Revenger (2 page)

“Boltfoot?”

“You have a visitor, Mr. Shakespeare. A Mr. McGunn would speak with you. He has a serving-man with him.”

“Do we know Mr. McGunn? Is he the father of a prospective pupil?”

Boltfoot shook his head. “He says he is sent by the Earl of Essex to treat with you.”

Shakespeare’s furrowed brow betrayed his surprise. He laughed lightly. “Well, I suppose I had better see him.”

“I shall show him through.”

“Not here, Boltfoot. I will go to the library. Show this McGunn and his servant to the anteroom and offer them refreshment, then bring them to me in five minutes.”

As Shakespeare climbed the oaken staircase to the high-windowed library, with its shelves of books collected by the founder of this school, Thomas Woode, and, latterly, by himself, he considered Essex. He was famed throughout the land as Queen Elizabeth’s most favored courtier, a gallant blessed with high birth, dashing looks, courage in battle, sporting prowess, and the charm to enchant a princess. It was said he had even supplanted Sir Walter Ralegh in the Queen’s affections. What interest could the Earl of Essex have in an obscure schoolmaster like Shakespeare, a man so far from the center of public life that he doubted anyone at court even knew his name?

McGunn was a surprise. Shakespeare had half expected a livery-clad bluecoat to appear, but McGunn looked like no flunky Shakespeare had ever seen. He was of middle height, thick-set, with the fearless, belligerent aspect of a bull terrier about him. He had big, knotted hands. His face and head were bare and bald, save for two graying eyebrows beneath a gnarled and pulpy forehead. A heavy gold hoop was pierced into the lobe of his left ear. He smiled with good humor and held out a firm, meaty hand to John Shakespeare.

“Mr. Shakespeare, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he said.

“Mr. McGunn?”

“Indeed.”

Shakespeare guessed his accent to be Irish, but from which part or class of that dark, forbidding island he had no way of knowing. His attire struck him as incongruous: a wide, starched ruff circled his thick neck, a doublet finely braided with thread of gold girded his trunk, and he wore hose of good-quality blue serge and netherstocks the color of corn. It seemed to Shakespeare that he had a working man’s face and body in a gentleman’s clothing.

The serving-man at his side was introduced merely as Slyguff. He looked no more the bluecoat of a great house than did McGunn, though he was less richly dressed, in the buff jerkin of a smithy or a carter. Slyguff was smaller and thinner than his master. He was wiry like the taut cable of a ship’s anchor, with a narrow face and a sharp, gristly nose. Though smaller, he looked every bit as formidable as McGunn. One of Slyguff’s eyes, the left one, was dead, and the other betrayed no emotion at all.

“I hope that Mr. Cooper has offered you some ale. It is another hot day.”

“Indeed, it is and indeed, he has, Mr. Shakespeare,” McGunn said, smiling warmly. “For which we are both grateful. To tell you true, I could have drunk the Irish Sea dry this day.”

“How may I help you, Mr. McGunn?”

“Well, you could start by giving us yet more ale. No, no, I jest. We are here because we are sent by my lord of Essex to escort you to him at Essex House. He wishes to speak with you.”

“The Earl of Essex wishes to speak with me?”

“That is correct, Mr. Shakespeare.”

“Why should he wish to speak to an unknown schoolmaster, Mr. McGunn?”

“Perchance he wants lessons in Latin, or a little learning in counting. Could you help him with that, now? Or maybe you
could show him how to command his temper, for certain he is as moody as the weather.”

“Mr. McGunn, I fear you jest again.”

“I do, I do. The truth is he wishes your advice on a particular matter of interest. But for certain you don’t do yourself credit when you call yourself an ‘unknown schoolmaster.’ Who has not heard of the brilliant exploits of John Shakespeare on behalf of queen and country?”

“Mr. McGunn, that is ancient history.”

“Not in the Earl’s eyes, it’s not. He is mighty impressed by the tale of your fierce courage in the face of an implacable foe. As am I, may I add. You have done admirable work, sir.”

Shakespeare accepted the compliment with good grace and bowed with a slight smile on his lips. “And what sort of advice is the Earl of Essex seeking, Mr. McGunn? He must know I am retired from my work as an intelligencer.”

“That is for him to say, Mr. Shakespeare. I am merely his humble servant.”

McGunn did not look at all humble, thought Shakespeare. Were it not for the fine clothes, he and Slyguff were the kind of duo an honest subject of Her Majesty might well cross the road to avoid. Yet for all his brutish appearance, McGunn seemed a good-humored fellow, and Shakespeare had to admit that he was intrigued. Who would not wish to meet the renowned Essex? “Well, then, let us make an appointment, and I will be there.”

“No, Mr. Shakespeare, we are to accompany you to him
now
. My lord of Essex does not wait on appointments.”

“Well, I am afraid he will
have
to wait. I have a lesson to conduct within the hour.”

McGunn smiled and clapped Shakespeare on the shoulder with a hand the size of a kitchen wife’s sieve. “Come now, Mr. Shakespeare, are you not high master of this school? Delegate one of your lesser masters to take over your tutoring for the
morning. The Earl is a busy man and I know he will make it worth your while to take the time to meet him. Here.” McGunn took a gold coin from his purse and spun it in the air. He caught it and held it between thumb and forefinger in front of Shakespeare’s eyes. “That’s for starters. Take it. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

Shakespeare did not take the gold coin. He stared McGunn in the eye and saw only gently mocking humor. “Very well,” he said. “I will come with you. But give me a few minutes to arrange my lesson and let my wife know where I am going.”

As he spoke the words, he experienced a sense of dread; the battle with Catherine was far from done.

Chapter 3

R
UMSEY BLADE, A SMALL MAN WITH A PINCHED
, unlovable face and thinning hair, was not happy about taking on Shakespeare’s lesson. He was in the yard, swishing his birch cane in preparation for flogging Pimlock, who was awaiting his punishment, hose about his knees and bent forward over the low wall where Shakespeare had recently been sitting.

“I am called away on urgent business, Mr. Blade. You will take my lesson.”

Blade frowned. “Indeed, Master Shakespeare?”

“Indeed, Mr. Blade.”

“Well, I cannot allow you to make a habit of such things. It is a bad example to the boys when masters fail to keep to the roster.”

Shakespeare did not have time to argue. “Mr. Blade, you are forgetting who is the high master here, to speak to me thus.” He looked at the boy. “And I would suggest you go easy with Pimlock.”

“Would you so, Mr. Shakespeare? And what use do you think a flogging would be if it did not draw blood?”

“It is of little or no use, whether blood be drawn or not.”

“At Winchester, Friday was always flogging day and a failure to
stripe them with blood was considered not at all acceptable. Do you consider yourself superior to Winchester, sir?”

“Good-day, Mr. Blade.”

As Shakespeare turned away, Blade went rigid. His birchrod ceased swishing. “And have you discussed this matter with the bishop? He will not be happy with such a lax attitude to discipline and the good governance of boys.”

Shakespeare walked away.

McGunn and Slyguff were waiting for him in Dowgate, mounted on their horses. Boltfoot held the old gray mare, saddled and ready. Out here, in the full blaze of the late morning sun, the heat of the day hit Shakespeare like the blaze of a Smithfield pyre. He swung up into the saddle, then pulled his cap down on his head to shield his brow and neck. McGunn had already removed his ruff and opened the front of his fine doublet in an attempt to cool off.

“Let’s ride,” McGunn said.

Fragrant summer flowers and herbs—lavender, rosemary, bay, and a hundred other species—grew in profusion in the city’s many gardens, yet they did little to counter the overpowering stench of the dung-and-slop-strewn roads as Shakespeare and his companions trotted their horses slowly along Thames Street, then up to the city wall. Rats scurried brazenly, picking at the discarded bones from kitchens. Kites circled overhead or perched on walls, feeding at will from the bodies of slaughtered cats. “Makes you long for the fresh air of the countryside, does it not, Mr. Shakespeare?” McGunn said. “They say the plague will come hard this year.”

Shakespeare nodded. He had already wondered whether they should not close the school while summer lasted and head for Warwickshire to escape the pestilence. It would be good to visit his family. It might also be good for the health of his marriage.

At Ludgate a team of dog-catchers was rounding up strays to slit their throats, a sure sign that the city aldermen were worried
about the possibility of the sickness blowing up into a general plague. It was a terrifying thought.

All along the way, beggars and rag-clad doxies stretched out thin, bony hands and stumps, hoping in vain for coins from those driving the heavy midday traffic of farm wagons and timber carts. It was a dismal sight, a sign of what England was coming to as crops failed and the demands of the war chest ate into treasury funds. As they approached Essex House, Shakespeare saw a group of a dozen or so vagabonds surrounding the open gateway. McGunn stopped by them and handed out alms liberally, for which many of them thanked him by name and doffed their caps. “They may only be beggars, but they are
our
beggars,” McGunn said by way of explanation to Shakespeare, and then roared with laughter and kicked on through the gates.

Essex House stood on a large plot of land between the Thames and the Strand. Its gardens swept down to the riverbank, where there was a high wall with a gated opening to some water-steps, a landing stage for boats and barges.

Shakespeare and his companions dismounted in the forecourt under the watchful eye of a troop of halberdiers, their axe-pike lances held stock-still at their sides. The house was a hive of bees, so energetic were the comings and goings. An ostler quickly came forth and took their horses. “This is the Essex hovel, Mr. Shakespeare, how do you think it?” McGunn asked, standing back to admire the enormous stone-built house.

Shakespeare looked up at its towering frontage.

“Forty-two chambers, one hundred and sixty servants and retainers, but day-by-day you will find twice that number and more entering and leaving. Kitchens large enough to cook a feast fit for a monarch and a banqueting house great enough to entertain one. All built by his mother’s late husband, the Earl of Leicester.” McGunn strode toward the steps to the main doorway, his bull neck seeming to lead the way with the rest of him following. A halberdier stood either side of the doorway, shoulders back
and unmoving. They clearly knew McGunn well, for he was not required to ask leave to pass. “Let us go in. You will be meeting my lord of Essex in the Picture Gallery.”

Essex stood in the middle of the high-ceilinged, intricately plastered gallery. To his right, casting him in a half-shade that accentuated his fine features, were four south-facing windows that stretched almost the full depth of the walls. The room was bathed in brilliant light by the high midday sun, and the windows were opened at every available casement to allow in what breeze was to be had.

The Earl looked magnificent. He stood tall in a rich costume of white silk and mother-of-pearl, his curled hair combed back from his wide forehead, his full-length red beard tumbling over his ruff. He had a slight upward tilt to his chin, his gaze fixed on a small volume that he held at arm’s length in his left hand as if he were a man of letters, not war. Lest anyone forget his military reputation, however, his right hand nonchalantly cupped the hilt of his ceremonial sword.

All around him the room was hung with portraits: Essex in armor with wheel-lock, sword, and poniard; his beautiful mother, Lettice Knollys, in a baudekin gown of bejeweled glory; Essex’s sisters, Dorothy and Penelope, reckoned by many to be the match of their mother in beauty … and in wildness of spirit; his father, the late Walter Devereux, first Earl of Essex, who died a mysterious death in Ireland, some said of poisoning; Lettice’s new husband, Sir Christopher Blount, a handsome man with what John Shakespeare took to be an untrustworthy eye; and dominating them all, Essex’s late stepfather, Leicester, the man who first won Queen Elizabeth’s heart but betrayed her by marrying Lettice (and, some said, was guilty of poisoning her husband, Walter, in order to do so).

It occurred to Shakespeare that this was the most formidable family of the age, a clan to match the Tudors themselves in
power and majesty. Leicester, in particular, seemed to survey the scene from his portrait with supreme contempt.

A few yards in front of Essex stood a painter at his easel, paint-loaded brush in hand. Essex’s eyes rose languidly from his book and drifted to Shakespeare and McGunn. He nodded to the painter, who wiped his brush on a rag and put it down on a coffer beside him, where he had his pigments and oils and other tools of his craft, then stood to one side.