Revenger (21 page)

“When was it discovered she was missing?”

“Less than an hour later.”

“Long enough for someone at the bridale to have followed them, clubbed them to death, and returned, unseen, to the feast.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But I had thought they died of poisoning, sir. Took their own lives, so it was said.”

“Do you believe they would have done that? From what you know of them?”

She hesitated, then said, “Amy, perhaps; not Joe. He would have just run away with her. I do believe he had gold.”

“So you were surprised when the constable said that was what happened, that they died by their own hand?”

“Yes, sir. It didn’t seem to fit.”

“Now, tell me, what happened at the bridale when it was noticed she was not there?”

“At first it was just m’lady calling for her. She is her stepmother, you know; her real mother died many years since. Lady Le Neve went all around the house and garden. Then she asked me and Mr. Dodsley to help find her. Then it was as if hell had torn apart the earth, Mr. Shakespeare. Everyone joined in the search. A hue and cry was raised. There was much shouting for
Amy, men with torches striding out into the night, but she could not be found.”

“And Winterberry?”

“He looked as cold as death. He was the only one would not join in the hunt. Him and Sir Toby, but Sir Toby had an excuse at least because he was flat-out drunk as usual. Winterberry waited at his seat of honor at the feasting table, then, of a sudden, he got up, marched to the stables, took his horse, and rode off.” Her pace slowed.

Shakespeare could see the concern in her gray eyes. “Are we near the place?”

She pointed nervously to an area a few yards away. “Over there, through the brambles. Sir, I do think I have said enough now. Too much. This is touching on things I should not be talking of. I must go, for I will get into much trouble.”

Shakespeare took a small silver coin from his purse. “This is for your assistance, Miranda. You are doing much good in telling me these things.”

She would not even look at the coin, kept her hands firmly clasped together in front of her. “I could not take money. No, I could not.”

He put the coin away, then went to the little glade by the stream where Miranda indicated the bodies had been found. The dust and undergrowth had been much disturbed. The constable would have brought men here with a cart to remove the bodies. They would have scythed their way through the thicket. It seemed to him possible that Amy and Joe were killed elsewhere, then their bodies brought here and dumped. But that was surmise. There was no way of knowing, nothing to be divined from this place.

“I do not like to be here, sir. It is haunted.”

“I understand. Walk back a little way to my horse with me before you go; tell me just a bit more about Joe.”

“Please, Mr. Shakespeare, I must say no more.”

“I ask you again: was McGunn his master?”

He could see she was distressed, as if it had just occurred to her what danger she might be putting herself in. She looked about her, into the trees, as if each had a spy behind the trunk, watching and listening.

“Miranda, was it McGunn?”

She said the word so faintly that he could not hear it, but he could tell by the formation of her pink lips—and because he already guessed what the answer would be—that the word she said was
yes
. Charlie McGunn was Joe Jaggard’s master, and someone had murdered Joe. So this
was
the boy McGunn had used in the hunt for the lost colonist Eleanor Dare. Shakespeare breathed deeply. He put an arm around Miranda Salter’s shoulders and held her to him. Even in the warmth of the evening, she was shivering.

“Miranda—”

“I have said enough, sir.”

“Did
you
love Joe Jaggard, Miranda?”

She blushed like a red bloom. “Any maiden would have loved him, sir,” she said quietly. “Any maiden.” She turned away, and quickly disappeared back onto the path whence she came.

S
IMON FORMAN
clutched the furled chart in his sweaty palms as he stepped into Penelope Rich’s lair, a high room in Essex House, and one befitting a She-wolf’s daughter. He was not a happy man. He felt the sharp edge of the headsman’s blade bearing down ever more keenly on his neck. This horoscope chart that he held was pure treason, for it contained the date of an approaching death that no man was allowed to foretell.

Yet Forman had not survived and prospered so long in the bear pit of London and court without knowing who must be obeyed and who might be ignored. One thing was certain: it did not pay to refuse a request from the mighty Devereux family.

As the doctor-astrologer entered her black and gold chamber, the lady Penelope Rich did not rise from her day-bed. She reclined with a book in one hand, being fanned by Henry, her black manservant, who stood at her side, his chest bare and rippling with muscles.

Forman stood awkwardly in the doorway. After a few moments, Penelope glanced up. “Ah, Dr. Forman,” she said, smiling. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

“My lady.”

“And I see you have brought the chart. How exciting. Why do you not unfurl it on the floor here, and then you can explain it all to me.”

Forman glanced nervously at the manservant.

“Oh, don’t mind Henry. I have no secrets from him.” She reached out languorously and brushed the servant’s thigh with her delicate fingers.

“As you wish, my lady,” Forman said doubtfully. He approached the day-bed and knelt on a rug, where he unrolled the chart, close to the servant’s naked feet. Not much in life made Simon Forman uncomfortable, but this did, painfully so.

Penelope raised herself on an elbow and looked down at the chart. There was a large circle, divided into twelve equal parts. “It is all a fantastical mystery to me, so I think you had better explain it in plain terms, if you would, Dr. Forman.”

“My lady, this chart shows the twelve houses, which represent religion, dignities, friends, enemies, life, fortune, brethren, relations, children, health, marriage … and death.”

“Dr. Forman, do get to the point. You know what I require. You are not a fool. Do you know she boxed my mother’s ears? Do you know that, Dr. Forman?”

A bead of sweat dripped from Forman’s brow onto the chart. “Well, my lady,” he said, picking his words with care. Of course he knew that the Queen had boxed the She-wolf’s ears; everyone knew it, for it had been bruited about with much mirth
after she was banished from court. But he was not going to acknowledge the question, for that would be to accept that he knew whose chart he had cast, and that would not do. Great houses such as this had many ears—hidden ears.

“The subject of this horoscope, whose name I do not know and will never know, is an unmarried personage in her fifty-ninth year. She will never marry, nor will she have children.”

“God’s blood, Dr. Forman, of course a woman of fifty-eight will not have children. That is not what I require from you. You are telling me things I know. What I want is a date. Give me the date or I will have Henry break you in two and throw you from the window.”

Forman closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “September the …”

“Speak up, Dr. Forman, you are muttering like a sheep.”

“It is September the eighteenth, my lady.”

“And the year?”

“This year.”

Penelope was up from her day-bed now. She pulled Forman to his feet. “Say the words again to me, Dr. Forman. Clearly, so that there can be no misapprehension.”

Forman glanced at the expressionless face of the servant, Henry, then back at Penelope, whose beautiful, flawless young face was no more than a foot from his. He was in so deep now he was limp with terror and feared he would drown in his own perspiration.

“The lady in question will die at six of the clock on September the eighteenth in this year of our Lord, fifteen hundred and ninety-two. These are her last days, the remains of one short summer.”

Penelope smiled. “Then we have no time to lose, have we? Thank you, Dr. Forman. Thank you for your diligence.”

Chapter 20

J
UST AS THE BATS BEGAN TO FLY FOR FOOD IN THE
dusk, Shakespeare found a bed for the night at the Ox and Harrow tavern in the village close by Le Neve Manor. He ate a supper of wigeon and walnut pudding, then drank two pints of ale as he talked with the landlord and tried to find out more about the Le Neve family and the death of Amy and Joe.

The landlord was a man of middle years, whose pitted face showed the ravages of the smallpox. He told Shakespeare that most local people did not believe the deaths to have been self-inflicted.

“Who do you think killed them?”

“Vagabonds? There’s been enough come through here this summer, though we always drive them on after we’ve given them a loaf and some ale. Mind you, though, sir, something like this makes you look at your neighbors closer.”

“Do you know the family?”

“The Le Neves? Of course. Them and my lord of Essex and the lady Lettice own everything in these parts, all the houses in the village, this tavern included. Essex and his mother own most of the land, of course, what with the forest and all the hunting that goes with it, but a goodly parcel of acres belongs to Sir Toby. Yet
even
he
is beholden to the Earl and must go with him when there’s wars to be fought.”

“And the boy, Joe?”

“Yes, I met him. A snout-fair lad, I’d say. He came in here for an ale once or twice. Always behaved himself proper and left a drinkpenny, so I had no complaints. But I would not have wanted to cross him.”

Shakespeare finished his ale and bade the landlord good-night. Taking a candle, he climbed the rickety staircase to his second-floor chamber and quickly fell into an untroubled sleep.

He awoke in the early hours and knew he was not alone.

He could hear faint breathing. He opened his eyes. Light from a three-quarters moon streamed in through the unshuttered window, and he could make out the darkness of a human figure, standing still, watching him.

Shakespeare’s sword was at the side of the bed, unsheathed, ready. He knew exactly where the hilt was. He was still clothed and was not encumbered by bedding.

His left hand went for the sword hilt and in one swift movement he rolled from the bed, twisting himself back away from the intruder, then straightway rising to a crouch, close to the head of the bed. His sword arm was outstretched, pointing directly at the figure by the window.

“Fear not, Mr. Shakespeare. I will not kill you.” It was a woman’s voice.

“Lady Le Neve.”

“Though had I
wanted
to kill you, your throat would have been slit while you slept and you would have known nothing of it until you woke drowning in blood.” She laughed and held up a butcher’s knife so that it glinted in the moonlight. “See? I could have dealt with you as I have often done for a Christmas pig. You should have locked the door.”

Shakespeare rose to his feet, but did not relax his sword arm. “Why are you here?”

She dropped the knife, which clattered to the floorboards. “To persuade you to leave us alone.”

“And the knife?”

“The knife was to defend myself. It cannot be safe for a lady to be out at this time of night with murderers about.”

“I ask again: why are you here?”

“The door latch was broken.” She shrugged. “And I wish to know who you are. You come to my house uninvited; you interrogate my maid behind my back.”

“You know who I am. You know that I was sent by the Searcher of the Dead.”

“You asked about Charlie McGunn.… I think you are his agent, sent to avenge the death of his boy.”

Shakespeare put down his sword, still unsheathed, on the bed and took two steps toward Cordelia Le Neve. “No,” he said.

“You are sent here to kill us, though I have done no harm to McGunn. I did not want the boy to have Amy, but neither did I cause him hurt, and I would have done nothing to harm my daughter.”

“Why do you believe McGunn wants you dead? What could make him think you killed Joe?”

“You jest with me, Mr. Shakespeare. Men like McGunn do not look for evidence or proof. I have seen such men before.”