was bedfellow to Christ, that he used him as the sinners of Sodom. That they who love not tobacco and boys are fools. That all the apostles were base fellows neither of wit nor worth. That he (Marlowe) had as good right to coin as the Queen of England. That the Angel Gabriel was bawd to the Holy Ghost.
Shakespeare knew Baines — and yet he didn’t really know him. He flitted and hunted but did not land long enough for any eye to catch his design. One day he was an ordained Roman Catholic priest, the next a spy for Protestant England. He might have been a player at the Rose, so consummate was his skill at trickery. In looks, he was handsome, tall and well formed. He wore his hair long, though not as long as the vidame’s, and his beard was sharply trimmed. But the inner workings of his mind? That was harder to discern. And had Nicholas Henbird not hinted at some diabolical link between Baines and Topcliffe?
Baines greeted each in turn. He bowed and kissed Ana’s proffered hand. She averted her face. ‘Mr Baines, I must tell you that you stink like the bilge of a home-coming galleon.’
‘I apologise. It is the hard ride from London. Sweat and dirt. I shall bathe.’ He moved on to Shakespeare, and allowed himself to be introduced as though they had never met.
Shakespeare was puzzled. ‘I know you well, Mr Baines,’ he said, refusing to play along with his strange and unnecessary deception. ‘I am certain you must remember me, for we were both in the service of Mr Secretary.’
Baines’s brown eyes widened as if in sudden recognition. ‘Of course — Mr Shakespeare. I felt I recognised you from somewhere, but was not certain where. A thousand pardons, sir.’
‘It is no matter. I see your wish came true in the case of Kit Marlowe. His mouth is, indeed, stopped. You must be exceeding pleased.’
Baines laughed. ‘The world is well rid of him. He denied God. Well, he will know the truth by now, as he screams in the eternal fire.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘I believe it was a Mr Frizer that killed him, Mr Shakespeare. Has an inquest not already concluded that?’
‘Indeed, but who ordered the killing? Who was the motion-man?’
‘Mr Shakespeare, I believe you seek something which is not there, a will-o’-the-wisp. The case is clear and closed. Marlowe had a careless hand; he should have thought more closely before he uttered his blasphemies. And do you think old Burghley enjoyed being depicted as the great overreacher Mortimer?’ He turned and smiled at Perez. ‘I fear we are showing poor manners to our hosts with such arcane talk.’
Shakespeare gazed at Baines with a questioning eye. Not for the first time, he tried to divine what lay in that cold, labyrinthine mind.
‘Well, Mr Baines,’ the vidame said languidly, as if the mere effort of speech was too much for him. ‘Do you bring Don Antonio a fine offer of gold from my lord of Essex?’
‘More importantly,’ Perez put in. ‘Have you brought us fresh whores? I swear I will leave England by the next packet if you serve me another milkmaid or taproom girl. We are in exile, Mr Baines. Can the earl really not take me to court where, I believe, there are clean-scrubbed ladies and maids aplenty?’
‘My apologies, but it is the Queen’s way to make envoys wait. She enjoys discomfiting those who would attend on her. I promise you it will not last much longer, for my lord of Essex is with her and he is certain you will be admitted before July.’
‘And the sum, Mr Baines,’ Perez demanded. ‘What sum has he laid on the table?’
Shakespeare went cold. Was Essex bidding for this secret, after all? Had he some access to new wealth? This complicated matters considerably.
‘I am sure you will be pleased with it, but I would prefer — ’ Baines looked now at Shakespeare — ‘to talk of this in private. I do, however, bring you tidings of great moment. There has been another powder blast, an atrocity at the Dutch market, this very morning. I believe there are dead.’
Shakespeare half rose from his chair and leant forward. ‘Do you know more, Mr Baines?’
Baines shook his head slowly. ‘Very little. I was told it was a much larger explosion than the one at the church, and was in a busy place where wives traded with stallholders. Who is behind it?’ He turned towards Perez. ‘I fear the Spanish are suspected.’
‘Most likely. Do not attempt to spare my feelings, Mr Baines, for I am as one with the English. In truth, I would petition the Bas-, Her Majesty to sponsor an invasion to liberate my home country. Dutch, Portuguese, French, English, even the Turks should join forces to oust this king whose empire has grown so great.’
Suddenly Shakespeare wanted more than anything to be away from here. It felt wrong, negotiating for some elusive secret when powdermen were blowing up London and its people. He should be there, in the city, where he was needed. He said a silent prayer.
‘It is a most heinous crime, Mr Baines,’ Ana Cabral said. ‘Which of us is safe if powder is ignited in public places?’
Perez banged his gnarled hand upon the table. ‘Let us talk of pleasanter things,’ he said angrily, reaching for his box of vials. ‘Let us talk of gold — and of the glittering court of Elizabeth Tudor.’
Shakespeare lay on the bed, staring into the darkness. The bedclothes were damp and musty and the air was infused with an unpleasant smell of mould. He could not rest. His mind was in turmoil.
Before retiring to his chamber he had spoken briefly with Perez and demanded to know why he had lied over Essex’s interest.
‘Why are you surprised, Mr Shakespeare? Of course I would wish to discuss the matter of my great secret with my host.’ Perez had shrugged his shoulders dismissively. ‘Such things are my source of income these days. How else may an exile earn his keep?’
‘I understand, but you said-’
‘One says many things. I am sure that a man who has worked for Walsingham and who now represents Sir Robert Cecil must understand the way of the world. I vow to you, however, that I will not accept an offer from Essex until you have had a chance to better it. I say that as a man of honour.’
‘Ride with me to Cecil on the morrow,’ Shakespeare said suddenly. ‘You will get a good price and Cecil will present you at court. We will seal this once and for all.’
‘You wish to be away from here, I think.’
‘I wish to have this settled.’
‘I shall sleep on it.’
Now Shakespeare lay on this fetid bed, the candle snuffed on a small table at his side. Then he heard footfalls outside his chamber. He had no weapons — they were still in the possession of the guards — but he rose instantly to his feet and grasped the candlestick, holding it defensively as a club. The latch lifted and the door slowly opened, the light of a candle flickering shadows into the room.
‘Mr Shakespeare…?’
The voice was a whisper, but he knew it straightway.
‘Mr Shakespeare, are you awake? It is Ana.’
‘I am here.’ He still held the candlestick ready as a weapon.
‘I must talk with you.’
‘Step inside, slowly, and close the door.’
Ana held the candle in front of her, the flame illuminating her smooth, beautiful skin. She was, Shakespeare thought, like a horse-chestnut fresh removed from its husk and burnished by the autumn sun. She wore a nightgown, which scarce concealed her slender, sumptuous body.
‘Well?’
‘I am come to tell you Don Antonio’s great secret.’
‘And how would you know such a thing?’
‘I know everything about Don Antonio. He has no secrets from me. I know the colour and consistency of his turds. I know when he has swived and with whom. What he eats, what he drinks.’
And you know the pizzle and balls of his secretary, thought Shakespeare, though he did not say so.
‘Why are you here, Dona Ana?’
‘Come with me.’
‘Where?’
‘Just come. If you would wish to know the secret, come with me now.’
‘How much?’
