Revenger

Paddington Green.”

Shakespeare was unarmed-no sidearms were allowed here, so close to the Queen-or he might well have killed Topcliffe. Instead he turned away, with Topcliffe’s foul laughter ringing in his ears.

He was still shaking with fury ten minutes later when Clarkson found him. The old retainer quietly ushered him toward the White Garden beneath the royal apartments, where a covered passage extended from the private chambers of the castle to the chapel. It was in this concealed space that they found Sir Robert Cecil, standing in the shadows, lit only by a single candle in a wall sconce.

Clarkson retreated to the entrance to make sure none should enter and disturb them. Shakespeare bowed. “I bring you grave news, Sir Robert,” he said. He told him of Forman’s horoscopes-the death chart that claimed Elizabeth would die on September the eighteenth and the wedding chart that suggested a suitable date for the marriage of Essex and the lady Arbella Stuart to be on the fourteenth, less than three days from now.

“Then you must stay close to Essex. Do you have his trust?”

Shakespeare thought of the look Essex had given him when he read Slyguff’s missive. McGunn and the intelligencers in the turret room must have learned all they needed to know of Shakespeare’s loyalties when Jack Butler broke under torture. He shook his head. “I think not, Sir Robert. I am no longer sure what game he plays with me.”

“What of the correspondence between the Earl and the lady Arbella?”

Shakespeare spoke carefully. “I have discovered that there was, indeed, correspondence. Love letters and odes from the Earl to the lady.”

“And who composed these verses? Essex is no Sidney or Ralegh. He is not a poet.”

“I cannot say, Sir Robert.”

“Cannot-or will not?”

Shakespeare ignored the question. “I can tell you, however, that the go-between is one Morley, Christopher Morley, tutor to the lady Arbella. I believe he was placed there as an intelligencer by Mr. Secretary Walsingham, but has now passed into the hands of Essex.”

Cecil continued as though Shakespeare had not spoken. “Because you do understand why I ask you this, I hope. It is because we must find the evidence. We must have it to hold over the parties to this illegal marriage even though we stop the wedding. Essex and those who sponsor him must know that we have the wherewithal to put their heads on the block. Bring me the verses. I will settle for nothing less.”

Shakespeare understood that all too well. Most of all, he understood that it was his own brother’s neck that was in danger. He bowed to Cecil. “Indeed, Sir Robert, I will bring you evidence.”

But how, he wondered as he walked slowly back to the celebrations, would he do that and save Will? He wondered, too, why Cecil had not displayed more interest in the name Morley.

The sky was suddenly lit up by a dazzling display of fireworks, bursting above the castle like the onset of war between gods. Shakespeare stopped and looked up in awe and wonder; he had never seen their like before-specks of red and gold and silver fire, exploding like flowers in bloom, then fading and dying as they fell to earth. He shivered and wrapped his arms tight around his body. For the first time in many weeks, he felt a chill in the night air.

Out in the fields where the common people had their fairground stalls, bonfires were lit for miles around and minstrel music was played, all mixing in the night air with the finer melodies played here at the castle.

More fireworks flared up and lit the castle with their brilliance. They also lit the face of Slyguff twenty yards away, watching him unblinking with his one good eye, the other, the left one, dead and opaque.

S HAKESPEARE DID NOT sleep. He paced his room, glancing every few moments from the window, not knowing what to expect, but certain something must happen this night.

The room was bathed in shadows from the single candle he burned, casting eerie glimmers on the boxes and chests that belonged to Starling Day and the merchant venturer John Watts. For a long time, he was alert, every muscle and fiber tensed for the noise or sight that would propel him into action. But by three of the clock, he was weary and sat down on the mattress with his back to the sill. He began to feel drowsy, his eyes heavy-lidded. At first he thought the noise he heard was part of a dream, but then he was suddenly wide awake. Somewhere, not far away, he could hear the sound of hooves and horses whinnying. He looked out of the window. It was raining, for the first time in God knew how many weeks. Cool rain, at last.

Shakespeare picked up his sword and dagger and slipped from the room and down the side staircase to the courtyard. A guard stiffened at his approach.

“Can’t sleep. Need a walk.”

The guard eyed his sword.

“There are a lot of common revelers and vagabonds out there, guardsman.”

The guard nodded sullenly, hunched against the rain, hood pulled over his head, rubbing his hands before his brazier.

Shakespeare walked quickly through the main yard toward the lesser court. He could hear what sounded like a large group of horsemen to the west, somewhere in the direction of the little Isbourne River and the town of Winchcombe. Halberdiers, wearing tangerine tabards that denoted them as Essex men, were on guard at the gatehouse. They blocked his way, but he could see past them. A band of twenty or more horsemen was saddled up, ready to ride. Their mounts trampled the ground. The rain came down in torrents.

At their head was Essex, tall and arrogant on a black stallion. He was surrounded by his closest supporters and retainers-Southampton, Danvers, Meyrick, and the rest. They carried a deadly array of armaments: wheel-locks, swords, lances, poleaxes, all glittering wet in the light of burning pitch cressets and torches. Sir Toby Le Neve was there, too; Le Neve, wanted for the murder of his own daughter and Joe Jaggard. Well, there would be no way of plucking him from this group tonight.

Essex saw Shakespeare and their eyes met through the teeming rain. The Earl held the intelligencer’s gaze for no more than two seconds, then tugged sharply at the reins and spun his mount. All his men turned their horses, too, lining up beside or behind him. Then, at a hand signal from Essex, they spurred their animals and trotted forward in a disciplined knot, kicking up splashes of mud and quickly disappearing into the darkness of the night.

Shakespeare watched until they had gone. They were heading vaguely north. So this was it; the plot was under way. Shakespeare ran back toward the state apartments. He had to get a message to Cecil, then take a horse and pray he reached Derbyshire-and Arbella-first.

Something caught his eye. Through the downpour, he saw a movement by a doorway into a side staircase of the state apartments. Even in the darkness of night, lit only by the guard’s sizzling brazier, he recognized Slyguff. He would know that cruel-hearted, unblinking stoat of a man anywhere. Where in God’s name was he going? Of course. Clarkson had told him all he needed to know about who among the nobility had the prime living quarters. Lady Frances, the Countess of Essex, was billeted in these apartments, on the second floor. A killing to legitimize a wedding.

In the shadows of the banqueting hall, Shakespeare could just make out Slyguff as he handed something to the guard. He had a curled length of rope slung over his shoulder. As the Irishman slipped in through the doorway, Shakespeare emerged from the shadows and followed him. The guard moved away from the brazier to bar his path.

“I saw the bribe you took,” Shakespeare said in a low, hard voice. “I am an officer of Sir Robert Cecil, and if you do not let me pass, you will hang before dawn.”

The guard scuttled out of his path.

Shakespeare went on through the door. He listened for the sound of footfalls, but he knew how softly Slyguff trod from his encounter with him in the turret room at Essex House on the night of the summer revel. He could hear nothing.

He waited a few moments. Then, silently, he stepped forward and walked up the circular stone stairway. His way was lit by beeswax candles in wall sconces, guttering in the cool, rainy draft. Drawing his sword from its scabbard, he held it in front of him. He reached the top step and looked along the corridor. There was no one there.

The rope came out of nowhere. A noose around his neck, the moment he stepped out from the stairwell. His