Revenger (27 page)

“She was a purple strumpet, Mr. Shakespeare. She chose the World, the Devil, and the Flesh, and she was struck down as all such idolatrous harlots will be struck down.” Winterberry spoke with barely a pause between words. The words were angry, but the voice was quiet and cold. “With her painted face, she was too vain to realize that she would, within the blink of an eye, be screaming for all eternity in the fire.”

Winterberry’s face was still a mask of stone, but Shakespeare noted that the veins on his hand were raised and white as he pressed down hard on the Bible.

“Then why marry her?”

Winterberry raised his hand from the Book. He crossed his arms. His voluble voice became quieter. “I wanted a wife, Mr. Shakespeare. Someone to manage my domestic affairs and home and bear my children under God’s divine order. Do you have a wife?”

Shakespeare thought of Catherine and Mary, at present somewhere a few miles to the north of here on the first stage of their long journey through the heart of England to the little market town of Masham, in the desolate shire of York.

“I had never had time for such things, being precluded by my business and my calling. Where to find one unsullied by the world? All around me I saw the ensigns of lust, sloth, and gluttony. I saw foul abuses—women daubed like butterflies. Observe the butterfly, sir, how she flutters all pretty about the garden, then alights on a dog turd.”

“You thought her young and untouched?”

For the first time, Shakespeare imagined he saw a human emotion behind the mask, a crushed sadness about the eyes. “Indeed, I did hope her to be a virtuous woman. I have known Sir Toby many years. I thought a daughter of his would be pure and young enough to bear me children, and I wished to help Sir Toby, whom I knew to be in difficult straits. Even in the tents of the unclean, I thought our match would mock the malice of the enemy. I was wrong. Satan had already sunk his bladed nails into her.”

“So it was not her pretty face, her young flesh, or the proud name she bore that attracted you to her?”

“You accuse me of lust and avarice. Why should I listen to this?”

“Then it is untrue?”

“It was what I took to be her purity, sir.”

“And when you discovered she was not pure?”

“This is intolerable, Mr. Shakespeare. You berate me like the Antichrist.”

“Why did you ride away without looking for Amy that night?” He did not answer.

“Could it be that you knew what had happened to her, that she already lay bloodied and murdered? You had followed her and bludgeoned her and Joe. Is that how it was?”

“No, Mr. Shakespeare, that is not what happened. I did not search for her because I knew that she had gone with
him
. I knew then what she was, what foul vice she was about. Why should I look when I expected them to return, flushed and sated?”

“You observed her leaving the bridale with Jaggard?” Shakespeare saw dour fury in Winterberry’s eyes, very close to the surface. Could it be triggered to violence, or was he in control?

“Yes,” Winterberry said, spitting the word. “Yes, I saw them moving as the chariot wheels of Satan to their damnable, abominable bed of grass and their vile carnality. I saw them go where
they might rut like the beasts of the field. Why would I search for her, Mr. Shakespeare? I would rather pluck out my eyes than let them fall on such a vision of hell.”

“What did you do then, Mr. Winterberry?”

“Do? What should I do?”

“Most men would have stood up there and then and ridden off into the night. You stayed, though.”

Winterberry hesitated. “I was confused. I could not comprehend what I was seeing. We had been married in her father’s church a mere two or three hours earlier! Now she is buried there, beneath the ground where we stood and made our vows.”

“It seems extraordinary to me that you neither followed them nor left the bridale.”

Winterberry bowed his head as if crushed. “Yes. I see that now. But then … Mr. Shakespeare, I did not know of such things. I still do not.”

“Did you leave the bridale at any time?”

“No.”

“Could anyone who was there testify to that?”

Winterberry regained his composure. “There was dancing and music and merriment. There were venal sins, horrible in their abomination: gluttony, greed, lust such as you might find in the circles of hell. I saw bottle-ale, Satan’s device to keep us from the narrow path, and fumes belching from the dark chasms of their bodies. How would they note me or my movements through such a cloud of mist and error?”

Shakespeare closed his eyes for a moment. “How many were at the bridale?”

“Twenty, fifty, I know not and care less. It was something to be endured. I have had enough of these questions. Begone, Mr. Shakespeare, before I have you marched from here.”

The darkness was brewing, but Shakespeare carried on regardless. He had already goaded him to doubt, could he now provoke
the man to thunderous rage? “I have but a few questions more, Mr. Winterberry. When the hue and cry went up, you could have told someone what you had seen.”

“And trumpet my shame to the world?”

Shakespeare almost felt sympathy for this strange, cold man. He was severe, almost frantic, in his religion, and yet he was a man, too. And what man would know how to deal with the adultery of his bride?

“What of the lad, Joe Jaggard? Did you know him?”

Winterberry scowled and paused, considering his reply. “Jaggard? I may have met him, but I paid him no heed. I took him for a vulgar, godless youth.”

“What were the circumstances of your meeting?”

He hesitated again. “I am not sure I recall. I was at Wanstead frequently, you understand, treating with Sir Toby. I took him for an estate hand.”

Shakespeare was not convinced. Winterberry would have been well aware of Jaggard; a man will always know his rival in matters of love.

“Mr. Winterberry, you said you wished to help Sir Toby in return for the hand of his daughter?”

“We were friends of old. He had fallen on hard times. I was able to help him.”

“What was the portion you were to bring to the marriage?”

“That is between Sir Toby and me. It is not something either of us would wish bruited about. Anyway, it is done with now. The transaction will not happen.”

“You are withholding the settlement?”

“Why should I not?”

Why indeed, thought Shakespeare. Winterberry was a merchant; this marriage was a deal like any other as far as he was concerned, and the goods were not only soiled but had not even been delivered to his bed. It was a sour logic, but it fitted. Shakespeare changed tack.

“Tell me about your business interests, sir. With whom do you trade?”

“I trade with the world. I send trinkets and I send the word of the Lord into the Africas and the Levant and the Spanish Indies. I send light into their darkness, and the Lord has seen that it is good and has allowed me to prosper, providing yet more means to do His work.”

“These are difficult days, Mr. Winterberry. The war with Spain is never-ending. Venturing great fortunes on expeditions of trade is fraught with danger, is it not?”

“Indeed, which is why I say prayers of thanksgiving every day for the blessings He has bestowed upon me.”

“I heard the list of commodities you send out, Mr. Winterberry. What goods do you hope in return?”

“Silver, gold, spices, and souls. Now, if you are done with me, I have much work to be doing.”

“One last question.” It was the question Shakespeare most wanted to ask—and he looked closely for any reaction in the long, stony face that confronted him. “Do you, Mr. Winterberry, know aught of the Roanoke colony in Virginia?”

Winterberry’s head jerked slightly backwards, as if thrown by the question. “Roanoke?” he said, frowning. “What has Roanoke to do with your inquiries, Mr. Shakespeare?”

Shakespeare was firm. “I cannot say, but I
would
like to hear whether or not you know of the place and the colony founded there.”

“I do know of it, of course, for I am one of Sir Walter Ralegh’s investors. I was happy to lend my name and my gold to the venture, for I know the colonists to be unspotted lambs of the Lord. It is only meet that such folk should be in the vanguard of this brave world of Virginia. I am certain, too, that they will be found well and thriving in time, for the Lord will care for these His servants.”

“Do you know any of the colonists?”

“I know Mr. White, but he is now in Ireland, I do believe.”

“And his daughter, Eleanor Dare?”

“I know of her. Why do you ask these strange questions, Mr. Shakespeare? What possible interest can you have in the colony?”

“I have been making inquiries on behalf of my lord of Essex, who has an interest in the matter. Mr. Winterberry, do you think it possible that this same Eleanor Dare, born White, could now be in England?”

“Mr. Shakespeare, I do not know what madness you are engaged in, but I know that Eleanor Dare could not be in England. If any had returned, the corporation would have been the first to know. Do you think the searchers at the ports would not have informed us? They send postriders to me whenever a ship arrives at any port from Sandwich to Falmouth. Now I have answered all your questions with plain and honest speaking, and I must ask you to leave. Let me accompany you to the water-stairs.”

Winterberry walked with ponderous purpose toward the door. He had picked up the Bible from the table and now held it in both hands behind his back, in the way another man might carry a concealed weapon.

The air in the large central warehouse fronting Indies Wharf was thick with the exotic aroma of spices, all ranged in great casks along the walls. England could not get enough of them to flavor the foodstuffs on its tables.

“Do you enjoy the scent of spices, Mr. Shakespeare?”

“Who could not, Mr. Winterberry?”

“They are God’s most wondrous gift to us: nutmeg, cinnamon, cumin, mace, coriander, hot spices, ginger, and the greatest of them all, sugar.” They came to the arched entrance to the landing stage, where barrels were being loaded by hand and by crane onto a huge carrack. The name emblazoned on its bow was
Tempest
.

“God speed, Mr. Shakespeare. I am sorry you have had there
wasted journeys today.” Once more, he did not proffer a hand to be shaken.

The jib of the crane above them swung out from the vessel, pushed by a docker standing on the deck. The man in the wheel cabin worked hard at the pedals, raising the pulleys by a system of cogs. Shakespeare looked up and saw the barrel directly above them. Suddenly it was released from the boom. It was coming down, dropping toward them, falling. Shakespeare thrust his arm at Winterberry’s chest and threw him to the ground.

The cask fell to the quay with explosive force, cracking open in a shower of staves, splinters, and a clattering array of metal goods. A copper platter flew up and struck Shakespeare hard on his lower back, but the barrel itself had missed him. He realized he was lying over Winterberry’s prostrate form and quickly rose, dusting himself down as he did so. He rubbed his back where it had been hit.

He looked to the man in the crane cabin; he had an expression of pure astonishment and horror. Then Shakespeare looked to the deck of the ship where the docker had pushed out the jib. There was no one to be seen.

As Winterberry struggled to his feet, Shakespeare tore across the landing board and leapt onto the deck of the
Tempest
. A man was sitting inside the bulkhead, idly smoking a pipe.

“Where did that docker go? The one pushing the jib.”

“He should be here on the main deck, working. He’s a day laborer. Never saw him before today.”

Shakespeare loped to the bows and looked down into the gray, lapping depths of the Thames. He ran back to the sterncastle. There was no sign of the man. At the larboard side, there was another ship lashed to the
Tempest
, and another beyond that. The docker could easily have leapt across from deck to deck. Angrily, Shakespeare walked back to the quayside.

“Did you see him?”

Winterberry said nothing. His face was grave. He signaled to the crane driver to lower the ropes and then examined the frayed ends where the barrel had come away. The strands were sheared. Winterberry ran a finger over the frayed end.

“This was cut.”

“Who wants to kill you?”

“I would ask the same of
you
, Mr. Shakespeare. It seems to me you delve in murky, ungodly waters. I can think of no man who would do me harm. Now, good-day to you. My wherryman will take you back upstream, if you wish. You will find no hire boats here.”

Shakespeare met Winterberry’s eyes. He had one more question for him. “Did you know that the boy Joe Jaggard was also interested in Roanoke, Mr. Winterberry—that he was searching for Eleanor Dare?”

Winterberry’s humorless expression did not change. “Good-day, Mr. Shakespeare,” he said, and turned away.

A
S HE WAS ROWED
out into midstream, Shakespeare gazed back at Indies Wharf. A dark figure stood in the archway to the spice warehouse. Jacob Winterberry was watching him go.