Revenger

by Rory Clements

  They went to Sir Toby’s private office, where Shakespeare had already seen his clutter of weapons. “Many of these armaments have been in the Le Neve family for generations.” She pointed to a cabinet against a side wall. “It is in there.”

  Shakespeare opened the cabinet. Inside, it was dark and dusty. It was packed with old iron-chainmail, a helmet covered in dents, the rusting heads of old halberds and pikes and poleaxes. To the left, barely visible, was a mace. He picked it up by the handle. It was heavy and deadly. The wooden haft was long and ornately carved, the sort used by cavalrymen, who needed longer-handled weapons than the infantry. The head was round and decorated with knobs.

  “My husband has told me in the past that a Le Neve man-at-arms used that at Agincourt.”

  “It seems old enough. How did you discover it?”

  “I looked for it. I had my suspicions after what you had told me of the manner of their deaths.”

  The iron head of the mace was coated with dried blood and strands of hair. There was an eerie silence in the room and a sense of unreality.

  “I will need to take this with me. I want the Searcher of the Dead to look at it. He should be able to tell me whether this could have been the weapon that killed your daughter.”

  “Take it. I cannot bear to have it in the house.”

  “And your husband?”

  “I do not know where he has gone or when he will be back. He goes off for days, weeks, even months at a time. Much of his time is spent with Essex or at court, where wives are not welcome. No one must eclipse the Sun Queen.”

  “Well, get word to me if he appears. If the searcher tells me the mace is the weapon, your husband will be apprehended. I must take my leave. There is much to do.” He looked away from her as he spoke.

  “You might have come to me last night,” she said in a low voice. “I wanted you.”

  Yes, he thought, he might well have gone to her. Any man would have done. He said nothing.

  “You are a rare man, Mr. Shakespeare. I see the passions within you, yet you hold back where other men would not. You lead a mysterious life which I do not understand, for I am certain you are no schoolmaster.”

  Shakespeare laughed, breaking the frost between them. “But you have seen my school.”

  “The school is closed down. Your family is gone. Why are you still here?”

  “You ask too many questions.”

  “And you give too few answers. God speed, Mr. Shakespeare.” She looked at him wistfully for a fleeting moment.

  Outside, his mare was watered and ready and the mace wrapped in jute sacking, bound with string. Shakespeare tied it securely at the side of his saddlebag and then mounted. Dodsley handed him the reins. Cordelia Le Neve stood on her doorstep. Shakespeare bowed his head to her, then spurred his mount forward. Further along the path, the watching horseman still sat motionless in the saddle. It was of no significance, for he had learned nothing new by watching them; Shakespeare knew, too, that he would soon lose the watcher on the way back into London.

  Shakespeare kicked his mare into a gallop. He would get the mace to Peace without delay and turn his attention to the whereabouts of Boltfoot and Jack. Both were well able to take care of themselves, but it was troubling that they had not yet reported back.

  Chapter 27

  J OSHUA PEACE UNWRAPPED THE MACE AND HELD IT in his arms, mentally weighing it and estimating its killing force. He examined the round iron head and gently picked strands of hair from the coagulated blood. Carefully, he put them aside, on the central slab where he did his work.

  “Yes,” he said. “This could well be the weapon, John.”

  “But you cannot be certain?”

  The Searcher of the Dead smiled. “Well, in truth, I can be sure. Wait just a moment.” He went through to his cool inner room, where he kept the tools of his trade and bodies awaiting his examinations. He reappeared a few moments later with two curious-shaped pieces of hard-dried plaster.

  “I took clay molds of the regions of their heads which were injured, then cast these plaster likenesses, showing the true nature of the injuries. You can clearly see the indentations caused by the weapon, for I shaved away their matted hair.”

  Shakespeare studied the plaster casts, fascinated by the detail. They had the curve of a human head and then, in the middle, a caved-in area of about four inches across, where they had been struck with great force. Inside this central indentation were multiple smaller dents where the knobs on the head of the mace would have made their mark.

  “It certainly seems to be the weapon that did these injuries, Joshua.”

  “But let us be certain, as I said we would.” He took the ancient mace and held the round head into each of the casts in turn. “A perfect fit. You have your weapon, John.” From his apron pocket, he produced two little wooden boxes. One was inscribed ALN, female the other JJ, male. He opened them in turn and showed them to Shakespeare. “These are locks of the hair of Amy Le Neve and her lover, Joe Jaggard. Look at their hair and compare them to the strands I just took from the head of the mace. It is impossible to say for certain that they are the same, but it is fair to say that they are similar, would you not agree?”

  “Indeed.” Even with his high-born connections, Sir Toby would not wriggle free of this. The evidence was plain for all to see. He had the motive; he had the weapon. “Thank you for your diligent work, Joshua.”

  The Searcher of the Dead carried the casts, the mace, and the samples of hair from the crypt into the side room. Shakespeare followed him. The room was full of shelves with boxes and jars and items taken from the scenes of crimes. There were three trestle benches with a small wooden wheel at the end of each leg, so that they might be wheeled between rooms with ease. On one of the trestles a body was laid out, covered in a shroud: a prodigiously large man, well over six feet.

  Shakespeare’s heart skipped a beat. “Joshua, who is that?”

  Peace began pulling back the shroud. “I do not know his name, but he has been most foully treated. Tortured, then murdered. His body was found in the Thames, near Greenwich.”

  “May I see his face?”

  Peace unwound the shroud until the face was visible. The wide-open eyes, blank and dead, were brown, the hair was black and curly. He had a long, ragged beard and a dark-tanned face, stained with much blood. A wooden peg leg was strapped to his thigh and projected downward from just below the knee. His forearm was distinguished by a long and vivid red scar.

  Shakespeare let out a long sigh of relief. It was not Jack Butler. From his size and shape, Shakespeare had thought it might have been his manservant. Instinctively he crossed himself as, so often, he saw Catherine make the sign.

  “Look at these injuries, John. Most curious. He was killed in a manner I have not seen except on the battlefield when I was in the Netherlands back in ’85. Hewing and punching, they call it. It is an English military thing. With your sword, you first slash down on the side of the neck-the hew. Then you immediately stab upward into the stomach, which is the punch. Hew and punch-a quick and methodical way to dispatch an enemy. In the heat of a battle, a man may effectively do this time and again as the foe come at him: hew and punch, hew and punch, hew and punch. Into soft flesh and away from bone, so that the blade is not blunted so soon. No one survives it.”

  “So you think a soldier inflicted these injuries.”

  “Most probably. But first, they inflicted a foul and vicious torture. Using some sort of tool, his tormentor cut the webbing flesh between each of his fingers. It was done to both hands-eight savage cuts in all-leaving the hands looking like a bird’s crooked talons. It would have been most horribly painful. And his tongue was cut out for good measure. If they wanted him to reveal information, that seems a strange way to get him to talk. It’s not the first one like this, either. I was brought another a week ago with the exact same injuries. That body was found on the mudflats on the Isle of Dogs, close to the river where this one was found.”

  “One
week? Not more recent?”

  “No. And he was a much smaller man.”

  Shakespeare was relieved. This corpse could not, then, have been Jack Butler or Boltfoot; it had already been found dead before they went missing.

  Peace went on: “Given the area they were found in and the nature of their bodies-weathered faces and coarse, callused hands used to hauling on ropes day after day-I would hazard a guess that they were both mariners. And fighting ones, too. Look at this fellow, see his scars.”

  Shakespeare noted the man’s livid red scar across his forearm. “Well, good luck with your inquiry, Joshua.”

  The Searcher of the Dead laughed mirthlessly. “My inquiry? What inquiry? The coroner sent me the bodies, but no one will look into the deaths of two unknown seafarers-however monstrous their torments. The constable feigns concern, but he is more interested in clearing vagabonds into Bridewell than investigating the murder of a pair of unmourned souls. That is what Londoners want-streets clear of sturdy beggars. No one will notice a couple less mariners; there are plenty more to be pressed where they came from.”

  “I have never heard you so bitter, Joshua.”

  “Put it down to the heat, John. That and the prospect of the pestilence taking us all in the next few weeks.” Peace laughed again, this time with a smile and a semblance of mirth. “Look after yourself, my friend.”

  “I will-and I am certain, at least, to take the killer of Amy and Joe. They will have justice.”

  “Good. Do you know the killer’s name?”

  “I do.”

  “Just a word of caution. Ask yourself this: why did the murderer not dispose of the weapon where it would never be found? Even more to the point, why did he-or she-not at least clean the telltale gore and hair from the mace?”

  “Because he did not need to,” Shakespeare said. “As far as he was concerned, no one was ever going to suspect murder-until you delved into the affair.”

  B OLTFOOT WOKE from his long sleep. It was nighttime. The only light came from a small candle somewhere near the door. The pain was still heavy, though not as intense as it had been. All around him he heard the sound of snoring, groaning, and creaking beds. How long was it since first he woke in this hospital? He had no idea. With great effort, he managed to slide from the bed onto the floor.

  He felt faint, but he had to get out of here. He had to get to the house of Davy Kerk; he had to get back to Jane. Where were his own clothes? And where were his cutlass and caliver and purse? He took two steps forward, stumbled, and fell across another bed, his legs buckling beneath him. The inhabitant of the bed kicked out and cursed.

  Boltfoot tried to push himself up again, but he was as feeble as a baby. Two gentle hands tucked themselves under his arms. “Oh dear, sir, you really are in a very poor way.” It was the voice of the nurse again. With practiced strength and tenderness, she helped him up from the bed and gently guided him back to his own.

  He allowed her to lay him down, for he did not have the fight to resist.

  “I must leave this place… my caliver… my cutlass.”

  “Do not concern yourself with such things. They are safely kept by the hospitaller and will be returned to you when it is time to leave. Now, if you wish, I could bring you a little broth to build up your strength.”

  He nodded slowly. Yes, he needed strength.

  The nurse fetched a bowl and fed him with a wood spoon. His mother had died of childbed fever and his father had raised him alone. He supposed there must have been a wet nurse for some months, but he had no recollection of her. It was soothing, this feeding by a woman.

  “Your head has been badly injured. The surgeon says the skull-bone has been broken on the temple. He said it was lucky you had such a hard head. He also said you need rest.”

  “I do not have time.” He had never known his mother, but in his dreams she would have been like this woman, this nurse, with her kind hands and plump, warm face. He thought he saw his mother once, in the southern Pacific Ocean when the sea raged for days without end and he believed they must all go to a watery grave together; he thought he saw her face, serene and inviting in the heart of the storm. She was beckoning him in and saying that all would be well. Yet he knew that that face was no more than a spirit, a siren; this woman, here in this hospital, was soft flesh and warm blood.

  “At the very least, you will have to stay here a few days.”

  Boltfoot groaned.

  “A woman has called for you, sir. I had thought she was the woman who found you and had you brought here. She said your name was Mr. Cooper. Am I right in thinking that it is you?”

  “Yes, I am Boltfoot Cooper. What manner of woman was it? Was it my wife, perchance? Was she with child?”

  “No, not with child.”

  “Then she was not my wife.”

  “She called herself a friend and asked after your welfare. She is not here now but she will come again in the morning to check that you still breathe. She was very concerned.”

  “Tell me, what was her appearance?”

  “Well, I would say she was fair of hair with blue eyes. Pretty, most would call her. Yet she did seem nervous, frightened even. She was very worried about you.”

  It sounded like the woman in Davy Kerk’s house, the one that claimed to be his daughter. But why would she be worried about him? Was it Kerk that hammered him to the ground? There was only one way to find out. Sleep more-this night at least-regain his strength and his weapons, then watch and wait for her.

  Chapter 28

  F ROM DOWNRIVER, A VOLLEY OF GUNFIRE SUDDENLY burst forth in the early morning air, then a great peal of church bells commenced. As Shakespeare was about to step into a tilt-boat at the Steelyard stairs, the gunfire increased and drew closer. Churches all along the route of the river took up the peal.

  “She’s off,” one of the watermen said. “We must hasten or we’ll be pushed aside and waiting forever while she passes.”

  “We have missed our chance,” Shakespeare said brusquely, stepping back from the boat. “I will ride instead.”

  After a night of troubled sleep, followed by a solitary breakfast foraged from the buttery, he was brittle and on edge.

  The Queen’s summer progress had reached London from its starting point of Greenwich. It would make the first part of its long journey westward by river, then the bargeloads of luggage and furniture-including her own great bed-would be transferred to wagons for the road.

  Shakespeare had business at the Tower, but waited a short while to watch the river spectacle.

  The royal vessels drew ever closer. The advance guard was already forging ahead, clearing river traffic for the Queen’s barge. At the banks of the river, moored boats were slapped back and forth by the wash from the royal traffic.

  In the vanguard was a vessel full of noise and fury: a dozen drummers beating as one, flutes singing, trumpets blaring, and gunfire exploding. Then came the Queen herself. She sat in state, alone in the front cabin of her fabulous vessel with its gleaming windows of glass, the frames painted with gold. Above her, a red satin canopy billowed against the sun and the river breeze. Ten or more royal pennants streamed behind the dazzling boat. This barge was tugged by ropes attached to another, slightly smaller vessel, in which twenty-one of the strongest oarsmen in England pulled hard to maintain the craft’s astonishing speed. This was no leisurely summer outing on the Thames; the Queen wanted to get well upriver by day’s end.

  Shakespeare had seen inside the Queen’s barge on other occasions and was familiar with its lines; in a cabin adorned with coats of arms, she would be seated on a cloth-of-gold cushion and her feet would be resting on a crimson rug. All about her would be fragrant blossoms and petals and garlands of eglantine roses.

  Now, as he gazed, he thought he made out Sir Robert Cecil and his father, old Burghley, in the second cabin. Was Essex there, too? If Essex was gone on the progress, he would have to follow straightway to keep him observed. Nothing-not lost colonists nor murders-could
come before that.

  As the gilt prow of the royal barge cut smoothly through the water, the Queen waved to her people. Crowds had massed along the riverside to wave back to her. There were shouts and cheers, too, from mariners, dockers, shipworkers, and fishermen aboard their little scutes. Hats were thrown into the air.

  The whole river was alive with color, cheering, music, and the noise and smoke of exploding gunpowder. All the bells of London and Southwark rang with frenzied joy, as if knowing that this would be the last time for many months that they would toll; after this day they would be silenced as a mark of respect to the victims of the plague. It was, thought Shakespeare, the unacknowledged specter that hung like a limp black flag over this pomp and pageant.

  Behind the royal barge came a host of other vessels. Fireworks flew from some; gunfire erupted from muskets and cannons in others. And more drums beat out their frantic noise. Courtiers, retainers, clergy, officers of state, the royal guard-all were part of the display. One man, however, was certainly not there: the man Shakespeare wished to see this morning. The man behind the Roanoke colony, a man disgraced and under arrest for an altogether separate matter. His crime? Marriage without the Queen’s permission.

  I N HIS CELL, high in the impregnable battlements of the Tower, Sir Walter Ralegh watched the royal progress along the river in full and awful awareness of his fall from grace. He was shunned by his Gloriana, his soul’s heart, his joy, his bitch Queen, the mother cow from whose teats all the treasures of the world flowed into his ever-gaping maw.

  This prison was now Ralegh’s home. He had committed the crime of secretly marrying Bess Throckmorton, one of the Queen’s maids of honor, and was paying the price. Bess was here in the Tower, too, though they were separated. Their new-born child, a son called Damerei, was elsewhere with a wet nurse.

  In a fit of dramatic pique worthy of some playhouse production, Ralegh had set upon his keeper, demanding a boat and oars to row himself to the Queen’s barge, where he might beg her forgiveness. Daggers were drawn, but the whole ill-considered act fizzled and died out like a squib dropped into the Thames.