Revenger

For more than two days, they had ridden hard from London, stopping only for food and rest when absolutely necessary and striking on without delay. There was no talk between them, only a shared need to get to the far north as quickly as possible. Boltfoot was driven by the thought that Jane’s time must be almost upon her; Eleanor by the certain knowledge that McGunn would hunt her down with relentless purpose-and that nowhere in the world would she ever be safe from him.

T HE BOY ARRIVED BACK at The Woodcutters two hours later, in the company of the Countess and two of her retainers. Bess wore a cowl to cover her face, but nothing could disguise the fine quality of the clothes she wore and everyone in these parts knew her well. All the drinkers in the taproom went silent and bowed to her as she entered. Never had they expected to see this greatest of ladies in their drinking hole.

Shakespeare bowed low to her. “My lady,” he said.

“Mr. Marvell? How curious. I was told I was to meet a Mr. Shakespeare here.”

He ushered her to a private booth. Her retainers took position outside.

“The name is, indeed, Shakespeare, my lady. John Shakespeare. I could not reveal my true identity before.”

“And are you the John Shakespeare that saved Sir Francis Drake from a Spaniard’s sword?”

“I am.”

“And I suppose you are come here to warn me of Spanish intrigues?”

“My lady?”

“Well, I can tell you that you are too late. For my lord of Essex has already arrived with a band of men-at-arms to protect us from the intrigants. We are quite well looked after.”

Shakespeare was silent for a long few moments. He knew the contents of the message from Cecil. It was addressed directly to Bess and told her but one thing: that she must listen to Shakespeare. It committed nothing to paper that might be used as evidence, against either Cecil or Essex.

“My lady,” he said at length, “I have to tell you that things are not as they seem with my lord of Essex.”

“Mr. Shakespeare, he tells me they have uncovered a Catholic plot to snatch my granddaughter away, take her to Flanders and then on to Spain, where she will be introduced to the world as England’s Queen-in-waiting, ready to be placed on the throne when a new armada is launched against these shores. Is that not your understanding?”

“No, my lady,” Shakespeare said grimly. “That is not my understanding.”

Bess clapped her hands and one of her retainers came in. “We could do with a little refreshment, Mr. Jolyon. Some Canary wine with a pinch of sugar would suit me. What would you like, Mr. Shakespeare?”

“That would suit me well, my lady.”

The retainer bowed low and backed out of the booth.

Bess smiled. “Well, Mr. Shakespeare, you will be pleased to hear that I did not believe a word that my lord of Essex said to me. I suspect the danger is not from Madrid, but from here at home.”

“Then we are of one mind.”

“I fear my house has been taken over, that I am almost a prisoner in my own home. Now, tell me what this is all about, if you will.”

O SWALD FINNINGLEY, the vicar of St. John the Baptist Church, finished his seventh pint of strong ale and wiped his sleeve across his dripping-wet beard. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he waddled to the low door that led from The Woodcutters. He had seen Bess of Hardwick making her entrance but thought it best not to let her see him, for she would not approve.

Outside, in the rain, he lifted his cassock, which was stained with drips of beer and pork fat, and let out a long sigh of satisfaction as he pissed against the wall. His belly hung so low that he could not see his pizzle; in truth, the only person who had seen it these past fifteen years was the widow Bailey, and even she seemed to find it an unfulfilling chore to have aught to do with the little wormlike creature nowadays.

He splashed the last few drops of piss over his feet and dropped his cassock. He pushed himself away from the wall and lurched up the path toward her house. The rain was cutting rivulets in the muddy track that passed as a road in this village. It is God’s blessing, he thought dully, for at least it washes away the accumulated dung. Even as the thought came to him, he stumbled and fell, face- down, into the drainage kennel. He spluttered, then tried, clumsily, to push himself up.

Of a sudden, help was at hand. Strong arms lifted him from all sides and he wondered, for a moment, if angels had come to raise him up to heaven.

But instead of floating on Elysian clouds, he came down with a crack of the head, thrown unceremoniously into the back of a farm cart. And he heard a voice, which was decidedly not the voice of God.

“Come on, Reverend, you’ve got to get yourself sober. There’s a job of work to be done in the morning.”

B ESS LISTENED TO Shakespeare intently. She did not interrupt him, until finally he said, “So, I believe we must somehow remove the lady Arbella to a place of safety.”

“You know, Mr. Shakespeare,” she said with great deliberation, “I have never made any secret of my ambitions for my granddaughter. I have raised her as a royal princess, believing-hoping-that she would one day, in the fullness of time, ascend to the throne of England, for I consider her to be first in line. This has not always been appreciated by the Queen, who does not care to dwell on her own mortality. I confess that we have not always seen eye to eye on the matter. But never did I think to do such a thing-such a treasonable thing-as is now being proposed by my lord of Essex. We must prevent it, Mr. Shakespeare, or we will all lose our heads.”

“Can she be spirited away?”

Shakespeare could not imagine Bess losing her composure, yet now he saw real anxiety in her eyes. Her small hands were clenched into balls.

“First we will have to find her.”

“My lady?”

“I went to her chamber not two hours since. She was not there. Her lady’s maid was most flustered and said she had gone off with a group of young gentlemen, she knew not where. I looked for her in vain. I asked my lord of Essex where she was and he said he had not seen her. His men feigned ignorance, too, and made a great show of looking for her. Even her tutors could not tell me where she was.”

Shakespeare felt his whole body tightening. Bess’s demeanor told him that she, too, was fully aware of the extreme danger of the situation. “Your tutors-I believe one is called Morley?”

“Indeed, Mr. Shakespeare. You seem to know a great deal about my arrangements.”

“He conspires with Essex, my lady. He is one of them. It seems clear they already have the lady Arbella in their keeping. I fear we may be too late…”

Chapter 38

T HE ANCIENT CHURCH OF ST. JOHN DOMINATED the fields like a specter in the gray morning light. Its stone walls, five or six hundred years old and first built before the Conqueror came to England, were weather-worn and strangely welcoming. The bells in the square tower were silent this day.

At the head of the wedding procession that traipsed slowly on horseback across the meadow toward the yew- planted churchyard were Essex and his best man, Southampton, richly attired and mounted on caparisoned war stallions.

The rain had gone, but the clouds remained heavy and threatening. A lone plowman gazed over at the wedding party but did not stop his work. He lashed the ox pulling the plow and carried on carving a deep furrow for winter wheat.

Inside the church, Oswald Finningley stood at the altar, a shaking hand clasped to the communion railing to support himself. He could not hold himself still, his head ached, and he was desperate for ale or brandy to take away the shaking and the nausea. Last night was a blur. He had been abducted and locked away in some strange