Death of Kings (38 page)

“I will not ask what you talked of,” said WS.

“She liked the play,” I said.

WS seemed gratified by this, but only slightly.

“And then afterwards you had that regrettable accident. Fell on your own dagger, or some such thing.”

“Oh yes,” I said, looking away and now feeling that the sun had grown altogether too warm. “I was careless.”

“You were not the only individual around the Palace to come to grief that night.”

“No?” I said, supposing that he was referring to Essex.

“No. There was a gentleman discovered on the ground near the Court Gate. It appeared that he had fallen from an upper window – or the roof.”

“Did he—” – I swallowed – “—do they – who was it?”

“It appears that he was a courtier, though his name slips my mind,” said WS. “A fine gentleman but they say that, like many of his kind, he lived beyond his means. He was
heavily in debt.”

“Death cancels all accounts,” I said mechanically (while remembering Nunn’s words about gold speaking in all tongues).

“Yet few are indebted to it on that account,” said WS.

I winced at the word-play. WS must have noticed for, clapping me on the shoulder, he made to rise. “Well, Nicholas, I will leave you to learn your lines or to enjoy your sleep in the
sun.”

He stood up, again casting his shadow across me.

“Sir?” I said tentatively.

“Yes.”

“I recently ran an errand for you to a certain gentleman, who was lodging temporarily in Essex House.”

Shakespeare said nothing, and I could not tell from his sun-limned outline whether he was willing to listen to me or not. However, I ploughed on.

“And I wondered . . . whether all was well with that gentleman?”

I knew that Wriothesley, the Earl of Southampton, had, for the time being, avoided the fate of his friend and cousin, Essex. I knew that he was incarcerated in the Tower. But I knew no more.

“He has lost his liberty and will not regain it for the moment. How can it be otherwise? But, do you mean, will he lose any more? will his life be forfeit?”

“I – I – think that was my meaning, yes.”

“The answer is no. I believe that the gentleman is safe from the extreme penalty.”

“It may be presumptuous in me to say it. . . William . . . but I am glad.”

My heart hammered. I thought of Wriothesley’s touch, his brilliant gaze, his designation of me as Mercury.

WS lingered for a moment.

“Not presumptuous in you. After all, I sent you to him with some small reminder,” he said. “That he should be mindful of himself.”

(I thought of WS’s lines, the ones which I’d carried to Wriothesley at Essex House –
‘For shame deny that thou bear’st love to any Who for thy self art so
unprovident.’
)

“He chose to ignore it,” he continued.

“But you still saved him,” I said, recklessly perhaps but wanting to establish once for all
what was the case.
“By keeping a foot in both camps, by listening to the
overtures of the Essexites and staging
Richard
and by letting the Council know everything that was happening in advance, you saved your friend. It was an arrangement. The Council knows
everything, and in return Southampton is allowed to live.”

“There is nobody to say so.”

“Didn’t you tell me that you had contemplated the story of Damon and Pythias? The friends who would lay down their lives for each other.”

“A play is not life,” said WS.

“There was a bargain struck,” I said excitedly.

“Nicholas, I think you’ve been lying overlong in the sun,”

said WS. “Either that or you’re still weak from that wound which you inflicted on yourself.”

“Of course,” I said.

At that moment there was a great clatter and a shouting and wailing from inside the Coven. Shakily, I stood up. Out of the house rushed the pig and the dog and the chickens and the cats,
followed by the three sisters, my joint-landladies, April, June and July. Much flailing of limbs as they pushed through the entrance. There’d apparently been some upset in the witchy
interior. Once outside, and ignoring altogether the presence of a distinguished stranger on their turfy bank, they shouted and screamed at each other. By now, I had grown slightly skilled in their
strange tongue, and from the accusations and counter-accusations that were flying to and fro, I understood that the cauldron had been upset and a quantity of valuable ingredients (powdered
unicorn’s horn, essence of dead toad, ground dogs’ tongues and so on) lost to the world.

As the screeching and the screaming continued, I grew more and more embarrassed,
I
was used enough to the antics of April, June and July, but was very unhappy that they should expose
themselves in all their witchy wretchedness and squalor to the sharp eyes of Master Shakespeare.

What would he think of these howling hags? More important, what would he think of Nick Revill for lodging with such she-devils? I was about to say something about my intention to shift lodgings
soon, very soon, when I observed that
he
was observing this scene of the squabbling women, the fleeing animals, the smoke-filled entrance – observing all this with a pondering eye.

He tapped his forefinger to his lips.

“What did you call this place, Nicholas?”

“The Coven, William.”

“And these three women, they have names?”

So I told him, expecting him to laugh or express disbelief.

But Shakespeare did neither of these things. Instead he simply stood there, gazing at the three quarrelling witches, tapping his lips.

“Hm,” said WS finally. “Hmm.”

1
. see
Sleep of Death

2
. see
Sleep of Death