Revenger (42 page)

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.