Rory Clements - Revenger

It had worked. This night, the girl would be lying awake in her bedchamber at Hardwick Hall, her mind full of Robert Devereux, her bold Earl of Essex, her love; wet for him, breathless in her desire to be taken.

A wedding was but the start. It had to be followed through with conviction or it would merely consign both Robert and Arbella to the Tower, just as Ralegh now languished there with his new bride.

They needed a protective circle of men. A Round Table of the greatest in the land; men to stand with them. Southampton and Rutland for their nobility; McGunn for his endless stream of gold; Thomas Phelippes, Francis Mills, Arthur Gregory, and Anthony Bacon for their secret ways; Francis Bacon for his political instincts; Meyrick, Danvers, Williams, and Le Neve for their military prowess.

With meticulous care, wiles, and flattery, she had drawn them in. At last the group was complete: twenty or thirty of the most formidable men in the kingdom, all utterly loyal to her brother. Men whom even the Cecils could not resist.

There would be no arrest warrant issued while these noble warriors, along with their host of retainers and knights, stood together. And if there was resistance, if the issue was forced… well, the throne would come to Robert all the quicker.

There had been one minor hurdle to overcome: Robert’s wife, Frances. Though she was dull, Penelope had always rather liked her. Her instinct was merely to ignore the marriage, have it annulled as unlawful at a later date. That would be easy enough, especially once the crown was theirs. But others felt it might be better if she was out of the way before the wedding.

The last part of the puzzle had been John Shakespeare. Mr. Mills had been insistent that there was no better man in England to organize the vital work of intelligence-gathering. With his brother so deeply involved, it was better that he stand with them, too. And such skills as he possessed would be critical once the crown was theirs. If anyone could protect the fledgling regime from usurpers and rebels, it was a man of his anxious diligence-a man who, like Walsingham, had worked so tirelessly to protect his Queen for so many years. Shakespeare was such a man. Shakespeare would be their Walsingham.

Her brother had not been sure of John Shakespeare; he told her that McGunn had doubts. She had her own doubts, though: doubts about McGunn. Though they had needed his riches, she understood the danger of selling him their souls. McGunn would want much in return, yet the nature of that reckoning had never been clear.

Penelope turned toward Charles and curled her body around his. He was warm. She wrapped her arms around his waist and her hands found his yard, which stirred at her touch. She would like him to take her now, but it hardly seemed fair when he slept so peacefully after their long afternoon of lovemaking.

The rain beat against the walls.

She fancied she heard horses in the distance, but she had imagined that all day long. They would come, she was sure of it. This night, they would come to her on the first leg of their momentous journey.

She sat up. Even through the howling rain, she could hear the trample of hooves on heavy ground. Suddenly there was a clatter as the first horses came through onto the cobbles in the courtyard. Penelope nudged her beloved. “Charles, they are here.”

He turned to her. His face was severe in the cloud-darkened light. As a soldier, he was used to waking to instant alertness without the groggy interlude of ordinary mortals. “I am not coming. I will not see them.”

“But, Charles…”

“No. I shall smoke my pipe and read a few verses until they are gone.”

He would not countenance her plans. It had been a running battle between them, the only point of disagreement in an otherwise intense and devoted relationship. She had explained her thinking: the absolute certainty that the Queen must soon die-“We are all mortal, Charles, and she is old and fading fast”-and the need for a strong man to take the crown, not Scottish, nor Spanish, but English.

Even when she had shown him Dr. Forman’s astrological charts, he had refused. “You may well be right, my alderliefest, but I will err on the side of caution in such matters,” he had insisted. Yet, while he would not join them, she knew that he would not betray them either.

She rose and kissed his face, then stepped to the window to see the four-man vanguard sitting astride their steaming horses, drenched and muddy. She rang a bell to summon her maidservant, who assisted her to dress in a gown of black satin with gold edging.

Penelope arrived in the courtyard just as her brother cantered in at the head of the main body of horsemen. Their mother stood on the steps of the great hall, regally attired in a French gown of cloth of silver, embroidered with little scarlet wolves, with small cuts to the arms revealing gold threads. Her bodice descended in dramatic fashion to a sharp-pointed stomacher and, to protect her from the rain, she wore a black taffeta cloak and hat. The effect, in the darkening sky and against the mellow brickwork, was quite dazzling. She looked every inch the queen she believed herself to be.

Lettice opened wide her arms to greet her beloved son. He walked his black stallion forward to the steps until he was beside his mother, then leaned over and kissed her proffered hand. All his companions, still high in the saddle, roared their approval.

Penelope purred with pleasure. It occurred to her that anyone who did not know better might have thought these men were hailing their God-ordained king.

She looked around the group and saw all the familiar faces: louche Southampton, still managing to look elegant in the saddle, despite being mud-caked, with his hair all in rats’ tails; Rutland, a wicked glint in his eye; Le Neve, stiff and soldierly as ever; Danvers, sneaky and thin; Meyrick, staying close to his master, for whom he would happily sacrifice his own life if need be.

Servants carried trays with silver goblets of wine and brandy to the assembled horsemen now crowding out of the courtyard. When all had their cups filled, Lettice held up her own goblet and the horsemen went silent. “A toast,” she said, “to a wedding.”

“To a wedding,” they all shouted in unison, then downed their drinks in one, tossing their empty cups to the cobbled stones.

Penelope held up her hand to silence the group, then spoke quietly to her brother, though all could hear. “And where, pray, is Frances?” she asked, in a voice of beguiling innocence.

“She is indisposed, madam,” came the reply, and the horsemen all erupted in laughter. “Now, let us take supper. We ride again with fresh horses in one hour.”

And I shall ride with you , thought Penelope, for I do love a fine wedding .

A S JOHN SHAKESPEARE RODE, THOUGHTS CROWDED his mind. It was clear now how Cecil was able to promise to protect him. It was because he controlled Topcliffe-or, at least, as much as any man could control a rabid dog.

His thoughts turned to poor Jack Butler. He must have withstood agonies to protect his master. In the end, he had succumbed, as any man would, yet his courage had not been totally in vain, for it had bought Shakespeare valuable time-time in which he had learned what he needed to know from Penelope Rich.

Having finally discovered where Shakespeare’s true loyalties lay, Slyguff had been dispatched to Sudeley Castle to kill him, along with the Countess of Essex, but Shakespeare was one step ahead. The question now was whether he could maintain his advantage and reach Hardwick Hall in time.

His gray mare made good progress. Shakespeare felt certain that he, a horseman alone, must soon overhaul a band of twenty or more men.