Tell me what treasure Sir Robert has to offer.’
Shakespeare lowered his eyes respectfully. Whatever this man had become, he had once been a minister to the crown of the most powerful land in the world and had led an extraordinary life. His relationship with the Princess of Eboli was the stuff of legend. If Perez felt grief for her loss, he showed no signs of it here, in this shabby room with these sweaty farm youths.
Shakespeare sat on the bed beside the grizzled old courtier. He was grateful, at least, that the Spaniard spoke passable English.
‘Look what I am reduced to, Mr Shakespeare.’ Don Antonio waved his hand in an extravagant gesture of displeasure at his surroundings. ‘Forty years ago, my father came to England in honour as secretary to Philip on his marriage to your Queen Mary. And was I not his equal in every way? Once my homes were the most gracious palaces of Aragon and Castile. In my casilla outside Madrid I sported and dallied with princesses in courtyards of marble, to the sound of cool-flowing fountains, the scent of lemons and the colours of oleander. Even the horse I rode was scented. Now I make do with toothless country girls who stink of the stables and believe themselves well paid at half a ducat a night. Does no one in this country wash?’
Shakespeare could not contain a light laugh. Even on a summer’s day, this house was no palace and the scent of an English farmyard could be no substitute for fresh Spanish lemons. And it was true; few enough people in England had discovered the joys and profits of bathing.
‘Why do you think I am here, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘I believe you are a guest of my lord of Essex.’
‘True. But that is not why I have come here. I come here as an envoy with my good friend the Vidame de Chartres. We have an important message from Henri of France to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth.’
‘Concerning the possibility of a conversion?’
‘He is, indeed, taking instructions in the Catholic faith and will soon embrace it. Then Paris will be his and France will be one for the first time in many years. But he wishes to reassure the Basilisk — I apologise, Elizabeth Tudor — whom he esteems, that he will not be a friend to Spain nor an enemy to England. The vidame and I must be admitted to her presence so that we can deliver this vital message to her personally. There are letters…’
‘And I am sure that Her Majesty will, in due course, receive you and take pleasure in your gracious company. I know she will be glad to receive assurances regarding the intentions of le roi Henri.’
Perez removed his gloves and covered Shakespeare’s hand with his own on the rumpled bedding. ‘But you are here on another matter…’
Shakespeare was struck by the delicate smoothness of the hand. He had heard it said that Spanish courtiers wore oiled gloves at night to give their hands a feminine softness and to keep them unnaturally white, but when he looked down he saw that Perez’s hand was blotched and clawlike with age. He did not enjoy its touch and recoiled at the thought of the hand upon the fresh young bodies of the peasant girls and boy who had been in his bed. He found himself thinking, too, of its caresses upon the fine body of Ana Cabral.
‘Indeed, Don Antonio,’ he said, removing his hand from Perez’s and reaching into his doublet for his letter- patent from Cecil. ‘Sir Robert has commanded me to negotiate with you for important information, some secret you possess.’
‘Let us not be maidenly, then, Mr Shakespeare. I have something to sell. You wish to buy it. What are you prepared to offer?’
‘Two hundred.’
Perez cupped his hand about his ear like a scallop shell. ‘I believe I misheard you. I thought for a moment you said two hundred. I am sure you meant twenty thousand, Mr Shakespeare. Sovereigns of gold. As a point at which to start…’
‘It seems we are a world apart.’
‘I call myself El Peregrino, for like a desert nomad, I am doomed to travel the world forever. I am sure your Robertus Diabolus can travel a long way, too. How far is it from two hundred to twenty thousand? Not such a great distance.’
‘To me, it seems like the distance from London to Peru,’ Shakespeare replied. ‘May I ask you, Don Antonio, why do you offer this information to Sir Robert rather than to my lord of Essex? He is your host; he would welcome such intelligence.’
Perez’s head was too large for his small body and when he put it to one side quizzically, as if considering the question, it almost seemed as if it might roll away. ‘I am sure you know why, Mr Shakespeare. You, better than anyone, must know who holds the purse strings in this country. The Cecils. The father is Lord Treasurer, the son is as good as Principal Secretary. I do not think for a moment that the Earl of Essex could secure the necessary funds. Do you?’
‘No, not the sums you talk of. So that means there is no other bidder. Which must weaken your position.’
Perez suddenly became agitated and rose, naked, from the bed. Shakespeare was surprised to see how short he was, perhaps five foot at the most. His head atop his distended and ageing body looked like a purple-brown watermelon thrust on a short-hafted hoe. Yet somewhere in that grotesque figure was the distant memory of a handsome young man who had made love to half the court of Spain, men as well as women, if spies like Standen were to be believed. The years of excess had wrought much damage.
The Spaniard scrabbled about on the floor then rose triumphantly, clutching a small golden box. He lifted the lid. Inside, Shakespeare could see little glass vials — potions and preparations of some sort. Perez took the stopper from one of the vials, threw back his head and poured the contents into his gaping mouth. Then he sighed and closed his eyes.
He sat back down on the edge of the bed, his balls and prick hanging heavy and loose between his thin legs. ‘I have much pain, Mr Shakespeare. My bones. My head. I had wanted food. Where is that food and ale Ana promised?’
‘I am sure it will be here soon.’
‘Do you know, Mr Shakespeare, I was once the most powerful man in the world. Do not sneer when you look at me now, for there was a time when I could make the King of Spain do my bidding. The King of Spain — emperor of half the world, an empire greater than that of Rome or Persia. The Pope himself had to treat with me if he wished anything of Spain. With a snap of my fingers I could have had you arrested by the Inquisition, or, if I liked you, I could have given you letters of introduction to my old friend Titian, who was the greatest painter that ever lived. So when you talk to me of money, do not offer me a carpenter’s wage, for I have a secret worth a king’s treasure chest.’
‘Forgive me, Don Antonio. I can assure you I do not sneer at you. I hold you in the highest esteem and have the greatest admiration for your remarkable career. But I am here to discover a price which is acceptable to you and to Sir Robert. It is a matter of finding some middle way.’
Perez, still naked, went to the door and shouted in Spanish for his food. ‘Do you want me to starve!’ He returned to the room and found a crumpled chemise and netherstocks and pulled them on. ‘Mr Shakespeare, if you want tittle-tattle about the Spanish court, I will give it you for nothing. I will tell you everything you wish about the mouselike king who whispers so quiet that his courtiers cannot hear him and who makes sure he takes the same number of mouthfuls of food at every meal and chews each morsel the exact same number of times — twelve. Yes, twelve chews for each bite; I have counted them a thousand times and thought I would go mad myself in doing so. I can spend all day with you and tell you ten times a hundred such titbits. Or I can tell you what you have come for: information that will rock this little realm to its foundations. And I promise you this, Mr Shakespeare, it were better you knew the secret now rather than later. For if you leave it much longer, it will be too late for you to act upon.’
Shakespeare believed him. He knew this man for a dissembling, cunning, murdering, degenerate poisoner. Yet he believed him on this. He had some information which Cecil had to know. And quickly. ‘A thousand pounds,’ he said, going way beyond his brief. ‘But I would have to confirm that. I am not authorised to pay such a sum.’
‘That is a long way from twenty thousand, Mr Shakespeare.’
There was a knock at the door. A serving man appeared with a silver tray of food and drink, followed by Ana Cabral. Perez waved them away, then turned to Shakespeare. ‘Go now. We will talk again later, when you have had time to reflect a little more. This talk has wearied me. I must sleep.’
Reluctantly, Shakespeare bowed and took his leave. There was a gulf here. He was not at all sure how he
