Revenger (32 page)

“Sir Walter, we know for certain that the colonists were no longer at Roanoke when White took the supply ships back there. So where do you think they have gone?”

“First to the Croatoans, for help to get them over that winter, then up the coast to the great bay where it was intended all along that they should go. It is there that they have built this City of Ralegh. There is no cause for doubt about this, none at all.”

Shakespeare had been sipping the sack and now finished it in one gulp. It was pointless arguing with Ralegh’s fantasy; to do so would merely bait him to violence.

“Thank you for your time, Sir Walter,” he said. “And you, Mr. Gorges.”

Gorges grinned. “Ask yourself, Mr. Shakespeare, who might have bruited about this mad tale of a woman flying the ocean—and to what purpose? There is some mischief here. Do you not agree, Walter?”

Suddenly Ralegh fell into a rage. “God damn their black hearts to hell! They wish me away from her presence forever. Yet they will both pay for this. Cecil and Essex—Satan and Beelzebub. Go to, Mr. Shakespeare. Be gone with you.”

Yes
, Shakespeare thought wryly,
you liken Cecil and Essex to the Devil—yet all the while men call
you
the Great Lucifer and the Beautiful Demon.…

“Before I depart, Sir Walter, I would ask you one last thing. The corporation—your investors—are they still confident?”

For a moment, Shakespeare truly believed he would be set upon and stabbed to death, so dark a fury crossed Ralegh’s brow. “The corporation?”

“Men such as Jacob Winterberry.”

“Winterberry and the corporation? They are less than dogs, they are beneath the snakes that crawl upon their bellies and eat dust. Talk not to me of corporations and Winterberries. I will have none of them.”

“But have they not put in all the money necessary?”

“Aye, and some do try and sue for it. I know not what Winterberry has to do with this visit of yours today, Mr. Shakespeare, but I wish only evil to him. He risks his money, but would he ever hazard his life? Never did I meet a man of such small parts—his character, his form. I thank the guiding spirit when I hear that his ships do not come in. The Devil’s canker on him and all his benighted ilk.”

Chapter 29

A
S SHAKESPEARE RODE BACK THROUGH THE NARROW
city streets, the sound of the river fanfare receded to a distant hum. He was frustrated; the visit to Ralegh had yielded little reward. Nor was he looking forward to his next visit, to Essex House, but he had to discover Essex’s movements.

Outside the entrance, the usual band of Irish beggars clamored around demanding money. They threw obscenities and profanities at him when he ignored them. Inside the courtyard, the halberdier guards gave his letter-patent a cursory glance and waved him through.

Up in the turret room, he found his former colleagues. Francis Mills gave him a look of disdain and continued to eat the hunk of bread and cheese that he had on a trencher before him; Phelippes barely looked up from a paper he was reading. Only Arthur Gregory stammered a welcome.

Shakespeare touched his arm. “A word if I may, Mr. Gregory.”

“Of course, Mr. Sh-shakespeare.”

They went through to the side room. “How may I help you?”

“The matter is this, Mr. Gregory: do you know whether the Earl is leaving with Her Majesty? What are his plans?”

Gregory put a finger to his lips. “He is in the most monstrous
s-s-sulk, Mr. Sh-shakespeare,” he whispered, “though you did not hear that from me.”

“Does that mean he is still here at Essex House?”

“For the moment. He is furious at being passed over for the chancellorship of Oxford and believes C-c-cecil did for his chances. He had set great store by it and blames him—and her. But she
will
s-s-send for him, and then he will have to go to her, like an obedient puppy. Yet he will s-s-seethe inside.”

“Then he could leave at any moment.”

They went back into the main room. Phelippes looked up through his thick, heavily scratched glasses and gave a smile that only served to make his pox-ridden face more grotesque. “Mr. Shakespeare, I have a puzzle for you. I remember of old that you were a fine intelligencer with a wit that could solve any manner of mysteries.” He pushed a paper toward him. It was written in code. A code very like the book code he had used to communicate with Sir Robert Cecil. A chill of ice slid through Shakespeare’s blood. It was not
his
hand—but was it Cecil’s?

“Tell me, pray, what in God’s world this piece of correspondence might mean.”

Shakespeare had an awful sense of foreboding as he examined the message. Never once in all their years working together for Walsingham had Phelippes ever asked him for assistance.

“You are the code-breaker, Mr. Phelippes.”

“Indeed, I am, and I have never been bested yet. This looks like a book code, don’t you think? You know what a book code is, do you not, Mr. Shakespeare?”

“How could I not, having worked for Mr. Secretary so long?” Shakespeare kept his face impassive. He knew Phelippes was scrutinizing him for a reaction.

“So we need to find the book. What sort of book would you use?”

“Whatever came to hand. There must be thousands of books.
You could work a lifetime on it, Mr. Phelippes. What is the context? How did you come by it? Do you think it Spanish?”

Phelippes’s lips curled into an oily smile. “A man in the street brought it to me. Ah well, I thought you might have an idea. Fear not, I shall find the answer soon enough. But perhaps
you
have lost your edge, Mr. Shakespeare.”

“Perhaps I have.”

Shakespeare looked away. His eyes drifted to the shelves behind the great code-breaker, and he wondered if
The Profitable Art of Gardening
was among the books piled there.

Phelippes smiled his unctuous version of a smile once more. “No, it was none of those. I shall just have to keep looking.”

Shakespeare’s heart sank. Had Butler brought this message here—or had it been wrested from him? Did Essex and his intelligencers have doubts about him? He was at the heart of their headquarters and must be vulnerable, yet found himself angry, not scared. Did Phelippes, Mills, and Gregory know what they were engaged in? Did they have an inkling of the plot against the crown?

McGunn appeared in the turret room doorway, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, still sheathed. “Shakespeare, where in death’s name have you been?”

Shakespeare did not recoil at the grinding, murderous voice. He met McGunn’s stare full-on and gathered himself in. He would show no fear to this man. “Finding Eleanor Dare for your lord and master.”

McGunn gazed at him with scorn, his gold earring catching the sunlight. “I have no lord, nor any master. I say again, where have you been? Meddling in matters that are none of your concern. Come with me, Shakespeare.”

McGunn led him down from the turret room to a private study on the floor below. The two men stood facing each other like a pair of dogs about to be unleashed.

“So have you found her? That is all I want.”

Shakespeare was stiff with rage. “This day I have been with Ralegh, who is much discomfited but can shed no light on the question of the lost colony. He seems to think it not lost at all, but a thriving city, rich in gold and tobacco.”

McGunn scoffed. “He thinks nothing of the sort; he wants to keep his patent.”

“But I believe I have another sighting of Eleanor Dare, by her brother-in-law, Foxley.”

“Ah, so you have found
him
, have you? Well, that is a start.

Where is he?”

Shakespeare lied without hesitation. “I believe he is in a house at St. Dunstan’s Hill, called Tiler’s Cottage. Though that is not where I found him.”

“And where
did
you find him?”

“In the St. Magnus Cross pillory.”

McGunn smiled at last. “Well done, Shakespeare, though I am sure a blind infant could have done as much. Bring him to me. I will question him.”

“No, I will do the questioning. I do things my way, McGunn.”

McGunn laughed. “Is that what you think?”

“And I am certain, too, that my man Cooper is onto something, or he would be home by now.”

“Where was he last?”

“Gone to Southwark to seek out a man who was on the
Lion
. Also to find Simon Fernandez, the commander of the ships that took the colonists.”

McGunn studied Shakespeare as a physician might examine a stool for evidence of evil humors. “You do not know where he is, do you? Your own man is lost and you are alone. But I know where he is, Shakespeare. I have people who tell me things.”

Shakespeare felt the frozen fingers of fear claw into his heart. “What do you know of Boltfoot, McGunn? What have you done?”

“The world is full of hungry maggots. Men who will do my bidding in return for morsels to gnaw on. Your Cooper has served his purpose.”

“McGunn, if you are a man, tell me what you know.”

“Stow it, Shakespeare. I will tell you nothing. But you tell me: have you found Joe’s killer—or are you merely swiving the girl’s mother? Is your bed become so barren and cold that you must warm it with the soft flesh of another man’s wife? Would you like Mistress Shakespeare to hear of your wanton midnight ramblings?”

“I care nothing for your threats, McGunn. And if I knew the killer of your base hireling, why would I tell you?” Shakespeare moved a step closer to McGunn. The Irishman’s fist came up and would have cracked Shakespeare’s nose and teeth, but he was expecting the blow and stepped sideways. The punch hit nothing but air. McGunn’s fleshy, pulpy face was suffused with rage, and he lunged forward as if he would throttle Shakespeare. But he was not quick enough.

Shakespeare had his poniard from his belt, its needle-sharp tip at McGunn’s throat. McGunn stood a moment, his face so close to Shakespeare that their breath mingled. Then he pulled back and laughed.

“I would kill you for talking about Joe like that, Shakespeare. He was no base hireling, but a good lad, a prizefighter and mine own.”

“Your son?”

McGunn was silent.

“If he was your boy, I should have thought you would wish the matter resolved. Give me Boltfoot and I will bring the killer to justice.”

McGunn snorted derision. “I do not need you for that. I will avenge Joe without the aid of a mewling English girl-boy.” McGunn raised his hand and gently eased the poniard away from his throat. “Put up your little dagger, Shakespeare. I would
kill you, for you and Boltfoot Cooper have served your purpose and are dead men waiting to happen, but Essex seems to think you still have something to offer him. You are fortunate.”

“I want to see him. Now.”

“He will see no one. But the idle wench will. Lady Rich wants to see you this afternoon at three of the clock. Perchance she has heard of your adulterous ways and wishes for some jack-saucery herself. I shall enjoy telling your wife about your lewd excursions.”

“I have no idea what manner of man you are, McGunn, but I tell you again, you do not scare me.”

McGunn shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Well, I shall have to teach you some fear, then. Remember this: I know where your family has gone. That groom in your stables is talkative. I do not think he likes you well. And did I tell you about my man Slyguff? He has a nice way with the tanner’s shears, for he used to work in the leather trade back in Ireland. For all I know, he may already be on his way to a little town in the middle of nowhere in the far north, taking his sharp shears with him.”

S
HAKESPEARE MOVED
hurriedly through the high halls and narrow passages of Essex House, out toward the warmth of the sun to gather his thoughts. He did not fear McGunn for himself, but the mention of his family—and his knowledge of where they had gone—filled him with dread.

At the front steps of the great mansion, Shakespeare almost walked straight past his brother.

“John, are you here again?”

He turned at the familiar voice and embraced his younger brother, then held him at arm’s length so that he could look into his fresh, laughing face. “God, but it is good to see you, Will,” he said. Someone in this mad, dissembling world he could trust.