Rory Clements - Prince

‘And you, sir, who are you?’

‘John Shakespeare. I have orders to talk with Antonio Perez.’

‘I imagine you are here to grant him access to the Queen. He has waited nearly two months now and is becoming impatient. And so am I, for I wish to dance at court. Well, come with me. I will take you to his chamber before I go for my ride. You do not have a Spanish wheel-lock secreted up your sleeve, I presume?’

Shakespeare smiled. ‘No wheel-lock. But I had heard Don Antonio was asleep.’

‘That is just his secretary. Pay him no heed. He plays his little games. Very proud and insolent for a mere servant, do you not think?’

Indeed, Shakespeare did think so, but he said nothing. He followed the woman through to the hall and up the stairway to the first floor.

‘Look at this place, Mr Shakespeare,’ she said brushing a cobweb from the corner of a cracked window in the gallery. ‘Henri of Navarre would not treat an honoured guest to his country so.’ She threw open the door to a chamber and pushed on in. A four-poster bed hung with rich drapes stood in the centre of the dimly lit room. The floor was littered with clothing — farm clothes of wool and linsey-kersey, smocks and breeches and a hide jerkin that looked and smelled a hundred years old. Ana Cabral drew the bed curtains apart.

Shakespeare saw what appeared to be a mass of bodies on the bed. He counted limbs and reckoned there to be four people. Two men and two women. All were asleep, softly snoring, though they stirred at the noise and sudden admission of light to their little world. He was assailed by the stench of sweat, stale alcohol, farting and copulation.

‘Don Antonio, you have a visitor,’ Ana said in Spanish, idly stroking one of the limbs with her gloved hand. ‘Mr Shakespeare from the office of Sir Robert Cecil.’

The elder of the two men grunted from the depths of the bedding. Ana leant over and kissed him on the mouth. Shakespeare saw that he had a beet-swarthy face of broken veins, a stubble of beard and a straggle of dyed black hair. He opened his eyes, blinking. Was this the face that had won the love of the tragic Princess of Eboli? Shakespeare shuddered. Carelessly elbowing one of the women in the face, Perez raised himself up against the bed cushions.

‘Shakespeare?’

‘At your service, Don Antonio.’

‘Ana, pay these peasants and send them away. Give more to the little fair one and tell her to return this night. And bring her sister — or brother — if she has one.’

Without a word, Ana began to lay about Perez’s young bedmates with her crop, lashing them hard across legs, buttocks and heads until they leapt up and ran naked from the room, dragging their garments behind them. She laughed at their going, then stretched over the bed once more and kissed Perez. ‘I shall go and give them their dues now. I will have wine and meats brought to you and Mr Shakespeare.’

After she had gone, Perez patted the bed at his side with a gloved hand. ‘Come, sit with me, Mr Shakespeare. Tell me what treasure Sir Robert has to offer.’

Shakespeare lowered his eyes respectfully. Whatever this man had become, he had once been a minister to the crown of the most powerful land in the world and had led an extraordinary life. His relationship with the Princess of Eboli was the stuff of legend. If Perez felt grief for her loss, he showed no signs of it here, in this shabby room with these sweaty farm youths.

Shakespeare sat on the bed beside the grizzled old courtier. He was grateful, at least, that the Spaniard spoke passable English.

‘Look what I am reduced to, Mr Shakespeare.’ Don Antonio waved his hand in an extravagant gesture of displeasure at his surroundings. ‘Forty years ago, my father came to England in honour as secretary to Philip on his marriage to your Queen Mary. And was I not his equal in every way? Once my homes were the most gracious palaces of Aragon and Castile. In my casilla outside Madrid I sported and dallied with princesses in courtyards of marble, to the sound of cool-flowing fountains, the scent of lemons and the colours of oleander. Even the horse I rode was scented. Now I make do with toothless country girls who stink of the stables and believe themselves well paid at half a ducat a night. Does no one in this country wash?’

Shakespeare could not contain a light laugh. Even on a summer’s day, this house was no palace and the scent of an English farmyard could be no substitute for fresh Spanish lemons. And it was true; few enough people in England had discovered the joys and profits of bathing.

‘Why do you think I am here, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘I believe you are a guest of my lord of Essex.’

‘True. But that is not why I have come here. I come here as an envoy with my good friend the Vidame de Chartres. We have an important message from Henri of France to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth.’

‘Concerning the possibility of a conversion?’

‘He is, indeed, taking instructions in the Catholic faith and will soon embrace it. Then Paris will be his and France will be one for the first time in many years. But he wishes to reassure the Basilisk — I apologise, Elizabeth Tudor — whom he esteems, that he will not be a friend to Spain nor an enemy to England. The vidame and I must be admitted to her presence so that we can deliver this vital message to her personally. There are letters…’

‘And I am sure that Her Majesty will, in due course, receive you and take pleasure in your gracious company. I know she will be glad to receive assurances regarding the intentions of le roi Henri.’

Perez removed his gloves and covered Shakespeare’s hand with his own on the rumpled bedding. ‘But you are here on another matter…’

Shakespeare was struck by the delicate smoothness of the hand. He had heard it said that Spanish courtiers wore oiled gloves at night to give their hands a feminine softness and to keep them unnaturally white, but when he looked down he saw that Perez’s hand was blotched and clawlike with age. He did not enjoy its touch and recoiled at the thought of the hand upon the fresh young bodies of the peasant girls and boy who had been in his bed. He found himself thinking, too, of its caresses upon the fine body of Ana Cabral.

‘Indeed, Don Antonio,’ he said, removing his hand from Perez’s and reaching into his doublet for his letter-patent from Cecil. ‘Sir Robert has commanded me to negotiate with you for important information, some secret you possess.’

‘Let us not be maidenly, then, Mr Shakespeare. I have something to sell. You wish to buy it. What are you prepared to offer?’

‘Two hundred.’

Perez cupped his hand about his ear like a scallop shell. ‘I believe I misheard you. I thought for a moment you said two hundred. I am sure you meant twenty thousand, Mr Shakespeare. Sovereigns of gold. As a point at which to start…’

‘It seems we are a world apart.’

‘I call myself El Peregrino, for like a desert nomad, I am doomed to travel the world forever. I am sure your Robertus Diabolus can travel a long way, too. How far is it from two hundred to twenty thousand? Not such a great distance.’

‘To me, it seems like the distance from London to Peru,’ Shakespeare replied. ‘May I ask you, Don Antonio, why do you offer this information to Sir Robert rather than to my lord of Essex? He is your host; he would welcome such intelligence.’

Perez’s head was too large for his small body and when he put it to one side quizzically, as if considering the question, it almost seemed as if it might roll away. ‘I am sure you know why, Mr Shakespeare. You, better than anyone, must know who holds the purse strings in this country. The Cecils. The father is Lord Treasurer, the son is as good as Principal Secretary. I do not think for a moment that the Earl of Essex could secure the necessary funds. Do you?’