James the First of England. And I shall be one of his chiefest ministers for the services I do him. You and your little Cecil Crookback will run about like rats, doing my bidding. Now, Shakespeare, do you consider it wise to cross your future king and his principal secretary?’
Again, Shakespeare held his tongue, though there was much building up inside him. ‘Mr Bruce,’ he might have said, ‘if you were ever principal secretary of this land, I would be long gone to any other country on the earth, for I would rather live under the Ottomans of Turkey or the savages of the New World than abide a man of such graceless conceit.’ But instead of speaking he turned his face away.
‘Is that it? Is that the way you intend to go on with me? Do you have nothing to say to me, Shakespeare?’
‘I think it is time for you to leave my house. We will meet up at day’s end. This evening, at Sir Robert’s apartments in Greenwich Palace.’
Bruce ran a hand angrily across his close-cropped hair. He ground his sharp front teeth together like a stoat and his eyes no longer contained even the semblance of a smile. ‘Fear not, Shakespeare, I am going. I shall seek out an old friend who will be more obliging. One who will most certainly locate Walstan Glebe for me, and together we shall have much pleasure in making him talk.’
Chapter 26
Dozens of royal and noble pennants fluttered in the warm breeze. Canopies of green and harvest gold shone in the sunlight.
John Shakespeare walked through the Greenwich Park crowds and stalls. Here, a pair of oxen roasted over an enormous open fire, their juices dripping and sizzling in the flames; there, a juggler throwing six burning batons of pitch into the air in a constant, circular stream, catching them and twirling them onwards with consummate skill. Everywhere, people and horses milled about, seeking food, drink and amusement from the many open-air cooks and entertainers. Gamesters threw down purses of silver and gold in bets on cards, dice, cockfights and courses. Minstrels plucked and sang for a few pennies. Wrestlers, bare to the waist and glistening with sweat, struggled to exhaust each other in a fight that could only end in surrender or death. A group of whores stood close by, doing all in their power to lure the men by thrusting out dimpled thighs and pulpy breasts. But the men weren’t buying today; they found the allure of gaming, of manly sports, of blackened meat and fresh-drawn tankards of beer even greater than the promise of soft female flesh.
He stopped momentarily as a pair of horses thundered past him with whooping riders aboard. It was, evidently, a small private race before the grand main events. They were poor, gypsy animals, with no saddles or stirrups but only cloths about their backs. Yet the riders were powerful and skilled.
Shakespeare looked on these innocent pleasures with unheeding eyes. He was a man apart from this seething mass of humanity, wrapped in a darkness from which there was no escape. All that drove him onwards, like a desperate, blinkered mule at the wheel, was the thought that he must find Catherine’s killer.
Before coming here, Shakespeare had spoken with Jane. She was concerned for the children, ‘Grace is acting like a little mother to Mary, but it does not feel right, Mr Shakespeare. They are like players, acting out some strange drama between themselves. Andrew is angry. He will scarce look at me nor reply when I ask some straightforward question. He says no more than yes or no. He is a big lad now, and I have no control over him. I had thought he would take a kitchen knife to the Scotch man.’
‘I had an inclination to do much the same,’ Shakespeare said wryly.
‘And yet I have seen him alone, in dark corners, raging and weeping his eyes out. I do not know what to do for the best, Mr Shakespeare, in God’s name I do not. How am I to talk to them? They need you.’
He had said nothing, though he knew she was right.
As he reached the main stands, a volley of cannon fire signalled that the royal party was about to depart from Greenwich Palace. Much of London seemed to have migrated downriver today for the pomp and pageantry of these summer races. Thousands of men, women and children lined the half-mile route from the palace to the royal viewing point, all of them hoping for a glimpse of their queen. A score of horsemen on white destriers, all in dazzling armour with sword blades raised in front of them, came first, followed by a series of carriages.
The third carriage carried the Queen herself, resplendent in an Italian dress in cloth of gold, stitched with hundreds of rare jewels. She wore a caul and bonnet after the Italian fashion and cooled herself with a gold-handled fan of white feathers. Every so often she waved to the cheering crowds, seeming to enjoy their enduring love. It was as if, for a day, all was well with her realm; there were no poor, no plague victims, no foreign wars, no threat from Spain.
The Queen was closely followed by ten members of her Privy Council, amongst whom was the Earl of Essex, newly appointed. Essex held his shoulders back and rode tall and proud, adorned in fine white silk and taffeta with buttons of pearl and silver. He sat astride a huge black war stallion caparisoned in the same silk and taffeta as his own attire, a line of pearls ranging down its nose. Beside Essex rode Sir Robert Cecil, small and insignificant, dressed in a modest ruff and black doublet, embroidered with discreet knots of gold. The men, so contrasting in their physique and dress, did not look at each other once.
‘A fine sight, is it not, Mr Shakespeare? Almost the equal of Paris or Madrid… but not quite.’
Shakespeare turned to find the smiling figure of Ana Cabral at his side. She wore a dazzling gown of black silk, with slashes of lustrous scarlet, sweeping out from her hips with the assistance of a Spanish bell farthingale. It was high-bodiced with a simple, lace ruff that did nothing to conceal but rather drew attention to the erotic smoothness of her throat. The effect of her dress, coupled with her fair and silver hair and black eye patch drew many glances. In her small, black-gloved hand she had a long thin pipe of ebony, which she sucked on now and then, blowing out thin wisps of smoke into the summer air.
‘Are you suggesting there is a court anywhere else in the world to match the majesty of Gloriana?’
‘Your words, Mr Shakespeare, not mine.’
Shakespeare did not laugh. ‘I am glad you have found me, Dona Ana, for I wish to talk with you — and enlist your aid. Sir Robert Cecil is exceedingly anxious to have Don Antonio brought to him. Now that word is out in the broadsheets, it appears all London talks of nothing else but your Scots prince. Sir Robert wishes to have the truth from Don Antonio and will pay exceeding well. Can you arrange it?’
‘Of course, if the price is right. For me and Don Antonio…’
‘The price will be as you wish, within reason, Dona Ana. All we need to do is arrange a time. Shall we say this evening, at six of the clock in Greenwich Palace?’
‘I am sure we can arrange something suitable.’
‘Is Don Antonio here now?’
Ana Cabral waved her fine-gloved hand and carved a stream of smoke with her elegant black pipe. ‘He is indisposed. You must know that he suffers from many ailments, which is why he always has his box of remedies at his side.’
Suddenly her smile transformed into an expression of sorrow. She touched his hand with her own gloved fingers. ‘I have not expressed my condolences for your great sadness, senor…’
Shakespeare stiffened. How free the world was with its sympathy and pity.
Ana sighed. ‘I know. There is nothing I can say. Come with me now. Please. Come and meet the vidame and inspect Conquistadora.’
Shakespeare suspected that Perez’s indisposition was more likely caused by an excess of opium than by any illness. Or perhaps it was simply a convenient excuse for not coming to the racing. He stayed Ana Cabral. ‘You have not given a firm response to my suggestion. Let us fix a time for you to bring Don Antonio to Cecil. Six of the clock, yes?’
She shrugged her narrow shoulders helplessly. ‘I am unable to be so definite. He is my master. I can ask him if that is a convenient time — but I certainly cannot hold him to it. You must understand this, sir. No more could you speak for Sir Robert Cecil. But come with me now…’
In the makeshift stables area, behind the canopied royal stands, a smell of cooking meat gave way to the aroma of new-dropped horse dung. Inside a large tented barnlike structure containing half a dozen animals, each in their own stall, the Vidame de Chartres was talking with a member of the Queen’s equerry. They were beside a
