Chapter 7

SHAKESPEARE AND CLARKSON MANAGED THE fifteen-mile ride in under three hours. The going was hot through the clogged north London streets, but then a little cooler once out in the open countryside, where they could break into a light canter and enjoy the breeze in their faces. The heat had been oppressive over the past few days and weeks, and the fields and woods they passed were dry and crops were already failing.

A short distance north of Waltham Cross, they turned their mounts left along a well-worn road, then slowed to a trot along the last two hundred yards through a formal avenue of elm and ash, ranged alternately along a raised path, up to the main archway of Theobalds.

The house was magnificent, thought by many to be the finest palace in all England. Lord Burghley, Elizabeth’s most trusted minister throughout her long reign, had started building it twenty-eight years earlier, within the first year of his son Robert’s life. Since then he had spent many years and much silver improving and expanding it into a pile fit to entertain his beloved sovereign.

After grooms took their horses away to be watered and fed, Clarkson led the way into the first of the two great courtyards around which the house was constructed. The whole palace was set within pleasure gardens so extensive and exquisite that one could walk for miles without tiring of the scene.

Sir Robert Cecil was in the Privy Garden to the north of the house, where the heat was less intense and the plants had been watered. Shakespeare was struck at once by how small and neat and still Cecil was; an extraordinary contrast to Essex, the bustling giant of a man he had met a day earlier. He stood, almost statue-like, on the beautifully sheltered lawn, its borders bursting with flowers. The garden was enclosed on three sides by hedges of yew that towered over a man’s head, and on the fourth side by the redbrick and expansively windowed façade of Theobalds itself, a wall richly decorated with trees of fig and apricot and other exotic fruits.

Clarkson bowed low. “Sir Robert, may I introduce Mr. John Shakespeare.”

Cecil smiled quickly, his small mouth immediately reverting to its serious stillness. His face was thin and doleful, his head small like the rest of his body. He had a short beard and mustache, dark and severely trimmed. He was, thought Shakespeare, a man made in miniature, like one of Master Hilliard’s delicate little paintings.

“Good-day, Mr. Shakespeare. Thank you for coming so far,” Cecil said. His clothes were dark, even on a day like this, and his left hand was gauntleted and held square and a foot or so away from his body. On it was perched a peregrine falcon with a hood of soft leather to cover its eyes.

Shakespeare bowed. “It is an honor, Sir Robert.”

“That will be all, Clarkson. Send a footman with wine. Now, Mr. Shakespeare, will you walk with me?”

As Clarkson bowed again and made his way back to the house, Cecil turned and it was only then that Shakespeare noticed the hunch of his shoulder. People often spoke of him as Robin Crookback, and rarely in flattering terms. Shakespeare knew from gossip that he was reckoned by his enemies to be as quiet and venomous as a serpent. His allies, however, saw him as a straight-dealing, hard-working administrator who would not harm you as long as you were never foolish enough to cross him. Certainly, he had the trust of the Queen, just as his father, now ailing with gout, had enjoyed her confidence throughout her years of power.

“Let us take the Mulberry Walk. To my mind, they are the finest of God’s trees. I love the sunshine but even I need some shade in this heat. And the fruit is ripe and sweet.”

From the Privy Garden, they proceeded along a lovely avenue of mulberries, hemmed in on each side by a high wall of mellow red brick. Occasionally, Cecil plucked a rich, dark berry, alternately handing one to Shakespeare, then popping another into his own mouth. “This day I sentenced a man to die, Mr. Shakespeare. Sir John Perrot, of whom I am sure you have heard. I would have saved him, but alas, I was unable.”

Perrot. Of course. Reputed to be the bastard son of Henry VIII, making him Elizabeth’s half-brother. He was cursed with a tongue so loose that in any other man, he would have met the headsman’s axe many years since. He had the roughness and enormous frame of his royal father, but none of his great political power or cunning. It seemed his luck had run out.

“I am afraid he insulted his royal sister one time too many. He called her ‘a base, bastard, pissing kitchen woman.’ ” Cecil smiled grimly. “No one can say words like that about their sovereign lady and hope to survive long.”

“Is that why you have called me here, Sir Robert?”

“No, no, Mr. Shakespeare, by no means. I merely mention it in passing to explain my humor, in case I seem at all melancholic to you. It was not a duty that gave me pleasure.”

“Of course.”

With a gossamer touch of his pale, slender fingers, Cecil stroked the wing feathers of his falcon. “I believe you do not hawk, Mr. Shakespeare. It is a shame, for it is the finest of sports. To watch a peregrine in flight, then see it fall in its stoop on some unsuspecting rabbit or mouse, is a wonder of the world.”

Shakespeare found himself involuntarily raising an inquiring eyebrow. Was he the rabbit and Cecil the falcon? He was certainly surprised that Cecil should have any knowledge about his liking for hawking or otherwise. If he knew such a detail, then what else might he know?

“But you must be impatient to know why I have asked you here. Let me say that I know much about you. I know you have a wife, a child, and a fine school to look to. And nothing, in my estimation, should stand in the way of family and education. My father always brought me up to believe more in the encouragement of children than punishment, and it seems as though you are of a mind with us. I should like to help you. But in the meantime bear with me and hear me out. Come, sit with me beneath this tree.”

They sat together on a wooden bench at the end of the Mulberry Walk, close to the Great Pond, where waterfowl of all kinds cooled themselves and foraged. Being seated brought the two men eye to eye for the first time, for Shakespeare was nine or ten inches taller than his host when they stood.

“Another thing I know about you, Mr. Shakespeare, is that you went to Essex House yesterday and did meet there my lord the Earl of Essex.”

“Indeed, Sir Robert.”

“He had a task for you, a most curious mission to seek out one Eleanor Dare, one of the lost colonists of Roanoke. And you declined his offer because you have a school to run and also, I suspect, for other reasons more political than educational.”

“You have an eye to men’s souls, Sir Robert.”

“No, no, Mr. Shakespeare. There is no sorcery here. Merely careful thinking. I would feel exactly as you do, that there is little to be gained from such a mission and much to be lost. In helping one powerful man, you may cross another. But that brings me to the point of why you are here. I wish you to accept my lord of Essex’s commission.”

So that was what all this was about. Where the strong-armed threats of Charlie McGunn had failed to persuade Shakespeare, Essex used his powerful ally on the Privy Council to intercede and order Shakespeare to do as he was bidden.

“Please, Mr. Shakespeare, wait until I have spoken further before you pass judgment. Let me say at once that I have little interest in Roanoke or the fate of the so-called lost colonists, other than, I suppose, a mild curiosity. Nor is it my intention to twist your arm on behalf of my lord of Essex; he can do that quite well enough on his own. No, Mr. Shakespeare, I have a different task for you altogether, but in order to do it, you must say yes to the Earl, accept his gold, and do his bidding. Only then will you be able to help me and, much more important, our sovereign lady the Queen.”

A footman arrived with a flagon of wine and poured two glasses. Shakespeare was glad of the refreshment; his head was befuddled by the heat and the extraordinary request from Cecil. Was he asking him to spy on Essex?

“Mr. Shakespeare, it is my nature to think the best of people where I may and speak no ill of any man or woman. But in these difficult circumstances, I will speak plainly to you because I think I know you to be trustworthy. The things I am about to tell you are state secrets. You will repeat them to no one. Not even to your wife.”

Shakespeare was not at all sure that he wished to hear any state secrets, but he merely nodded. Cecil was not going to be stopped now.

“Mr. Shakespeare, I fear there is a plot against the Queen …” Cecil spoke the words slowly and clearly so that they should not be misunderstood. He paused to gaze a few moments at Shakespeare, as if awaiting some sort of reaction. When none was forthcoming, he continued, “… with the aim of proclaiming Essex as King of England in her place.”

THE CLATTER OF HOOVES through the dusty streets was a common sound—but the progress of the great lady through the thoroughfares of London drew all eyes and stopped all commerce. She sat alone, majestic, in a new coach of gold, resplendent with a beplumed canopy. Few had ever seen its like, and all stood in wonder and awe, convinced it must be carrying the Queen herself. It was drawn by four white stallions, all proudly harnessed with feathers and shields, their forelegs trotting high and in time.

Ahead of the carriage, on black horses, rode two outriders in white silk livery. With swords drawn and held vertical in front of them, they cleared the streets of laggardly carters and draymen.

Eastward along Lombard Street they made their stately journey, past the church of St. Dionis and into Fen Church Street. Finally, the outriders turned right into Fylpot Lane. The chief coachman, realizing the carriage would never fit into such a narrow street, crowded as it was with untended wagons between corbeled houses, tugged at the long reins and pulled the four white steeds to a stamping, noisy halt.

The man beside the coachman got down from his perch and opened the carriage door, bowing low with a sweep of his cape. He was a strong-muscled man of African features, with black skin that matched his employer’s eyes. “I fear we can go no further to Dr. Forman’s house, my lady,” he said.

She raised the tip of her beautiful nose and smiled distantly, as she had been taught always to smile at those of lower rank. “Well, I shall have to walk, then, Henry. If it is not too far.”

With the assistance of her servant, who held his head high and proud, she stepped down from her carriage and looked about her. They were in the beating heart of London, the merchants’ quarter whence all wealth emanated, yet to her it all seemed small and dirty and constrained, so used was she to the palaces of the aristocracy, especially her own great homes of Wanstead, Essex House, Leighs, and Chartley in Staffordshire.

In her jewel-encrusted shoes of white kid, she picked her way carefully through the dung and the dust along the narrow confines of Fylpot Street. Bays of shops pushed out into the road and, above her, the jettied chambers of fine houses blanked out much of the light. To her nose, she held a pomander of lavender and rose.

“Which house is it, Henry?”

“I believe it is the next door there, my lady. Stone House.”

She smiled her condescending smile once again. She had met the celebrated Dr. Forman on occasion but never, until now, had cause to use his services and certainly not visit his house. His magic tricks and bedtime services were, however, famed among her friends, the ladies of the royal court. She nodded and the coachman beat with the pommel of his whip at the oaken door.

INSIDE THE HOUSE, Simon Forman had recently finished a late lunch and was enjoying his third swiving of the day with his new mistress, Annis Noke. He liked to call this pleasant occupation a halek, for he kept a record of his daily doings, his alchemy and his experimentations, and wrote in cipher so that none should steal his secrets or ideas. The word halek, which he had invented, seemed as good a code for intercourse as any and appeared many times in his diaries.

Above him, her eyes closed in bliss, Mistress Noke suddenly screamed in ecstasy and he chose that moment to reach his own heady pitch of excitement. She collapsed, shuddering, onto his hair-matted chest and kissed his yellow-red beard and freckled face all over. Panting heavily, she clenched her sweat-glistening thighs about his waist and shuddered once more, grinding her plump body down onto him. She smiled at him, satisfied in a way she had only ever found in this bed, with this strange, squat, and hairy man. For his part, he knew that this giving of pleasure was a gift to him from God, and one he was happy to dispense liberally to any woman who cared to know what heaven was like without dying.

There was a hammering at the door. With a last kiss, he disengaged himself from Mistress Noke, swung his legs off the bed, scratched his member and his balls, and stood up. The infernal sores were still there; the herbal tincture he had devised for the clap was not working. Still scratching, he ambled to the window, then pressed his naked body against the glass panes to get a better view of the street below. A maid in the house on the other side of Fylpot Lane chose just that moment to look up and got a clear view of his diminishing—but still extraordinarily well-sized—tumescence. Forman waved to her cheerily and she met his eye with an immodest gaze. She would make a pleasant repast one day soon. He looked away from her and his eyes turned down to the street below, where he saw a neatly coiffed head of fair, wavy hair that he recognized instantly. “God’s teeth, it’s the She-wolf’s daughter!” he said. “And she has a blackamoor with her. What’s she doing here? Get yourself dressed, Mistress Noke.”

Hurriedly grabbing a shirt and breeches, he stumbled downstairs to the door, fastening hooks and ties as he went. As he opened the door with a disheveled flourish, she swept past him into his antechamber. She stood for a moment looking about her. Lady Penelope Rich. The most beautiful young woman in England; wife to the fabulously wealthy Robert, third Lord Rich; sister to the great Earl of Essex; daughter to Lettice Knollys; stepdaughter to the great Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester; believed by many to be great-granddaughter to Henry VIII by Anne Boleyn’s sister Mary.

“Well, Dr. Forman,” she said at last. “I seem to have found you quite déshabillé, if not to say in flagrante delicto.”

He bowed low to her, then looked nervously at her servant. “A thousand pardons, my lady. I was merely couching a hogshead away from the afternoon sun. I had not expected you.”

“Couching a hogshead, Dr. Forman?”

“A little afternoon sleep, my lady.”

“Ah. Well, no, of course you were not expecting me, for that would have spoiled the surprise. I wished to see how you lived, Dr. Forman. And I now know. I have certain friends, ladies of breeding, who speak very highly of your … prowess.”

“My lady?”

“But that is not why I am here, Dr. Forman. I am here because I wish you to prepare a chart for me.”

“Ah, charts, my lady,” Forman said warily in his deep Wiltshire drawl. “Charts are dangerous things. Perhaps some refreshment would be in order while we discuss the matter.” He clapped his hands. “Mistress Noke, would you come, please. We have an honored guest.”

Annis Noke appeared at the bottom of the stairs, took one look at Penelope Rich, and curtsied as low as a penitent at a shrine.

“A flagon of our finest claret, please, Mistress Noke—and some ale for the manservant.”

Forman led Penelope upstairs to his chambers and through to the hall where he did his work. It was a chaos of books and papers, charts and instruments, glass vials and powders—all the strange clutter of an alchemist and astrologer. “My humble hall, my lady. Please accommodate yourself on the settle. You are most welcome. Most welcome, indeed. Shall I fetch cushions?”

Penelope Rich did not sit down. “So this is where you do your work, Dr. Forman. This is where you cast your spells.” Her gaze lighted on a pentacle drawn on parchment and pinned to the wall above a coffer.

“My lady, there is no witchcraft here. I deal only in the ancient and honorable sciences of astrology and alchemy.”

“And what, pray, are you working on at the present time?”

“A cure for the plague. Soon there will be much call for it and it will make my fortune. As well as saving many good Christian lives, of course.”

“And charts?”

“I am wary of charts, my lady. No good tends to come of charts.”

“But I know that you make astrological charts, Dr. Forman. And I am certain that you are just the man to make one for me.”

He bowed. No one denied the She-wolf’s daughter. “As you wish, my lady. I will, of course, require a few details. Let me make a few notes, if I may.” Among the rubble of books and papers, he found a quill, which he proceeded to sharpen. Then he scrabbled around until he found an inkhorn. At last he dipped the quill tip into the ink and smiled ingratiatingly at his aristocratic visitor.

“Is it a new-born babe, my lady? Might I have the birth date?”

“The birth date was September the seventh, Dr. Forman.”

“And the year?”

“Fifteen thirty-three.”

Forman looked up at her from his parchment again. This time, his expression was inquisitive yet fearful. “Do you know what date this is, my lady?”

“Indeed, Dr. Forman, I do. It is the date for which I require a chart. I can also tell you the time of birth, which was a little after three of the clock in the afternoon. And I am sure you needs must have the place, too, which was Greenwich.”

“My lady, I cannot do this thing for you.”

“Cannot, Dr. Forman? Do you say ‘cannot’ to me?”

“I mean I would rather not do it.”

“And if I insist?”

“Then I would have to ask you for a great deal of money. A man might lose his liberty, perchance even his head, for divining such a chart.”

“Shall we say three gold sovereigns, Dr. Forman?”

Forman rubbed his throat beneath his dark, bushy beard and grimaced. “I have great reservations. My neck, my head … I feel the sharp edge of the axe and the rough edge of the rope. This is not the thing for those among us who would sleep well in our beds at night.”

“My information, Dr. Forman, is that you do very little sleeping when you are abed. I hear tell of exceeding energetic nights with much cavorting.”

“My lady, you flatter me. There is much gossip and rumor about in these troubled days. The broadsheets, madam, they print calumnies.”

Penelope threw back her head of blonde curls and let out a great laugh. “It is not the broadsheets, sir, it is my friends that tell me this. Now, let us say five sovereigns and be done with it. You will take this offer, or you are like to have a visit from the sheriff, who may wish to lay a charge against you of necromancy.”

“Of course, my lady, of course. I will produce the chart you require.”

“And would you like me to give you the name of the person whose chart I am asking you to divine?”

“My lady, I would like it very much if you would not give me the name. It would not be at all good for my health to know it.”

Penelope laughed again. “You are a droll little man, Dr. Forman. I like you very much, very much indeed. Perhaps another time you will show me more of your famed trickery.”