Revenger

“Thank you for your time, Sir Walter,” he said. “And you, Mr. Gorges.”

Gorges grinned. “Ask yourself, Mr. Shakespeare, who might have bruited about this mad tale of a woman flying the ocean-and to what purpose? There is some mischief here. Do you not agree, Walter?”

Suddenly Ralegh fell into a rage. “God damn their black hearts to hell! They wish me away from her presence forever. Yet they will both pay for this. Cecil and Essex-Satan and Beelzebub. Go to, Mr. Shakespeare. Be gone with you.”

Yes, Shakespeare thought wryly, you liken Cecil and Essex to the Devil- yet all the while men call you the Great Lucifer and the Beautiful Demon…

“Before I depart, Sir Walter, I would ask you one last thing. The corporation-your investors-are they still confident?”

For a moment, Shakespeare truly believed he would be set upon and stabbed to death, so dark a fury crossed Ralegh’s brow. “The corporation?”

“Men such as Jacob Winterberry.”

“Winterberry and the corporation? They are less than dogs, they are beneath the snakes that crawl upon their bellies and eat dust. Talk not to me of corporations and Winterberries. I will have none of them.”

“But have they not put in all the money necessary?”

“Aye, and some do try and sue for it. I know not what Winterberry has to do with this visit of yours today, Mr. Shakespeare, but I wish only evil to him. He risks his money, but would he ever hazard his life? Never did I meet a man of such small parts-his character, his form. I thank the guiding spirit when I hear that his ships do not come in. The Devil’s canker on him and all his benighted ilk.”

Chapter 29

A S SHAKESPEARE RODE BACK THROUGH THE NARROW city streets, the sound of the river fanfare receded to a distant hum. He was frustrated; the visit to Ralegh had yielded little reward. Nor was he looking forward to his next visit, to Essex House, but he had to discover Essex’s movements.

Outside the entrance, the usual band of Irish beggars clamored around demanding money. They threw obscenities and profanities at him when he ignored them. Inside the courtyard, the halberdier guards gave his letter-patent a cursory glance and waved him through.

Up in the turret room, he found his former colleagues. Francis Mills gave him a look of disdain and continued to eat the hunk of bread and cheese that he had on a trencher before him; Phelippes barely looked up from a paper he was reading. Only Arthur Gregory stammered a welcome.

Shakespeare touched his arm. “A word if I may, Mr. Gregory.”

“Of course, Mr. Sh-shakespeare.”

They went through to the side room. “How may I help you?”

“The matter is this, Mr. Gregory: do you know whether the Earl is leaving with Her Majesty? What are his plans?”

Gregory put a finger to his lips. “He is in the most monstrous s-s-sulk, Mr. Sh-shakespeare,” he whispered, “though you did not hear that from me.”

“Does that mean he is still here at Essex House?”

“For the moment. He is furious at being passed over for the chancellorship of Oxford and believes C-c-cecil did for his chances. He had set great store by it and blames him-and her. But she will s-s- send for him, and then he will have to go to her, like an obedient puppy. Yet he will s-s-seethe inside.”

“Then he could leave at any moment.”

They went back into the main room. Phelippes looked up through his thick, heavily scratched glasses and gave a smile that only served to make his pox-ridden face more grotesque. “Mr. Shakespeare, I have a puzzle for you. I remember of old that you were a fine intelligencer with a wit that could solve any manner of mysteries.” He pushed a paper toward him. It was written in code. A code very like the book code he had used to communicate with Sir Robert Cecil. A chill of ice slid through Shakespeare’s blood. It was not his hand-but was it Cecil’s?

“Tell me, pray, what in God’s world this piece of correspondence might mean.”

Shakespeare had an awful sense of foreboding as he examined the message. Never once in all their years working together for Walsingham had Phelippes ever asked him for assistance.

“You are the code-breaker, Mr. Phelippes.”

“Indeed, I am, and I have never been bested yet. This looks like a book code, don’t you think? You know what a book code is, do you not, Mr. Shakespeare?”

“How could I not, having worked for Mr. Secretary so long?” Shakespeare kept his face impassive. He knew Phelippes was scrutinizing him for a reaction.

“So we need to find the book. What sort of book would you use?”

“Whatever came to hand. There must be thousands of books. You could work a lifetime on it, Mr. Phelippes. What is the context? How did you come by it? Do you think it Spanish?”

Phelippes’s lips curled into an oily smile. “A man in the street brought it to me. Ah well, I thought you might have an idea. Fear not, I shall find the answer soon enough. But perhaps you have lost your edge, Mr. Shakespeare.”

“Perhaps I have.”

Shakespeare looked away. His eyes drifted to the shelves behind the great code-breaker, and he wondered if The Profitable Art of Gardening was among the books piled there.

Phelippes smiled his unctuous version of a smile once more. “No, it was none of those. I shall just have to keep looking.”

Shakespeare’s heart sank. Had Butler brought this message here-or had it been wrested from him? Did Essex and his intelligencers have doubts about him? He was at the heart of their headquarters and must be vulnerable, yet found himself angry, not scared. Did Phelippes, Mills, and Gregory know what they were engaged in? Did they have an inkling of the plot against the crown?

McGunn appeared in the turret room doorway, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, still sheathed. “Shakespeare, where in death’s name have you been?”

Shakespeare did not recoil at the grinding, murderous voice. He met McGunn’s stare full-on and gathered himself in. He would show no fear to this man. “Finding Eleanor Dare for your lord and master.”

McGunn gazed at him with scorn, his gold earring catching the sunlight. “I have no lord, nor any master. I say again, where have you been? Meddling in matters that are none of your concern. Come with me, Shakespeare.”

McGunn led him down from the turret room to a private study on the floor below. The two men stood facing each other like a pair of dogs about to be unleashed.

“So have you found her? That is all I want.”

Shakespeare was stiff with rage. “This day I have been with Ralegh, who is much discomfited but can shed no light on the question of the lost colony. He seems to think it not lost at all, but a thriving city, rich in gold and tobacco.”

McGunn scoffed. “He thinks nothing of the sort; he wants to keep his patent.”

“But I believe I have another sighting of Eleanor Dare, by her brother-in-law, Foxley.”

“Ah, so you have found him, have you? Well, that is a start.

Where is he?”

Shakespeare lied without hesitation. “I believe he is in a house at St. Dunstan’s Hill, called Tiler’s Cottage. Though that is not where I found him.”

“And where did you find him?”

“In the St. Magnus Cross pillory.”

McGunn smiled at last. “Well done, Shakespeare, though I am sure a blind infant could have done as much.