“No, John, I do
It would be a secret Roman Catholic mass. Such events were fraught with danger; simply to know the whereabouts of a priest, let alone harbor one, could lead to torture and the scaffold. And this mass was yet more perilous, for it was to be said by the fugitive Jesuit Father Robert Southwell, a man Catherine Shakespeare knew as a friend. He had evaded capture for six years and was regarded by Queen Elizabeth and her Privy Council as an irritant thorn to be plucked from their flesh at all costs.
“Catherine,” he said, trying to soften his voice-the last thing he wanted was this rift between them to escalate into an unbridgeable gulf-“I know you have made many compromises. But have I not done likewise? Did I not forsake my career with Walsingham to marry you?”
“So I must obey you?” Catherine said, almost spitting the words.
“I would rather you made your own-considered-decision. But, yes, I say you
She glared at him. When she spoke, her words were harsh. “So, as Thomas Becon says in his
“I have no more to say on the matter, Mistress Shakespeare. You will not go to a mass, especially not one said by the priest Southwell. He is denounced as a traitor. To consort with him would taint you and the rest of us with treason. Would you give Topcliffe the evidence he needs to destroy us and send our child in chains to the treadmill at Bridewell?” An unwelcome image came to mind of his old foe, the cruel priest-hunter Richard Topcliffe. “Let that be an end to it.”
Shakespeare turned and strode away. He did not look back, because he had no wish to meet her withering glare. He went to the courtyard and sat on a low wall, in the shade. He was shaking. This was bad, very bad. She was being utterly wrongheaded.
Behind him in the courtyard, he heard unequal footsteps and turned to see his old friend and assistant Boltfoot Cooper shuffling toward him, dragging his clubfoot awkwardly on the cobbled stones. It occurred to Shakespeare that Boltfoot was becoming slower in his movements as he neared the age of forty. Perhaps this quiet life as a school gatekeeper did not suit an old mariner and veteran of Drake’s circumnavigation.
“Boltfoot?”
“You have a visitor, Mr. Shakespeare. A Mr. McGunn would speak with you. He has a serving-man with him.”
“Do we know Mr. McGunn? Is he the father of a prospective pupil?”
Boltfoot shook his head. “He says he is sent by the Earl of Essex to treat with you.”
Shakespeare’s furrowed brow betrayed his surprise. He laughed lightly. “Well, I suppose I had better see him.”
“I shall show him through.”
“Not here, Boltfoot. I will go to the library. Show this McGunn and his servant to the anteroom and offer them refreshment, then bring them to me in five minutes.”
As Shakespeare climbed the oaken staircase to the high-windowed library, with its shelves of books collected by the founder of this school, Thomas Woode, and, latterly, by himself, he considered Essex. He was famed throughout the land as Queen Elizabeth’s most favored courtier, a gallant blessed with high birth, dashing looks, courage in battle, sporting prowess, and the charm to enchant a princess. It was said he had even supplanted Sir Walter Ralegh in the Queen’s affections. What interest could the Earl of Essex have in an obscure schoolmaster like Shakespeare, a man so far from the center of public life that he doubted anyone at court even knew his name?
McGunn was a surprise. Shakespeare had half expected a livery-clad bluecoat to appear, but McGunn looked like no flunky Shakespeare had ever seen. He was of middle height, thick-set, with the fearless, belligerent aspect of a bull terrier about him. He had big, knotted hands. His face and head were bare and bald, save for two graying eyebrows beneath a gnarled and pulpy forehead. A heavy gold hoop was pierced into the lobe of his left ear. He smiled with good humor and held out a firm, meaty hand to John Shakespeare.
“Mr. Shakespeare, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he said.
“Mr. McGunn?”
“Indeed.”
Shakespeare guessed his accent to be Irish, but from which part or class of that dark, forbidding island he had no way of knowing. His attire struck him as incongruous: a wide, starched ruff circled his thick neck, a doublet finely braided with thread of gold girded his trunk, and he wore hose of good-quality blue serge and netherstocks the color of corn. It seemed to Shakespeare that he had a working man’s face and body in a gentleman’s clothing.
The serving-man at his side was introduced merely as Slyguff. He looked no more the bluecoat of a great house than did McGunn, though he was less richly dressed, in the buff jerkin of a smithy or a carter. Slyguff was smaller and thinner than his master. He was wiry like the taut cable of a ship’s anchor, with a narrow face and a sharp, gristly nose. Though smaller, he looked every bit as formidable as McGunn. One of Slyguff’s eyes, the left one, was dead, and the other betrayed no emotion at all.
“I hope that Mr. Cooper has offered you some ale. It is another hot day.”
“Indeed, it is and indeed, he has, Mr. Shakespeare,” McGunn said, smiling warmly. “For which we are both grateful. To tell you true, I could have drunk the Irish Sea dry this day.”
“How may I help you, Mr. McGunn?”
“Well, you could start by giving us yet more ale. No, no, I jest. We are here because we are sent by my lord of Essex to escort you to him at Essex House. He wishes to speak with you.”
“The Earl of Essex wishes to speak with me?”
“That is correct, Mr. Shakespeare.”
“Why should he wish to speak to an unknown schoolmaster, Mr. McGunn?”
“Perchance he wants lessons in Latin, or a little learning in counting. Could you help him with that, now? Or maybe you could show him how to command his temper, for certain he is as moody as the weather.”
“Mr. McGunn, I fear you jest again.”
“I do, I do. The truth is he wishes your advice on a particular matter of interest. But for certain you don’t do yourself credit when you call yourself an ‘unknown schoolmaster.’ Who has not heard of the brilliant exploits of John Shakespeare on behalf of queen and country?”
“Mr. McGunn, that is ancient history.”
“Not in the Earl’s eyes, it’s not. He is mighty impressed by the tale of your fierce courage in the face of an implacable foe. As am I, may I add. You have done admirable work, sir.”
Shakespeare accepted the compliment with good grace and bowed with a slight smile on his lips. “And what sort of advice is the Earl of Essex seeking, Mr. McGunn? He must know I am retired from my work as an intelligencer.”
“That is for him to say, Mr. Shakespeare. I am merely his humble servant.”
McGunn did not look at all humble, thought Shakespeare. Were it not for the fine clothes, he and Slyguff were the kind of duo an honest subject of Her Majesty might well cross the road to avoid. Yet for all his brutish appearance, McGunn seemed a good-humored fellow, and Shakespeare had to admit that he was intrigued. Who would not wish to meet the renowned Essex? “Well, then, let us make an appointment, and I will be there.”
“No, Mr. Shakespeare, we are to accompany you to him
“Well, I am afraid he will
McGunn smiled and clapped Shakespeare on the shoulder with a hand the size of a kitchen wife’s sieve. “Come now, Mr. Shakespeare, are you not high master of this school? Delegate one of your lesser masters to take over your tutoring for the morning. The Earl is a busy man and I know he will make it worth your while to take the time to meet him. Here.” McGunn took a gold coin from his purse and spun it in the air. He caught it and held it between thumb and forefinger in front of Shakespeare’s eyes. “That’s for starters. Take it. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
Shakespeare did not take the gold coin. He stared McGunn in the eye and saw only gently mocking humor.
