The main document was written in the hand of John White, the father of Eleanor Dare. It was a report to Sir Francis Walsingham, written on his return to try to secure supply vessels at the end of 1587. It spoke of the hardships of the long voyage across the great ocean to the Carib Sea and, from there, up to the Virginia coast. There had been severe shortages of food and drink. Shakespeare scanned the document with interest, for it filled in gaps in the account he had already read. In particular, he noticed that one name appeared time and time again- Simon Fernandez.
Fernandez had been pilot on the earlier expeditions and was now commander of the three small ships carrying the colonists. He was Portuguese and was, from what White had to say on the matter, more concerned about playing the pirate and preying on Spanish treasure ships than in getting the colonists safe ashore in Virginia. White spoke of constant battles with Fernandez and of his deep distrust of the man, even calling him “malevolent.” In one margin, close to the name “Fernandez,” Walsingham had written, “What are his true loyalties?” The question did not seem to have been resolved.
Shakespeare glanced briefly at the other papers. There was a deposition from Fernandez himself, dated November 1588, refuting White’s allegations and calling him “a lying dog.” It added, “Who could trust a man who would abandon his own daughter and grandchild to save his neck?” As a final postscript, it said, “Mr. White complained when we moored at Saint Croix, because there were savages there. This should tell you all you need to know about the white-livered wretch.”
There were more papers to look at, mostly of only tangential interest. He spent a few minutes studying two torn and faded drawings that he found among the documents. He assumed they had been crafted by John White, who was known as an artist. One showed a strong-muscled warrior with a breechclout covering his waist and privies. He had markings on his skin and feathers in his hair and carried a bow as long as an English archer’s, and a quiver of arrows. At his side was a woman, presumably his wife, bare-breasted with a fringed short skirt and beads about her neck. The other picture showed a native village, protected within a palisade. There were houses and barns and, at the center, a great fire where the men of the village gathered.
Shakespeare was packing them away when a letter caught his eye. It had a broken seal. He unfolded it and smoothed it flat on the table.
The letter, a short note from Bess of Hardwick, was addressed to Walsingham and was merely signed “Your constant friend, Bess.” It thanked Walsingham for finding a tutor for the lady Arbella, “one who will teach her well in the arts of becoming a prince of the blood royal.”
Shakespeare’s jaw tightened. Whatever Walsingham did, there was always a hidden purpose. If he had found a tutor for Arbella Stuart, one thing was certain: the man-or woman-was no mere schoolteacher. He would be employed by Walsingham as an intelligencer. And he would be tasked with reporting every little detail about Arbella and her life back to Walsingham: when she sneezed, what she ate for breakfast, when she came into her time of month, the secret vices of her other tutors and lady’s maids, her reading matter and passions, the attentions of putative suitors.
So Walsingham had placed a spy at the heart of Bess of Hardwick’s household. And that intelligence might now be known to Essex.
Shakespeare looked again at the letter and cursed. There was no name. Bess had not mentioned the tutor by name.
His heart pounded. So this was what Cecil wanted: the name of this tutor.
One question nagged at him. It could not have been by accident that this letter had come to be here, among documents dealing with the lost colony of Roanoke, which meant that someone within Essex’s household had placed it there for Shakespeare to find. The obvious name was Arthur Gregory, his old friend, who had assembled this packet of papers. But anyone with access to the turret room could have slipped this sheet in with the other documents while they were awaiting collection by Shakespeare. Francis Mills? Thomas Phelippes? Shakespeare did not really trust either of them, but nor could he discount the possibility that they had their own reasons. There were the Bacon brothers, too-Francis and Anthony-both playing delicate political games within Essex’s employment in their quest for high office. And what of McGunn himself-whose side was he truly on?
Shakespeare folded the paper and thrust it safely inside his shirt. There was a knock at the open door. He looked up and was relieved to see Boltfoot Cooper standing there.
“Boltfoot, come in. What news?”
Boltfoot looked disgruntled and hot. He came in, dragging his left foot across the wooden floor. “Nothing,” he said shortly. “A waste of my time and yours, master. And now I cannot find Mistress Cooper.”
“Jane is at the musical concerts with Mistress Shakespeare, Boltfoot. I know you are worried, but she would not be out unless all was well.”
Boltfoot looked relieved.
“Where have you been?”
“Looking for a Portuguese gentleman. Fernandez.”
Fernandez: the sea captain whose loyalties had been questioned by Walsingham. “Have you found him?”
“No. I was given an address in Gravesend, but he was not there. It is a tenement and they said he had most likely gone to sea again. He only ever stayed there while fitting out vessels at the docks. They had not seen him in a year and never knew when to expect him. I have wasted much time on this.”
“Who told you of him?”
“A Dutch cooper named Davy Kerk. He was on the
“How did you find Kerk?”
“Through a seafarer in a boozing ken. Cost me six ounces of sotweed. My
“Do you think there is anything to be gained in going back to this seafarer? What about going back to the cooper?”
On the long barge journey back from Gravesend, Boltfoot had been wondering about Davy Kerk. Had he deliberately sent him on a useless errand to find Fernandez? There was something not right about Kerk, something he couldn’t nail down. He wanted to find out more about Dutch Davy. Boltfoot growled, a sign that he had made a decision. “I will. You are right-I’m
Shakespeare clapped Boltfoot about the shoulder. “Don’t worry about Jane. She is in good hands and will soon be out of this murrain-infested city. If we go in haste, I will leave word for you. And God speed your inquiries.”
The truth was that Shakespeare did not really expect Eleanor to be found, because he did not believe she was alive, let alone here in England. But for now, however, it was expedient to be seen going through the motions of the Roanoke inquiry with vigor and purpose. He needed every excuse he could muster to inveigle himself into Essex’s circle and stick to him like daub to wattle.
Chapter 22
T HE BELL OF ST. MAGNUS STRUCK THREE OF THE clock. Foxley Dare’s ordeal was almost done. As Shakespeare arrived, the tipstaff stepped up to unlock the pillory and release the prisoner. The dung on Dare’s face had baked hard like a stinking mask, and he looked scarcely human.
When Foxley tried to stand, the pain in his neck and back was so severe he screamed and fell forward. Shakespeare caught him, but his weight was too much and he had to ease him down to the ground, where he lay curled like a new-born baby.
As the crowd of onlookers dispersed, a woman emerged from a house close to the church. She carried a pail of water and poured it over Foxley’s face and head. “I always do that for them,” she said to Shakespeare. “It helps revive them, poor souls.”
“Some cloths to clean his face would help, too, mistress,” Shakespeare said. “And herbal ointments, too, if you have any, for he is sore burned by the sun.”
“Bring him into my house and we will do what we can. My husbandman was an apothecary, God rest his soul,
