Chapter 49
WHEN, AT LAST, SIR ROBERT CECIL RETURNED FROM the West Country, having salvaged what he could of the Madre de Dios treasure, Shakespeare made haste to see him. There was much to be settled.
Shakespeare handed the Privy Councillor a list of the names of all Essex’s supporters at the abortive wedding to Arbella Stuart in the church by Hardwick Hall.
Cecil glanced at the names, then filed them away with other papers. “Thank you, John. We shall deal with this quietly.”
Shakespeare raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Cecil saw his reaction. “John, would you wish to be the man who told the Queen that the thing she loves above all else, her golden warrior, is naught but base metal? Can you imagine her rage? I care nothing for Essex’s head; it is his to lose as he wishes. But the child Arbella? Should she be another Jane Grey? What of the others? I must tell you, I fear the blood-letting would go as far as your brother.”
Shakespeare was shocked. “My brother?”
“Did you think I was unaware of his role in this?”
Shakespeare was silent. Of course he knew. Topcliffe …
“Which leaves us with the question of the evidence you promised me, John.”
Shakespeare stiffened. Cecil was expecting a bundle of letters and verses, signed by Essex but penned by Will. From his doublet, he took the charts supplied by Forman—a death chart for Elizabeth and a nuptial chart for Essex and Arbella—and Forman’s affidavit.
Cecil studied them in silence, then nodded. “Very well. I think you have given me enough. I have my lord of Essex where I want him.” He filed the charts away with the list of names.
Shakespeare bowed.
“And I can now tell you something else, John: Francis Mills is my man. It was he that told Essex and McGunn that they must have you—that you could be their Walsingham. And it was Mr. Mills that helped you from within Essex House and protected you when they became suspicious. I trust your past differences will now be at an end, for he is discovered, too, and has hurriedly left Essex House. He will work with us.”
Shakespeare frowned. Work with Mills? Stranger things had happened. Nothing was certain in this intelligencers’ war. Cecil against Essex. Circles within circles. All that could be said was that the opening shots had been fired in a war of secrets between the two greatest young men of the age.
“The Earl, meanwhile, will remain the Queen’s pet,” Cecil continued. “But his progress will always be impeded. He no longer has McGunn’s gold to fund him and must crawl on his belly once more for favors from his sovereign.”
“Is he back at court already?”
“Shamelessly. Closeted all night with her, playing tables and primero, paying her sweet compliments, dancing until dawn. He keeps her amused. The years roll off her shoulders and England is the better for it. But he knows he is found out and will forever be watched. His coven can stir their cauldron as they wish, but they are figures of jest. The She-wolf paces in lonely exile in the Midlands. Penelope cavorts with her amour in her black-draped chamber. As to Southampton and the others, they sleep at night with aching necks, thinking how close they came to the axe.”
Shakespeare took a sip of wine. “And what of Sir Walter?”
“He is back in the Tower. I am sure he would not be content to have the massacre of the Roanoke colony bruited about, for it would leave him in a yet more parlous state, his patent from the Queen turned to ashes.”
“Do you wish it advertised, Sir Robert?”
“You know me better than that, John.”
Indeed, Shakespeare had been reflecting on how like Sir Francis Walsingham his new employer was. Both men shared an extreme, almost cold level of caution. In their world of intelligencing, knowledge was all, and to be guarded jealously. Cecil would not want word of the Roanoke slaughter to see the light. Ralegh must be freed and his rivalry with Essex nurtured. That way both men would be weakened, leaving the course free for Cecil. To that end, Eleanor Dare must be silenced.
“She will stay in the North Country,” Shakespeare assured him. “She is living with my wife’s mother and contents herself with her inks and quills and parchments. I do believe she wishes naught but peace and solitude.”
“And we shall wink at the death of Mr. McGunn. What of the brother-in-law?”
“Foxley Dare continues to pursue a claim that his brother be declared dead so that he and the boy may inherit the property. He would not wish a counter-claim. Anyway, who would believe a man with a reputation for swiving geese?”
Cecil did not smile. “The important thing is that McGunn is dead. It is now clear how widespread and malign was his influence. In Mr. Secretary’s day, such an insect would have been squashed underfoot long since. You will ensure such men never hold sway in this realm again, John.”
Shakespeare had considered McGunn’s role. He had been the hub of an infernal wheel, whose spokes touched lives in terrible ways: the tragedy of the Roanoke colonists; his funding of the Essex treachery; the corruption of Christopher Morley; Winterberry and the Le Neves. All spokes led back to McGunn. But Shakespeare also found himself wondering about the event that lay behind it all—the pitiless killing of his wife at a small rocky outcrop of Ireland known as Smerwick. He asked Cecil about it—was there truth in the claim that Ralegh had blood on his hands?
“I do believe so,” Cecil said. “My father told me that Ralegh carried out the killings with grim efficiency, watching his soldiers hewing and punching six hundred unarmed and bound men, and hanging pregnant women. They were cruel days. Ralegh’s half-brother, Humphrey Gilbert, had a row of Irish heads lining the path to his tent. I heard also that when Ralegh caught an Irishman stealing willow branches from an English camp, he demanded to know what they were for. ‘To hang English churls,’ the man said. Ralegh had him strung up there and then, saying the branches would serve as well for an insolent Irishman. I cannot stomach such things, which is why I strive for peace, not war. That is what you sign up to, John, when you agree to assist me. You understand that?”
“We are as one, Sir Robert. Except …”
“Except my use of Mr. Topcliffe. I believe you had the same problem when you worked for Mr. Secretary Walsingham.”
The anger rose in Shakespeare’s gullet. “I have to speak plain, Sir Robert. The man tried to ensnare my wife. He takes pleasure in torture. He has raped the young Bellamy woman. He conspired with the poisonous Morley. I say that Topcliffe is worse than any of England’s enemies.”
“Sit down, John,” Cecil ordered. “Let me tell you that I share your feelings. And yet …”
“There is no ‘and yet,’ Sir Robert.”
“And yet I need Mr. Topcliffe, just as Mr. Secretary needed him. There is no doubting his loyalty to the crown or to England.”
“He is a man who does not balk at torture, rape, and murder.”
“Enough, John. Sit down.” The Privy Councillor’s voice became quieter. “Please, listen to me. These are desperate times. Spain will come with a yet more powerful fleet next spring or summer. And her agents continue to worm their way into the body of England—in secret ways which it is our task to stop. You are my longbow in this, John—but Topcliffe is the poison tip of my arrow.”
Cecil, small and precise and still, never lost his composure as he spoke. Their eyes met. At last Cecil smiled and reached out his hand in friendship. “Come, John, we need each other. Let us speak of pleasanter things. Let us speak of a bright future for England. I need you—and I believe you need me.”