coffer, with a flickering candlestick atop its lid. Putting down his wine glass, he took the candle and cupped his hand around the flame to keep it alight, then quickly padded up the narrow winding stone stairway. He was in the square turret that housed the high room where McGunn had taken him to meet Phelippes, Mills, and Gregory. Though he was certain he had not been seen, he held back a few moments to make sure no footfalls followed him, then slipped into the room of secrets.
It was a vain hope that he would soon find what he wanted among this mass of documents. What he sought were pointers to the layout of the place, the possible location for the information he needed. He knew that Walsingham would have collected extensive files on both Arbella Stuart and the Earl of Essex. It was a matter of narrowing down the search area. If he knew where to look, he could return here on other days.
When Cecil had given him the commission, he had had doubts. Those had been swept away by this evening’s revels. There was something rotten here, a brazen contempt for the established order. Neither Essex, his haughty mother, Lettice, nor those around them cared who knew it. They were imperious, so sure of their high status that they felt themselves immune to the normal laws of the land. This court of Queen Lettice was, indeed, like a court- in-waiting.
Shakespeare put the candle on a table. Working at speed, he moved with method along the shelves and piles of papers, taking down a document at a time, scanning it for any possible relevance and then replacing it. It soon became apparent that there was some sort of order here. Documents and correspondence from Rome were stacked together; so were the intercepts from Madrid and, likewise, Paris and the Netherlands.
What he needed was a home section. That must be where-if anywhere-he would find what he wanted. To the left of the tall oriel window, at the east of the room, was a table laden with charts. To the left again was a stack of large leather-bound books, all upright and leaning against each other. Above them was a series of shelves. He reached up to these shelves and took down a small packet of papers at random. He quickly looked through it. There was correspondence from Walsingham’s old intelligencers from years ago; Shakespeare recognized the names: Poley, Berden, poor Harry Slide, knifed through the throat in a Southwark whorehouse. Shakespeare flinched at the memory and put the packet of papers back where he had found it. He took another pack from the shelf above. This was more promising: a letter from the Earl of Shrewsbury concerning the daily routine of Mary Queen of Scots. The letter was dated December 1586, just two months before her execution. Shrewsbury, who had died a few months after Walsingham in 1590, had been Bess of Hardwick’s estranged husband.
Shakespeare read quickly. The letter warned Walsingham of his wife’s ambitions for her granddaughter Arbella. “I fear, Frank, that the girl will heap much trouble upon our family. She makes the girl a shrew, in her own image.”
He heard a faint noise. Soft footsteps on the stairs coming up to the room. He thrust the packet of papers back onto the shelf and snuffed the candle. The darkness was intense, but he knew where he was going. Carrying the candlestick with him, he edged further left, where there was a doorway into an adjoining chamber. The door to the room was ajar and he slipped into the room. In the darkness, instinct took over. His heart pumped fast and yet he was utterly calm.
Crouching like a hunting cat, he slid backwards into a small space between the cold stone wall and a settle. Shakespeare was a tall man, but he was small now, consciously shrinking into himself, and ready to pounce.
The footfalls were closer, in the main turret room. Through the slightly open door he saw a flicker of light. He heard a light sniffing noise; whoever was there could smell the snuffed candle. Yet he or she had a candle of their own and could not be sure whether it was the guttering flame of that one which they scented.
For a moment all was still. The hunter stood motionless, listening for breathing or a slight sound. Shakespeare, too, was completely still, every muscle tensed. The flickering light moved close toward the doorway, then stopped again. There was something dark and strange about this presence. Why did the man-he was now sure it was a man-not cry out “Who is there?” like any normal watchman? Why maintain this ghostly silence?
The light came through the door now. From his hiding place, Shakespeare could see a vague shape and shadows as a figure advanced further into the room. It was McGunn’s man Slyguff, thin and dark-clothed. In one hand, he carried a candle that threw its strange light here and there, in the other a short sword. Around his shoulder was a thin, loosely coiled rope. He stood stock-still, his eyes moving slowly around the room. He sniffed the air again.
From below, out in the garden, sounds of laughter and music and loud chatter rose in the air, but here it was as if time and life were suspended. There was no sound of breathing or movement from hunter or hunted. How long did he stand there like that? A minute? Five? Of a sudden, Slyguff turned on his soft leather-clad feet and walked toward the doorway and out again into the main room. Shakespeare listened for his light footsteps, counting them as he went out into the stairwell. He heard the faint sound of clothing being adjusted, then the tinkling and grunt of a man peeing.
Shakespeare began to count the seconds in his head, slowly. He counted to three hundred, then stopped and listened to the silence again. Then he counted three hundred more before easing himself forward from his hiding place and standing up. He had a cramp in his leg, but paid it no heed, moving crablike, sideways, to the door, his hand on the hilt of the ornamental dagger in his belt.
His eyes were adjusting to the dark. A filling-out moon gave a little light to the room through the oriel windows, and he could see his way out onto the stairwell. The door was large and made of oak and was open enough that he could slip out without pushing it. But what-who-would he find on the other side? He pulled the dagger from his belt and held it in front of him, then moved on out. No one there, only a puddle of piss. He allowed himself the release of a deep breath.
From the bottom of the stairs, he shunned the entrance to the great hall and went, instead, a round-about route toward the garden. Whenever he came across a servant or reveler, he resumed his drunken act. In one dark corner, he stumbled upon a guest whom he instantly recognized as Francis Bacon, his breeches dropped low, with another guest, whom he vaguely thought to be the celebrated scholar Henry Cuffe, standing boldly in front of him. Bacon turned and saw Shakespeare, his perpetually worried and ambitious eyes staring into Shakespeare’s yet not really registering who he was. His eyes closed as he embraced Cuffe and concentrated on his pleasures.
Stepping outside into the balmy evening air of the garden, Shakespeare’s heart still roared like the London conduit. It was time to hail a waterman at the river stairs to row him home. But first he needed wine. He took a glass from a serving-man and drank it down in one gulp. Around him there was much laughter. In the darker, more shaded areas of the large but intricate gardens, he heard the rustle and giggle of frolics and trysts.
McGunn appeared in front of him, standing square and puffed out, his mouth turned up in a snarling smile. “Still at it, Shakespeare?” His eyes were sober, his voice was businesslike. “Where have you been? I have been seeking you.”
“I cannot say, Mr. McGunn,” Shakespeare said, taking care to slur the words. “I am a gentleman and a married man.”
“Swiving, is it?”
“I cannot say.”
McGunn drew back his fist as if he would punch him. Shakespeare recoiled instinctively. The fist hovered, then lowered.
“Be very, very careful. Tonight they make merry, but they will want results fast, as will I. Remember, you are here for one purpose and one purpose alone-to find Eleanor Dare.”
Did McGunn suspect him of something? Had he sent Slyguff to follow him? The answer had to be no, for Slyguff would not have given up so easily in the turret room if he had known for certain he was there.
“Do you understand?”
Shakespeare contained his anger. “Yes, I understand.”
“Good, then sober yourself and get hunting on the morrow.” He looked hard at Shakespeare one more time, then strode away into the house.
As he watched McGunn, Shakespeare felt two arms slide about his waist and caught a waft of sweetbriar perfume. A pair of soft female lips touched the nape of his neck. He knew immediately who it was, without turning to see her face or hear her voice.
“Mr. Shakespeare, you seem all alone.”
Penelope’s arms lingered for a few moments, then she slid them away from him.
“I was about to summon a tilt-boat, Lady Rich.”
“So soon. Where are you going so early at night, and to whose bed?”
