Revenger

“To my own.”

“Ah. What a tragical waste.” Shakespeare said nothing.

“You know, Mr. Shakespeare,” Penelope continued, “my brother needs a man with skills such as yours.”

“He has me, my lady.”

“No, not just over this Roanoke affair. There are greater matters.”

“My lady?”

“We will talk in due course, Mr. Shakespeare.” She smiled and touched his face with the tips of her fingers. “Tonight, we make merry.”

“I can think of no better way to idle away the hours…”

She threw her head back in laughter. “Mr. Shakespeare, you must know that I am a married woman, as I know that you are a married man.”

“Why do they call you ‘idle wench,’ my lady? If I may ask.”

“It is my mother’s idea of mirth, Mr. Shakespeare. She calls me that in her letters to my brother, and he bruits such things about among his friends. And I suppose it is true; I am idle. I have never milked a cow nor scrubbed a pot in my life, and I fancy I never shall.”

“A great disappointment for pots and kine, my lady.”

“My husband has often said I am no more use than a farm maid, which I always took to be a great insult to farm maids.”

“Your husband?”

“Fear not, Lord Rich is not here. He would rather die than dance and make merry. He keeps the company of his God-fearing friends at our home in Leighs, while I flit about like a barnybee, supping honey from the flowers. Do you know about my marriage, Mr. Shakespeare? It is a most instructive tale.”

He had heard the gossip. It was impossible to live within the city walls and not hear everything. Her marriage to Lord Rich had been forced on her, when she was a girl of eighteen. Not only had her parents insisted, but the Queen had ordered it. She had not fought nor screamed nor stamped her foot, for it was not her way, but she had made her feelings very plain, even protesting her objections in the nave of the church, before relenting and saying the words that wedded her to an austere man, for whom she had felt no warmth.

“But not tonight. However, there is something I would mention.” Her voice lowered. “Henry-the Earl of Southampton-has asked me to speak with you, for he knows you have a particular interest in a friend of his.”

“My brother?”

“No, Father Robert Southwell, recently taken by Her Majesty’s pursuivants and presently held in Mr. Topcliffe’s delightful chamber of all the pleasures. I know I can talk to you plainly about this, Mr. Shakespeare, because I know of your wife’s inclinations. The truth is that until very recently, Father Southwell resided in Southampton House, close to the countryside at Holborn.”

“I know the house, my lady.”

“I think Topcliffe knew he was there, but was powerless to do anything about it. Father Southwell was not only safe, but he was cherished for his good works among the poor and for his poetry, and by many among us who are not of his faith, myself included. He is a fine man, whatever you think of his religion, Mr. Shakespeare-a poet of wondrous wit. Even your brother has met him there and admired his writings. Topcliffe waited until he left, then pounced. It is dark news for all of us that he has been taken in this way.”

Shakespeare put up his hand defensively. “My lady, there is no way I can help. My influence ended when Mr. Secretary terminated my employment. It is your brother and my lord of Southampton who have the Queen’s ear. Surely they can do something?”

Penelope shook her head. “Sadly, Mr. Shakespeare, they are just the men who cannot help him, for they would be compromised. Any intervention by them would merely play into their enemies’ hands. Such is the royal court. I am approaching you because I know you, too, have history with Mr. Topcliffe and it is generally thought you had some hold over him, that is all.”

Shakespeare tried to smile, but it looked like a scowl. He tried to laugh, but it came out as a bark. “I fear any power of persuasion I might once have had with Topcliffe died when Mr. Secretary was taken from us, my lady. I am as much in peril from him as Father Southwell.”

Chapter 13

S HAKESPEARE WAS PREOCCUPIED AS HE BANGED AT the door of the whore Starling Day. He was thinking about the events of the previous evening at Essex House. There had been a fevered air of treachery, billowing like the dark clouds of an approaching storm. In particular, the open defiance and mockery of the masque seemed to confirm everything Sir Robert Cecil had said about Essex and his ambitions.

Mostly, though, Shakespeare thought of the Countess of Essex and the strange disturbance of the mind that afflicted her. She was being poisoned, he was certain of it. What is one little life against a matter so great? Her sickness had less to do with the loss of her child and more to do with something she had been fed.

As the door was opened, he tried to put the thoughts aside. He smiled at Starling Day, surprised by the change in her. She had gained a well-rounded figure since last they met. She had also gained a great deal of money and a well-favored house in the middle of the great bridge between London and Southwark. She welcomed him effusively.

“Come gaze with me out of the windows eastward, Mr. Shakespeare. I love the morning sun. See the birds diving for fish and the proud argosies setting sail for the Spice Islands. I could stand here the day long just watching and listening. At times I fancy I can hear the timbers creak and the shrouds sing.”

“Your life has certainly changed, Starling Day.” He was particularly struck by the change in her voice. Where once her Nottinghamshire tone had been difficult to decipher, even to a Midlander such as himself, now she could almost pass for a London lady. Almost, but not quite.

“Mr. Watts has taught me much. He has told me proper ways of speaking and is even teaching me to read a little. He promises that one day soon he will present me at court, though I should die to meet the Queen. Indeed, it is a fine thing to be the plaything of a wealthy merchant, Mr. Shakespeare. Mr. Watts looks after me very well and I am always here for him, as is meet and proper in a courtesan. That is my new word for ‘whore,’ Mr. Shakespeare. Do you like it?”

“It suits you very well, Mistress Day.”

“Mr. Watts learned it in Italy, where it implies a certain respect.” She clapped her hands and a maid came quickly to her side, a sweet-faced girl perhaps five years younger than her mistress. Starling herself was dressed in a fifty-mark dress of gold and silver with a voluminous bum-roll and a low neckline that let loose her expanding, milk-white breasts. The garment, which she said was confected by Tredger the tailor, of Cheapside, was clearly intended to mark her out as gentry, but sadly only marked her out for what she really was, a gaudy strumpet whose cards had turned up kings.

“Winnie, fetch us malmsey wine and saffron cakes.”

The maid bowed and went out of the room. It was a room rich with tapestries from Arras and cushions of colorful silks from the Indies, a room befitting the well-fed whore of a wealthy, piratical merchant like John Watts.

“How may I help you, Mr. Shakespeare?”

“I am here with a most curious request, for I know you have friends in the bawdy houses of Southwark.”

“Oh dear, I am not so familiar with bawdy houses as once I was. My trugging days are over since Mr. Watts took a liking to me, although I would happily take you to my chamber for the joy alone, Mr. Shakespeare.”

Shakespeare smiled at the offer but shook his head. “I am looking for a woman named Eleanor Dare, born White, though there is a good chance that she no longer goes by either of those names. She was seen by the Bull Ring last week, where the Winchester geese parade for customers. It was said she wore the attire of a street woman touting her wares.”