Revenger

Penelope was up from her day-bed now. She pulled Forman to his feet. “Say the words again to me, Dr. Forman. Clearly, so that there can be no misapprehension.”

Forman glanced at the expressionless face of the servant, Henry, then back at Penelope, whose beautiful, flawless young face was no more than a foot from his. He was in so deep now he was limp with terror and feared he would drown in his own perspiration.

“The lady in question will die at six of the clock on September the eighteenth in this year of our Lord, fifteen hundred and ninety-two. These are her last days, the remains of one short summer.”

Penelope smiled. “Then we have no time to lose, have we? Thank you, Dr. Forman. Thank you for your diligence.”

Chapter 20

J UST AS THE BATS BEGAN TO FLY FOR FOOD IN THE dusk, Shakespeare found a bed for the night at the Ox and Harrow tavern in the village close by Le Neve Manor. He ate a supper of wigeon and walnut pudding, then drank two pints of ale as he talked with the landlord and tried to find out more about the Le Neve family and the death of Amy and Joe.

The landlord was a man of middle years, whose pitted face showed the ravages of the smallpox. He told Shakespeare that most local people did not believe the deaths to have been self-inflicted.

“Who do you think killed them?”

“Vagabonds? There’s been enough come through here this summer, though we always drive them on after we’ve given them a loaf and some ale. Mind you, though, sir, something like this makes you look at your neighbors closer.”

“Do you know the family?”

“The Le Neves? Of course. Them and my lord of Essex and the lady Lettice own everything in these parts, all the houses in the village, this tavern included. Essex and his mother own most of the land, of course, what with the forest and all the hunting that goes with it, but a goodly parcel of acres belongs to Sir Toby. Yet even he is beholden to the Earl and must go with him when there’s wars to be fought.”

“And the boy, Joe?”

“Yes, I met him. A snout-fair lad, I’d say. He came in here for an ale once or twice. Always behaved himself proper and left a drinkpenny, so I had no complaints. But I would not have wanted to cross him.”

Shakespeare finished his ale and bade the landlord good-night. Taking a candle, he climbed the rickety staircase to his second-floor chamber and quickly fell into an untroubled sleep.

He awoke in the early hours and knew he was not alone.

He could hear faint breathing. He opened his eyes. Light from a three-quarters moon streamed in through the unshuttered window, and he could make out the darkness of a human figure, standing still, watching him.

Shakespeare’s sword was at the side of the bed, unsheathed, ready. He knew exactly where the hilt was. He was still clothed and was not encumbered by bedding.

His left hand went for the sword hilt and in one swift movement he rolled from the bed, twisting himself back away from the intruder, then straightway rising to a crouch, close to the head of the bed. His sword arm was outstretched, pointing directly at the figure by the window.

“Fear not, Mr. Shakespeare. I will not kill you.” It was a woman’s voice.

“Lady Le Neve.”

“Though had I wanted to kill you, your throat would have been slit while you slept and you would have known nothing of it until you woke drowning in blood.” She laughed and held up a butcher’s knife so that it glinted in the moonlight. “See? I could have dealt with you as I have often done for a Christmas pig. You should have locked the door.”

Shakespeare rose to his feet, but did not relax his sword arm. “Why are you here?”

She dropped the knife, which clattered to the floorboards. “To persuade you to leave us alone.”

“And the knife?”

“The knife was to defend myself. It cannot be safe for a lady to be out at this time of night with murderers about.”

“I ask again: why are you here?”

“The door latch was broken.” She shrugged. “And I wish to know who you are. You come to my house uninvited; you interrogate my maid behind my back.”

“You know who I am. You know that I was sent by the Searcher of the Dead.”

“You asked about Charlie McGunn… I think you are his agent, sent to avenge the death of his boy.”

Shakespeare put down his sword, still unsheathed, on the bed and took two steps toward Cordelia Le Neve. “No,” he said.

“You are sent here to kill us, though I have done no harm to McGunn. I did not want the boy to have Amy, but neither did I cause him hurt, and I would have done nothing to harm my daughter.”

“Why do you believe McGunn wants you dead? What could make him think you killed Joe?”

“You jest with me, Mr. Shakespeare. Men like McGunn do not look for evidence or proof. I have seen such men before.”

“Men like McGunn? Where would you have seen such men?”

He thought he saw the wisp of a smile in the silvery light.

“Mr. Shakespeare, I have seen things you have never dreamed of. Done things that would shame you to hear. But now I wish to be left in peace, which is why I have come to you tonight, to plead with you. I had wondered about killing you while you slept, but that would not have stopped McGunn. He would have sent another and another, until the deed was done.”

“Lady Le Neve, I am no hired killer.”

“What does a killer look like? Does gentleman’s attire mean you are a gentle man?” She seemed to smile. “No, you are not a hired killer. That is what saved your life when my blade touched your throat and I withdrew it. Yet I worry still, for you know McGunn.”

“Many people know McGunn.”

“He is death.”

“Lady Le Neve, the thing that will keep you safe from McGunn is finding the real murderer.”

She stepped to the bed and sat down at the end, her face half-turned toward him. He saw how astonishingly beautiful she was. Her hair was wild and her complexion no longer had its youthful sheen, yet she had a raw sensuality that would make any man want to take her.

“Tell me now,” he said. “How do you know McGunn?”

She sighed, but as she answered him, her voice was not desperate, nor weak. “I might as well be plain, for I am sure Dodsley has given you some idea of our straits. We borrowed money from McGunn. A great deal of money, at usurer’s terms. I believe my husband signed a note for two thousand and received fifteen hundred, to be repaid at interest of two shillings in the pound per annum. It is a common trick. Yet he had been recommended to us as a man who could help people. Of course, it became difficult to pay him, which is when the threats and demands began and when the boy came into our lives, with his razor knives and his killing smile. When he met Amy, his tone changed. I saw him climb to her chamber, night after night, and I could do nothing. It was then that I knew how deep we were in McGunn’s clutches. My husband would not heed what was happening. He was either away in France fighting or he was engaged here on his other interests. I called in our lawyers and secretaries. By collecting all that was owed us in rent and leases, and by selling our lands in Suffolk, I was able to bring together enough gold to pay off McGunn in full, which I did. It left us only ruin. I cannot even afford to pay the servants. But I hoped to buy our freedom, to get McGunn and Jaggard out of our lives.”

“But you didn’t.”

Cordelia Le Neve laughed. “McGunn was not happy to have his money back. He prefers to keep control than to retrieve his money. Nor did the repayment of the debt stop that boy coming to Amy. Even on her wedding day.”