Chapter 19
THE SERVANT HELD THE PAIL FOR THE HORSE WHILE Shakespeare thirstily downed his beaker of ale. The old man looked at him like a dog that stands defiant though expecting to be whipped. Shakespeare put the empty beaker on the stone step at the front door.
“Do you have any thoughts about what happened, Mr. Dodsley?”
“Put a coin in my palm and I may tell you a thing or two.”
Shakespeare dug a groat from his purse and placed it in the skeletal hand. The retainer looked at it closely, polished it, and held it tight in his crabbed fist. “They haven’t paid me in a twelvemonth or more. All I get is my food and a palliasse with a dogswain cover. I am a serf to them and might as well be a horse for the way they treat me. Even the scraps off their table don’t amount to much. But I won’t be here much longer if I can find myself another position. Do you know of any gentleman seeking a serving-man, my lord?”
Shakespeare laughed. “I am no lord, Mr. Dodsley, and I know of no one to help you. But, pray, tell me about Amy. And the boy, what do you know of him?”
“Joe? I saw him around here, sneaking in like a fox after the hens. Didn’t worry me. I don’t blame the girl, especially knowing what they had planned for her.”
Shakespeare frowned. “And what did they have planned for her?”
“A marriage, of course. Did they not tell you? She was wed on the day she died. Folks say my master sold her to save himself from ruin and penury, sir.”
“And who did she marry?”
“Some rich cat’s bollocks of a Puritan. Mr. Winterberry. Can’t abide the sniveling man. But for a shilling I’ll pass you the name of one who’ll tell you everything you could wish to know about the whole hand-fasting business and the state of the family. Make it two and I’ll fix you with a meeting, sir.”
Shakespeare sighed in resignation and made a mental note to collect these expenses from Cecil. He fetched out a florin and handed it to the old man. “Well?”
Dodsley snatched the new coin greedily. “Her name is Miranda Salter, sir. She is coy, but she will talk with you, for she was most fond of Mistress Amy. On the way here, you will have ridden over a stone bridge across a stream. I will have her meet you there in an hour.”
The afternoon was wearing on. Shakespeare wondered whether he would be able to get home tonight, but he had to meet this girl. He rode slowly to the river, which was less than two miles away, and took the horse down to the water to drink, then allowed it to graze. She arrived promptly, walking briskly from the direction of Le Neve Manor. He guessed her to be sixteen or so. She lowered her head when she saw Shakespeare. Her hair and much of her face were covered by a common felt cap, and she wore the simple linen smock of a housemaid.
“Mistress Miranda?”
She nodded but did not speak.
“You know who I am and why I wish to speak with you?”
She nodded again and mumbled something, which he could not hear.
“Are you worried about being seen talking to me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I would like to see where the two bodies were found. Can you show me?”
She looked uneasy.
Shakespeare smiled reassuringly. “Is it near here?”
“In these woods, sir, by this stream—no more than quarter of a mile from here.”
“Well, walk with me there through the trees along the riverbank and we will not be seen.”
As they strolled slowly along the dry bank where the river itself would have flowed when swollen, he could see her at last under her cap. She was a plain girl with the fat cheeks of girlhood and a nose a little too big and bulbous to ever allow her to be pretty. He thought her gray eyes her best feature, shining bright and alert.
“Mr. Dodsley must have told you my name is Shakespeare. I am inquiring into the deaths of Amy and Joe. I believe you knew Amy well?”
“I was her maidservant, sir. But I like to think she was my friend, too, though she was gentry and I was a mere servant.” She spoke cautiously and quietly.
“What sort of girl was she?”
“She was small, sir, and very pretty. Everyone looked at her, men and women. Until these past few weeks she was full of life and laughter, but she became all amort once she learned what had been decided for her. I miss her terribly, sir.”
“She was betrothed, yes?”
“Against her will. To a man named Jacob Winterberry, a wealthy merchant. I shared her dismay, sir, for Mr. Winterberry was well named. Though it is not my place to say such things, I can no longer hold my tongue, sir. Not after what has happened.”
“In what way was he well named?”
“When he was about, it was as if a dark winter cloud was in the room, so gloomy and precise was his manner.”
“But why do you think this betrothal was arranged?”
“I do not know, sir. It does bewilder me. But perhaps it was the promise of gold. I do not know about such things.”
“And did you know the boy who died?”
“Joe, yes, of course I knew him.”
“Was he from these parts?”
Miranda laughed. “Joe Jaggard? No, he was not born hereabouts, sir, but he has been here plenty often. Up at the big house much of the time, with his master.”
“The big house?”
“Wanstead, sir. My lord of Essex’s great palace. Joe spent a lot of time there when he was collecting.”
“Collecting what, Miranda?”
“Why, money, sir, of course. That is what Amy told me, leastwise.”
“Have you heard the name McGunn?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you like Joe?”
Miranda lowered her head and seemed to redden.
“Well?”
“He was very handsome. And strong.”
“So you did like him?”
“I was a little frighted of him. More than a little, to tell the truth. So was Amy at first. Her parents didn’t like him at all. Sir Toby used to get very angry when he came to the house. He used to wave his hagbut around, threatening to blow his head off. Said he was to stay away from his daughter. Joe just laughed. Nothing scared Joe.”
“Was he ever violent?”
“Not that I saw, but I heard tell he would cut the knee or ankle strings of any man that crossed him or failed to pay their debts. That’s what they said in the village. But he never hurt Amy, sir. He wouldn’t. He was mad for her, wanted to marry her and run away. That was why Sir Toby and m’lady took against him so. There was much shouting.”
“Did Mr. Winterberry know of this young man?”
“I do not know, sir.”
“Were you at the wedding feast, Miranda?”
“Yes, sir. I was serving, sir.”
“And was Joe Jaggard there?”
“No, not at first. He was not supposed to be there. But then I did see him. I saw him in the shadows, beckoning to her. And then I saw him clasp her hand and pull her away from the feasting and they did run off into the long grass together. I watched them go.”
“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.
SIMON 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.”