Morley. You had another motive.”
Morley kept his silky composure. “I was doing Walsingham’s bidding, nothing more. He put me here. When he died, I became Essex’s man because he took on Walsingham’s duties.”
“But you went much further. Passing secret love poems to the lady Arbella-do you think Mr. Secretary would have approved of that?”
“Who knows? Who could ever tell the workings of Mr. Secretary’s labyrinthine mind?”
“What did Essex offer you? A knighthood? He likes to hand out knighthoods, I do believe. Or gold?”
Morley was silent. He glared at Shakespeare through narrow eyes. Bess of Hardwick looked on, intrigued.
“Or perchance it was silence.”
Morley almost seemed to hiss. His teeth rubbed together and made an unpleasant scratching sound. Shakespeare pushed his right fist hard into the tutor’s sneering mouth, then gripped his throat with his left hand. Blood seeped from Morley’s torn lip onto Shakespeare’s hand.
He held Morley against the wall. Their eyes met and held, Morley’s not quite so assured now. Shakespeare punched him in the guts, then kneed him. Morley groaned and crumpled.
Shakespeare let him fall. He lay on the ground, whimpering.
“Well, Mr. Morley?”
Morley said nothing.
Shakespeare unsheathed his sword. He pulled Morley’s hair up and wrenched his head to one side, then gently slid the sword’s sharp edge against his neck.
Morley was shaking. “I have nothing to say. Kill me.”
Shakespeare laughed. “Oh no, Mr. Morley, I won’t kill you. I will leave that to Skevington’s irons. You will be taken to the Tower, where Mr. Skevington’s engine will bend you double, so contorting your body that blood will spurt from every hole in your miserable carcass until you talk-or die. My lady…”
Taking the cue, Bess clapped her hands. A servant appeared. “Have Mr. Morley taken away under guard. He is to be held in close confinement until arrangements are made to transfer him to the Tower.”
Shakespeare pulled his sword away and resheathed it. “Thank you, my lady.”
The servant was a powerfully built man. He took Morley by the collar and dragged him to his feet.
“Wait,” Morley said, scrabbling against the footman’s grip.
“Take him away.”
“No, I’ll talk.”
Bess nodded to the servant, who dropped Morley, then retreated from the room.
“Well, Mr. Morley?” Shakespeare demanded again.
“A plague of Satan’s vomit and ten thousand hells on you, Shakespeare. I think you know
“McGunn.”
“Of course McGunn. And his demon acolytes Jaggard and Slyguff. They lure you in and trap you.”
“You have secrets…”
“ ‘Here is Master Smith,’ they say. ‘Is he not a fine lad?’ And he was a fine lad, the most golden boy I ever saw. And then comes Master Abel, a slender eleven years with the knowing ways of one twice his age. ‘He is an even finer lad, with Moorish tricks to please you,’ they say. On and on they come-three, four, five, six of them to my chamber over days and weeks, and I am in very heaven.” He sighed and shook his head. “They were beautiful, oh, they were beautiful. But they were rotten, every one. Decayed to the core-like apples that are juicy red on the outside but corrupt within, all eaten by worms.” He uttered a dry, sardonic laugh. “And the law was the least of their threats. McGunn is the Devil. He sees men’s weaknesses and buys their souls. Once bought, you are his forever.”
There was a knock at the library door. The butler entered, a jewel-encrusted box held across his outstretched arms. He placed it on the table in front of Bess, then bowed and retreated.
“I wonder what we have here,” she said, lifting the hinged lid.
Chapter 40
S HAKESPEARE RECOGNIZED HIS BROTHER’S HAND straightway. He was aghast as he looked at the array of verses and letters; in the wrong hands it amounted to a death sentence for Will.
“Where did you find these, Mr. Jolyon?”
“In a little-used closet in the music room, my lady. The chest was concealed under jute sacking behind a box of viol strings.”
“Fetch a lighted taper, Mr. Jolyon.”
He bowed low and left the room.
Bess laid the papers out over the floor. There were at least twenty letters and a dozen odes. And though they were signed off with the mark of Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, each one bore the indelible imprint of Will’s quill.
The three people in this light, airy room, with its soaring shelves of volumes of priceless books, many of them hand-scribed on vellum, stood in a triangle around the parchments. Sir Robert Cecil wanted these verses and letters. They would give him power over Essex, but both Shakespeare and Bess had another thought: these papers must be destroyed. Whatever their differences, they shared this common cause.
Jolyon returned with the flame. Bess took it and dismissed him from their presence. Shakespeare was already busy screwing the papers into balls and throwing them into the fire grate. Bess touched them with the tip of the taper, and the dry papers went up in a brilliant conflagration, the flames leaping into the chimney flue. Within two minutes, they were all gone, turned to black ash. Will was safe.
“Mr. Morley,” Shakespeare said, “remove your doublet.”
Morley folded his arms across his chest.
“Or would you wish me to do it for you?” Shakespeare unsheathed his dagger.
Morley unhooked the front of his doublet and threw it wide open. Papers fell out onto the floor. Shakespeare scooped them up and placed them in the fire.
“You still cannot harm me. I still have the testimony of my voice,” the tutor said.
“We will take our chances on that.”
Morley was silent.
“What were you planning to do with these papers? Sell them?”
“There are those that would pay good money for them. Essex, Cecil…”
“Topcliffe?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Topcliffe would pay very well to do for you and your brother. He would happily take you on a hurdle to the scaffold, Mr. Shakespeare. Perhaps he already has some of the verses…”
Bess shook her head. “I have heard quite enough, Mr. Morley. You are dismissed from my service, without pension or recommendation. Nor do Mr. Shakespeare or I have the slightest interest in your boys. That is between you and God. Good-day to you, sir.” She summoned her butler once more. “Mr. Jolyon, see that Mr. Morley is gone from this house within the half hour. First strip off his clothes and search him thoroughly, then give him new attire and a horse, one fit for the knacker. Do not let him take any belongings, not even a book. They will be sent on later when they have been thoroughly searched. He is never to be admitted again.”
“One last thing, my lady,” Shakespeare said once Morley had been marched from the room. “I must send a message to Sir Robert Cecil. He is most likely on his way to Oxford by now. Might I use the services of two or three of your most trusted retainers to deliver it safely?”
Bess looked doubtful. “What exactly were you thinking of saying in this message?”
Shakespeare held up his right hand. “Nothing that would in any way reflect ill on your ladyship or the lady Arbella. I merely wish to tell him that there will be no wedding. All else is clear to him. You may read it before I seal it.”
“Why not take it yourself, Mr. Shakespeare?”
