“Oh, can it not? Well, you shall see. And you shall know who has done it.”
“Well, McGunn, it is over now. There will be no more killing by you.”
“Just the one more…” He nodded to the flagon of ale and Shakespeare put it once again to his lips. “No. No more.”
“You must surely have deduced the name of Maggie Maeve’s brother, Mr. Shakespeare?”
“Joe Jaggard.”
“I had him brought up here in England, with a cousin, but he was always my boy. Do you think I could die with
“His killer is dead. He took a blow intended for me. He was a murderer, but he died honorably, saving my life.”
McGunn’s brow creased. “Do you still think Sir Toby Le Neve killed Joe and Amy?”
“I know it to be so, McGunn. There can be no doubt.”
“Then you know nothing. If you want the killer, go to London town, to a house on the corner of Beer Lane and Thames Street, by the gun foundry, and there you shall find your murderer.” McGunn burst out laughing, even though it hurt him greatly.
As he laughed his eyes strayed past Shakespeare, but the humor never left his face, even as Eleanor Dare stepped silently into the room, picked up Boltfoot Cooper’s loaded caliver wheel-lock from the floor where Shakespeare had placed it, reached forward with the octagonal muzzle full in McGunn’s thick-set, fighting-dog face, and fired.
E LEANOR HAD WAITED and watched as Catherine’s eyes grew heavy. Finally, when Mr. Shakespeare’s wife could no longer stay awake, she rose quietly from the makeshift palliasse of blankets. Her throat was agony. A dark-bruised weal ringed her tender skin and her windpipe was so constricted that her rattling breathing was shallow and strained. She struggled to contain the noise as she walked barefoot from the little room to the other room, where she saw Shakespeare and McGunn and the wheel-lock on the floor.
She knew how to use a pistol as well as any man. All the women at Roanoke had been trained in their use. As she came into the room, her eye caught McGunn’s. He was laughing at something. That was good, because it distracted Shakespeare long enough for her to pick up the pistol. McGunn was still laughing at the point of death, as she thrust the infernal weapon close to his face and fired.
The recoil knocked her back. The ball gouged out the center of McGunn’s face, throwing him back against the wall.
As Shakespeare grabbed the smoking weapon from Eleanor’s hand, she was shaking. Tears were flowing from her eyes like the rain that battered the land outside. Through the fog of her tears, she gazed upon the gaping red cavern that had appeared in the triangle between McGunn’s eyes and the bridge of his nose, leading deep into the remains of his brain.
“That was for Virginia,” she whispered, her hoarse voice barely audible. “And for Davy and all the others.”
Chapter 46
T HE SOUND OF CHILDREN’S LAUGHTER DRIFTED UP from the garden to the open window of the second-floor chamber where Shakespeare lay naked beneath the sheets on an old oaken bed.
He opened his eyes and gazed up at the canopy above him. It was threadbare, but had once been a fine hand-woven fabric patterned with roses, all entangled like lovers’ limbs.
The light that streamed in at the edges of the curtains told him it was daytime; other than that, he had no idea whether it was morning or afternoon, nor which day. All he knew was that he was back at the home of Catherine’s parents, and had collapsed, exhausted, on this bed, falling straightway into a deep slumber.
His shoulder, now cleaned and bandaged, throbbed where he had been skimmed by the musket-ball. He breathed deeply and caught a heady, musky scent. He reached out his right arm; she was there, beside him. His hand lingered on the soft warm skin just beneath her left breast. His fingers traced her ribs. She did not shy away from him.
Without a word, she nestled closer to him in the warm pit of this comfortable cot. She wrapped her legs around his and her hand went to his yard and caressed it with exquisite tenderness. It needed little encouragement.
She kissed his neck. “Hello, husband,” she said in a quiet voice. “I have missed you.”
He lay still on his back, stretched out, enjoying her touch and willing it not to stop. She was pushing herself against his side as her hand stroked him and teased him. He turned half toward her and his hand caressed the base of her spine and the curves of her buttocks.
“I swear you have the finest arse in Christendom, Mistress Shakespeare.”
“Have you sampled them all, sir?”
She kissed his mouth, deep with longing. Her legs parted more, she moved across his body, and her hand guided him into her. They gasped together at his entry and filling of her.
“Mistress,” Shakespeare whispered, aware that the house was full and sound traveled, “you part your legs like a wanton.”
“And you prance up like a satyr, sir,” she breathed into his mouth. “Now, if it please you, stop your talking and get about your business.”
They rose to ecstasy together, then lay joined for half an hour, holding each other, saying not a word, until he began to rise again inside her and moved his body once more, turning her and twisting her. She responded with eager abandon and they took their fill of joy. And so the afternoon wore on, to the accompaniment of birdsong, the rustling of leaves in trees, and the hopeful notes of children’s laughter.
H E LEFT THE NEXT morning for London, leaving Boltfoot to bring them all down south to him when he sent word that the plague had eased.
On his return to Masham, Shakespeare had spoken at length to the constable and coroner and had sent a sealed note to the lieutenant of the county. No word of this was to come out until Sir Robert Cecil had been consulted and decreed what was to be done. In the meantime, Eleanor Dare was to stay in the house of the Marvells on pain of arrest if she tried to leave. Catherine and her mother would bring her soothing broths and lotions for her injured neck. There was no question of any charges against her at present; Shakespeare had removed the bindings from McGunn’s corpse before the constable arrived with Boltfoot at the shepherd’s cottage. It was clear, he said, that McGunn had been killed in self-defense. The sole survivor of his band of mercenaries, a sallow, taciturn forty-year-old of little wit, was charged with attempted murder and had no defense. He would be hanged for his crimes by week’s end.
Shakespeare and his wife had talked and made love all afternoon and most of the evening, only rising from their chamber for a cup of wine and some pigeon pie to replenish their strength and to give some supper to the children. She understood that her husband had to see Cecil, but she was loath to let him go.
“I fear I have been a poor wife to you, John,” she said as he prepared to mount his gray mare and ride south.
“There were faults on both sides. Let us put it behind us.”
“I had thought there was no crossing our religious divide. It seemed to me you did not understand that there are worse things than dying, that you can starve from spiritual hunger, that Anne Bellamy’s fate is more wretched than anything Topcliffe could devise for his torture room.”
“You must think me a man of little faith.”
“No, not that. I knew all along that your only thoughts were for my welfare. But you asked too much of me.”
“I am sorry.”
“Do not be. You did your duty, trying to protect those you loved. Yet, I must confess to you that before I came here I had decided to ask you to grant me a separation. It seemed to me that we could never live together in peace.”
