Revenger

“You don’t understand, do you, Shakespeare,” McGunn said, his soft Irish brogue dripping malevolence. “No one-and I mean no one-turns down my lord of Essex. And more than that-no one turns me down, either. In death’s name, this isn’t an offer we’re making you. It’s an order.”

McGunn relaxed and smiled his easy smile once again. He patted Shakespeare on the back. “There we go. No hard feelings, Mr. Shakespeare. We’re all men of the world. And I am certain we shall work very well together and share a drink or two in the tavern when our toil is done.”

Chapter 5

T HERE IS NO COLD LIKE THAT WHICH A MAN FEELS when he is in the midst of an unresolved lovers’ quarrel and yet must try to sleep. Catherine did not join her husband in their bed. When she did not appear, Shakespeare went to the nursery, where he guessed she would be. In the flickering light of his candle, he saw her lying on blankets beside their child’s cot, her face turned away from him. He stood there a minute, watching her, not sure what to say. He said her name, but she did not respond.

He knew she was awake, perhaps feeling as desolate as he. He sighed inwardly, watched her a few moments more, then quietly left the room, shutting the door after him. In the morning, he decided, he would apologize to her for his intransigence. Whatever the risks, he should have let her accept the invitation of her friend Anne Bellamy to attend the mass, see this Jesuit priest Southwell one last time, hear him say his superstitious words. What harm could a few words of Latin do? All over the country, seminary priests and Jesuits hid in secret places and said hundreds of masses every day in defiance of the laws that branded them traitors. Surely it would be safe enough for Catherine to have gone, just this one time. Did he not owe her that much?

T HE SUN WAS STILL LOW when the four boys ran out into the meadows near the village of Wanstead in the county of Essex. They had a pig’s bladder from the shambles, blown up tight and tied secure so that it made a football. The first boy, a strong lad of twelve, kicked the ball far into the grass and they all chased after it.

As one, the three fastest boys fell on the ball, pushing and punching each other to get to it. The fourth of them was close behind and snatched up the bladder from under the pile of laughing, grunting bodies. They lunged for him, but he was too nimble for them and punted it away into the oaks and ash at the edge of the wood. Once more the chase was on and they ran into the wood, hitting and tripping each other as they went.

The wood was thick with bracken and brambles that scratched their legs. At first they could not find their ball. Then the big twelve-year-old, his nose dripping blood from the sharp elbow of one of his friends, put a finger to his lips for the others to be silent. Crouching low, he crept forward, down a slight incline. He could hear the light babbling of a stream and he could see naked flesh.

“Over there,” he whispered. “They’re swiving, I’m sure of it. I can see them. Let’s get a look.”

The boys stifled giggles and followed him silently through the ferns. All were tense with excitement at the thought of catching a man and woman at their business, here in the open air, like rutting farm animals.

“Look at the tits on that,” the nimble lad said.

Suddenly the big boy at the front stopped. He sniffed the air. “I don’t like this,” he whispered. “I don’t think they are swiving.” Ahead of him, a startled fox scurried sideways, its ears pricked. It loped off into the darkness of the wood, something in its jaws. The boy took no note of the fox; his eyes were fixed on the naked flesh. He stood up and gasped at what he could see. A few yards ahead of him, half in and half out of the stream, was a pair of entwined human bodies. Their unclothed flesh was bloated and blood-flecked. Flies buzzed around them, and other insects crawled over them and into them. The boy felt bile rising in his throat at the overpowering stink and put a hand to his mouth.

“God’s bloody teeth,” the nimble one said. “God’s bloody teeth, they’re dead. Both of them.”

Chapter 6

S HAKESPEARE HAD BEEN STRICKEN WITH GLOOM all morning. On waking, he had wanted to apologize to Catherine, but she was already up and gone.

“I believe she went to the market,” Jane, their maid, said.

“Did she tell you that?”

“No, but it is the day she likes to go, and she left Mary with me.”

As Shakespeare picked at his repast of cold beef and onion pie, with a beaker of ale, Boltfoot Cooper brought a message from McGunn. “I suspect it is by way of a warning or threat, Master Shakespeare.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“He said, ‘Roanoke calls. Fetch your mangy English arse to Essex House by dusk tomorrow and there shall be gold. Fail me and there shall be penury and pain.’ ”

Shakespeare laughed without humor. “Yes, it is fair to assume that is a threat, albeit couched in playhouse terms, Boltfoot. Did he not wish to talk with me himself?”

“I asked him. He said there was no point. He said he was sure you would see things his way.”

“And what did you say, Boltfoot?”

“I told him to go piss his Irish breeches, sir.”

“Thank you, Boltfoot. I could not have put it better myself. However, I fear we have not heard the last of Mr. Charlie McGunn.”

Boltfoot turned to go, then thought better of it. “Excuse me, master. I wonder whether you have heard the news today.”

“What news is that, Boltfoot?”

“The Jesuit priest Southwell is taken. It is bruited all about town. Topcliffe discovered him at a manor house in Middlesex, then brought him in a cart to his Westminster torture chamber this very morning with a guard of fifty pursuivants on horse.”

Though he sat at the table, Shakespeare felt his legs turn weak as though he would not be able to stand. “Southwell taken in Middlesex?”

“In the Bellamy house.”

Where was Catherine? He had seen her curled up beside Mary’s cot late last night-surely she could not have somehow slipped out and gone to that house? Shakespeare was seized by fear, a terror so intense he felt his chest encircled by icy tentacles. There was a hammering at the door and Boltfoot shuffled away, dragging his clubfoot, to answer it.

Richard Topcliffe stood there, alone, incongruous in his court satin and ruff. Richard Topcliffe-white-haired priest-hunter, torturer, prosecutor, and executioner-a man who had his sovereign’s ear and gloried in no title other than Queen’s Servant.

“Boltfoot Cooper. What, not dead yet? We shall have to attend to that.” He pushed past Boltfoot into the antechamber and stood a moment, hands on hips, legs astride, looking about him. “So, this is Mr. Shakespeare’s spawning ground for Papist traitors.”

In the next room, Shakespeare got up from the long oaken table. He knew instantly who it was; that cur-like voice, which he had not heard in five years, would always fill him with foreboding. He went straight through to the anteroom to confront him. “Topcliffe,” he said. “You are not welcome in my house.”

“Hah, Shakespeare. You did not think I had forgot you, I hope? A pretty pile you have here, pleasingly placed beside the river. I believe this building will be mine one day, when I secure your conviction for treason. And that cannot be long in coming.”

“Why are you here?”

“Why, sir, I bring you information. There have been complaints lodged against your school. The bishop does fear that you are in breach of your license, teaching of saints and relics and superstitious treason. I am to report to