They began arriving at seven of the clock, just as the church bells chimed nearby. Shakespeare took a deep breath. “This is it, Boltfoot. We know he will be here and that he has no fear. The way he walked into Buckland Abbey proved that. If only Lady Drake could stay by the door with you, for she must recognize him better than anyone; she has taken a cup of wine with him in her own withdrawing room. But her thoughts and attention will most certainly be occupied elsewhere.”
Boltfoot looked unimpressed. He was convinced that Drake was immortal, that he had signed some pact with the Devil. He had seen him exchange fire with the finest soldiers of Spain, brave arrows and spears flung at him by native peoples the very globe over, walk tall and strong when all others were falling down with sickness in mid-ocean. Whatever happened, he never shed his glow of invincibility; he was untouchable. Could a mere mercenary, a mortal with a wheel-lock sent by Philip of Spain, do him any harm? Boltfoot rather thought not.
The guests wore glittering clothes, studded with dazzling gemstones. This was not the royal court with its plethora of exquisitely cut gowns, but the clothes were costly nonetheless. Plymouth was a wealthy port. After London, it was the hub of England’s trade with the world. Here lived hard, unsentimental men-Hawkins, Drake, and their extensive families, all cousins with one another-who plundered Spanish treasure, who stole men and women from their beds in western Africa and sold them as slave labor in the Indies, who found spices and cloth and jewels from the earth’s most far-flung shores to sell in the capitals of Europe. Their wealth, however ill-gotten, shone as gaudily as the night sky in this hall. Shake speare doubted that there was a single gemstone in the hall paid for other than in blood.
The tables, formed in a great U shape, were bedecked with candles and silver plate. The guests all thronged in the center of the hall, where, after feasting, there would be dancing. In a corner, the musicians played the songs of old England, passed down through Devon’s generations for hundreds of years. This was not a time for mournful ballads.
Drake and his lady arrived last, to thunderous applause. He wore a saffron yellow doublet topped by an enormous ruff of fine lace and a cape at his shoulder. The Vice Admiral bowed with a sweep of his cape, and Lady Drake, in her finest blue velvet and cloth of gold gown, curtsied with a radiant smile. They were accompanied by Diego. Drake caught sight of Shakespeare in his butler’s livery. “Fetch me a cup of brandy, my man,” he said, laughing. He and his wife walked sedately to their seats at the head of the main table, acknowledging the applause and cheering of the guests every inch of the way. He vaulted onto the table with the agility of a man half his forty-six years, puffed out his broad chest, and clapped his hands.
The crowd fell silent. Drake stood, legs asunder, hands on hips, as if he were on the deck of a royal galleon with a fierce northeasterly in his gray-red hair. His eyes shone. He had his audience, his people, where he wanted them: in the very palm of his hand.
“Welcome, welcome one and all. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow our fleet sets sail into the teeth of the Spaniard’s jaws, where we shall blow out his brains and tear his heart from his cowering chest. Let Philip and Santa Cruz tremble with fear, for I will discover them, mewling in their lair, and turn their great towering ships to matchwood. But first let me tell you a little of the ways of this craven prince: he has sent a Fleming for to kill me; a man of dishonor who would kill by stealth for he is afraid to stand in open combat. I am told he will be here tonight. Well, Mr. Fleming, here I am! Draw your pistol, take aim, and fire.” Drake thumped his hand against his chest. “Here is my heart. Shoot it to death, by God’s faith.”
He stood back and looked around the room. The silence was absolute. All eyes were on the Vice Admiral. He cupped his ear with his hand. “Hark, do I hear a pistol being cocked? Mind you come closer. We don’t want you to miss now, as you did once before.”
An explosion tore the silence. The guests shrieked and ducked down as one, an instinctive reaction to the force of the blast. All eyes turned to the back of the hall, where a man stood holding a smoking wheel-lock. Then everyone looked back at Drake. He stood where he had before, unflinching, hands on hips even more aggressively, chest pushed out until it might seem he would burst his doublet, his face creased into a scornful grin.
Shakespeare pushed his way through the throng toward the gunman. He was about to leap on him when he stopped in his tracks. The gunman, too, was grinning. His red hair and shoulders were covered in the plaster that had fallen from the ceiling, where he had loosed the ball from his pistol. He looked back at Drake, who was laughing loud.
“’Tis my little brother Thomas, Mr. Shakespeare. He has let off his pop-pop into the ceiling. Would you take him away and lock him up in Plymouth gaol?”
Shakespeare shook his head in dismay. By now the whole room was laughing with gusto until the walls echoed.
Drake clapped his hands again. “Forgive me, Mr. Shakespeare. It was a jest we could not resist. Now let us say grace and give thanks to the Lord for the fare we are about to receive.” He clambered down from the table and called on the Bishop to lead them in prayer.
The banquet proceeded in disorderly fashion. The din of laughter and conversation was as loud as a score of anvils being hammered. Shakespeare was worried. He offered to taste Drake’s food for poison, but Drake would have none of it. Worse, if the killer had been anywhere in the vicinity when Thomas Drake shot his pistol, he could well have found his way into the hall under cover of the confusion; all the plans to search and examine those coming in could have gone up in smoke.
As the evening grew ever more wild, weapons were produced and mock sword fights staged along the center of the tables. Drunken guests kicked food and silver and candles around like so many pirates. Drake clapped his hands whenever he felt it was time to tell another story. At one stage he called for silence and demanded prayers for his cousin John, a fellow sea captain, captured by natives and then by the Spanish on the River Plate. “Remember, while we eat and drink, my cousin molders in some Spanish hole in Peru. If he could hear me now, I would say ‘Keep strong, John! Keep the faith and spit on their saints and relics!’”
The dancing began. Riotous voltas and galliards; not for these revelers the sedate elegance of the pavane. The men threw their ladies high into the air, and occasionally dropped them, sprawling in a drunken heap.
Diego came up and slapped Shakespeare on the back. “I am sorry about Sir Francis’s little jest. He insisted on it.”
“This is folly, Diego. Drake jests, but this man, this Fleming, will come tonight. He may be waiting in the shadows outside; he may be here already inside. But I tell you, I know he has ridden here and he believes this to be his last chance. I think he is without fear for his own life.”
A drunken couple staggered into Shakespeare. The man wore the mayor’s chain of office and had his hand clasped to the woman’s breast and his mouth at her neck; she had her hand held firm at the front of his breeches. Shakespeare pushed the amorous couple on their way, stumbling around the room in their curious impression of a dance. “Good to see him taking care of corporation business,” Shakespeare told Diego. “I fear Mr. Secretary would not approve of any of this.”
“Definitely not. But Mr. Secretary does not stand on the deck of a warship driving it straight into the guns of the enemy,” Diego replied. “They are enjoying life while it lasts, John. Tomorrow we set sail. This may be the last time you see any of us.”
“This is certain fine, Diego, so long as you all do set sail on the morrow. Your Vice Admiral included.”
The banquet was rapidly descending into a free-for-all. Beautifully prepared food was flung across the tables; ale was drunk from pitchers so that it ran from the mouths of men and women, down the sides of their jowls and onto their fine clothes. Shakespeare watched in despair. All he could do now was stay close to Drake and scour the room for anything untoward, while Diego and Boltfoot watched the doors. Yet men and women were slipping in and out all the t
ime.
Drake broke off from a heated conversation with young Richard Hawkins, son of his old friend John Hawkins. “Enjoying yourself, Mr. Shakespeare? Your brow seems uncommon furrowed tonight.” He turned to his wife. “What say you, my lady?”
“I would say, Sir Francis, that you should be thankful for the care that Mr. Shakespeare is taking concerning the preservation of your life. I think you owe him better manners, sir!”
“Hah! Roundly told off. I would rather be cut at by a Spaniard’s halberd than feel the edge of a woman’s tongue.”
Someone shouted “Fire!” It was a word to drive fear into the hearts of stout men. Even those stumbling about with an excess of wine stopped and held still. “Fire! There is a fire!” another voice shouted. Then a roar went up and guests began scrambling for the great doors at the front of the hall.
Shakespeare did not hesitate. He seized Drake by the arm and pressed his hand into Lady Elizabeth’s back. “Come with me. I know a better way out. This fire will have been laid by the killer. He will make his attempt in the confusion…”
A rush of flame took hold of a gold-and-red French tapestry that hung from a wall. Fire leapt from it into the drapes and up to the beams. Black smoke billowed in the narrow confines of the hall. The scramble of bodies toward the door turned to panic. Women and men coughed and screamed and pushed and trampled.
Drake pushed Shakespeare’s hand away from his arm. He grabbed a silver salver from the table and banged it hard repeatedly. “Hear me! Hear me!” he shouted. “Gentlemen stand aside and let the ladies go first. With some order, we will all get out safely. Hear me!”
Suddenly the undisciplined charge for the doorway halted. Even in the most intense heat of fire, men obeyed Sir Francis Drake. Most men did stand aside and those few that didn’t were hauled out of the queue by others. The women then proceeded to exit at a brisk pace.
The fire was growing fast, gobbling up paintings and furnishings, setting light to the beams in the ceiling. Cooks and serving maids began running in with pails of water. Shakespeare realized a few pails was not going to be enough. This was going to be a hard blaze to bring under control. Boltfoot and Diego had emerged from the crush of people and were now back with Shakespeare and the Drakes.
“We really must go, Sir Francis.”
“Mr. Shakespeare, we are in your hands. Kindly take us your secret way.”
They moved forward. Shakespeare suddenly realized the way he had intended, through the kitchens, was blocked by flames. He turned to the west side of the building, to the corporation’s council chamber. There had to be a way through there. The smoke was getting worse; sounds of coughing and choking filled the hall as the fire raged out of control. As soon as they were in the chamber, Shakespeare slammed the door behind them to keep out the flames and the worst of the fumes. They stood a moment, catching their breath, trying to clear their lungs. The faces of eminent Plymouth burghers looked down on them from portraits around the walls.
“How do you fare, my lady?” Drake asked of his wife, touching her arm tenderly.
With her hands, she tried to brush the black soot from her dazzling gown. “It is a great excitement, Sir Francis. I begin to understand why you men are so quick to go to war.”
“You have a fine spirit! Think how brave our sons will be.”
“And our daughters, sir.”
Shakespeare pushed open the door into the council antechamber and stepped through in front of Drake and his wife. Boltfoot followed. At the far end of the room, he could see the side entrance to the building. A group of men was standing around the doorway-serving men and ostlers. “Is the way clear?” Shakespeare called.
“Aye, sir,” came a reply. “Come through. We are setting up a pail chain here.”
If I were a killer, thought Shakespeare, this is where I would make my move. This is where I would expect Drake to make his exit and I would attack now. He drew his sword and signaled to Drake to do the same. “Come, sir, beware. He will be hereabouts. Boltfoot, have your caliver primed and ready.”
Drake strode ahead, disdainful of Shakespeare’s caution. “Home, Lady Drake, to bed. I have had my fill of this nonsense of Walsingham. I love him as a friend, but I will not be wet-nursed by his nannies.”
They moved out into the street. Shakespeare could see now that flames were licking the sky. A great crowd had gathered outside the Guildhall, all standing agog at the blaze. It seemed the whole town had risen from their beds to watch the spectacle or help with the pail chains. Drake ignored them. “You will see better fireworks when I put flame to Philip’s galleons,” he said to no one in particular, striding through the chill night air.
The walk to Looe Street, where Drake had his town house, took little more than five minutes. Two roistering mariners, who had consumed too much brandy on this their last night ashore, whistled and called at them. “Here, sweets, leave them dodderers and come with us. We’ll fill yer cunny with honey!” Then they spotted their Vice Admiral and dashed down a side street.
“I recognize that voice,” Drake said. “He’s bosun on the Dread nought. I’ll have him flogged on the morrow for lewdness!”
Chapter 42
The Drakes’house was surprisingly modest compared to his majestic mansions and estates in other parts of Devon and London. It was a tall structure, built of stone to withstand seaborne gales. Above the ground floor, jettied chambers overhung the narrow street. Clearly, the crucial thing to the Vice Admiral was its convenience, being so close to the mouth of the Plym and the dockyards, where he had to spend so much time repairing and provisioning his ships.
Drake stood at the steps to the house. “Well, Mr. Shakespeare, you have brought us safe home. You can tell Mr. Secretary that you have accomplished your task like a true and faithful servant. Good night to you, sir.” He was about to push open the door when Shakespeare stepped in front of him. He addressed Elizabeth: “Might I just ask you, my lady, did you tell the Huguenot, Pascal, about this house?”
Elizabeth Drake looked flustered. “It is… possible. I might have mentioned it. I cannot recall.”
Shakespeare lifted the latch to the door. “If it please you, Sir Francis, I will go first. Boltfoot, come with me.”
Suddenly Drake’s good humor vanished. He thrust Shakespeare angrily aside. “No one but the Queen commands me what to do, Shakespeare. Remove yourself from my way. Lady Drake, let us go inside.” He opened the door for his wife. She hesitated, but knew her husband’s moods well enough to realize this was no time to try disagreeing with him. Smiling sweetly at Shakespeare and mouthing a silent “Thank you, Mr. Shakespeare,” she stepped forward into the house.
Drake followed her and was surprised to find the hallway empty and in darkness.
“I think the staff are out watching the fire, Sir Francis,” Eliza beth told him. “Perhaps we might ask our companions to set some lights about the house for us.”
“By God’s faith, what sort of staff is it that leaves its post to watch a little bonfire, madam? I think you must look to our domestic arrangements before I am next home.”
Taking her cue, Shakespeare and Boltfoot entered the building behind the couple. Boltfoot produced a tinderbox and began lighting candles. Shakespeare pushed on into the house. He had been convinced Herrick would strike at the banquet. And now? If there had been a Huguenot called Henri Pascal who just happened to turn up at Buckland Abbey, why had he not been at the banquet to introduce himself to Drake?
The blow came as Shakespeare entered the Drakes’ private chamber on the second floor. It came out of the darkness, a crack to the back of the head that felled him instantly. He slumped awkwardly to the floor, his head hitting the foot of the bed as he went down. He felt himself losing consciousness, but he fought the sensation and thrashed out wildly with his arm, which still clutched his sword. Dimly, he heard a sound like a grunt or cry. He rolled sideways across the room and felt the reverberation of a heavy blade stabbing down into the boards where, a second earlier,
he had been sprawled.
Shakespeare scrambled farther from the assailant, clawing his way to the other side of a large oaken bed. In the gloom he saw a flickering light, a candle flame, and then heard a gasp. Elizabeth Drake had stepped into the chamber. In the dim, shadowy light he saw a face appear: Herrick. It had to be Herrick. In horror, he saw him grab Elizabeth, his muscled arm encircling her neck and forcing her back. The candle fell from her grasp and the room was plunged back into darkness.
Shakespeare jumped to his feet. His clubbed head felt as if gunpowder had exploded within it. He felt blood trickle down the inside of his ruff collar. He still had his sword in his hand, his grasp firm on the hilt.
Another light appeared at the door. Drake. “What is this?” And then he saw his wife, her neck twisted back, the point of a poniard blade at her exposed throat, pressing into her flesh, blood dripping down onto her velvet gown. “My lady?”
Shakespeare was at Drake’s side now.
“Out.” Herrick said the word quietly to Shakespeare. He stood scarcely five feet from Drake. “Out or she will die. Not you, Drake-you stay. But the other one, leave now or you will see such a gush of blood from this woman’s throat as will sink all your galleons.”
Drake nodded to Shakespeare, his face grim. “Leave now, Mr. Shakespeare.”
Elizabeth was breathing fast. Her body was rigid, as if the slightest movement would draw the needle-sharp point of the blade into her throat.
Shakespeare stood his ground. “I am going nowhere. My order is to protect you.”
In one lightning-swift motion, Herrick flung Elizabeth across the room. In the same movement, he lunged at Drake, poniard raised, with all the force of a bull in the ring. As he thrust forward and down with the blade, he hissed, “So die all heretics…”
Drake did not retreat an inch. Herrick’s blow descended hard, slicing through flesh and glancing off bone, but it was Shakespeare’s left forearm that took the blow, not Drake’s body. Shakespeare’s right arm came down behind Herrick’s neck, the hilt of his sword cracking into the base of his skull and pummeling him to the ground at Drake’s feet. Shakespeare stamped his left foot down onto the nape of Herrick’s neck. He raised up his sword, now greasy with his own blood, in his uninjured right arm and held it suspended as if about to drive it down through the would-be killer’s back.
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