Shakespeare balked at the insult to Elizabeth. ‘Don Antonio, if you have a mind to go to court and to be presented to the Queen, you would do well to think on how you refer to Her Majesty.’
Perez smirked. ‘My humble apologies. Old habits… it was always the way of King Philip to refer to his former sister-in-law thus. I never liked it. A basilisk is a foul-hissing serpent with a gaze that will strike you dead, whereas I believe your queen to be a soft-purring kitten with a gaze that casts golden balm on all she surveys.’
Shakespeare did not laugh, though the others in the room did.
‘My secret comes from the distant past,’ Perez continued. ‘More than twenty years ago. And like good wine, it improves with age and the price must continually rise.’
Perez was at the head of the table. In the background — far enough away that they could not hear the conversation — a trio with viols played a soft, lilting ballad. Perez had been indisposed all day, rising only with the onset of evening. The small gold box from which he had taken the opium spirit lay on the table before him, under his watchful eye. The Vidame de Chartres sat to his right, Shakespeare to his left, with Ana at his own left side. The place beside the vidame was empty, but set with knife and napkin. Would Perez’s secretary sit there? If not, then who?
Shakespeare felt the eyes of his fellow guests upon him. Amusement still played around Ana’s unpatched eye; the vidame stared at him with bored curiosity, though his mouth had the semblance of a smile.
‘In truth, of course,’ Perez continued, ‘it is Philip who is the basilisk. Less than a basilisk, for at least a hissing snake is a fearsome thing. Philip is timorous and cringing. By birth, he is a king, but by nature he is lower than a slurry-man in a pig yard. His mind is feeble.’
‘Oh, I believe him to be a basilisk,’ the vidame said. ‘Do snakes not eat the dirt of the earth and slink into holes?’
‘Hush now,’ Ana said. ‘Mr Shakespeare is here for a serious purpose. He must talk with Don Antonio about matters of state. Without his help, I fear we will be consigned to this pleasureless dungeon forever.’
Shakespeare felt hot and uncomfortable. This dining table was no place to talk with Perez. ‘I would rather negotiate in private, Don Antonio,’ he said brusquely, ‘but I can tell you that the sum you request is too high. It will not be countenanced.’
Servants arrived with platters of roast venison, dainty curlew breasts, suckling pig and a peacock dressed in its feathers. The table was laden with fine Spanish wines rarely seen in England these days.
Perez waved his hand dismissively. ‘We will talk in due course. But you must ensure, Mr Shakespeare, that we go to court without delay. We shall all die of tedium if we have to stay in this wretched backwater a week longer.’
Shakespeare smiled diplomatically. ‘I know that this secret, should you divulge it, will smooth your path to the presence-chamber.’
Ana reached across and touched his hand. She no longer wore gloves and the sensation of her fingers surprised him with their sudden heat. ‘You are a hard man, Mr Shakespeare. Don Antonio has come to you in good faith — a little faith from the Cecils in return would not go amiss. I am sure you will learn the secret soon.’ Her hand lingered. And then her fingertips slid away.
Shakespeare bowed his head in apology. ‘I had not meant to imply lack of trust.’ And yet, in truth, he did not trust any person here in this house. His enforced leisure during the afternoon had been frustrating when there was so much to be pursued in the gunpowder inquiry. And what of the miserable Christopher Morley in the Wood Street Counter while he was idling away his time here?
‘The actions of a quarter-century past reverberate down the years, Mr Shakespeare. You must bring me gold.’
Shakespeare sipped some wine. ‘If I am to get close to your position, Don Antonio, you must tell me more. You must give me enough to commend you to Sir Robert with conviction.’
The broken veins on Perez’s purple face creased into a smile. His hand rested on the small box of vials. ‘Let us talk of the favour for Pregent first.’
‘What could a poor officer of state such as myself offer a member of the nobility of France?’
‘Why, what does any man want, Mr Shakespeare? We all wish the same — soft bright gold, hard red rubies and fine pink cunnies. Of the three, I believe Monsieur le Vidame wants a woman.’
Shakespeare’s gaze fell upon the Frenchman. ‘I am sure the vidame does not need my help in that regard.’
‘But this is a most particular woman. She is a black Ethiop. He bought her and she is his. But she was stolen from him by one of Hawkins’s pirate ships en route from Lisbon to Harfleur. She is now here in England. Monsieur le Vidame wishes to have her back.’
The vidame smiled and raised his fine chin in acknowledgement. Ana Cabral dipped her fingers into a plate of chicken and pulled a piece of crisp, golden skin from the flesh. She put the skin in her mouth and a trickle of juice ran from her lips. Slowly, her pink tongue descended and lapped all but the last drop back into her mouth.
Chapter 13
Black Lucy. There were few enough dark-skinned women in England, and fewer still of such extraordinary beauty that a man might search the world for her. Shakespeare did not venture her name, however. ‘You will have to tell me a little more, sir,’ he said. ‘I have met one or two blackamoor women in London.’
‘I call her Monique,’ the vidame said languidly, as if it were an effort to talk at all. ‘But she now goes under the name Lucy. Some call her the Black Abbess, for she has her bawdy-house in a former nunnery. You must know of her, Mr Shakespeare. She is much feted.’
‘Yes, I have heard of Black Lucy. Is she indentured to you? I had no idea. Nor had I heard of Hawkins’s part in her arrival on these shores. I had believed her a free woman and a Christian, though sinful.’
The vidame leaned back in his chair and examined his neat fingers with studied nonchalance. He looked up and met Shakespeare’s eyes. ‘In truth, sir, I care not whether she is a Christian or a mermaid. She is mine and I would like England to return her to me. She is stolen property. Sir Robert Cecil could have no objection. He wishes good relations with the new France of Henri IV, does he not? And I am sure you have enough whores in London that you could manage without Monique.’
As he spoke, the candles in the hall guttered at the opening of a door. Shakespeare turned his head and saw the sleek, copper-hued face of Perez’s impertinent secretary. Then his sinews stiffened, for he was closely followed by another man — a man he had no wish to see.
The secretary bowed with a lazy half-flourish, then introduced the newcomer. ‘Monsieur le Vidame, Don Antonio, Dona Ana, Mr Shakespeare, allow me to present Mr Richard Baines. He has ridden hard from London to attend upon you.’
‘Aha,’ Perez said. ‘Our fifth guest. Take a seat, Mr Baines. You are just in time to dine with us.’
Shakespeare eyed him coldly. He knew Baines all too well. Like Robert Poley, he was an intelligencer from the days of Walsingham, yet there the similarity ended. While Poley fished in the murkier estuaries of intrigue for his prey, Baines flew in more elevated company, scavenging for information at court and in great houses, as a kestrel hunts mice. Shakespeare sniffed the air. The man smelled bad. And yet his clothes were expensively cut — a fine doublet of brown and gold brocade, a modest though modish ruff and riding breeches to the knee, cut from good fustian. Why, though, was he here — and why did his name keep surfacing? It had been Baines who wrote that Kit Marlowe’s mouth should be stopped — just a few days before it was stopped forever. Baines the turncoat, betraying a former friend and partner in crime. He and Marlowe had lived together in the Low Countries and had been accused of counterfeiting coin together. But then their friendship had come apart in volcanic fashion, each accusing the other of planning to go over to the forces of Rome and Spain. The final knife jab had been the note delivered to the Privy Council just a few days before Marlowe’s death. Shakespeare had seen this note during his investigations and he had been shocked to the core. The content itself was bad enough, but that a man should write such things about a one-time friend left him feeling sick to his stomach. The devastating note accused Marlowe of saying That Moses was but a juggler. That Christ was a bastard and his mother dishonest. That Christ deserved better to die than Barabbas and that the Jews made a good choice, though Barabbas was both a thief and a murderer. That the woman of Samaria and her sister were whores and that Christ knew them dishonestly. That St John the Evangelist
