“Protect her from what exactly?”
“His dark desire. My lord of Essex would be king. And those around him-his family, his friends-would crown him. Arbella, though she does not know it, is the route, the conduit, to that crown.”
“You have information?”
Cecil paused. “Mr. Shakespeare, please,” he said evenly, “do not ask me to reveal the source of my intelligence. If I were to tell you such a thing, how would you ever trust me?”
It was a good point. But Cecil clearly had an informant operating within the Essex circle. Shakespeare tried to recall all he knew of Arbella Stuart, the princess with England’s future weighing heavily on her tender young shoulders. Great-granddaughter of Henry VIII’s elder sister, Margaret, she was the child of the scandalous marriage of the young Charles Stuart and Elizabeth Cavendish (he was nineteen, she twenty); the match was illicit because the Queen had not licensed it, and she erupted in one of her customary furies on hearing of it. For Charles was in line of succession to both the Scots and English thrones, and such a man might never marry without his sovereign’s consent.
So Arbella was born into trouble, and it had followed her like a hungry dog ever since. Her father died of consumption within a year of her birth, and her mother died of a sudden illness five years later, leaving the little girl an orphan. Her maternal grandmother, the Countess of Shrewsbury-better known as Bess of Hardwick-took on the care of the six-year-old. She brought her up a princess, insisting she be served by kneeling retainers and addressed as “Highness.”
At the age of eleven came the moment to bring her to court, to meet the Queen and her dazzling array of courtiers here, in this house, Theobalds, during the summer progress of 1587. It was a triumph. Elizabeth took the girl under her wing and made much of her, almost-but not quite-seeming to proclaim her heiress to her own throne. Perhaps it all went to the sweet little girl’s head, however, for soon she was breeding resentment among senior courtiers with her haughty ways.
What Arbella had not realized was that the Queen was not affectionate toward her without purpose. Elizabeth wielded smiles and favors to win obedience the way her father used an axe. This was politics on a grand scale, aimed at spiking the planned invasion by a great armada from Spain. Arbella had no way of knowing that behind the scenes of the great theatre of European politics, negotiations were under way for her to marry Rainuccio Farnese, son of the Duke of Parma, Spain’s all-powerful general in the Low Countries. The hope was that the marriage would cause a rift between Parma and his king, Philip II, and wreck the invasion plans.
The marriage never happened and the invasion armada was swept to destruction by Drake. But now, so Cecil said, a new armada was being assembled. Where did that put Arbella? It was an open secret that in the past few months the Spanish wedding plans had been resuscitated. Hilliard the portraitist had painted miniatures of the girl to be carried to Parma and his son. Anyone who knew Elizabeth well realized it was all vanity, signifying nothing; she would rather have cut off her right hand and hurled it into the fire than allow a Spanish claimant to wed a possible successor to her throne.
“Sir Robert, these are complex international affairs…” Shakespeare began. “What are you asking of me?”
“Prevent this marriage between the Earl of Essex and Lady Arbella Stuart. Take on this Roanoke investigation and you will have cause to stay close to Essex and his household. Watch what he does, observe every move he makes, worm your way into his circle. Find evidence against him. You must work for him, but in truth you will be employed by me, on behalf of your Queen and country. There is something else, too, Mr. Shakespeare. You will recall Sir Francis Walsingham’s library and his collection of correspondence and charts?”
Shakespeare could never forget it. For nine long years, Mr. Secretary and his library full of secrets had been the center of his world. He recalled the austere, silent room at Barn Elms in Surrey, the Principal Secretary’s country home where he kept so much of his correspondence: hundreds, if not thousands, of papers and documents from Madrid, Paris, Rome, Delft, and Antwerp. Even from the Orient, the Indies, and the New World. But most of all from here at home-intimate information about the thoughts and deeds of men and women in every corner of society: what was said in the taverns and theatres, the prisons and the bawdy houses; who was swiving whom in the palaces and great houses. Who was plotting; who was loyal and who was not. It was a unique collection of information and only one man knew it in its entirety-Walsingham himself.
“I remember it well, Sir Robert.”
“The question is, where is it? When he died, Mr. Shakespeare, it all disappeared. Every last scrap of paper, every nautical chart, every intercepted secret from the Escorial and the Vatican. All gone, spirited away from his house.”
“Surely you do not suspect my lord of Essex?”
Cecil affected an expression of scandalized shock. “Tut-tut, Mr. Shakespeare, ‘suspect’ is a strong word. It seems to suggest a crime has taken place, when nothing could be further from the truth. I am sure the Earl has these documents-but you may very well think he is entitled to them, for he is married to Mr. Secretary’s daughter. And why should she not inherit her father’s papers?”
“Are you saying that you want me to find these papers and bring them to you? I would need several wagons to carry them all.”
“God’s wounds, no, Mr. Shakespeare. I merely want you to find them and gain access to them, examine them if you can-and find out what information he held about Arbella Stuart and those around her. I would be astonished if there was not extensive and important information to be had. This is a game of chess, Mr. Shakespeare. It is a game we must win. Like chess, it has clear rules, the main one being that the sovereign must be protected at all costs. To that end, we must use every ounce of our wit to best our foe.”
“And what if my lord of Essex should wield his morgenstern and break your pieces, Sir Robert?”
Cecil stroked his unlined brow with the slender fingers of his ungloved right hand. “The morgenstern, Mr. Shakespeare, is an unsubtle weapon. It was effective when I was not expecting it. Now I know he has it and we shall be prepared. And, anyway, you will be with him to make sure no such thing occurs.”
“It will be like working for two masters-and betraying one of them.”
“I understand your misgivings, but that is the intelligencer’s art, is it not? That is what Mr. Secretary saw in you.” Cecil rose. He lifted his head, almost imperceptibly, and his falconer appeared and took the bird and gauntlet from his arm. “Come, let us walk just a little further, Mr. Shakespeare. I am keeping you from your school, but look how the sun shines. Every man must play truant once in a while. I want the sun to shine always on England. Though the times are dangerous, there is much cause for hope, too. We have a new pope in Rome, one that may yet prove more amenable to peace between the old religion and the new; Henri of Navarre may soon grasp the whole of France and bring peace to his bloodstained country. These are today’s men. They are, hopefully, men like you and me; men who would rather send ambassadors than armadas. But the peace that you and I both crave will not happen by accident, for there are other men, men of a martial bent who would rather kill and destroy than talk. Will you let them hold sway, or will you join me? Do you wish eternal war with Spain, or would you like your daughter to grow up in a world of peace?”
Yes, thought Shakespeare, I am like Cecil. In some ways. “But I have put this life of secrets behind me, Sir Robert.” As he said the words, he knew he spoke without conviction.
“I can be of great assistance to you. I can protect you.”
Even in the heat, a cold shiver ran through Shakespeare’s neck. “Do I need protection, Sir Robert?”
“Do you think you do?”
He knew he did. He needed protection from Topcliffe, a man whose lust for Catholic blood ran unchecked. And Cecil clearly knew it, too. “Yes, sir, my family does need some protection,” he admitted. “There are those that would harm them. My own
safety is of little concern to me, but as for those I love…”
“Then join me, Mr. Shakespeare.”
Spy on Essex? That would bring yet more danger. Why, then, did he nod his head to signify his agreement to the mission? For a moment, he thought that Cecil might clap him on the back, but then he realized that Sir Robert had never clapped any man on the back and had never had a jovial feeling in his life.
“I shall do all in my considerable power to protect you and yours from enemies,” Cecil continued. “We both know who they are. Being in the service of the government again, you will have all the authority that goes with your post. But I do not need to tell you that you-we-must be circumspect in that regard. No one must know for the present for whom you work. My lord of Essex must believe that you are his man. He must never know of this meeting and you must only come to me covertly and in exceptional circumstances.”
Shakespeare felt somehow as if he were accepting five guineas for a horse he knew to be worth ten. Why would he work for one powerful man against another? The reason was clear. He still cared about this realm and his instinct told him that only one man, truly, had its interests at heart. Sir Robert Cecil. Pray God, he was right in this. “Very well,” he said. “I am your man. Whatever that entails.”
“That is good.”
“But what of the Countess of Shrewsbury and Arbella? Will you assign protection to them?”
Cecil hesitated, as if weighing up how much to reveal. “Bess is aware there is a problem,” he said at last. “But she believes the danger is from Spain, that Catholics would kidnap Arbella and carry her abroad, to mold her as a figurehead for their own cause and insurrection. There may be truth in this. But you must remember, she has ambitions for Arbella. She would wish her to be Queen and has always raised her with that in mind. She nearly ended her days in the Tower when she ill-advisedly agreed for the girl to be betrothed to Leicester’s late son, Denbigh. The question is, has she learned her lesson well-would she countenance another illicit marriage proposal? The answer is that I do not know-which is why I cannot enlist her assistance in this, but I would have you go to her and get her away from London to one of her northern estates. She will be safer there. I warn you, though, Bess is a hard woman, as any of her displaced tenants or debtors will tell you. It is not for nothing that her late husband called her a sharp, bitter shrew.” Cecil paused and chuckled lightly. “Fear not, though, Mr. Shakespeare. You have wit and charm. Use it.”
Shakespeare bowed his head. Cecil had stirred something in him, something long buried beneath the daily round of Latin verbs and domestic comings and goings that now made up his life. It was the thought of returning to the fold, working in the world of secrets once again: the old days of Walsingham and his covert dealings and the thrill that went with them. Yes, he could admit it now: he did miss those days.
“Now, ride home, for the world and your wife will be wondering where you are. Clarkson will accompany you, to bring back our horse.”
“Thank you, Sir Robert.”
“As you go, think on this. I have no way of knowing how advanced is this plot. I know, however, that it centers on the belief that the Queen cannot live much longer. Essex wishes to position himself as the next in line. At the moment, I do not believe he plans an assassination. He hopes to marry Arbella, intending to take the crown when Elizabeth dies a natural death. But we all know that it is but a short step from wishing her dead to making it happen…”
Chapter 9
B OLTFOOT AND JANE LOOKED AN ILL-ASSORTED couple as they entered the school refectory. He dragged his foot, while she waddled, her distended belly pushed forward proudly in her thirty-fifth week of pregnancy. Shakespeare, sitting alone at an early evening supper after the ride back from Theobalds, smiled at the sight and called them to him.
“Jane,” he said, “I imagine you have had enough of this ugly old ruffler getting under your feet.”
Jane laughed. “He is worse than useless, Master Shakespeare. He thinks I am made of glass and as breakable, and will scarce let me do my work. Please find him some task away from here. It will bring us all peace of mind, I am certain.”
“A fine thought, Jane. I will do that.”
Jane and Boltfoot had been married five years. She was young still-perhaps twenty-two-while Boltfoot was in his late thirties and looked older; his short, grizzled body had been carved and battered by harsh years at sea. Yet this disparate pair suited each other; their mutual devotion was there for all to see. Sometimes, Shakespeare caught them looking at each other with unabashed affection. If only his own marriage were in such good repair.
Boltfoot appeared disconsolate. He treasured Jane above pearls and was worried about the baby that swelled her belly. He could not bear the thought of losing this one. Yet he felt helpless to do anything except be with her. Fighting Spaniards and savages was easy compared to this. He blamed himself for the loss of the first child, as if somehow the boy had inherited his bad blood, just as he had taken on the sins of his own father and forefathers in his clubfoot.
“What say you, Boltfoot? Will you undertake a task for me? Can you bear to be parted from Jane’s side for five minutes?”
Boltfoot hunched into his shoulders, his face a picture of gloom. “You are the master, Mr. Shakespeare,” he said in a low voice that betrayed his reluctance to be anywhere but with his wife.
“So I am, Boltfoot. And I have a simple but intriguing mission for you. I wish you to go to all your old shipyard haunts-the taprooms, taverns, chandleries, and wharves of Southwark, Deptford, Blackwall, and beyond-and there talk to whomsoever you may about Roanoke and the New World.”
Boltfoot grunted, which Shakespeare took to be a yes.
“Find me a mariner who has been there, one from the very first voyage when the colonists were carried to their new home, if you can. Or listen for tales. Discover what is being said, what the seafarers believe happened to the souls now lost. Are they dead or alive? If dead, how did they die? If alive, where might they be? I want to know the conditions out there, how they might have survived. Most of all, I wish to know whether any of the colonists might somehow have returned to England.”
Boltfoot looked at Jane, as if hoping she might tell his master that he could not possibly go on such a mission because he was needed here, to look out for her in these last few weeks.
“Thank you, Master Shakespeare,” Jane said. “I am sure it is useful work and it will do us both a world of good. He needs something else to think on.”
“Good. Well, that’s settled. I will talk with you alone regarding the details, Boltfoot.” Shakespeare turned back to Jane. His voice softened and he hesitated, unsure. “Pray tell me, Jane, do you know where Mistress Shakespeare is this afternoon?”
Jane could not meet her master’s eyes. Her mistress had clearly said she had no wish to speak with her husband. “I do not think she is herself today, master. She says she wishes to be alone. She is with Mary.”
Shakespeare accepted the situation with a smile. “Thank you, Jane. When you see Mistress Shakespeare, please tell her that my thoughts are with her and that I understand. I must go to Essex House but I would see her later, should she wish it.”
“Yes, master,” Jane said, her gaze still averted, then hurried away as fast as her swollen belly would allow.
The sun was dipping and the sky had a hue of golds and reds. Tomorrow would be another hot day. “Let me finish my meats and then we will share a quart of ale, Boltfoot,” Shakespeare said. “I will tell you more of this Roanoke inquiry. It seems we are to go intelligencing again, my friend. You will have to dust down your caliver and hone your cutlass for the fray.” As he spoke, Shakespeare thought he saw a sparkle in the eye of his old copesmate. Perhaps Boltfoot would be happier away from the cares of impending fatherhood after all.
S HAKESPEARE HAD NEVER seen a woman more lovely. His first sight of her was at a distance, in profile, along the evening-shadowed long gallery of Essex House, and he was transfixed. The r
oom had fine elm-wood paneling and frescoed walls with pictures of nymphs and satyrs in woodland scenes. She was laughing and her fair hair fell back across the soft skin of her nape and shoulder blades. Her neck was adorned by three strings of precious stones that looked to him like diamonds and rubies.
He was a married man and Catherine was to him the loveliest of God’s creations. And yet he could not take his eyes off this fair woman.
Slyguff walked a step ahead of him, his hand gripped on the hilt of a dagger that was thrust in the belt buckled tight about his narrow, wiry waist.
Only at the last moment, as they came near, did Shakespeare avert his gaze from the woman and see that she was with Charlie McGunn, deep in conversation.
The woman looked up with nonchalant curiosity at Shakespeare’s approach. Her eyes were black, like still, dark water. She raised an eyebrow questioningly. McGunn turned to him, too, and a grin broke across his fleshy, bald face. “Ah, Mr. Shakespeare, I believe you have seen sense. Welcome to the fold.”
“Thank you.”
“I hope you will introduce us, Mr. McGunn,” the woman said.
“My apologies, Lady Rich. This is Mr. Shakespeare. Mr. John Shakespeare.”
Shakespeare bowed. “My lady.” Of course, he had seen her portrait. Penelope Rich, sister of the Earl of Essex, was said to be the most beautiful woman at court, if not in the whole of England. It was an assessment that Shakespeare could not dispute.
“Mr. Shakespeare,” she said, “you must be brother to the other Mr. Shakespeare, the Earl of Southampton’s poet, for I can see that there is a little family likeness in your eyes and brow, though you are taller.”
“Indeed, my lady. And I am a little older, too.”
McGunn clasped his arm around Shakespeare’s shoulders. Too tight for friendship. Shakespeare winced at the memory of his viselike hand taking him by the throat. “Mr. Shakespeare has agreed to join our great enterprise of all the talents, Lady Penelope. He is to seek out and find the mysterious lost colonist, if one such really exists.”
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