Revenger

“There is nothing to be done, Catherine. She came here of her own accord. I saw her smile at Jones. There is no impediment to this match.”

“But it is a travesty, John.”

“Yes, I fear it is.”

Like groundlings at a tragedy, Shakespeare and his wife witnessed the wedding. When the parson declared Nicholas Jones and Anne man and wife, it was too much to bear. Catherine stood and walked to the door. Shakespeare followed her.

“How can such a thing be allowed, John?”

“Who is to stop a man and woman marrying, if they both so desire it? She said ‘I will’ with a clear, strong voice.”

“She did, did she not? A most fortunate young woman, she is.” Topcliffe was at their side, striding along with them, unbidden and unwanted. “A lucky slattern to have found a man like my Nick to make an honest woman of her.”

Shakespeare tried to keep his wife walking, but she stopped and squared up to Topcliffe. “She is a victim of your cruelty, Mr. Topcliffe. You have used her ill and brought her to this state. She knows not what she does.”

Topcliffe leered. “Oh, but she does. She can’t get enough of him. He scratches her itch. But she will bring my boy a fine dowry. Her family does not know it, but they will give Preston Manor and all its lands and farm-holdings to my lad Nick, whether they like it or not. Sixty-six pounds a year, that will be worth to him. He will be a wealthy young gentleman, which is no more than he deserves for his loyalty to his master and his monarch. And in return, she will no longer be thought the dirty, prick-hungry popish whore that we know her to be, but Mrs. Nicholas Jones, gentlewoman and Protestant. Now, is that not a fine trade-off?”

“And where are her family today, Mr. Topcliffe?” Catherine demanded as Shakespeare tried to pull her away. “Have you killed them all yet?”

Topcliffe gave her a look of pure scorn. “Her family will learn soon enough. They will learn what it means to harbor lewd priests. They will find what it means to cross Topcliffe. As will you. Soon enough. You and your stinking pups, dog-mother whore.” He turned to Shakespeare. “And you-you and your brother-you are both fortunate to be alive, for you have been slithering with toothed serpents and greased priests, oiled and slippery in a tub of the purple demon’s chrism…”

Shakespeare lingered a long moment with his hand on the hilt of his dagger. He had no sword with him. He did not take swords to weddings. He looked coldly down into Topcliffe’s eyes and came as close as ever he had to killing a man in hot blood.

Instead he turned his back on the Queen’s servant. “Come, Mistress Shakespeare,” he said to her. “Let us go home where the air is clean.”

Chapter 49

W HEN, AT LAST, SIR ROBERT CECIL RETURNED FROM the West Country, having salvaged what he could of the Madre de Dios treasure, Shakespeare made haste to see him. There was much to be settled.

Shakespeare handed the Privy Councillor a list of the names of all Essex’s supporters at the abortive wedding to Arbella Stuart in the church by Hardwick Hall.

Cecil glanced at the names, then filed them away with other papers. “Thank you, John. We shall deal with this quietly.”

Shakespeare raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Cecil saw his reaction. “John, would you wish to be the man who told the Queen that the thing she loves above all else, her golden warrior, is naught but base metal? Can you imagine her rage? I care nothing for Essex’s head; it is his to lose as he wishes. But the child Arbella? Should she be another Jane Grey? What of the others? I must tell you, I fear the blood-letting would go as far as your brother.”

Shakespeare was shocked. “My brother?”

“Did you think I was unaware of his role in this?”

Shakespeare was silent. Of course he knew. Topcliffe…

“Which leaves us with the question of the evidence you promised me, John.”

Shakespeare stiffened. Cecil was expecting a bundle of letters and verses, signed by Essex but penned by Will. From his doublet, he took the charts supplied by Forman-a death chart for Elizabeth and a nuptial chart for Essex and Arbella-and Forman’s affidavit.

Cecil studied them in silence, then nodded. “Very well. I think you have given me enough. I have my lord of Essex where I want him.” He filed the charts away with the list of names.

Shakespeare bowed.

“And I can now tell you something else, John: Francis Mills is my man. It was he that told Essex and McGunn that they must have you-that you could be their Walsingham. And it was Mr. Mills that helped you from within Essex House and protected you when they became suspicious. I trust your past differences will now be at an end, for he is discovered, too, and has hurriedly left Essex House. He will work with us.”

Shakespeare frowned. Work with Mills? Stranger things had happened. Nothing was certain in this intelligencers’ war. Cecil against Essex. Circles within circles. All that could be said was that the opening shots had been fired in a war of secrets between the two greatest young men of the age.

“The Earl, meanwhile, will remain the Queen’s pet,” Cecil continued. “But his progress will always be impeded. He no longer has McGunn’s gold to fund him and must crawl on his belly once more for favors from his sovereign.”

“Is he back at court already?”

“Shamelessly. Closeted all night with her, playing tables and primero, paying her sweet compliments, dancing until dawn. He keeps her amused. The years roll off her shoulders and England is the better for it. But he knows he is found out and will forever be watched. His coven can stir their cauldron as they wish, but they are figures of jest. The She-wolf paces in lonely exile in the Midlands. Penelope cavorts with her amour in her black-draped chamber. As to Southampton and the others, they sleep at night with aching necks, thinking how close they came to the axe.”

Shakespeare took a sip of wine. “And what of Sir Walter?”

“He is back in the Tower. I am sure he would not be content to have the massacre of the Roanoke colony bruited about, for it would leave him in a yet more parlous state, his patent from the Queen turned to ashes.”

“Do you wish it advertised, Sir Robert?”

“You know me better than that, John.”

Indeed, Shakespeare had been reflecting on how like Sir Francis Walsingham his new employer was. Both men shared an extreme, almost cold level of caution. In their world of intelligencing, knowledge was all, and to be guarded jealously. Cecil would not want word of the Roanoke slaughter to see the light. Ralegh must be freed and his rivalry with Essex nurtured. That way both men would be weakened, leaving the course free for Cecil. To that end, Eleanor Dare must be silenced.

“She will stay in the North Country,” Shakespeare assured him. “She is living with my wife’s mother and contents herself with her inks and quills and parchments. I do believe she wishes naught but peace and solitude.”

“And we shall wink at the death of Mr. McGunn. What of the brother-in-law?”

“Foxley Dare continues to pursue a claim that his brother be declared dead so that he and the boy may inherit the property. He would not wish a counter-claim. Anyway, who would believe a man with a reputation for swiving geese?”

Cecil did not smile. “The important thing is that McGunn is dead. It is now clear how widespread and malign was his influence. In Mr. Secretary’s day, such an insect would have been squashed underfoot long since. You will ensure such men never hold sway in this realm again, John.”