She sat up. Even through the howling rain, she could hear the trample of hooves on heavy ground. Suddenly there was a clatter as the first horses came through onto the cobbles in the courtyard. Penelope nudged her beloved. “Charles, they are here.”
He turned to her. His face was severe in the cloud-darkened light. As a soldier, he was used to waking to instant alertness without the groggy interlude of ordinary mortals. “I am not coming. I will not see them.”
“But, Charles…”
“No. I shall smoke my pipe and read a few verses until they are gone.”
He would not countenance her plans. It had been a running battle between them, the only point of disagreement in an otherwise intense and devoted relationship. She had explained her thinking: the absolute certainty that the Queen must soon die-“We are all mortal, Charles, and she is old and fading fast”-and the need for a strong man to take the crown, not Scottish, nor Spanish, but English.
Even when she had shown him Dr. Forman’s astrological charts, he had refused. “You may well be right, my alderliefest, but I will err on the side of caution in such matters,” he had insisted. Yet, while he would not join them, she knew that he would not betray them either.
She rose and kissed his face, then stepped to the window to see the four-man vanguard sitting astride their steaming horses, drenched and muddy. She rang a bell to summon her maidservant, who assisted her to dress in a gown of black satin with gold edging.
Penelope arrived in the courtyard just as her brother cantered in at the head of the main body of horsemen. Their mother stood on the steps of the great hall, regally attired in a French gown of cloth of silver, embroidered with little scarlet wolves, with small cuts to the arms revealing gold threads. Her bodice descended in dramatic fashion to a sharp-pointed stomacher and, to protect her from the rain, she wore a black taffeta cloak and hat. The effect, in the darkening sky and against the mellow brickwork, was quite dazzling. She looked every inch the queen she believed herself to be.
Lettice opened wide her arms to greet her beloved son. He walked his black stallion forward to the steps until he was beside his mother, then leaned over and kissed her proffered hand. All his companions, still high in the saddle, roared their approval.
Penelope purred with pleasure. It occurred to her that anyone who did not know better might have thought these men were hailing their God-ordained king.
She looked around the group and saw all the familiar faces: louche Southampton, still managing to look elegant in the saddle, despite being mud-caked, with his hair all in rats’ tails; Rutland, a wicked glint in his eye; Le Neve, stiff and soldierly as ever; Danvers, sneaky and thin; Meyrick, staying close to his master, for whom he would happily sacrifice his own life if need be.
Servants carried trays with silver goblets of wine and brandy to the assembled horsemen now crowding out of the courtyard. When all had their cups filled, Lettice held up her own goblet and the horsemen went silent. “A toast,” she said, “to a wedding.”
“To a wedding,” they all shouted in unison, then downed their drinks in one, tossing their empty cups to the cobbled stones.
Penelope held up her hand to silence the group, then spoke quietly to her brother, though all could hear. “And where, pray, is Frances?” she asked, in a voice of beguiling innocence.
“She is indisposed, madam,” came the reply, and the horsemen all erupted in laughter. “Now, let us take supper. We ride again with fresh horses in one hour.”
And I shall ride with you, thought Penelope, for I do love a fine wedding.
Chapter 37
A S JOHN SHAKESPEARE RODE, THOUGHTS CROWDED his mind. It was clear now how Cecil was able to promise to protect him. It was because he controlled Topcliffe-or, at least, as much as any man could control a rabid dog.
His thoughts turned to poor Jack Butler. He must have withstood agonies to protect his master. In the end, he had succumbed, as any man would, yet his courage had not been totally in vain, for it had bought Shakespeare valuable time-time in which he had learned what he needed to know from Penelope Rich.
Having finally discovered where Shakespeare’s true loyalties lay, Slyguff had been dispatched to Sudeley Castle to kill him, along with the Countess of Essex, but Shakespeare was one step ahead. The question now was whether he could maintain his advantage and reach Hardwick Hall in time.
His gray mare made good progress. Shakespeare felt certain that he, a horseman alone, must soon overhaul a band of twenty or more men.
A little way south and west of Nottingham, he took a wrong turning. It was easy to do: the rain was lashing his face, the road was turning into a potholed bog, he could find no milestones to guide him, and there was no one on the road to direct him.
Four hours later, when he arrived at the market town of Grantham, he realized his error. He cursed. Angrily he handed the reins of his mare to an ostler to be watered, washed down, and fed, then strode into the post tavern for ale and food. It was late at night and dark; he should have been at Hardwick by now.
Hurriedly he ate his fill, then asked directions from the amused tavern keeper.
The man laughed heartily. “You’ll have a day’s ride ahead of you.”
Shakespeare groaned. “How far is it?”
“More than fifty miles, I would reckon.” He turned to a drinker. “What say you, Gilbert? You’re a traveled man. Fifty miles to Chesterfield?”
“A day, I’d say, if you keep your horse about its business.”
Shakespeare departed as soon as he could. As he rode on through dark woodland along drenched, muddy tracks, the rain got to him. His skin was cold with the wet and he knew his mission was now hopeless; he could not possibly reach Hardwick before the Earl of Essex.
At least the mare was sound and held strong. She never faltered nor stumbled. It was a slog, a desperate slog, and he had to stop frequently to give her fodder and water, but they eventually reached their destination at about six of the clock the following evening.
Hardwick Hall was magnificent. It was not one house but two, one of which was still under construction not fifty yards from the older hall, which had been Bess’s childhood home and which was still occupied by her. The new property had already risen to four soaring stories of dazzling golden-brown sandstone. The builder’s art ran through Bess of Hardwick’s very veins.
Shakespeare saw immediately that he was too late. From some distance away he could see Essex’s men-at-arms practicing their fencing and marksmanship in the gardens, oblivious of the rain. Unseen, he watched them for a few minutes, then wheeled his horse and rode wearily back to the village he had just passed.
At The Woodcutters, a well-kept hostelry, Shakespeare asked the landlord if there was a trustworthy man who could take an important message for him to Hardwick Hall. The landlord fetched his own son and Shakespeare handed him the sealed letter from Sir Robert Cecil. A waxed pouch had kept it dry. It was, thought Shakespeare ruefully, the only thing that had stayed dry on his long, arse-chafing journey from Sudeley.
“This,” he said, “is a letter from a Privy Councillor, one of the greatest men in the land, answerable directly to Queen Elizabeth herself. Do you understand?”
“Yes, master.” The lad clasped his cap tight in his hands. He was broad-chested and held his shoulders back confidently.
“It is to be placed in the hands of the Countess of Shrewsbury at Hardwick Hall. You must hand it to no one else, neither noble nor gentleman, nor commoner or servant. Her hands alone. If she is unavailable, you must bring it back to me. If someone offers to take it to her, you will decline, however senior that person might be. This is Queen’s business.”
“I do understand, sir. I will hand it to no one but Bess-the Countess of Shrewsbury.”
“Good lad. Go then, and you shall receive reward on your swift return. Tell no one what you are about and bring me her reply straightway. Wake me if I sleep.”
S OMEWHERE ON THE great south-north road, in a forest, Boltfoot
Cooper and Eleanor Dare slid from their horses and fell asleep on the earth beneath a dripping canopy of oak and ash.
For more than two days, they had ridden hard from London, stopping only for food and rest when absolutely necessary and striking on without delay. There was no talk between them, only a shared need to get to the far north as quickly as possible. Boltfoot was driven by the thought that Jane’s time must be almost upon her; Eleanor by the certain knowledge that McGunn would hunt her down with relentless purpose-and that nowhere in the world would she ever be safe from him.
T HE BOY ARRIVED BACK at The Woodcutters two hours later, in the company of the Countess and two of her retainers. Bess wore a cowl to cover her face, but nothing could disguise the fine quality of the clothes she wore and everyone in these parts knew her well. All the drinkers in the taproom went silent and bowed to her as she entered. Never had they expected to see this greatest of ladies in their drinking hole.
Shakespeare bowed low to her. “My lady,” he said.
“Mr. Marvell? How curious. I was told I was to meet a Mr. Shakespeare here.”
He ushered her to a private booth. Her retainers took position outside.
“The name is, indeed, Shakespeare, my lady. John Shakespeare. I could not reveal my true identity before.”
“And are you the John Shakespeare that saved Sir Francis Drake from a Spaniard’s sword?”
“I am.”
“And I suppose you are come here to warn me of Spanish intrigues?”
“My lady?”
“Well, I can tell you that you are too late. For my lord of Essex has already arrived with a band of men-at-arms to protect us from the intrigants. We are quite well looked after.”
Shakespeare was silent for a long few moments. He knew the contents of the message from Cecil. It was addressed directly to Bess and told her but one thing: that she must listen to Shakespeare. It committed nothing to paper that might be used as evidence, against either Cecil or Essex.
“My lady,” he said at length, “I have to tell you that things are not as they seem with my lord of Essex.”
“Mr. Shakespeare, he tells me they have uncovered a Catholic plot to snatch my granddaughter away, take her to Flanders and then on to Spain, where she will be introduced to the world as England’s Queen-in-waiting, ready to be placed on the throne when a new armada is launched against these shores. Is that not your understanding?”
“No, my lady,” Shakespeare said grimly. “That is not my understanding.”
Bess clapped her hands and one of her retainers came in. “We could do with a little refreshment, Mr. Jolyon. Some Canary wine with a pinch of sugar would suit me. What would you like, Mr. Shakespeare?”
“That would suit me well, my lady.”
The retainer bowed low and backed out of the booth.
Bess smiled. “Well, Mr. Shakespeare, you will be pleased to hear that I did not believe a word that my lord of Essex said to me. I suspect the danger is not from Madrid, but from here at home.”
“Then we are of one mind.”
“I fear my house has been taken over, that I am almost a prisoner in my own home. Now, tell me what this is all about, if you will.”
O SWALD FINNINGLEY, the vicar of St. John the Baptist Church, finished his seventh pint of strong ale and wiped his sleeve across his dripping-wet beard. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he waddled to the low door that led from The Woodcutters. He had seen Bess of Hardwick making her entrance but thought it best not to let her see him, for she would not approve.
Outside, in the rain, he lifted his cassock, which was stained with drips of beer and pork fat, and let out a long sigh of satisfaction as he pissed against the wall. His belly hung so low that he could not see his pizzle; in truth, the only person who had seen it these past fifteen years was the widow Bailey, and even she seemed to find it an unfulfilling chore to have aught to do with the little wormlike creature nowadays.
He splashed the last few drops of piss over his feet and dropped his cassock. He pushed himself away from the wall and lurched up the path toward her house. The rain was cutting rivulets in the muddy track that passed as a road in this village. It is God’s blessing, he thought dully, for at least it washes away the accumulated dung. Even as the thought came to him, he stumbled and fell, face-down, into the drainage kennel. He spluttered, then tried, clumsily, to push himself up.
Of a sudden, help was at hand. Strong arms lifted him from all sides and he wondered, for a moment, if angels had come to raise him up to heaven.
But instead of floating on Elysian clouds, he came down with a crack of the head, thrown unceremoniously into the back of a farm cart. And he heard a voice, which was decidedly not the voice of God.
“Come on, Reverend, you’ve got to get yourself sober. There’s a job of work to be done in the morning.”
B ESS LISTENED TO Shakespeare intently. She did not interrupt him, until finally he said, “So, I believe we must somehow remove the lady Arbella to a place of safety.”
“You know, Mr. Shakespeare,” she said with great deliberation, “I have never made any secret of my ambitions for my granddaughter. I have raised her as a royal princess, believing-hoping-that she would one day, in the fullness of time, ascend to the throne of England, for I consider her to be first in line. This has not always been appreciated by the Queen, who does not care to dwell on her own mortality. I confess that we have not always seen eye to eye on the matter. But never did I think to do such a thing-such a treasonable thing-as is now being proposed by my lord of Essex. We must prevent it, Mr. Shakespeare, or we will all lose our heads.”
“Can she be spirited away?”
Shakespeare could not imagine Bess losing her composure, yet now he saw real anxiety in her eyes. Her small hands were clenched into balls.
“First we will have to find her.”
“My lady?”
“I went to her chamber not two hours since. She was not there. Her lady’s maid was most flustered and said she had gone off with a group of young gentlemen, she knew not where. I looked for her in vain. I asked my lord of Essex where she was and he said he had not seen her. His men feigned ignorance, too, and made a great show of looking for her. Even her tutors could not tell me where she was.”
Shakespeare felt his whole body tightening. Bess’s demeanor told him that she, too, was fully aware of the extreme danger of the situation. “Your tutors-I believe one is called Morley?”
“Indeed, Mr. Shakespeare. You seem to know a great deal about my arrangements.”
“He conspires with Essex, my lady. He is one of them. It seems clear they already have the lady Arbella in their keeping. I fear we may be too late…”
Chapter 38
T HE ANCIENT CHURCH OF ST. JOHN DOMINATED the fields like a specter in the gray morning light. Its stone walls, five or six hundred years old and first built before the Conqueror came to England, were weather-worn and strangely welcoming. The bells in the square tower were silent this day.
At the head of the wedding procession that traipsed slowly on horseback across the meadow toward the yew-planted churchyard were Essex and his best man, Southampton, richly attired and mounted on caparisoned war stallions.
The rain had gone, but the clouds remained heavy and threatening. A lone plowman gazed over at the wedding party but did not stop his work. He lashed the ox pulling the plow and carried on carving a deep furrow for winter wheat.
Inside the church, Oswald Finningley stood at the altar, a shaking hand clasped to the communion railing to support himself. He could not hold himself still, his head ached, and he was desperate for ale or brandy to take away the shaking and the nausea. Last night was a blur. He had been abducted and locked away in some strange room, and this morning two men had come for him and woken him with a pail of cold water over his face. They had given him a good breakfast, most of which he had puked up, and had then brought a clean cassock and new-laundered, bright white surplice and ruff. It was only as they set off for t
he church that he realized that he had been held within the servants’ quarters at Hardwick Hall.
The two men had jogged him along mercilessly on the back of a rattling farm cart, which served only to make him feel more sick. He now stood silently, a man at either side to prevent escape.
Essex and his guests entered the church: twenty hard-edged but finely dressed men. The Reverend Finningley looked at them as if they were strange creatures from some far-flung land. He had no idea who they were, nor what they wanted of him. Yet from their apparel and demeanor, he could tell that they were of noble blood, and his knees began to buckle.
The two men guarding him thrust their hands under his armpits to keep him from falling. “Just say the wedding words, minister, and you will be back at the tavern pouring ale down your throat in no time,” one of the men whispered in his ear. “Make a commotion and I’ll pour boiling tallow down your miserable gullet instead.”
Essex’s men found places to sit or pillars to lean against, hands on sword hilts. Essex paced about like a caged leopard, waiting for his bride to appear. He did not have long to wait.
Heralds at the doorway trumpeted her arrival. Two ushers escorted her into the building and indicated the altar, where Finningley fought back an overwhelming desire to bring up the last remnants of his breakfast.
A man in scarlet and gold velvet escorted the lady Arbella along the aisle. He was slender and languid, scarce bearded with a thin, dark mustache.
Arbella was almost skipping with excitement. She wore ivory satin and gold thread, her face covered by a lace net. As she reached the Earl of Essex, she looked up at him from beneath her veil with adoring, besotted eyes. He looked at her distractedly, then, as if remembering that this was to be his wife, he smiled at her.
“Now, Mr. Finningley,” one of the men at his side said. “Do your business, sir. And remember the hot tallow.”
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