Dismayed by the scene, Shakespeare went up to the tipstaff. “I would speak with the prisoner. I am here as an officer of the Earl of Essex.”
The tipstaff was impressed, especially when handed a sixpenny coin, and allowed Shakespeare closer to the pillory. He stood face-to-face with Foxley Dare, though it occurred to him that he might find the back of his own head to be an interesting alternative target for the jeering mob.
“Mr. Dare, my name is John Shakespeare. I need to talk with you.”
The prisoner’s eyes were closed in his red-burned and splattered face. His mouth was open, drawing in rasping, shallow breaths, almost panting like a dog. Shakespeare had a blackjack of ale with him. He poured a little into his left hand and held it to Foxley’s mouth. “Here, sup this.”
Foxley’s tongue lolled out, all dry and crusted, and touched the liquid. Slowly at first, then more greedily, he lapped at it like a cat. Shakespeare kept pouring more into his hand until he felt the man had had enough. “Can you speak yet?”
“I need a hat. Please, give me your hat, or a scarf to cover me.”
Shakespeare took the felt hat from his head and perched it as well as he could on Foxley’s head, covering his forehead and ears and shading his nose.
“What is the time? Has the noon bell rung?”
“Soon.”
“Three hours more. I will die here. I need dung. Coat my face and hands with dung, if you would, sir, to protect me from the sun. I shall not survive else.”
Most of the horse dung from the center of the road had already been thrown at him and lay in splodges at the base of the pillory. Shakespeare gathered what he could and smothered it over the exposed areas of flesh, to the crowd’s great amusement; they evidently thought Shakespeare’s decoration of the prisoner was part of the entertainment. He gave Foxley Dare more ale from the blackjack. “You know, Mr. Dare, I have to say that she must have been a very
Dare groaned agonizingly. “It’s all a bloody lie, sir. Those dog-wife, pox-putrid, cross-biting whores made it up when I refused to pay for the use of their lice-infested cunnies. The only goose I’ve ever had was roasted on a platter.”
“Well, perhaps, then, you should have paid the whores.”
“Why should I pay for the clap? I will do for them all when I get out of here.”
“Mr. Dare, I am investigating a matter on behalf of the Earl of Essex. I believe you are the guardian of a boy called John Dare, your brother’s son.”
“I can’t talk. I can’t even think. Give me more ale, sir, and I will talk with you when I am free of this infernal contraption.”
“Just tell me this. Is that correct, about the boy?”
“Yes, yes, and a finer nine-year-old you never met, but I will not talk more.”
The church bells of St. Magnus clanged out their toll of noon.
“Four down, three to go, Mr. Dare. I shall return to you anon. Don’t go anywhere in the meanwhile.”
Shakespeare handed another coin to the tipstaff. “Keep him alive, tipstaff. Make sure he is here for me when I return, and there will be yet another sixpence for you.”
I T WAS A SHORT distance to Dowgate. Shakespeare walked his gray mare home with some trepidation, wondering what sort of reception he would have from Catherine.
In the stable block, he handed the reins to the groom, then walked into the deserted courtyard. Two figures emerged from the shadows. McGunn and Slyguff.
“God’s balls, you have kept us waiting,” McGunn said irritably.
“I cannot find Eleanor Dare sitting about at home.”
“Nor by consorting with the Searcher of the Dead, I would suggest.”
“Have you been
“What do you think, Shakespeare?”
“And what did you learn by watching me take a drink with my good friend Joshua Peace?”
“I learned that you are straying from the path, prying into matters that are no concern of yours.”
“I decide what is my concern, McGunn.”
“And why should you be concerned by a pair of deaths that have nothing to do with Roanoke or Eleanor Dare? Do you think me a coney to be caught and used at your will, Shakespeare? I want to know what game you play at my expense. I want to know why you went missing after seeing Peace, and where you went.”
“If I know of any murder, McGunn, it is merely by hearing of it in converse with Mr. Peace. Our meeting was arranged long ago. And you say the deaths of Amy and Joe had nothing to do with Eleanor Dare, but I am not certain that is so.”
McGunn had a petronel heavy pistol slung over his shoulder. Swiveling it out, with the butt into his chest, he leveled the muzzle at Shakespeare’s face. At his side, Slyguff was alert and silent.
Shakespeare looked at the barrel and turned away. He began walking toward the door of the school building.
“Do not turn your back on me, Shakespeare. Men have died for less.”
Shakespeare glanced over his shoulder. He was angry now. “Then do not threaten me in my own home, McGunn. You think me afraid of you? You are wrong. I consider you a cheap prigger, a base roarer and bully. I have no idea what hold you have over my lord of Essex and nor does it concern me. But you have no hold over me. I will carry out my mission for the Earl in my way and in my time. And if that involves looking into the circumstances of Joe Jaggard’s death, so be it. For was he not seeking Eleanor Dare when he died? If the Earl does not like my methods, then he can find another man.”
McGunn laughed, but his face showed no signs of mirth. “I will have to teach you fear, then, Shakespeare. Yes, find Joe’s killer and I will reward you. But cross me and you had best look out for your pretty goodwife and your dainty child. In the meanwhile, you will keep us informed of everything you discover, as you discover it. We will not wait long.” His fleshy eyes held Shakespeare’s for two or three heartbeats, then he snorted disdain and strode to the entrance gate, Slyguff at his side.
Shakespeare was still shaking with anger as he entered the school and encountered his deputy, Jerico, who appeared nervously from a side door, looking downcast. “I thought it best to keep out of their way, Master Shakespeare,” he said.
“You did the right thing, Mr. Jerico. Are you alone here? The place seems empty.”
“Plague or no plague, the school has been closed already, sir. I had to turn the boys away this morning.”
“What?”
“The bishop’s men arrived last evening, sir, with Rumsey Blade, and brought an order for our immediate closure, citing blasphemous teaching and sedition.”
“What bishop’s men were these?”
“Pursuivants bearing the Queen’s escutcheon. Their leader said his name was Topcliffe. He had a foul tongue, master. He said I must leave immediately and threatened me with torture and death. I confess he scared me half witless.”
Topcliffe and Blade. Shakespeare ground his teeth in anger. He was beyond fear. He was raging with a blood- fury he had never before experienced. He could happily kill these men.
“Where is my wife?”
“She and Jane are with the children at the Royal Exchange, for the music.”
“And Jack Butler?”
“I have not seen him, sir. But a Mr. Peace came with a message. He asked me to tell you that he had released the bodies and that he believed there was to be a funeral at Wanstead. He said you would understand what it means.”
“Indeed, I do. Thank you, Mr. Jerico. And fear not, we will save the school.”
Shakespeare went through to his solar. On the table in the center of the room, he spotted the bundle of papers he had brought back from Essex House. He had left them there, unread, but now, with some peace and quiet for two or three hours while waiting to return to speak with Foxley Dare at the pillory, he found himself flicking through the pages sorted for him by Arthur Gregory in the turret room.
