Rory Clements - Revenger

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.”

T ELL ME, MR. SHAKESPEARE,” CECIL SAID. “WHY DO you think I have called you here to Theobalds and entrusted you with this information regarding my lord of Essex?”

Shakespeare sipped his wine. He felt distinctly ill at ease. “Well, Sir Robert,” he said at last. “I confess I really do not know what to say.”

Cecil looked at him coolly. “You know, of course, Mr. Shakespeare, that Sir Francis Walsingham felt obliged to dispense with your services because of your marriage, but he admitted to me in his latter days that it had been a mistake. He said his secret operation was never so strong again. That is how highly he valued you. England needed you then-and I believe it needs you again.”

“You flatter me, Sir Robert.”

“I am not here to flatter you. There is a vacuum, Mr. Shakespeare. If nature, as we are told, abhors a vacuum, how much more so does the world of secrets. If I do not fill it, others will, others less scrupulous.”

Shakespeare knew the truth of this. Though he was no longer part of that world, it was the one he understood better than any other.

“I need you for this. There are few enough men of your caliber. Yes, there are many spies, men who can be set to a task with the lure of gold, but are they trustworthy? Can any of them inquire, organize, and pursue as, I believe, you can? With relentless energy and attention to detail. With such talents, you are needed. These are dangerous days.”

Shakespeare nodded. These were the most perilous times since the dark days of the Armada-one hundred and thirty warships wallowing slow and purposeful down the Channel under the weight of heavy cannons, culverins, and thirty thousand battle-hardened Spanish troops, all hungry to descend on England with fire and steel. “Yes, I am sure King Philip burns with desire for vengeance,” he acknowledged.

Cecil smiled thinly. “Good. It is good that you understand. I have firm information that forty great galleons are being built in the ports of Spain-forty fighting ships and each one finer than the best vessels of war that Philip threw at us before. He is strengthening his ports; he is preparing to attack again. The prospect of a second Armada sent against us is very real, Mr. Shakespeare. Like a pack dog, Philip watches England closely for signs of weakness. When he sees us tired, sick, or divided, he will go for our throat.”

“But we are strong at sea.”

“Not as strong as we were. The war chest is bare. Many of the great ships are laid up in port, neglected and in need of refitting; others are sent fishing or trading. At home the country grows weaker. Our crops fail; the plague comes upon us; armies of vagabonds roam the land, bringing terror to villages and towns.”

Shakespeare knew all this. By the same token, he knew that Spain, too, had her troubles. The endless war in the Spanish Netherlands had drained Philip’s treasury. Nor could Spanish morale have recovered from the beating inflicted on the Armada by Drake. But this was no time to argue such points.

“The worst of it, Mr. Shakespeare, is this constant speculation about the succession. This is what makes us seem feeble. Courtiers and ambassadors talk of little else when they huddle in corners or dine together. Maids of honor twitter and gossip and examine the Queen’s face for every wrinkle, every lost hair, the state of her teeth, any perceived diminishing of powers that might signify the end is near. What, they wonder, will become of them when the Lord takes her? It is a contagion of fear. King Philip sees it and plots how he may exploit it.”