to her. And then I saw him clasp her hand and pull her away from the feasting and they did run off into the long grass together. I watched them go.”
“When was it discovered she was missing?”
“Less than an hour later.”
“Long enough for someone at the bridale to have followed them, clubbed them to death, and returned, unseen, to the feast.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But I had thought they died of poisoning, sir. Took their own lives, so it was said.”
“Do you believe they would have done that? From what you know of them?”
She hesitated, then said, “Amy, perhaps; not Joe. He would have just run away with her. I do believe he had gold.”
“So you were surprised when the constable said that was what happened, that they died by their own hand?”
“Yes, sir. It didn’t seem to fit.”
“Now, tell me, what happened at the bridale when it was noticed she was not there?”
“At first it was just m’lady calling for her. She is her stepmother, you know; her real mother died many years since. Lady Le Neve went all around the house and garden. Then she asked me and Mr. Dodsley to help find her. Then it was as if hell had torn apart the earth, Mr. Shakespeare. Everyone joined in the search. A hue and cry was raised. There was much shouting for Amy, men with torches striding out into the night, but she could not be found.”
“And Winterberry?”
“He looked as cold as death. He was the only one would not join in the hunt. Him and Sir Toby, but Sir Toby had an excuse at least because he was flat-out drunk as usual. Winterberry waited at his seat of honor at the feasting table, then, of a sudden, he got up, marched to the stables, took his horse, and rode off.” Her pace slowed.
Shakespeare could see the concern in her gray eyes. “Are we near the place?”
She pointed nervously to an area a few yards away. “Over there, through the brambles. Sir, I do think I have said enough now. Too much. This is touching on things I should not be talking of. I must go, for I will get into much trouble.”
Shakespeare took a small silver coin from his purse. “This is for your assistance, Miranda. You are doing much good in telling me these things.”
She would not even look at the coin, kept her hands firmly clasped together in front of her. “I could not take money. No, I could not.”
He put the coin away, then went to the little glade by the stream where Miranda indicated the bodies had been found. The dust and undergrowth had been much disturbed. The constable would have brought men here with a cart to remove the bodies. They would have scythed their way through the thicket. It seemed to him possible that Amy and Joe were killed elsewhere, then their bodies brought here and dumped. But that was surmise. There was no way of knowing, nothing to be divined from this place.
“I do not like to be here, sir. It is haunted.”
“I understand. Walk back a little way to my horse with me before you go; tell me just a bit more about Joe.”
“Please, Mr. Shakespeare, I must say no more.”
“I ask you again: was McGunn his master?”
He could see she was distressed, as if it had just occurred to her what danger she might be putting herself in. She looked about her, into the trees, as if each had a spy behind the trunk, watching and listening.
“Miranda, was it McGunn?”
She said the word so faintly that he could not hear it, but he could tell by the formation of her pink lips-and because he already guessed what the answer would be-that the word she said was
“Miranda-”
“I have said enough, sir.”
“Did
She blushed like a red bloom. “Any maiden would have loved him, sir,” she said quietly. “Any maiden.” She turned away, and quickly disappeared back onto the path whence she came.
S IMON FORMAN clutched the furled chart in his sweaty palms as he stepped into Penelope Rich’s lair, a high room in Essex House, and one befitting a She-wolf’s daughter. He was not a happy man. He felt the sharp edge of the headsman’s blade bearing down ever more keenly on his neck. This horoscope chart that he held was pure treason, for it contained the date of an approaching death that no man was allowed to foretell.
Yet Forman had not survived and prospered so long in the bear pit of London and court without knowing who must be obeyed and who might be ignored. One thing was certain: it did not pay to refuse a request from the mighty Devereux family.
As the doctor-astrologer entered her black and gold chamber, the lady Penelope Rich did not rise from her day-bed. She reclined with a book in one hand, being fanned by Henry, her black manservant, who stood at her side, his chest bare and rippling with muscles.
Forman stood awkwardly in the doorway. After a few moments, Penelope glanced up. “Ah, Dr. Forman,” she said, smiling. “What a pleasure to see you again.”
“My lady.”
“And I see you have brought the chart. How exciting. Why do you not unfurl it on the floor here, and then you can explain it all to me.”
Forman glanced nervously at the manservant.
“Oh, don’t mind Henry. I have no secrets from him.” She reached out languorously and brushed the servant’s thigh with her delicate fingers.
“As you wish, my lady,” Forman said doubtfully. He approached the day-bed and knelt on a rug, where he unrolled the chart, close to the servant’s naked feet. Not much in life made Simon Forman uncomfortable, but this did, painfully so.
Penelope raised herself on an elbow and looked down at the chart. There was a large circle, divided into twelve equal parts. “It is all a fantastical mystery to me, so I think you had better explain it in plain terms, if you would, Dr. Forman.”
“My lady, this chart shows the twelve houses, which represent religion, dignities, friends, enemies, life, fortune, brethren, relations, children, health, marriage… and death.”
“Dr. Forman, do get to the point. You know what I require. You are not a fool. Do you know she boxed my mother’s ears? Do you know that, Dr. Forman?”
A bead of sweat dripped from Forman’s brow onto the chart. “Well, my lady,” he said, picking his words with care. Of course he knew that the Queen had boxed the She-wolf’s ears; everyone knew it, for it had been bruited about with much mirth after she was banished from court. But he was not going to acknowledge the question, for that would be to accept that he knew whose chart he had cast, and that would not do. Great houses such as this had many ears-hidden ears.
“The subject of this horoscope, whose name I do not know and will never know, is an unmarried personage in her fifty-ninth year. She will never marry, nor will she have children.”
“God’s blood, Dr. Forman, of course a woman of fifty-eight will not have children. That is not what I require from you. You are telling me things I know. What I want is a date. Give me the date or I will have Henry break you in two and throw you from the window.”
Forman closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “September the…”
“Speak up, Dr. Forman, you are muttering like a sheep.”
“It is September the eighteenth, my lady.”
“And the year?”
“This year.”
