here.”
“Has he spoken to you about the Roanoke colony and the voyage there?”
“Go, Mr. Cooper.”
“And one Eleanor Dare? Have you heard that name?”
She sighed and her shoulders slumped. “Of course I’ve heard of Roanoke. Everybody in England has heard it. It has been bruited about in all the penny broadsheets and it was all the gossip in the taverns and victuallers’ a year or two back. You would have had to be in Peru not to have heard of all that nonsense. But just because my father was one of them as took them there doesn’t mean he knows anything. And nor do I. Now, I’ve got a fowl to pluck and other work to do, so I’d be very pleased if you would leave. I’ve given you beer. Other than that, I cannot help you.”
Boltfoot finished the beer and made for the door. He noticed a picture on the wall, facing the crucifix, a skilled ink drawing of a pair of guinea fowl beside a copper pot. Though austerely framed in plain wood, he could see it was an expert work. He looked again at the woman’s blackened hands. “That is a fine picture, mistress. Is it by you? Do you draw in ink?”
She did not respond, merely glared at Boltfoot.
“I will be back, mistress. Tell your father I must speak with him and that it will be to his benefit.”
Boltfoot stood outside a long while, watching the house from the shadows, expecting to see Davy Kerk appear at any moment. Even in the shade, he felt weak. At last he felt himself becoming faint; he had to get home to see Jane. He struggled through the crowds and stalls of Southwark back toward the bridge. The sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes and he felt his shirt and breeches stick to his body with the heat and the effort of walking.
At Long Southwark he stopped. He should have searched the house, with or without her permission. He should have demanded to know where Davy Kerk had gone on his so-called business. He should have stayed there until Kerk returned, for she obviously was not preparing a chicken-fowl to eat alone.
Cursing his dragging foot and the infernal heat, he turned back westward once more. The last thing he heard was the voice of a mother. “Here, Bobby, give a farthing to that poor lame soldier.” Then a boy of about eight pressed a farthing into his hand. He stared down at it, bewildered, his brow dripping sweat into his palm. He looked up and, across the road, he saw a woman’s blue-gray eyes peering out at him from inside a cowl. And then, nothing.
T HE DECISION WAS MADE over supper. Catherine, Jane, the children, and Jack Butler-should he return by dawn-would go to Catherine’s hometown, not far from York in the north of Yorkshire, with the squadron offered by Cecil.
Catherine’s mood lifted immediately and she began bustling around the house, fetching the essentials for the journey and packing them in boxes and bags.
The desperate question was, where was Jack Butler? Shakespeare was now very concerned not just for his servant’s safety, but because he wanted the family to travel with at least one trusted man in attendance. He ruffled young Andrew Woode’s hair. “Well, lad, if Mr. Butler does not appear, you will be the man of the family.”
“Yes, sir.”
The thought of Catherine leaving for a journey of more than two hundred miles with Jane, little Mary, and their wards Andrew, now eleven, and nine-year-old Grace, somehow made their recent disagreements over religion and Father Southwell seem insignificant.
“I shall miss you, Catherine,” Shakespeare said.
“Join us, then, John.”
He smiled without conviction. “Yes. As soon as I can.”
“I saw Father Southwell in the Gatehouse,” Catherine said quietly. “Topcliffe allowed me in. He wished to gloat.” She looked closely at her husband for his reaction.
A few days earlier, Shakespeare would have exploded in a fury at such news. Now it seemed pointless. She was going away, beyond the reach of Topcliffe and the plague and all other sources of harm.
“I had thought you would go there. How does Southwell fare?”
“Not well. He had been left hanging against the wall, his legs strapped back. He was close to death.”
“It was the course he chose, Catherine. I believe he has longed for martyrdom.”
She was about to say something sharp by way of reply, but held her tongue. “John, let us talk of that another time. I have much to do before the soldiers arrive for us. One thing, though, I must tell you. I also met Anne Bellamy, who is changed beyond recognition. I know it is caused by the horror of what she and her family have come to, but I confess I found her hard to like. She said something curious to me, though. A warning or a threat, I know not which: she said we will all be drowning in chrism. The Shakespeares, she said, as if it included all of us. I know not why, but it even occurred to me that she meant your brother, too. How would she know of Will?”
Shakespeare saw the connection at once. “She must have been with Father Southwell at Southampton House. William would have been there oftentimes; he has the patronage of the Earl of Southampton. What her warning could mean, though, I cannot say. Why should we drown in holy oil?”
“She was very confused, full of hatred for God and the world-and me.”
Shakespeare was silent a moment. It sounded like yet another filthy attempt at intimidation by Richard Topcliffe. Either that or the meaningless ranting of a poor Bess o’Bedlam; anyone taken into custody by Topcliffe might be turned mad by his brutality. “Pay it no heed, Catherine. Here, take another glass of wine with me and be merry at the thought of seeing your mother and father.”
Later, they spoke in quiet tones and sat with wine in the candlelight. Both had much to say to each other that they could not say, and though they slept in the same bed for the first time in days, they did not make love. The distance between them was still unbridged, but perhaps it was not quite a chasm. Nonetheless, it was a bad way to part.
In the early hours of the morning, Shakespeare rose from the bed, unable to sleep. He looked at Catherine lying there and touched her face. She was so still and quiet, he wondered whether she, too, was awake. But she did not respond to his touch. Treading barefoot, he walked in silence to the solar and lit a candle. He looked again through the papers he had brought from the turret room.
He studied the Roanoke documents once more. One of them was a sheet he had dismissed earlier as being of no consequence. It was dated 1589, the year before it was discovered that the colonists were missing. At the top were the words “SWR’s new Virginia Corporation,” and below was a list of the names of the investors. Shakespeare ran a finger down the names. They were all great merchants of the City, with plenty of spare gold to put into such a risky venture. His finger stopped at one of the names and he went cold. Jacob Winterberry-the Puritan bridegroom of the murdered girl Amy Le Neve.
So Jacob Winterberry was an investor in Sir Walter Ralegh’s Roanoke colony. At this befuddling hour of the morning, Shakespeare could make no sense of it. Was it mere coincidence? Everything he had learned from Walsingham had taught him that such things were never coincidence. He felt suddenly tired. Perhaps he would see Winterberry on the morrow. He would find out then. He went back to the bedroom and slipped once more into the marital bed, beside the still, warm body of his wife.
They rose at first light as the cocks crowed. The troop of thirty mounted soldiers came by in a clatter of hooves and bucklers while the family was still at breakfast. The children were all agape to see them in their helmets, with their mass of armor and armaments borne aboard thirty more packhorses behind them, ready to fight the feared Scots raiders on the northern Marches. Jane and Catherine gave ale to the soldiers. They then loaded up their sumpters, tying the baggage securely with maling cords, and stood in the courtyard waiting for the order to mount up and depart. Shakespeare hugged the children and kissed them, and made them promise to be good and God- fearing. Two lieutenants lifted Andrew and Grace into the saddle with them.
Shakespeare gave a last hug to Mary, the only one of the three children who was of his own blood. He smiled at her. “Look after your mother,” he said.
Finally it came time for Shakespeare and Catherine to take their leave. They stood bashfully before each other. He moved forward to kiss her, but her face turned from him at the last moment, and his lips only brushed her cheek. “God speed, Catherine,” he said, trying hard to smile.
“We will be fine with these troopers, John. Do not worry for us.”
Catherine mounted and Shakespeare handed up Mary to sit with her. Next to her, side-saddle on a bay palfrey,
