“But, Charles…”
“No. I shall smoke my pipe and read a few verses until they are gone.”
He would not countenance her plans. It had been a running battle between them, the only point of disagreement in an otherwise intense and devoted relationship. She had explained her thinking: the absolute certainty that the Queen must soon die-“We are all mortal, Charles, and she is old and fading fast”-and the need for a strong man to take the crown, not Scottish, nor Spanish, but English.
Even when she had shown him Dr. Forman’s astrological charts, he had refused. “You may well be right, my alderliefest, but I will err on the side of caution in such matters,” he had insisted. Yet, while he would not join them, she knew that he would not betray them either.
She rose and kissed his face, then stepped to the window to see the four-man vanguard sitting astride their steaming horses, drenched and muddy. She rang a bell to summon her maidservant, who assisted her to dress in a gown of black satin with gold edging.
Penelope arrived in the courtyard just as her brother cantered in at the head of the main body of horsemen. Their mother stood on the steps of the great hall, regally attired in a French gown of cloth of silver, embroidered with little scarlet wolves, with small cuts to the arms revealing gold threads. Her bodice descended in dramatic fashion to a sharp-pointed stomacher and, to protect her from the rain, she wore a black taffeta cloak and hat. The effect, in the darkening sky and against the mellow brickwork, was quite dazzling. She looked every inch the queen she believed herself to be.
Lettice opened wide her arms to greet her beloved son. He walked his black stallion forward to the steps until he was beside his mother, then leaned over and kissed her proffered hand. All his companions, still high in the saddle, roared their approval.
Penelope purred with pleasure. It occurred to her that anyone who did not know better might have thought these men were hailing their God-ordained king.
She looked around the group and saw all the familiar faces: louche Southampton, still managing to look elegant in the saddle, despite being mud-caked, with his hair all in rats’ tails; Rutland, a wicked glint in his eye; Le Neve, stiff and soldierly as ever; Danvers, sneaky and thin; Meyrick, staying close to his master, for whom he would happily sacrifice his own life if need be.
Servants carried trays with silver goblets of wine and brandy to the assembled horsemen now crowding out of the courtyard. When all had their cups filled, Lettice held up her own goblet and the horsemen went silent. “A toast,” she said, “to a wedding.”
“To a wedding,” they all shouted in unison, then downed their drinks in one, tossing their empty cups to the cobbled stones.
Penelope held up her hand to silence the group, then spoke quietly to her brother, though all could hear. “And where, pray, is Frances?” she asked, in a voice of beguiling innocence.
“She is indisposed, madam,” came the reply, and the horsemen all erupted in laughter. “Now, let us take supper. We ride again with fresh horses in one hour.”
Chapter 37
A S JOHN SHAKESPEARE RODE, THOUGHTS CROWDED his mind. It was clear now how Cecil was able to promise to protect him. It was because he controlled Topcliffe-or, at least, as much as any man could control a rabid dog.
His thoughts turned to poor Jack Butler. He must have withstood agonies to protect his master. In the end, he had succumbed, as any man would, yet his courage had not been totally in vain, for it had bought Shakespeare valuable time-time in which he had learned what he needed to know from Penelope Rich.
Having finally discovered where Shakespeare’s true loyalties lay, Slyguff had been dispatched to Sudeley Castle to kill him, along with the Countess of Essex, but Shakespeare was one step ahead. The question now was whether he could maintain his advantage and reach Hardwick Hall in time.
His gray mare made good progress. Shakespeare felt certain that he, a horseman alone, must soon overhaul a band of twenty or more men.
A little way south and west of Nottingham, he took a wrong turning. It was easy to do: the rain was lashing his face, the road was turning into a potholed bog, he could find no milestones to guide him, and there was no one on the road to direct him.
Four hours later, when he arrived at the market town of Grantham, he realized his error. He cursed. Angrily he handed the reins of his mare to an ostler to be watered, washed down, and fed, then strode into the post tavern for ale and food. It was late at night and dark; he should have been at Hardwick by now.
Hurriedly he ate his fill, then asked directions from the amused tavern keeper.
The man laughed heartily. “You’ll have a day’s ride ahead of you.”
Shakespeare groaned. “How far is it?”
“More than fifty miles, I would reckon.” He turned to a drinker. “What say you, Gilbert? You’re a traveled man. Fifty miles to Chesterfield?”
“A day, I’d say, if you keep your horse about its business.”
Shakespeare departed as soon as he could. As he rode on through dark woodland along drenched, muddy tracks, the rain got to him. His skin was cold with the wet and he knew his mission was now hopeless; he could not possibly reach Hardwick before the Earl of Essex.
At least the mare was sound and held strong. She never faltered nor stumbled. It was a slog, a desperate slog, and he had to stop frequently to give her fodder and water, but they eventually reached their destination at about six of the clock the following evening.
Hardwick Hall was magnificent. It was not one house but two, one of which was still under construction not fifty yards from the older hall, which had been Bess’s childhood home and which was still occupied by her. The new property had already risen to four soaring stories of dazzling golden-brown sandstone. The builder’s art ran through Bess of Hardwick’s very veins.
Shakespeare saw immediately that he was too late. From some distance away he could see Essex’s men-at- arms practicing their fencing and marksmanship in the gardens, oblivious of the rain. Unseen, he watched them for a few minutes, then wheeled his horse and rode wearily back to the village he had just passed.
At The Woodcutters, a well-kept hostelry, Shakespeare asked the landlord if there was a trustworthy man who could take an important message for him to Hardwick Hall. The landlord fetched his own son and Shakespeare handed him the sealed letter from Sir Robert Cecil. A waxed pouch had kept it dry. It was, thought Shakespeare ruefully, the only thing that
“This,” he said, “is a letter from a Privy Councillor, one of the greatest men in the land, answerable directly to Queen Elizabeth herself. Do you understand?”
“Yes, master.” The lad clasped his cap tight in his hands. He was broad-chested and held his shoulders back confidently.
“It is to be placed in the hands of the Countess of Shrewsbury at Hardwick Hall. You must hand it to no one else, neither noble nor gentleman, nor commoner or servant. Her hands alone. If she is unavailable, you must bring it back to me. If someone offers to take it to her, you will decline, however senior that person might be. This is Queen’s business.”
“I do understand, sir. I will hand it to no one but Bess-the Countess of Shrewsbury.”
“Good lad. Go then, and you shall receive reward on your swift return. Tell no one what you are about and bring me her reply straightway. Wake me if I sleep.”
S OMEWHERE ON THE great south-north road, in a forest, Boltfoot Cooper and Eleanor Dare slid from their horses and fell asleep on the earth beneath a dripping canopy of oak and ash.
