Revenger

“From across the sea in Ireland,” Boltfoot said. “A brutish fellow with a face like a dog, yet given to wearing fine courtly clothes.”

“He is not the only one that seeks you, Eleanor,” Foxley said. “Then we are not safe here. It must be one of McGunn’s men.”

“He gave his name as Shakespeare. I thought him an honest man.”

Boltfoot smiled at last. “He is my master.”

From an inner doorway, a boy appeared. Foxley clasped a fat arm around his young shoulders. “And this is my nephew John. John, say good-day to your stepmama.”

The boy was slender, though strong, with dark, tousled hair and clever eyes. He was nine or ten years of age.

“Good-day, mistress,” the boy said.

She shook his hand. “Good-day, young John. Do you recall me?”

He shook his head.

“How could you? It is five years since last you saw me.” She looked at him closely and smiled sadly. “You are the very image of your father, my husband. God rest his soul.”

“I cannot remember him.”

“He spoke of you often, though. I know he would have been very proud to see what a fine boy you have become.”

Chapter 35

T HE MASTIFF SNARLED, ITS TEETH BARED, SALIVA dripping from its gums into the dust. Crouching low, it inched nearer the bull, then dashed in from the side and snapped at the bull’s hind legs. Despite its immense strength and size, the bull was quick and nimble and spun round, its head lowered. The beast met the dog full-on. One of its horns thrust upward into the smaller animal’s soft underbelly and tossed it into the air.

The dog yelped in pain as it flew upward, a deep gash in its belly raining blood, before smacking down clumsily onto the ground. Snorting and trampling the dog under its hooves, the bull spiked it once more on its horns and tossed it again. The bull tried another charge, but was brought up short by the eight-foot rope that tethered it to a post in the center of the dusty ring. The crowd roared approval, and another mastiff was brought in to try its luck.

All eyes were on the bloody spectacle. All eyes but those of John Shakespeare. He was watching Essex, who was just taking his leave of Her Majesty in the royal viewing box, bowing low to her before strolling off to meet up with a group of a dozen or so spectators. Among them were the Earl’s closest associates: Henry Danvers, Gelli Meyrick, and the Earls of Southampton and Rutland.

The word conspirators came to Shakespeare’s mind. Were these men all in on the deadly game on which Essex was embarked? There could be little doubt of it. He took a deep breath and strode toward them.

It was a muggy afternoon. For the first time in weeks, there were dark clouds on the horizon. There would be rain before the three-day celebration was done.

The aging Queen fanned herself as she watched the entertainment beneath a canopy of green and gold stripes. She was as enthusiastic as any of her subjects in her applause. After the bulls, there would be bears, horses, and monkeys to delight her with their flowing blood. As he studied her animated face, it occurred to Shakespeare that the Queen looked mighty healthy and spirited for a woman supposedly destined to die within a few days.

A beautiful black woman in fanciful Roman battledress-gold breastplate and helmet and short fringed war- skirt-strolled past, her hands straining to contain two chain-link leashes with a large spotted wild cat at the end of each. Shakespeare stepped aside.

All around, refreshments were to be had. A fountain rained Rhenish wine; a hogshead hidden in a bush of roses had a faucet to dispense claret. Waiters offered trays of little delicacies-pastries with the breasts of peewits, sugar cakes with saffron, salted potato from the New World. Shakespeare helped himself to a portion of finest tobacco leaves and placed them in a pouch.

At the welcoming pageant, dozens of the most artful jesters and tumblers of England had clowned and bounded about. In the fields all around, there were fairground stalls with oxen roasting and casks of free ale for the commoners and townsfolk.

It was a perfect setting. This castle, Sudeley, had been Elizabeth’s own home when, as a girl in her teen years, she was cared for by her stepmother Katherine Parr, the last of Great Henry’s six wives. Elizabeth had memories of happy days in these gardens with her young cousin Jane Grey. But those days were too short-lived, for Katherine Parr had died soon afterwards, in childbirth, and Sudeley had passed into other hands. Poor Lady Jane’s own fate had been no happier, ending on the block at the age of sixteen after ambitious men had thrust her unwillingly onto the throne in a vain attempt to keep it from Catholic Mary.

Shakespeare bowed to Essex. “My lord.”

“Mr. Shakespeare, you have arrived.”

“Your sister was most persuasive, my lord.”

Essex laughed loud and waved away his companions. “The idle wench is irresistible, is she not? She can certainly rule me, and I am her own little brother.”

Shakespeare breathed a sigh of relief. His welcome indicated that Essex-at least for now-knew nothing of Shakespeare’s secret dealings. “I am delighted to be of service to you.”

“And that you shall.” His voice lowered a tone or two. “Did my sister give you an inkling of the great matter on which we are engaged, Mr. Shakespeare?”

“An inkling, sir, yes.”

“And were you daunted by the enormity of our momentous task?”

“No, my lord. I was not daunted.”

“Then we must set you to work, Mr. Shakespeare, for there is naught more vital than the safety of our realm. It is by winning the war of secrets that we shall be kept safe.”

“That is why I am here.”

“Do you have lodgings? I fear there is little space at Sudeley.”

“I will look around.”

“Be patient. I will call on you soon enough. Know that when you perform a task for me, you do it as a true and loyal Englishman. Do you see that proud bull in the ring, how mastiff after mastiff launches itself at the beast, and yet it impales them all? I am that bull. I shall repel the Spaniard and the Scotchman and every other foreign potentate that covets the throne of England. Be ready, John, for I shall call on you at a moment’s notice. We must seize the day- carpe diem!”

“And the case of Eleanor Dare, my lord?”

Essex brushed the topic aside. “Think no more of Roanoke for the moment, John; we have great affairs of state at hand.” He patted Shakespeare’s arms and was gone with a sweep of his white, gold, and tangerine cape, a group of friends and followers trailing in his wake.

Shakespeare watched them a moment, then his eyes strayed across the bullring to the royal box, where he saw that Elizabeth’s eyes were following the perambulations of her handsome favorite. Essex made her feel a girl again with his flattery and fluttering and swooning. Did she have any idea what treachery he was embarked upon? At her side now was the small, insignificant figure of Sir Robert Cecil. He caught Shakespeare’s eye and acknowledged him with an almost imperceptible nod of the head.

Starling Day hove into view on the arm of John Watts, London’s richest merchant. Watts was weighed down with jewelry and gold: diamond earrings, brooches, neck-chains, and enormous pearls. Starling’s attire was magnificent in its awfulness, a vast and garish confection of silver and blue satin and silk, with a ruff the size of an October moon. Her hair was piled on her head beneath a silver-thread caul that almost obscured her face. She continually tugged at the caul with her plump, heavily ringed fingers so that she could look about her properly.

“Mr. Shakespeare, see, I am at court! And at the finest merriment the world has ever seen. For lunch I ate