Revenger

“Mr. Shakespeare,” Essex said, his eyes lighting up. “What a pleasure to meet you. And the honor, may I say, is mine. Let me shake you by the hand.”

The grip almost crushed Shakespeare’s knuckles.

“So, Mr. Shakespeare, this is the hand that brought down Philip of Spain’s hired assassin and saved Drake. You are welcome in my home.”

Shakespeare bowed. “You do me too much honor, my lord.”

“Come, sit with me. Take some wine. It has been cooled in ice. Your face betrays your surprise, Mr. Shakespeare. Have you not heard? We have an ice cave here; it is a conceit of antiquity that I heard of from a correspondent in Italy. In the cold of winter, you collect ice and store it in the depths of the cellar, protected with straw and horsehair. Then in summer, even in a furnace summer such as this, it remains in its solid state to cool your wines and salads. It is an excellent device for keeping the freshness of fish, I am told.” Essex snapped his fingers and a servant stepped forward to take his order. “Now, Mr. Shakespeare,” he said. “You must wish to know why I have asked you to come here.”

Shakespeare inclined his head, but said nothing.

“And in due course I shall reveal all to you. But first let me ask about your circumstances. I believe you have a grammar school for poor boys?”

Shakespeare explained about the Margaret Woode School. Essex was clearly bored. At last he shook his head slowly. “This is all very well, Mr. Shakespeare,” he said. “But do you not miss the excitement of your former life?”

Shakespeare sometimes wondered this himself, but he would not admit as much here. “It was of its time, my lord, and I am glad to have served; but now my life has taken a different turn.”

“But your career as an intelligencer ended in an unfortunate manner. I believe you fell foul of the late, much- lamented Mr. Secretary Walsingham over the question of your wife’s Catholicism. That is certainly the tale bruited about.”

Shakespeare stiffened. “It is all a long time ago, my lord.”

“Yes, Mr. Shakespeare, I do understand that quite well. But, I say again: is school-mastering enough?”

“It is, my lord.”

McGunn and the painter listened in silence. Essex turned to them now. “What say you, Mr. McGunn? And you, Mr. Segar? Can a tiger so lose his stripes that he become a household cat?”

Both men laughed. “Quite impossible,” McGunn said. “What man could turn from the art of war, even a war of secrets, to the world of dusty books? Impossible, I say.” The painter signaled his agreement with a slight bow of the head.

The bluecoat arrived with four glasses of sweet and light Canary wine. As Shakespeare sipped he noted that the drink was indeed cold, a refreshing and remarkable indulgence on such a hot day.

“Now, then,” Essex said. “To the matter in hand. The reason I have asked you here. Does the word ‘Roanoke’ mean anything to you, Mr. Shakespeare?”

Roanoke. Who had not heard of Roanoke? The mere word conjured up an image in Shakespeare’s mind of a far-distant, exotic shore, of strange plants, venomous creatures, and yet more dangerous men. Roanoke: the lost colony. One of the most mysterious tales of the age.

Shakespeare let a second draft of the cool drink slip down his throat. “Roanoke. Why, yes, my lord. I have heard the tale, and a curious one it is.”

Essex gestured Shakespeare to come and sit with him on a wooden settle beside the window. “Before we proceed, let me tell you the story as I know it.

“I am sure that much has been said about Roanoke in the taverns and ordinaries of London, and most of it probably embellished for the sort of gulls who buy the penny broadsheets. Few people know the plain facts, so I shall rehearse them for you. Roanoke is a small island off the Virginia coast of the New World, reckoned to be some five hundred sea miles north and east of the Spanish colony of St. Augustine. Sheltered by sandbanks, it had been thought so well favored that it would do well as the site for England’s first colony in the New World. It seemed to offer natural protection from the Spanish, who would dearly love to see it done away with, and to offer a base for English privateers.”

“That is much as I had heard it, my lord.”

“Five years ago, the first permanent English colony was founded there: about one hundred and ten men, women, and children-and two babies, I believe-left to fend for themselves, hopefully to prosper and grow. But even before the ships had set sail, leaving them there, it was clear things were not running smoothly. There were disagreements with the savages. And there were shortages of supplies. Because of this, the governor of the colony, John White, came back to England with the ships. His mission was to assemble supply vessels to return the following year, 1588. But, as the world knows, he was unable to do so.”

“Because of the Armada.”

“Quite so. It wasn’t until three years after the colonists were left that an expedition was mounted to help those one hundred and ten souls. But when the ships arrived, they found no trace of them or their belongings.”

Shakespeare ran his finger around the cool rim of the elegant wine glass and looked closely at Essex. How could this story possibly involve him? “Was there not some clue as to their disappearance, my lord? Some mark on a tree indicating that they might have gone to live with the savages? Or is that a tavern tale?”

“No, you are correct about that, Mr. Shakespeare. There were three letters carved on a tree - CRO. And on a fence there was carved the word Croatoan. That is the name of a tribe of savages living at that time on an island to the south of Roanoke. It is said they had been helpful to the colonists in the past, but that they were losing patience with the white man’s demand for food. Would the colonists have gone there under such circumstances? Perhaps they were starving and did so, and perhaps they are all alive and well and living happy, productive lives in harmony with their hosts. That is certainly the most comforting explanation. For my own part, I do not believe it. Had they made an orderly departure, they would have had time to leave a more comprehensive message for those who came to find them. So there we have it, Mr. Shakespeare. There is, of course, much more to it than I have told you, but before we move on I wish to be sure you have a clear understanding.”

“I believe I do, my lord. But I confess that I am less certain how it affects me.”

“Which is what we are now coming to.” Essex rose from the elm-wood settle, took Shakespeare by the elbow, and stood with him gazing out of the high window. Shakespeare was a tall man, six foot by anyone’s reckoning, yet Essex overtopped him by a good three inches. For a few moments they looked out at the Thames together. It teemed with the traffic of barges and tilt-boats, blanched sails dazzling in the midday sun, oars clipping splashes from the surface that burst in iridescent plumes. On the opposite shore, among verdant pastureland, stood the palace of Lambeth, residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Not far off, they could hear the cries and sounds of the City. “What would you think, Mr. Shakespeare,” Essex said, “if I told you that somewhere out there, walking the streets of London, is one of the lost colonists?”

Shakespeare was not sure he had heard the question aright. “What are you asking me, my lord? Forgive me, but I fear I do not understand what you wish of me.”

Essex let out a loud snort of laughter and then turned back to McGunn and Segar. “You see, it is madness. No one will believe this.” And then he said slowly, directly to Shakespeare, “What I am saying is that we have evidence that one of the so-called lost colonists is alive and well and is now here in London, thousands of miles from Roanoke. Now, how do you explain that?”

Shakespeare had no idea what he was supposed to say. The question seemed moon-mad. “Well, I really don’t know. But if he is here, then I imagine others are, too, and that they have been brought here. Somehow they must have sailed here.”

“It is not a he, Mr. Shakespeare. It is she. And we have her name. She is Eleanor Dare-and she is a woman of great interest on two counts. Firstly, she was born Eleanor White and is the daughter of John White, the colony’s leader who came back to England to secure supply vessels. And secondly, she is the mother of the first-ever English baby born in the New World, a girl aptly christened Virginia. As to the suggestion that all the colonists have come back, I hardly think that is feasible. I cannot believe a hundred or more people have somehow slipped into England unnoticed. One, yes, perchance two, but a hundred, no.”

“Perhaps Eleanor Dare returned with her father five years ago when he came for the supply vessels.”

“Impossible. The other colonists would not have let her or her child leave. She was their hostage, if you like.