coin against each other. Southampton plucked a diamond from a chain about his neck and planted it in the middle of the table. “This for your carriage, Roger. One turn of a card and the highest wins.”

“Very well, Henry. But I must have the idle wench turn my card.”

Penelope stepped forward and flipped up a ten. She was, thought Shakespeare, even more beautiful than when he first saw her. Her eyes darker, her hair more fair.

“Then I shall have Dorothy,” Southampton said. “Where is Dorothy?”

“My sister has retired to bed,” Penelope said.

“Retired to bed? Then she is an idler wench than you.”

“I did not say with whom she had retired to bed; nor did I say anything about sleep. ”

“God’s blood, then I shall turn it myself and be damned.” Southampton flipped another card and brought up a king. “Aha, I have your coach, Roger. The idle wench is no charm to you.”

Shakespeare wandered from the room. He had heard once that Southampton had lost five thousand pounds at tennis in Paris. It was said he had not cared about the fortune, but did care very much that he had succumbed to a Frenchman.

Casually looking about him, Shakespeare stumbled like a sot through the doorway at the far end of the hall, taking a fresh glass of wine from a bluecoat as he went. The servant showed no interest in another high-born drunk. Once outside the great hall, Shakespeare glanced around. At the bottom of the steps, there was an ornate oaken