Revenger

by Rory Clements

  Chapter 22

  T HE BELL OF ST. MAGNUS STRUCK THREE OF THE clock. Foxley Dare’s ordeal was almost done. As Shakespeare arrived, the tipstaff stepped up to unlock the pillory and release the prisoner. The dung on Dare’s face had baked hard like a stinking mask, and he looked scarcely human.

  When Foxley tried to stand, the pain in his neck and back was so severe he screamed and fell forward. Shakespeare caught him, but his weight was too much and he had to ease him down to the ground, where he lay curled like a new-born baby.

  As the crowd of onlookers dispersed, a woman emerged from a house close to the church. She carried a pail of water and poured it over Foxley’s face and head. “I always do that for them,” she said to Shakespeare. “It helps revive them, poor souls.”

  “Some cloths to clean his face would help, too, mistress,” Shakespeare said. “And herbal ointments, too, if you have any, for he is sore burned by the sun.”

  “Bring him into my house and we will do what we can. My husbandman was an apothecary, God rest his soul, and I have lotions aplenty.”

  Shakespeare turned to the tipstaff. “Is he free to go?”

  “Yes, but tell him to choose his friends more carefully. And I am not talking about the goose. This is not Mr. Dare’s first time in the pillory, and it will not be his last if he keeps dealing with those viperous whores. The justice has said that next time he offends, he will be flogged against the post and his ears will be removed.”

  An hour later, after washing and slathering of lotions and imbibing of good beer, Foxley Dare was at last in a condition to talk. The woman who had helped him was charitable and let them sit in her garden in the shade of a fig tree, a light breeze fanning their faces.

  Foxley sat at the table, with his head supported by his hands. “I am as weak as a novice’s fart, sir.”

  “Keep drinking, Mr. Dare, but slowly.”

  “Oh, every inch of me aches and burns like the hearths of hell.” Foxley groaned and rubbed and stretched his neck. He gulped his beer. “What does my lord of Essex wish from a common man like me, Master Shakespeare?”

  “Do you know your brother’s new wife, Eleanor, born White, who went with him to the colony?”

  “I do. I met her twice. The first time was at their wedding. A bedazzling affair, with feasting and music, even though Ananias was turning to dull nonconformist ways by then. The second time was when I took John to wave them off from London in the spring of ’87. What a miserable lot they did look, all praying on deck and thanking the Lord as the little ship did bear room to God knows where. I believe them now dead and have been trying to have them declared so in the courts, on my nephew’s behalf. Ananias left property here, and it is young John’s by right. But the courts of law are slow as earthworms in their dealings. Not so slow when they want to put you in the pillory or whip you for some imagined misdemeanor, though.”

  “So you would recognize Eleanor?”

  “Recognize her? Of course I would. Pretty little thing she was, and from what I hear, she must have already been with child when they left, for I heard tell that the baby Virginia was born that summer.”

  “What would you say if I were to tell you that Eleanor Dare has been sighted, here in England, by the baiting rings of Southwark, within the past fortnight?”

  Foxley tried to laugh but grimaced with pain instead. “I would say you had a head full of bees or that you have been eating curious mushrooms, Mr. Shakespeare.”

  “You think it impossible any of them have returned?”

  “No, not impossible. But for certain I would be the first port of call for Ananias or Eleanor-for we live in their property close by Wormwood Street, where he prepared his tiles, and they would want to see John.”

  “Ananias, certainly, but what of Eleanor-where would she go? Does she have kin in London or nearby?”

  “Her father, most like, for he was at the wedding, I do recall. He wore courtly attire and had fine friends. John White was his name. A letter from Sir Walter Ralegh was read out blessing the couple, and he even put in an ode for them. And Mr. White had two most curious friends there that did cause a stir. Folks came out from all the houses around and about to see them and stare in wonder.”

  “Did they have two heads?”

  “Better than that, Mr. Shakespeare, they were savages from the New World. None of us had ever seen their like. They even spoke a little English and affected English clothes to wear, though they wore their hair strangely and had no beards. I thought they were handsome men, to tell the truth, and though they were savages, they did look and act as gallant as any English gentleman. John White was a gentleman, too, though he could speak of little but the wonders of the New World, to the extent that his words seemed to infect all those that heard him, my brother included… which was to be his downfall.” Dare winced once more with the pain of his ordeal. “I did love Ananias, sir, and regretted his turning so strange. Though he never was so bawdy or lewd in his ways as me, yet we did sometimes share jests and a surfeit of ale.”

  Shakespeare found himself liking the fat man. He may have been an incorrigible scoundrel, but Shakespeare was prepared to believe his denials concerning the goose.

  “There was one thing, though, Mr. Shakespeare, sir…” Dare seemed uncertain. “A fortnight past, there was a woman outside our house in the vicinity of Wormwood Street. I did think she was watching us. She wore a pynner close around her hair and face and I could not make out her features. I went out to ask her what her business was, but she turned and ran away, as if the twelve demons of hell were on her tail. I gave it no more mind, sir.”

  “Could it have been Eleanor?”

  Dare rubbed his fingers across the blistering rawness of his forehead and bared his teeth in pain. “It did not cross my mind at the time, but now I think about it, I suppose she was the right size and weight. I certainly couldn’t say that it was not her.”

  “If it was Eleanor, can you think of any reason she might have been scared to make herself known to you? Had there ever been problems between you?”

  “No, sir, by no means.”

  “Describe this woman’s attire to me.”

  “She looked like a goodwife. Respectable, I would say. I recall she had on a smock and kirtle, sir. She was not gentry, but neither was she of the worst sort.”

  “Can you tell me any more? Was there anything unusual?”

  “No, sir, nothing.”

  “Well, if the woman comes back, detain her. Ask the boy if he has seen her. Come to me at the school in Dowgate with any information you have and I will give you silver. Fail to do so and I will ensure you enjoy another spell in the pillory, with your ears sliced off for dog food. Do you understand?”

  Dare nodded disconsolately.

  “And listen to the tipstaff. Stay away from the whores. Nor should you leave London, for I may need to speak with you again. I wish you good-day and a speedy recovery from your present ills.”

  As he walked away, Shakespeare had one thought in his head: if the woman at Wormwood Street was Eleanor, then she definitely did not wish to have her presence in England known. That meant one of two things: she was either guilty of something, or frightened of someone.

  S IR ROBERT CECIL was rarely agitated, but this day he could not conceal his tension. “You must make it quick, Mr. Shakespeare. You should not be here and I have much to do. Where is your messenger?”

  “I have not seen Butler, Sir Robert, since I sent him to you with my confirmation about the poisoning of the Countess of Essex.”

  “Then you did not receive my return message assuring you that I had acted upon it?”

  “No, sir, I did not.” Where on earth was Butler?

  They were in Cecil’s apartments at Greenwich Palace. Shakespeare had hired a tilt-boat from the Old Swan Stairs. He knew he was taking a great risk that he might be seen by Essex or one of his men, but he had no choice. As it happened, wearing common artisan’s clothes and in the middle of all the bustle about the la
nding stage at Greenwich, Shakespeare looked like any other working man assisting the removal of the vast quantities of gowns, treasure, beds, and bedding that the Queen and her entourage required wherever they went.

  “You must fire him and replace him with someone you can trust. As to the Countess of Essex, I have her safe, though she is still not well. She does not know it, but her food is tried by the Queen’s own tasters. She will stay with the court. The other Devereux women will be excluded, at least for the remains of this summer. Only Essex himself will be permitted at court. In truth, the Queen insists he be there, to dally and play at games with her. Now, Mr. Shakespeare, why are you here?”

  Shakespeare reached into his jerkin and took the letter Bess of Hardwick had written to Walsingham. Cecil read it. “Good,” he said at last. “Now we must find the name of this tutor. Arbella will have several. I will make inquiries and you must discover what you can.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Stay with Essex here in London until he sets forth. Carry on with the Roanoke inquiry, and when he sets out, come with him to Sudeley. Follow him. Watch his every move.”

  Shakespeare bowed.

  “It is possible that, knowing of his existence, Essex has taken on this tutor as his own intelligencer. If so, I would hazard a guess that he is used as a go-between for correspondence to the lady Arbella,” Cecil continued. “So there will be written evidence. Seek it. Above all, remember that this family does not think the marriage vows as sacred as you or I might. If he does intend anything, foil him. If he weds Arbella, all is lost. On your life, you must prevent this.”

  Shakespeare frowned. The way Cecil spoke, it was clear he had his own intelligence already. It might be helpful if he would divulge this, but it was clear that would never happen. Like Walsingham, Cecil was content to play the long game.

  Shakespeare bowed again and prepared to leave. Cecil stayed him.

  “You know, John,” he said, “you would do well to think of removing your family from this wretched city for a few weeks. I believe you come from Stratford. Why not send them there?”

  Shakespeare winced. “It is my fervent wish, Sir Robert, but things are not well between my wife and me. She will not go.”

  “Where are her own family?”

  “In the far northern reaches of the realm, the North Riding of Yorkshire, sir. It would be too dangerous for them to go so far unaccompanied. I believe the road is wild, with much banditry.”

  Cecil’s eyes lit up. “I might have a solution, John. Indeed, I am certain I have one-if you can move quickly. Can your family be ready by morning?”

  “It is possible, sir.”

  “There is a troop of militia going to the middle Marches of the border to put down a rising of freebooters and blackmailers. They leave early tomorrow-a band of thirty men. If you can get your family ready in time, I will instruct the captain to collect them and take them to their destination. They will be safe.”

  Shakespeare allowed himself a smile; it was the first good news he had had in days and would remove a huge weight of worry from his overburdened shoulders. It would also, he hoped, cure his wife’s melancholy and ease her hostility toward him. “Thank you, Sir Robert. They will be ready.”

  “Then that is settled. Now go.”

  “There was one other thing.” Shakespeare briefly outlined the Le Neve connection-and the link between Jaggard and McGunn.

  Cecil listened in silence, then nodded. “Keep digging, John, keep digging.”

  Chapter 23

  D AVY KERK WAS NOT AT THE BREWERY IN GULLY hole. “He’s not been in since you came here to see him, Mr. Cooper,” Ralph Hogsden said. “And he has left me in much difficulty, I can tell you. I have orders for casks which I cannot fulfill.”

  “Do you know where he might be?”

  “Probably gone down with the plague. It’s not like him to be away. He’s always been reliable.”

  “How long has he been here?”

  “Since Christmas of the year ’90. He was in a bad way. He told me he had returned to Antwerp having had enough of the seafaring life, but then fell foul of the Inquisition. He had to escape in a hurry. I gave him a trial and saw he was a fine craftsman. Made barrels as tight as a nun’s whimsy.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Aye, not far from the river at Bank End. Tall, thin house, middle of a new frame with smart lozenge timbering. Must have cost him a small chest of treasure. I do reckon he did some fair privateering in his time afloat. If you see him, tell him to let me know what’s going on, because I cannot keep his job open.”

  B OLTFOOT WAS FEELING the heat of the day as he limped haltingly along westward through the crowded Southwark streets. He felt the weight of his caliver strung across his back and his old cutlass slapping at his thigh. His clubfoot dragged more heavily than ever.

  The house was easy to spot. It was as Hogsden had described it. The exposed timbering was of finest oak. Boltfoot stepped up to the low front door and hammered with the haft of his dagger. He heard a scuffling from inside, but no one came. He knocked again. After a minute, it was opened by a fair young woman. She looked flustered and wiped her hands on her apron as if she had been preparing food.

  “Yes?”

  “I am looking for Davy Kerk. Is this his house?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Boltfoot Cooper. I have spoken with him already at Hogsden Trent’s.”

  “Well, he’s not here.”

  “May I come in and wait for him?”

  “He doesn’t live here anymore. He’s gone.”

  Boltfoot stepped forward before she could close the door and pushed his way inside. The room was modest but well cared for. Clean rushes on the floor, a table and stools in the center of the room. On the table was a fresh-killed cock, its fine tail feathers gleaming bright and ready for plucking. It was surrounded by an array of fresh fruits and vegetables. “Would you have some beer, mistress, for I am feeling the heat sore bad today?”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “Is it commonplace for you to push your way into folks’ houses, Mr. Cooper?”

  “No, but I did believe you were about to shut me out. Please, a beaker of beer and I’ll be on my way.”

  The young woman found a beaker and filled it from the faucet of a keg in the corner of the room. She handed it to Boltfoot. “Here, drink it and be gone.”

  He sipped the beer. It was good and refreshing. He was no expert in such things, but thought the woman well-spoken, her voice that of one from a good family, though he noted that her fingers were black like a scullery woman’s.

  “Is this Hogsden Trent beer?”

  “No, I brew it. Can’t afford to be buying beer off the brewer.”

  “It’s good, mistress, very good.”

  “Tell me what you want, then go. I’ll pass on a message to him next time I see him, which won’t be for quite a few days or weeks, I reckon.”

  She was a good-looking, healthy young woman, well attired in a clean and pressed flaxen smock that went with the color of her hair. “Are you Mistress Kerk, Davy’s wife?”

  “Me? Married to him? He’s my father, you dunderhead. Why would I be wed to an old fool like that?”

  “But he lives here with you?”

  He thought she looked confused, unsure how to answer the question. “Well, he does when he’s here.”

  “Are you Dutch, too? You don’t sound Dutch.”

  “I was brought up by an aunt here in England while my father was at sea. My mother is long dead.”

  He glanced up at a crucifix on the wall. “And you are of the same faith, you and your father?”

  She bridled. “What are you trying to say?”

  “It was a straight question.”

  “Would it make a difference if we did not share our religion? Must one family be of one mind?”

  Boltfoot thought of his master, Shakespeare, a confirmed Protestant, married to a devout Catholic. Much trouble it had bro
ught them. He shrugged his shoulders. “No. No difference. Think nothing of it. But where is he? He has a steady job at the brewery. He should be about.”

  “He has other business. Elsewhere. I look after things for him.”

  “What business? Ralph Hogsden reckons he should be at work for him.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Well, you’re mistaken. I don’t know what this is all about, and neither am I interested. So you can finish your beer and leave. Now, before I summon the watch.”

  “Did he tell you about me, mistress?”

  “Aye, he did. Said you were a snooping cripple. He didn’t like you, and nor do I. So go. You’re not welcome here.”

  “Has he spoken to you about the Roanoke colony and the voyage there?”

  “Go, Mr. Cooper.”

  “And one Eleanor Dare? Have you heard that name?”

  She sighed and her shoulders slumped. “Of course I’ve heard of Roanoke. Everybody in England has heard it. It has been bruited about in all the penny broadsheets and it was all the gossip in the taverns and victuallers’ a year or two back. You would have had to be in Peru not to have heard of all that nonsense. But just because my father was one of them as took them there doesn’t mean he knows anything. And nor do I. Now, I’ve got a fowl to pluck and other work to do, so I’d be very pleased if you would leave. I’ve given you beer. Other than that, I cannot help you.”

  Boltfoot finished the beer and made for the door. He noticed a picture on the wall, facing the crucifix, a skilled ink drawing of a pair of guinea fowl beside a copper pot. Though austerely framed in plain wood, he could see it was an expert work. He looked again at the woman’s blackened hands. “That is a fine picture, mistress. Is it by you? Do you draw in ink?”

  She did not respond, merely glared at Boltfoot.

  “I will be back, mistress. Tell your father I must speak with him and that it will be to his benefit.”

  Boltfoot stood outside a long while, watching the house from the shadows, expecting to see Davy Kerk appear at any moment. Even in the shade, he felt weak. At last he felt himself becoming faint; he had to get home to see Jane. He struggled through the crowds and stalls of Southwark back toward the bridge. The sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes and he felt his shirt and breeches stick to his body with the heat and the effort of walking.