Revenger (12 page)

He watched what followed in a kind of trance. Half of him wanted to flee as far and as fast as he could and never return for fear of being separated from his head, yet the other half was fascinated. Could Elizabeth’s credit in England have fallen so low that her courtiers dared stage such a masque behind her back? And doubly astonishing was the thought of who was behind it: Elizabeth’s most favored pet, the Earl of Essex himself, in league with his mother, the She-wolf Lettice.

As he looked around the hall, Shakespeare saw faces of great fame: Essex was at the center of things, surrounded by a pack that included the Earls of Southampton and Rutland; the brothers Francis and Anthony Bacon; the dashing and dangerous Sir Henry Danvers and Gelli Meyrick—all known to be his close associates at home and on the field of battle. Somewhere in the distance, too, he saw Charlie McGunn, conversing like a conspirator with Essex’s straight-backed military aide Sir Toby Le Neve. Nearby, Essex’s sister Penelope Rich—four years senior to her brother—talked animatedly with the handsome Charles Blount. And then, with a mixture of relief and alarm, Shakespeare saw
his own brother, William, in a group that included Essex’s wife, Frances.

On stage, the hag rattled the chains of her monkeys. “I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman,” she said, her voice ringing out falsetto like some eunuch from the seraglio. The crowd laughed with brazen humor, then the hag’s voice turned deeper, like a market stall holder calling out his wares, and she—or he—threw up her skirts to reveal a pair of bare, hairy legs and a pizzle that would not have shamed a bull. “But I have the balls and prick of a king, and of a king of England, too.”

Shakespeare, horrified, made his way through the crowd of revelers to his brother’s side. He nodded toward the stage and spoke quietly in his ear. “William, I hope this is nothing to do with you.”

His brother raised an eyebrow. “It’s that fool Greene. Look at him over there, preening with his villainous friends as he puts his neck further into the hangman’s halter.”

Shakespeare followed his brother’s eyes. The playmaker Robert Greene was holding court with his mistress Em Ball and various other unsavory characters. This summer revel of Essex’s had certainly brought out a curious array of pleasure-seekers. Will touched him on the shoulder. “Take care, brother.” Shakespeare raised his eyebrows. “And you,” he said softly. He watched as Will wove his way toward Southampton, where he was immediately welcomed by that group. He, in turn, switched his gaze to a settle at the side of the room. Frances, Essex’s pretty mouse of a wife, was there now, sitting alone, fanning herself.

“Mr. Shakespeare, how lovely to see you,” she said as he approached to pay his respects.

He remembered her from her childhood days when, as the well-loved and cosseted daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, she seemed like a perfect doll, assisting her mother, Lady Ursula, with her embroidery and the running of the family’s households
in Seething Lane and Barn Elms. Shakespeare had always liked her quiet ways and vaguely thought that, in a previous age or another place, she could have made a rather splendid Mother Superior in a convent.

“It must be five or six years, my lady.”

“Oh please, Mr. Shakespeare, you always called me Frances as a girl. It seems very strange to me now to be called aught else by you.”

Shakespeare smiled. “As you wish, my lady.” He thought she did not look at all well, very pale and drawn.

“There,” she said. “You see, you cannot even manage a little thing like that.”

“Well, you would have to call me John by way of return, and that might not be at all proper. People might talk.”

She laughed lightly. “Indeed, I had not thought of that. What would the gossips make of such a thing? Do come and sit with me. You are so much taller than me and I feel a little too weak to stand. I have not been well. My mouth burns and my bile is bitter. I see little things in the air, flying things, but my physician tells me they are not there. Do
you
see them, Mr. Shakespeare?”

Shakespeare sat down, two feet or so from her. “Do you mean bees, my lady, or birds? Or butterflies? Moths, perhaps?”

“No, no. These are lovely little things. They have tiny candles in their wings, which are made of gossamer silk.” She patted the settle next to her. “Though I am not at all well, I do not have the pestilence, Mr. Shakespeare. You may safely sit a little nearer to me.”

He shuffled a bit closer. “My lady, I had not thought such a thing,” he said, though her face did, indeed, look worryingly pale and moist.

“No? Well, many other people nowadays do think so when one has a little summer sweat. If it had been the plague, I fear I would be in my grave by now, for I have been feeling weak and sick for
some two weeks and I believe the pest is more like to take a mere three days to kill one off.” She swatted at something in front of her eyes with her fan. “You see, they are everywhere.”

“What are, my lady?”

“The little flying things with the tiny lights. You must see them; do you not think them pretty?”

“I do not see them, my lady,” Shakespeare said slowly.

“Oh well, you are fortunate, then, for though they are lovely to look on, I consider them over-familiar. Dr. Forman says they are sprites and has given me tinctures to ward them off.” She broke off. “Mr. Shakespeare, you are looking at me as if you think me quite mad.”

“I am sorry, my lady. I am a little bewildered. I do not see these little flying things.”

“Well, let us say no more about them. As for the plague, you must burn herbs in all the rooms. You must go from room to room with rue and herb of grace and throw water outside the doors and along the street.” She smiled but it seemed a strain for her. “But I cannot bother with it. I might as well have the plague for all the attention my lord and master pays me. You know, Mr. Shakespeare, it is a curious thing, we were all with child together in this year past. My lord’s sister, Penelope, good Bess Throckmorton—now Lady Ralegh, of course, to the Queen’s disquiet—and my lord and master’s concubine, whom I cannot bear to name, though she stands here in this room. Why, tell me, is it that my own little Walter lived but a few days and died in my arms, while theirs lived? Do you think his spirit lives in the flying things?”

Shakespeare did not know what to say. He knew, of course, of Ralegh’s child and illegal marriage; he knew, too, that the ever fecund Penelope had brought forth a new babe into the world, and he had heard gossip of a bastard born to Essex’s amour Elizabeth Sewell. But the fact of Frances’s new child, and its death,
had eluded him. In the end, he merely said, “I am sorry, my lady. The ways of God are mysterious indeed.”

“Yes, they are. And now I might follow my little Wat and lie beside him at All Hallows, for I grow more feeble by the day.” They were silent together. Shakespeare would like to have comforted her, but had no way of doing so. She gave another of her heavy, sickly sighs, then spoke a little quieter, as if imparting a confidence. “Tell me, Mr. Shakespeare, what do you make of the revels?”

He tensed. “They are interesting, my lady.”

“The crowd makes my heart beat so fast I can scarce breathe at times. The revels … I do hope you are not uncomfortable with my question.”

“I confess I have not seen their like.”

“My father, if he were alive, would be in a very dark humor indeed to see such drolleries. I pray that no word of this reach Her Majesty’s ears, for she would take it very ill, I fear. I did not like those monkeys. They were malign.”

“I cannot disagree with you, my lady.”

She patted his hand again. “Still, it is harmless, I am sure. No one could be more devoted to the Queen than my lord of Essex. He would not allow anything untoward.”

Shakespeare knew otherwise, but confined himself to remarking neutrally, “Indeed, your good husband is noted for his close attachment and loyalty to Her Majesty.” He watched as Essex hove into view like an ungainly galleon. The Earl’s white silk and gold thread doublet, heavy with diamonds, pearls, and other stones, glittered in the candlelight so that he quite outshone his wife.

“Mr. Shakespeare, I hope the Countess is keeping you well entertained. I am delighted to hear you have joined my merry band of intelligencers.”

Shakespeare rose to his feet and bowed. As far as he was
concerned, he had accepted just one commission from Essex, but this was no time to argue the finer points of his employment. “My lord, it is my honor and pleasure.”

“Good man, good man. And how go your inquiries? Have you found Eleanor Dare yet? Where has she landed following her long flight from the Americas?”

“Not yet, my lord. But soon, I hope. If she is here to be found.”

“Well, keep me informed. I shall have yet more important tasks for you soon enough. But tonight, make merry. I fear it is all a little strong for my constitution, but my beloved mother and sisters would have it thus. And I dare not argue with the She-wolf. What man would? If she wants monkeys and hags, then monkeys and hags she shall have.…” With that he laughed, and strode away with his curious gait toward his adoring guests.

Shakespeare watched him go and wondered, with distaste, just how long he had been poisoning his wife.

Chapter 12

B
Y MIDNIGHT, THE OUTRAGEOUS MASQUE WAS LONG
finished (the Queen of the Faeries having been mounted most obscenely by her gibbering monkeys), and the celebrations were spreading from the great hall out into the gardens and even onto the river, where revelers fought mock sea battles from barges and tilt-boats, all lit by pitch torches and blazing cressets planted along the bank. Wherever Shakespeare moved, there was a different group of fiddlers and balladeers playing and singing. In the great hall, the dancing was a riot of galliards and voltas, in which young gentlemen threw their ladies high into the air and hoped to catch them.

Shakespeare watched the gaming in a side room. He had taken very little wine; he needed to preserve his wits.

Southampton and Rutland were betting large sums of gold coin against each other. Southampton plucked a diamond from a chain about his neck and planted it in the middle of the table. “This for your carriage, Roger. One turn of a card and the highest wins.”

“Very well, Henry. But I must have the idle wench turn my card.”

Penelope stepped forward and flipped up a ten. She was,
thought Shakespeare, even more beautiful than when he first saw her. Her eyes darker, her hair more fair.

“Then I shall have Dorothy,” Southampton said. “Where
is
Dorothy?”

“My sister has retired to bed,” Penelope said.

“Retired to bed? Then she is an idler wench than you.”

“I did not say with
whom
she had retired to bed; nor did I say anything about
sleep.
”

“God’s blood, then I shall turn it myself and be damned.” Southampton flipped another card and brought up a king. “Aha, I have your coach, Roger. The idle wench is no charm to you.”

Shakespeare wandered from the room. He had heard once that Southampton had lost five thousand pounds at tennis in Paris. It was said he had not cared about the fortune, but did care very much that he had succumbed to a Frenchman.

Casually looking about him, Shakespeare stumbled like a sot through the doorway at the far end of the hall, taking a fresh glass of wine from a bluecoat as he went. The servant showed no interest in another high-born drunk. Once outside the great hall, Shakespeare glanced around. At the bottom of the steps, there was an ornate oaken coffer, with a flickering candlestick atop its lid. Putting down his wine glass, he took the candle and cupped his hand around the flame to keep it alight, then quickly padded up the narrow winding stone stairway. He was in the square turret that housed the high room where McGunn had taken him to meet Phelippes, Mills, and Gregory. Though he was certain he had not been seen, he held back a few moments to make sure no footfalls followed him, then slipped into the room of secrets.

It was a vain hope that he would soon find what he wanted among this mass of documents. What he sought were pointers to the layout of the place, the possible location for the information he needed. He knew that Walsingham would have collected
extensive files on both Arbella Stuart and the Earl of Essex. It was a matter of narrowing down the search area. If he knew where to look, he could return here on other days.

When Cecil had given him the commission, he had had doubts. Those had been swept away by this evening’s revels. There was something rotten here, a brazen contempt for the established order. Neither Essex, his haughty mother, Lettice, nor those around them cared who knew it. They were imperious, so sure of their high status that they felt themselves immune to the normal laws of the land. This court of Queen Lettice was, indeed, like a court-in-waiting.

Shakespeare put the candle on a table. Working at speed, he moved with method along the shelves and piles of papers, taking down a document at a time, scanning it for any possible relevance and then replacing it. It soon became apparent that there was some sort of order here. Documents and correspondence from Rome were stacked together; so were the intercepts from Madrid and, likewise, Paris and the Netherlands.