Revenger

be nigh on five now.”

“ My virgin Queen, Mr. Kerk?”

“I am not English, Mr. Cooper. She is no Queen of mine.”

“So why is a Dutchman here in England, Mr. Kerk?”

“Escaping, Mr. Cooper, like every other stranger in this city of strangers.”

“So you’re a Protestant, are you?”

“Would I be here if I were not?”

Boltfoot noted that Davy spoke good English, probably better English than most Englishmen spoke, albeit with a Dutch accent. There were plenty such men here in London, fugitives from the horrors of war in the Low Countries, a conflict that seemed to have been raging forever.

“Tell me more. What do you recall of Eleanor?”

“She was fair, blue-eyed, I’d say. A pretty young lass. Wasted on that sanctimonious Ananias Dare.”

“It is said she is alive and here in England.”

“Then that is good news. Did someone find her and bring her home?”

“Not that is known. But she was seen, not far from here in Southwark.”

“If she is here, then someone must have brought her. Or perchance, the settlers built a boat and sailed home. Either that or she sprouted faerie wings and flew the Western Sea.”

“You sound doubtful, Mr. Kerk.”

He rubbed a hand across the back of his tousled mane of sand-gray hair. “You are making merry at my expense, Mr. Cooper. Yes, I have heard the tales and the gossip the same as you about what happened to those settlers. The truth? She’s dead. They are all dead, done for by the savages. What chance do you think they stood-a hundred or so men, women, and children surrounded by thousands of natives who had fallen out of patience with them? We didn’t like leaving them there, for we all feared that they were to have a miserable fate in that godless land. On the last day, when we said our goodbyes, there was many a tear shed, and not just by the womenfolk. The settlers’ faces on the shore as we pulled away were drained and terrified, Mr. Cooper. They looked at us as a man on the scaffold looks at the block, for we were leaving them to a dreadful fate and everyone knew it.”

“So you do not believe she is here in London?”

“No, Mr. Cooper, I do not. Is that enough for you? May I now return to the sawing of my staves before Mr. Hogsden deducts a groat from my pay for idling the day away in chatter?”

“One last question, sir, and I will myself give you a groat for your time.”

“Go on, Mr. Cooper.”

“Do you know of anyone else now in these parts who was on the Lion voyage with you, someone else with memories that I might inquire of?”

“And why would I tell you if there was such a one? I do not think any man would thank me for it.”

Boltfoot said nothing; Davy was right. As he turned to leave, however, the Dutchman stayed him.

“There is one, though-a Portuguese gentleman, by name of Fernandez, commander of the expedition. And for that groat you promised me, I shall tell you where you might find him.”

U SING The Profitable Art of Gardening, Shakespeare scraped a short coded message with quill, ink, and paper and handed it, sealed, to his servant Jack Butler. He instructed him to take it to Greenwich Palace and place it in the hand of Sir Robert personally, and to no one else. No one must see him going there, no one must ever know that he had gone.

Jack Butler had been with Shakespeare five years. He was a big man, six inches taller than his master, with strong arms beneath his frieze jerkin. Now, high on his large bay steed, he towered over Shakespeare.

“You have the letter safe, Jack?”

Butler patted his pack-saddle.

“Wait to see if there is a reply. And God speed.”

Butler grinned. “Have no fears on my account, master.”

Shakespeare slapped the horse’s flank and watched Butler disappear. He thought of the message he had written and wondered how it would be received by Cecil. It contained two points: one was the confirmation that the Countess of Essex was being poisoned, almost certainly with wolfsbane, and was probably now at a critical stage; the other was the mysterious death of Amy Le Neve, the daughter of Essex’s aide-de-camp and associate, and the worrying possibility of a connection to McGunn.

With Butler gone on his mission, Shakespeare headed for Essex House.

In the intelligencers’ turret, he eyed the shelf of papers he wished to examine. Nearby, Thomas Phelippes peered through his thick-glassed spectacles at a coded document and seemed to take no notice of anything else. Arthur Gregory was not here today, but Francis Mills was, and it seemed to Shakespeare that his narrowed eyes followed him like little torches.

He had already encountered McGunn this day, and it had not been pleasant. “You are too slow,” he had growled. “We’ll all have left London before long. Get on with it, Shakespeare. Find this woman.”

“And what if she does not exist?”

“Find her.”

Now he reached up his hand, close to the papers he had seen during the summer revel. Instantly Mills was at his side, his fetid breath smelling like pig manure. “You’ll find nothing of interest there, Shakespeare, nothing about the colony.”

Shakespeare’s hand hovered. “I am trying to discover where to look, Mr. Mills.”

“Not there. You will find nothing there.”

“I think I will decide for myself where to look, Mr. Mills.” Shakespeare gave Mills a hard look. Their mutual dislike went back a long way. How could he search this place with such a man always in attendance, a man he knew would betray him without a flicker of concern? He reached for a package of papers.

Mills touched his arm to stay him. “There is no need, Mr. Shakespeare. Mr. Gregory has collected some more documents for you.” Mills indicated a pile of papers on the floor. “There. Take them away and look at them at your leisure.”

The package was already in Shakespeare’s hand.

“You certainly won’t need that,” Mills said, taking it from him. “That is ancient correspondence from Stafford in Paris. There”-he nodded once more toward the papers Gregory had collected-“that is what you want.”

Shakespeare clenched his jaw, trying to contain his fury.

Mills gave him a curious look. “There is a great deal of interest in you in this house, you know, Mr. Shakespeare. The Bacons keep telling Essex that information is power. And someone has said that you are the man to help them acquire it.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I cannot imagine where they got such an idea.”

Shakespeare collected up the papers and charts Mills had indicated. There was no more to be done here today. Cecil had set him an impossible task.

B ACK AT DOWGATE, George Jerico asked for a word. He complained that the workload was become too great with Rumsey Blade departed and Shakespeare engaged on other matters. Shakespeare said he sympathized, but that it would not be for more than a few days, for he had decided to close the school for the summer, before the plague took hold.

Catherine and Jane were in the nursery, sewing. Jane immediately rose from her stool to scurry away. Shakespeare let her go. He wanted Catherine for himself. At other times, he would have embraced her. This day, he stood his distance and spoke briskly, like a stranger. “So, you went to find the Bellamy girl?”

“Yes.” Catherine was mending her best kirtle. Her needle stopped in mid-stitch.

“And?”

“And she was not there. Gone to Topcliffe’s at Westminster.”

“Which means she was part of a plot to snare Southwell. And to trap you.”

“No. It is not as you make it seem. I believe her to be as much a victim in this as Father Southwell and her family. Those creatures have brought her to this. If she has done anything wrong, then I believe her an innocent dupe. It is all Topcliffe.”

Shakespeare’s face was set. “You won’t see it, will you?”

“I see that you still make apology for this foul and corrupt council of heretics.”