Revenger

Bring him to me. I will question him.”

“No, I will do the questioning. I do things my way, McGunn.”

McGunn laughed. “Is that what you think?”

“And I am certain, too, that my man Cooper is onto something, or he would be home by now.”

“Where was he last?”

“Gone to Southwark to seek out a man who was on the Lion. Also to find Simon Fernandez, the commander of the ships that took the colonists.”

McGunn studied Shakespeare as a physician might examine a stool for evidence of evil humors. “You do not know where he is, do you? Your own man is lost and you are alone. But I know where he is, Shakespeare. I have people who tell me things.”

Shakespeare felt the frozen fingers of fear claw into his heart. “What do you know of Boltfoot, McGunn? What have you done?”

“The world is full of hungry maggots. Men who will do my bidding in return for morsels to gnaw on. Your Cooper has served his purpose.”

“McGunn, if you are a man, tell me what you know.”

“Stow it, Shakespeare. I will tell you nothing. But you tell me: have you found Joe’s killer-or are you merely swiving the girl’s mother? Is your bed become so barren and cold that you must warm it with the soft flesh of another man’s wife? Would you like Mistress Shakespeare to hear of your wanton midnight ramblings?”

“I care nothing for your threats, McGunn. And if I knew the killer of your base hireling, why would I tell you?” Shakespeare moved a step closer to McGunn. The Irishman’s fist came up and would have cracked Shakespeare’s nose and teeth, but he was expecting the blow and stepped sideways. The punch hit nothing but air. McGunn’s fleshy, pulpy face was suffused with rage, and he lunged forward as if he would throttle Shakespeare. But he was not quick enough.

Shakespeare had his poniard from his belt, its needle-sharp tip at McGunn’s throat. McGunn stood a moment, his face so close to Shakespeare that their breath mingled. Then he pulled back and laughed.

“I would kill you for talking about Joe like that, Shakespeare. He was no base hireling, but a good lad, a prizefighter and mine own.”

“Your son?”

McGunn was silent.

“If he was your boy, I should have thought you would wish the matter resolved. Give me Boltfoot and I will bring the killer to justice.”

McGunn snorted derision. “I do not need you for that. I will avenge Joe without the aid of a mewling English girl-boy.” McGunn raised his hand and gently eased the poniard away from his throat. “Put up your little dagger, Shakespeare. I would kill you, for you and Boltfoot Cooper have served your purpose and are dead men waiting to happen, but Essex seems to think you still have something to offer him. You are fortunate.”

“I want to see him. Now.”

“He will see no one. But the idle wench will. Lady Rich wants to see you this afternoon at three of the clock. Perchance she has heard of your adulterous ways and wishes for some jack-saucery herself. I shall enjoy telling your wife about your lewd excursions.”

“I have no idea what manner of man you are, McGunn, but I tell you again, you do not scare me.”

McGunn shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Well, I shall have to teach you some fear, then. Remember this: I know where your family has gone. That groom in your stables is talkative. I do not think he likes you well. And did I tell you about my man Slyguff? He has a nice way with the tanner’s shears, for he used to work in the leather trade back in Ireland. For all I know, he may already be on his way to a little town in the middle of nowhere in the far north, taking his sharp shears with him.”

S HAKESPEARE MOVED hurriedly through the high halls and narrow passages of Essex House, out toward the warmth of the sun to gather his thoughts. He did not fear McGunn for himself, but the mention of his family-and his knowledge of where they had gone-filled him with dread.

At the front steps of the great mansion, Shakespeare almost walked straight past his brother.

“John, are you here again?”

He turned at the familiar voice and embraced his younger brother, then held him at arm’s length so that he could look into his fresh, laughing face. “God, but it is good to see you, Will,” he said. Someone in this mad, dissembling world he could trust.

Chapter 30

T HE MERMAID ON BREAD STREET BOOMED WITH singing and shouting and reeked of ale, sweat, and tobacco smoke. They ordered a pitcher of muscatel wine from the pot-boy, then went outside to the slightly more savory air of the teeming street.

They leaned against the tavern wall, beneath the garish painted sign of a fair-haired sea siren. “Are you well, John?”

“Well enough. And you?”

“They have closed the theatres. Some foolish brawl near The Rose gave the Council the excuse they wanted.”

“I am sorry to hear that, Will. I am sure they will open again soon.”

“I fear the worst. This coming plague will close them for longer. I am told the mort bills rise week by week. That is why I slime around the houses of Essex and Southampton like a hungry serpent. I accept patronage where I can get it, for I must eat. And you, John, what takes you to Essex House?”

Shakespeare had been wondering how much to tell his brother; he did not wish to burden him with dangerous knowledge.

“It is complex.”

“John, I do believe you are at your old tricks again.”

The pot-boy arrived with their pitcher and two beakers. After he had poured the liquor, Shakespeare gave him threepence for the muscatel and a drink-penny for himself.

“This is difficult, Will,” Shakespeare said at last, after they had both taken a good draft of the powerful, spicy wine. “I would tell you everything I know, for I trust you with my life, but I do not think it in your best interests.”

“I do not wish to know anything. Your life is not for me, John,” Will said, but suddenly his manner changed. He looked around at the passers-by and the carters in the street and the other drinkers crowding around the Mermaid door. He lowered his voice and spoke close to his brother’s ear. “Because I love you, John, I must tell you things that might change your mind about Essex and those around him. All is not as it seems.”

“Will, I was there at the summer revel. I saw the masque, as did you.”

“Indeed. But that is not the worst of it, brother. I must confess to you that I have traded most perilously in pursuit of preferment.”

Shakespeare tensed. “Was it you that wrote the masque?”

“No, no. I told you, Robert Greene was the coter. I hope I am not that foolish.” He stopped. “You should know, John, by the by, that Greene has died, having been taken ill after a dish of pickled herrings.”

“Perhaps they were soused in poison. He always lived dangerously. But what, pray, are your concerns, William?”

His voice lowered again. “I have composed certain odes of love and correspondence of the heart.”

“Yes? And does Anne know of this?”

“Do not jest, brother. This is not about me. It was a serious error. At first I had thought I was merely pandering to the whims of noblemen. A game of love, if you like. I penned the odes in good faith, believing them to be for the wooing of some young lady’s maid of the court whom my lord of Essex wished to take and ravish.”