Together, Topcliffe and the bride walked to the front of the church, where she stopped beside her intended and smiled at him. Topcliffe looked around at the gathered congregation. It seemed for a moment as though he would take a bow, like a player on stage. Then he grinned at Shakespeare and Catherine and turned to face the front, where the parson waited to perform the ceremony.
Catherine tried to stand up, to stop this mockery of a wedding, but her husband motioned her to sit down. “There is nothing to be done, Catherine. She came here of her own accord. I saw her smile at Jones. There is no impediment to this match.”
“But it is a travesty, John.”
“Yes, I fear it is.”
Like groundlings at a tragedy, Shakespeare and his wife witnessed the wedding. When the parson declared Nicholas Jones and Anne man and wife, it was too much to bear. Catherine stood and walked to the door. Shakespeare followed her.
“How can such a thing be allowed, John?”
“Who is to stop a man and woman marrying, if they both so desire it? She said ‘I will’ with a clear, strong voice.”
“She did, did she not? A most fortunate young woman, she is.” Topcliffe was at their side, striding along with them, unbidden and unwanted. “A lucky slattern to have found a man like my Nick to make an honest woman of her.”
Shakespeare tried to keep his wife walking, but she stopped and squared up to Topcliffe. “She is a victim of your cruelty, Mr. Topcliffe. You have used her ill and brought her to this state. She knows not what she does.”
Topcliffe leered. “Oh, but she does. She can’t get enough of him. He scratches her itch. But she will bring my boy a fine dowry. Her family does not know it, but they will give Preston Manor and all its lands and farm-holdings to my lad Nick, whether they like it or not. Sixty-six pounds a year, that will be worth to him. He will be a wealthy young gentleman, which is no more than he deserves for his loyalty to his master and his monarch. And in return, she will no longer be thought the dirty, prick-hungry popish whore that we know her to be, but Mrs. Nicholas Jones, gentlewoman and Protestant. Now, is that not a fine trade-off?”
“And where are her family today, Mr. Topcliffe?” Catherine demanded as Shakespeare tried to pull her away. “Have you killed them all yet?”
Topcliffe gave her a look of pure scorn. “Her family will learn soon enough. They will learn what it means to harbor lewd priests. They will find what it means to cross Topcliffe. As will you. Soon enough. You and your stinking pups, dog-mother whore.” He turned to Shakespeare. “And you-you and your brother-you are both fortunate to be alive, for you have been slithering with toothed serpents and greased priests, oiled and slippery in a tub of the purple demon’s chrism…”
Shakespeare lingered a long moment with his hand on the hilt of his dagger. He had no sword with him. He did not take swords to weddings. He looked coldly down into Topcliffe’s eyes and came as close as ever he had to killing a man in hot blood.
Instead he turned his back on the Queen’s servant. “Come, Mistress Shakespeare,” he said to her. “Let us go home where the air is clean.”
Chapter 49
W HEN, AT LAST, SIR ROBERT CECIL RETURNED FROM the West Country, having salvaged what he could of the Madre de Dios treasure, Shakespeare made haste to see him. There was much to be settled.
Shakespeare handed the Privy Councillor a list of the names of all Essex’s supporters at the abortive wedding to Arbella Stuart in the church by Hardwick Hall.
Cecil glanced at the names, then filed them away with other papers. “Thank you, John. We shall deal with this quietly.”
Shakespeare raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Cecil saw his reaction. “John, would you wish to be the man who told the Queen that the thing she loves above all else, her golden warrior, is naught but base metal? Can you imagine her rage? I care nothing for Essex’s head; it is his to lose as he wishes. But the child Arbella? Should she be another Jane Grey? What of the others? I must tell you, I fear the blood-letting would go as far as your brother.”
Shakespeare was shocked. “My brother?”
“Did you think I was unaware of his role in this?”
Shakespeare was silent. Of course he knew. Topcliffe…
“Which leaves us with the question of the evidence you promised me, John.”
Shakespeare stiffened. Cecil was expecting a bundle of letters and verses, signed by Essex but penned by Will. From his doublet, he took the charts supplied by Forman-a death chart for Elizabeth and a nuptial chart for Essex and Arbella-and Forman’s affidavit.
Cecil studied them in silence, then nodded. “Very well. I think you have given me enough. I have my lord of Essex where I want him.” He filed the charts away with the list of names.
Shakespeare bowed.
“And I can now tell you something else, John: Francis Mills is my man. It was he that told Essex and McGunn that they must have you-that you could be their Walsingham. And it was Mr. Mills that helped you from within Essex House and protected you when they became suspicious. I trust your past differences will now be at an end, for he is discovered, too, and has hurriedly left Essex House. He will work with us.”
Shakespeare frowned. Work with Mills? Stranger things had happened. Nothing was certain in this intelligencers’ war. Cecil against Essex. Circles within circles. All that could be said was that the opening shots had been fired in a war of secrets between the two greatest young men of the age.
“The Earl, meanwhile, will remain the Queen’s pet,” Cecil continued. “But his progress will always be impeded. He no longer has McGunn’s gold to fund him and must crawl on his belly once more for favors from his sovereign.”
“Is he back at court already?”
“Shamelessly. Closeted all night with her, playing tables and primero, paying her sweet compliments, dancing until dawn. He keeps her amused. The years roll off her shoulders and England is the better for it. But he knows he is found out and will forever be watched. His coven can stir their cauldron as they wish, but they are figures of jest. The She-wolf paces in lonely exile in the Midlands. Penelope cavorts with her amour in her black-draped chamber. As to Southampton and the others, they sleep at night with aching necks, thinking how close they came to the axe.”
Shakespeare took a sip of wine. “And what of Sir Walter?”
“He is back in the Tower. I am sure he would not be content to have the massacre of the Roanoke colony bruited about, for it would leave him in a yet more parlous state, his patent from the Queen turned to ashes.”
“Do you wish it advertised, Sir Robert?”
“You know me better than that, John.”
Indeed, Shakespeare had been reflecting on how like Sir Francis Walsingham his new employer was. Both men shared an extreme, almost cold level of caution. In their world of intelligencing, knowledge was all, and to be guarded jealously. Cecil would not want word of the Roanoke slaughter to see the light. Ralegh must be freed and his rivalry with Essex nurtured. That way both men would be weakened, leaving the course free for Cecil. To that end, Eleanor Dare must be silenced.
“She will stay in the North Country,” Shakespeare assured him. “She is living with my wife’s mother and contents herself with her inks and quills and parchments. I do believe she wishes naught but peace and solitude.”
“And we shall wink at the death of Mr. McGunn. What of the brother-in-law?”
“Foxley Dare continues to pursue a claim that his brother be declared dead so that he and the boy may inherit the property. He would not wish a counter-claim. Anyway, who would believe a man with a reputation for swiving geese?”
Cecil did not smile. “The important thing is that McGunn is dead. It is now clear how widespread and malign was his influence. In Mr. Secretary’s day, such an insect would have been squashed underfoot long since. You will ensure such men never hold sway in this realm again, John.”
Shakespeare had considered McGunn’s role. He had been the hub of an infernal wheel, whose spokes touched li
ves in terrible ways: the tragedy of the Roanoke colonists; his funding of the Essex treachery; the corruption of Christopher Morley; Winterberry and the Le Neves. All spokes led back to McGunn. But Shakespeare also found himself wondering about the event that lay behind it all-the pitiless killing of his wife at a small rocky outcrop of Ireland known as Smerwick. He asked Cecil about it-was there truth in the claim that Ralegh had blood on his hands?
“I do believe so,” Cecil said. “My father told me that Ralegh carried out the killings with grim efficiency, watching his soldiers hewing and punching six hundred unarmed and bound men, and hanging pregnant women. They were cruel days. Ralegh’s half-brother, Humphrey Gilbert, had a row of Irish heads lining the path to his tent. I heard also that when Ralegh caught an Irishman stealing willow branches from an English camp, he demanded to know what they were for. ‘To hang English churls,’ the man said. Ralegh had him strung up there and then, saying the branches would serve as well for an insolent Irishman. I cannot stomach such things, which is why I strive for peace, not war. That is what you sign up to, John, when you agree to assist me. You understand that?”
“We are as one, Sir Robert. Except…”
“Except my use of Mr. Topcliffe. I believe you had the same problem when you worked for Mr. Secretary Walsingham.”
The anger rose in Shakespeare’s gullet. “I have to speak plain, Sir Robert. The man tried to ensnare my wife. He takes pleasure in torture. He has raped the young Bellamy woman. He conspired with the poisonous Morley. I say that Topcliffe is worse than any of England’s enemies.”
“Sit down, John,” Cecil ordered. “Let me tell you that I share your feelings. And yet…”
“There is no ‘and yet,’ Sir Robert.”
“And yet I need Mr. Topcliffe, just as Mr. Secretary needed him. There is no doubting his loyalty to the crown or to England.”
“He is a man who does not balk at torture, rape, and murder.”
“Enough, John. Sit down.” The Privy Councillor’s voice became quieter. “Please, listen to me. These are desperate times. Spain will come with a yet more powerful fleet next spring or summer. And her agents continue to worm their way into the body of England-in secret ways which it is our task to stop. You are my longbow in this, John-but Topcliffe is the poison tip of my arrow.”
Cecil, small and precise and still, never lost his composure as he spoke. Their eyes met. At last Cecil smiled and reached out his hand in friendship. “Come, John, we need each other. Let us speak of pleasanter things. Let us speak of a bright future for England. I need you-and I believe you need me.”
Acknowledgments
I am indebted to many people, who have helped me in myriad ways. In particular, I would like to thank my agent, Teresa Chris, and Kate Miciak, Vice President and Editorial Director of Bantam Books, for their superb advice and unstinting support. I would also like to thank the toxicologist Professor Robert Forrest (any mistakes are mine, not his); Jean Bray, the archivist at Sudeley Castle; Cosy Bagot Jewitt at Blithfield Hall; and, as ever, my wife, Naomi.
Books that have been especially helpful include Arbella Stuart by P. M. Handover; The Second Cecil by P. M. Handover; Robert, Earl of Essex by Robert Lacey; Arbella: England’s Lost Queen by Sarah Gristwood; Palaces & Progresses of Elizabeth I by Ian Dunlop; Dr. Simon Forman: A Most Notorious Physician by Judith Cook; Roanoke: The Abandoned Colony by Karen Ordahl Kupperman; Roanoke: Solving the Mystery of England’s Lost Colony by Lee Miller; Poor Penelope by Sylvia Freedman; The Lady Penelope by Sally Varlow; St. Thomas’ Hospital by E. M. McInnes; Bess of Hardwick: First Lady of Chatsworth by Mary S. Lovell; Sir Walter Raleigh by Raleigh Trevelyan; and Sir Walter Ralegh by Robert Lacey.
Historical Note
Queen Elizabeth is a bit-part player in this novel, yet her relationship with twenty-four-year-old Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, stands at the heart of the story-and of the late Tudor age itself.
What did the fifty-eight-year-old sovereign want from this ambitious yet hopelessly inadequate young man? Yes, she loved his charm and good looks, but I believe she also enjoyed goading his beautiful mother, Lettice, the cousin she despised for marrying her own great love, Leicester. It was as if she were saying “You may have won Leicester, but I have your son.”
And what did Essex want from Elizabeth? He wanted money, because he was desperately short of the stuff, and he wanted power. Indeed, he wanted her job, as the world was to discover with his wretched coup attempt in 1601.
At his trial, Sir Robert Cecil accused him: “You would depose the Queen. You would be King of England.” The Earl of Northumberland asserted that Essex “wore the crown of England in his heart these many years.”
Essex’s “affair” with Elizabeth-and his deadly rivalry with both Cecil and Ralegh-dominated the Queen’s declining years. The Earl had become her favorite courtier in 1587, yet the cracks were immediately apparent. In the summer of that year, they had a furious and very public quarrel that set the scene for many rows to come.
That first fight was over the Queen’s snub of his sister Dorothy when she was barred from the royal presence for a perceived misdemeanor. In a rage, Essex accused Elizabeth of listening to gossip from his rival Sir Walter Ralegh. The more he insulted Ralegh (who had nothing to do with the snub), the more the Queen threw back insults against Essex’s mother, Lettice.
Essex stormed out in the middle of the night, taking Dorothy with him. The Queen sent a courtier after him to apologize and ask him back. And so the morbid, hot-and-cold affair of the aging Queen and the moody young swain began. He would walk out and sulk; she would beg him to come back.
Yet she never trusted him with the power he craved. He continually demanded promotion, but she invariably gave the best jobs to someone else and, in doing so, fed his paranoia.
He often defied her. During his 1591 military campaign in northern France, he knighted twenty-four officers against the express orders of the Queen. When she heard what he had done, she was livid. She would not normally knight half that number in a whole year, and he hadn’t even won a battle, let alone a war.
The year of Essex’s “cheap knights” was the beginning of his drive for the top. By giving knighthoods-as he was entitled to do when leading an expeditionary force-he was buying loyalty. The following year, Essex set about becoming a statesman. He took on the Bacon brothers, Francis and Anthony, and they advised him that intelligence-gathering was the way to make a political impact.
His lust for power was stoked up by certain Machiavellian friends such as Gelli Meyrick and Henry Cuffe, but mainly by his ruthlessly ambitious sister, Penelope Rich. She pushed him to rebellion and was a prime cause of his downfall.
And then there was Arbella Stuart. Essex would have easily seen how advantageous a match might be with the young girl, a serious claimant to the throne of England. He used his charm well, supporting her at court and flirting with her when others avoided her because of her haughtiness. There was court tittle-tattle about their closeness, and he is also believed to have conducted a secret correspondence with the impressionable girl, though this does not survive.
Did he have plans to marry her? Surely he considered it. His marriage to Frances Walsingham was an inconvenient formality and easily disposed of if necessary. That was the way the Essex clan did things. His mother had married Leicester knowing that he was still married to Lady Douglass Sheffield. And many believed Leicester had murdered his first wife, Amy Robsart, to enable him to marry Elizabeth and share her throne.
And yes, Arbella did have a tutor called Morley who was sacked by Bess of Hardwick in 1592. Was he spying on Arbella? Historians have speculated that he was a Walsingham intelligencer (some have even suggested he might have been the playwright Christopher Marlowe, who had been a spy). After Walsingham’s death, who controlled this Morley? By 1592, Essex House was quickly becoming one of the main centers of espionage.
In the end, Essex was a weak, contemptible character. He attempted a coup, but he accused others
of provoking him to it, turning on Penelope with venom. He had nothing to gain, for he was already under sentence of death, but he wrote a confession in which he laid the blame on her. “I must accuse one who is most nearest to me, my sister, who did continually urge me on with telling how all my friends and followers thought me a coward, and that I had lost all my valor. She must be looked to, for she hath a proud spirit.”
It is easy to see parallels in the story of Macbeth-the proud but flawed soldier urged on to treachery by women. Shakespeare would have known the Essex tale at the time of writing his great tragedy. Penelope as Lady Macbeth? Or the three of them-Penelope, Dorothy, and Lettice-as three witches stirring a cauldron of sedition?
In the event, Penelope (whose bedroom at Essex House was, indeed, draped all in black) was spared-probably because of her relationship with Charles Blount, Lord Mountjoy, who was winning victories in Ireland and was needed by Elizabeth.
Finally, Elizabeth allowed the axe to fall on the neck of the young man she had once loved, just as her father had severed the heads of two young wives he once loved. The brittle young modernizer Sir Robert Cecil had won the day, though he never won the love of his Queen, nor of the people.
Character Notes
As well as well-known historical figures, this book includes some lesser-known names worth discovering…
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