Rory Clements - Prince

Ana reached across and touched his hand. She no longer wore gloves and the sensation of her fingers surprised him with their sudden heat. ‘You are a hard man, Mr Shakespeare. Don Antonio has come to you in good faith — a little faith from the Cecils in return would not go amiss. I am sure you will learn the secret soon.’ Her hand lingered. And then her fingertips slid away.

Shakespeare bowed his head in apology. ‘I had not meant to imply lack of trust.’ And yet, in truth, he did not trust any person here in this house. His enforced leisure during the afternoon had been frustrating when there was so much to be pursued in the gunpowder inquiry. And what of the miserable Christopher Morley in the Wood Street Counter while he was idling away his time here?

‘The actions of a quarter-century past reverberate down the years, Mr Shakespeare. You must bring me gold.’

Shakespeare sipped some wine. ‘If I am to get close to your position, Don Antonio, you must tell me more. You must give me enough to commend you to Sir Robert with conviction.’

The broken veins on Perez’s purple face creased into a smile. His hand rested on the small box of vials. ‘Let us talk of the favour for Pregent first.’

‘What could a poor officer of state such as myself offer a member of the nobility of France?’

‘Why, what does any man want, Mr Shakespeare? We all wish the same — soft bright gold, hard red rubies and fine pink cunnies. Of the three, I believe Monsieur le Vidame wants a woman.’

Shakespeare’s gaze fell upon the Frenchman. ‘I am sure the vidame does not need my help in that regard.’

‘But this is a most particular woman. She is a black Ethiop. He bought her and she is his. But she was stolen from him by one of Hawkins’s pirate ships en route from Lisbon to Harfleur. She is now here in England. Monsieur le Vidame wishes to have her back.’

The vidame smiled and raised his fine chin in acknowledgement. Ana Cabral dipped her fingers into a plate of chicken and pulled a piece of crisp, golden skin from the flesh. She put the skin in her mouth and a trickle of juice ran from her lips. Slowly, her pink tongue descended and lapped all but the last drop back into her mouth.

Black Lucy. There were few enough dark-skinned women in England, and fewer still of such extraordinary beauty that a man might search the world for her. Shakespeare did not venture her name, however. ‘You will have to tell me a little more, sir,’ he said. ‘I have met one or two blackamoor women in London.’

‘I call her Monique,’ the vidame said languidly, as if it were an effort to talk at all. ‘But she now goes under the name Lucy. Some call her the Black Abbess, for she has her bawdy-house in a former nunnery. You must know of her, Mr Shakespeare. She is much feted.’

‘Yes, I have heard of Black Lucy. Is she indentured to you? I had no idea. Nor had I heard of Hawkins’s part in her arrival on these shores. I had believed her a free woman and a Christian, though sinful.’

The vidame leaned back in his chair and examined his neat fingers with studied nonchalance. He looked up and met Shakespeare’s eyes. ‘In truth, sir, I care not whether she is a Christian or a mermaid. She is mine and I would like England to return her to me. She is stolen property. Sir Robert Cecil could have no objection. He wishes good relations with the new France of Henri IV, does he not? And I am sure you have enough whores in London that you could manage without Monique.’

As he spoke, the candles in the hall guttered at the opening of a door. Shakespeare turned his head and saw the sleek, copper-hued face of Perez’s impertinent secretary. Then his sinews stiffened, for he was closely followed by another man — a man he had no wish to see.

The secretary bowed with a lazy half-flourish, then introduced the newcomer. ‘Monsieur le Vidame, Don Antonio, Dona Ana, Mr Shakespeare, allow me to present Mr Richard Baines. He has ridden hard from London to attend upon you.’

‘Aha,’ Perez said. ‘Our fifth guest. Take a seat, Mr Baines. You are just in time to dine with us.’

Shakespeare eyed him coldly. He knew Baines all too well. Like Robert Poley, he was an intelligencer from the days of Walsingham, yet there the similarity ended. While Poley fished in the murkier estuaries of intrigue for his prey, Baines flew in more elevated company, scavenging for information at court and in great houses, as a kestrel hunts mice. Shakespeare sniffed the air. The man smelled bad. And yet his clothes were expensively cut — a fine doublet of brown and gold brocade, a modest though modish ruff and riding breeches to the knee, cut from good fustian. Why, though, was he here — and why did his name keep surfacing? It had been Baines who wrote that Kit Marlowe’s mouth should be stopped — just a few days before it was stopped forever. Baines the turncoat, betraying a former friend and partner in crime. He and Marlowe had lived together in the Low Countries and had been accused of counterfeiting coin together. But then their friendship had come apart in volcanic fashion, each accusing the other of planning to go over to the forces of Rome and Spain. The final knife jab had been the note delivered to the Privy Council just a few days before Marlowe’s death. Shakespeare had seen this note during his investigations and he had been shocked to the core. The content itself was bad enough, but that a man should write such things about a one-time friend left him feeling sick to his stomach. The devastating note accused Marlowe of saying That Moses was but a juggler. That Christ was a bastard and his mother dishonest. That Christ deserved better to die than Barabbas and that the Jews made a good choice, though Barabbas was both a thief and a murderer. That the woman of Samaria and her sister were whores and that Christ knew them dishonestly. That St John the Evangelist was bedfellow to Christ, that he used him as the sinners of Sodom. That they who love not tobacco and boys are fools. That all the apostles were base fellows neither of wit nor worth. That he (Marlowe) had as good right to coin as the Queen of England. That the Angel Gabriel was bawd to the Holy Ghost.

Shakespeare knew Baines — and yet he didn’t really know him. He flitted and hunted but did not land long enough for any eye to catch his design. One day he was an ordained Roman Catholic priest, the next a spy for Protestant England. He might have been a player at the Rose, so consummate was his skill at trickery. In looks, he was handsome, tall and well formed. He wore his hair long, though not as long as the vidame’s, and his beard was sharply trimmed. But the inner workings of his mind? That was harder to discern. And had Nicholas Henbird not hinted at some diabolical link between Baines and Topcliffe?

Baines greeted each in turn. He bowed and kissed Ana’s proffered hand. She averted her face. ‘Mr Baines, I must tell you that you stink like the bilge of a home-coming galleon.’

‘I apologise. It is the hard ride from London. Sweat and dirt. I shall bathe.’ He moved on to Shakespeare, and allowed himself to be introduced as though they had never met.

Shakespeare was puzzled. ‘I know you well, Mr Baines,’ he said, refusing to play along with his strange and unnecessary deception. ‘I am certain you must remember me, for we were both in the service of Mr Secretary.’

Baines’s brown eyes widened as if in sudden recognition. ‘Of course — Mr Shakespeare. I felt I recognised you from somewhere, but was not certain where. A thousand pardons, sir.’

‘It is no matter. I see your wish came true in the case of Kit Marlowe. His mouth is, indeed, stopped. You must be exceeding pleased.’

Baines laughed. ‘The world is well rid of him. He denied God. Well, he will know the truth by now, as he screams in the eternal fire.’