Shakespeare's Rebel

  He felt anger replace his forestalled lust, tried to damp it down. ‘The wars are not over, Tess. Paused. That’s all a truce is.’

  ‘Truce?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Ned told you of my letter, did he not?’

  ‘He did not,’ he lied. He did not want his spy exposed. ‘The rumour is upon the street.’ He went on, overriding her interruption, ‘And soldiers do not leave at a truce. They hammer out their armour, sharpen their blades and wait for combat to recommence.’

  ‘Nevertheless.’ She had stepped closer again, not with desire, but to search his eyes. ‘You fear that a truce might send some home, do you not? My fiancé, for instance. That is why you are so bold.’

  ‘I thought my boldness was my charm.’ His smile did not move her, and he continued in a different, humbler tone, ‘If I am bold, it is only that I believe I have some hope. I am back with the players’ – a half-truth, but one he could build on – ‘and I have been moderate the summer long. I have . . .’

  He trailed off under her gaze. It had changed, from accusation to something else. He was terrified that he saw pity there – his observation immediately confirmed. ‘Oh John,’ she said, ‘I have been delighted in your . . . rehabilitation. It has lasted longer . . .’ She paused, continued, ‘. . . lasted a long time. And Ned has so enjoyed your company all summer. I am sorry, though, if my delight has been misinterpreted as anything more . . .’ She shook her head. ‘No. My troth is plighted to Sir Samuel. And whether he comes home soon, or afterwards, I will await him. For I gave him my word.’

  He stared at her, sought some giving in the firmness he’d always known in her. He could see none. That anger pulsed again. ‘And what was this?’ He gestured to the table. ‘I know what I feel. I know you feel the same.’

  ‘Oh John,’ she said again, then laughed. ‘You will always have an alchemist’s power over me. It is not something I can defend against . . . except in this’ – she raised her hand, and Despair’s ring gleamed faintly – ‘and in the knowledge that the life your lightning ripped me from, I may have again.’ She glanced around. ‘Yet I must take care and not let myself be alone with you. For it seems my flesh is still . . . transmutable.’

  She said this last as she crossed to the door. Swinging it wide, she gestured him outside. He went slowly to her, past her. He thought of all the things he could have said, and had not said. Of all the weapons he had not yet unsheathed. But he, the master of so many, had none to reach for under her firm stare.

  He crossed to the garden’s gate. ‘You will still accompany me tomorrow to see our son perform?’ he said, over his shoulder.

  She smiled. ‘Of course. We promised Ned, did we not? His parents together, cheering him on. He has been disappointed in so much in his life; he will not be in . . . in that.’ She faltered at the reproof in her words, continued more gently. ‘Come for me at eleven.’

  ‘I will.’

  He turned the key. ‘Can I not offer you an ale within?’ she called.

  He did not answer her, just waved, opened the door, exited. He could not sit in her tavern and drink her beer, however good it was.

  He needed another place. He craved a different drink.

  XVI

  Lost

  The Larkspur was nearest and of a dark dinginess to match his mood. It was in part a brothel, stairs leading to upper rooms with cots; even on the ground floor there were alcoves that curtains could be pulled across to conceal acts that did not warrant a tedious climb nor many minutes. Several of these were drawn, but fortunately the tavern was crowded enough that its noise dulled all others. He did not need to hear lust being slaked, however tawdry the transaction.

  At the trestle before the casks, he hesitated. He knew what he wanted, and the urge to purchase a bottle of aqua vitae, and drink it all himself, near overpowered him. He wrestled with that for a full minute as the landlord served others. When the man returned, John slapped down a mill sixpence for a tankard of the double double – a compromise; it was the strongest ale they served. Praising himself for his restraint, he turned, spied a stool in a corner being vacated. The apprentice who had just lowered himself on to it relinquished it without a murmur. Perhaps it was on seeing John’s eyes.

  He drank off half the tankard at a clip, felt its effects almost immediately. It was the most potent thing he’d had all summer. He would have to be careful. Double double ale was not whisky. Yet it could weaken him enough to put him on the path to his true desire.

  His true desire? What had small beer and sobriety achieved for him since Shrove Tuesday? A limping lord upon the platform, a few fights arranged, both of which had given him enough coin for ale, humble pie and little else. It had not given him what he truly sought – a troth plight sundered, another joined, with him again and forever in his sweet Tess’s bed.

  He took another swig. Plague on the bed, he thought. I’d have had her against the table and that’s a fact. He could still feel her body pressed to his at every point that mattered. He could feel her heat responding to his. And then it had been dampened, suddenly, cruelly, by her scruples. Dampened, but not extinguished he had felt, seen, known.

  He eyed the whores moving between the tables, saw the late rival for his stool, the apprentice, stumbling upstairs in pursuit of one. They were a mangy lot, the Larkspur a mangy dive. Yet strong ale tended to beautify even the most staled of punks. He would have to be twice careful.

  The bottom of the tankard had mysteriously been reached. He knew what he wanted next; knew also that his purse, short a sixpence now, would no longer bear the cost. Well, there were other ways to obtain his desire. He could entertain with a yarn. He could recite a string of soliloquies; he could threaten. He was practised in these ways and others. What I should do, he thought, is retire to my straw. Perhaps accompanied by the tawny-haired drab across the tavern who was giving him the eye and who reminded him of someone he couldn’t quite recall. She would be cheaper than whisky.

  He became aware of a pot boy standing before his table. John thought he must want the vessel and shoved it across towards him. But the boy did not take it. Instead, he put something down.

  It was a glass, unusual in the Larkspur, where glass was more likely to be thrown than drunk from. More unusual still, it was filled with a liquid that sparkled in the rush torchlight and whose scent wafted to his nostrils.

  Sweeter than any perfume of Araby. Sweeter even than a woman who smells of bulrushes on a summer riverbank. For there was nothing sweeter than the water of life.

  ‘The lady sent it ya,’ the boy said.

  ‘Lady?’ John looked around the room. ‘What lady?’

  ‘In the alcove there. Proper one she is. Smells somethin’ lovely.’ The boy sniffed, wiped a flowing nose. ‘Asks if you’d care to join her.’

  John followed the boy’s finger. The alcove he pointed to had lately been occupied by three raucous seamen and two whores. But its curtain was now drawn and only silence came from it.

  John rose, picked up the glass and carefully threaded through the mob across the tavern floor, spilling not a drop. When he stood before the curtain, he bent close and said, ‘I am here. What do you want of me?’

  The voice came low, but strong. ‘Enter, sir, and we shall see.’

  He pulled the curtain back. At the table sat a lady, alone. And the pot boy was right – she did smell something lovely. Smelled just as she had before when he’d seen her in the Queen’s company and, he now shockingly realised, leaving the astrologer’s. She smelled of cloves.

  He remembered the scent. But he had not appreciated how pretty she was. ‘Your health, ma’am,’ he said and, draining the glass, let the curtain fall behind him.

  It was cruel, the awakening, as they often were. On a sustained debauch, like the month’s he’d undertaken before Shrove Tuesday, the pain felt at each dawn – or noon, or evening, whenever he’d happen to awaken – would be less and could be lessened further with immediate reapplication of what had caused it. It was John’s first though
t on waking; and, trying to keep his movements to a minimum, he groped around him for glass or leather, any vessel that might contain relief. His hand found none, but something else. Something that moaned when probed further.

  He sat up swiftly, almost crying out for the jab that sent through his head. Whoever was beside him gave another whimper, then fell silent. Carefully he reached for the blanket that covered them both, lifted a corner . . .

  He knew her before he saw her. Knew by the scent that rose, muddled though it was with others now. The realisation came with his first clear thought – that like many things that appeal at night, the scent of cloves was distinctly less pleasant in the morning.

  He pulled the cover off her. Eyes so brown they were almost black – and all the blacker for the contrast with the unbound golden hair that fell to her shoulders – were fixed upon him. ‘Good morning, my lover,’ the Queen’s maid said.

  ‘Is it morning?’ he muttered, then realised it had to be. No candlelight flickered over them. He was studying her by what passed the shutters, stripes of light over them, falling only on skin, for both of them were naked.

  As his eyes took her in, she stretched, arms back, head up, the long hair falling behind, her breasts thrust forward. Her nipples were large and hard and he could not help noticing that the skin around them was chafed, with what appeared to be scratch marks running towards each. She noticed his gaze, cupped her breasts, pressed them together. ‘Do you see what you did to me last night? You were cruel, sir, most cruel.’

  He swallowed. ‘I am sorry, I . . .’

  ‘Did I say I minded?’ She laughed, almost a musical sound, like someone running up and down a scale on a viola. ‘In fact, I think the reverse is true. I think, indeed, I recall encouraging you in your cruelty.’ She let fall her breasts and, putting a hand between her legs, gave a groan. ‘You were most animal-like, sir. Had it been a while?’

  It had, but it was not something he would discuss. ‘Again, I apologise.’

  ‘Again . . . do you hear me complain?’ She laughed, as musically, then dropped down upon the bed. Propping her head on one hand, she smiled up at him. ‘Forsooth, I was most pleasantly surprised in you. Most Englishmen, especially sots, are swift in action – if indeed they can be roused to it – and soon spent. Here’ – she snapped her finger – ‘gone! But you’ – she reached up and ran a painted nail down his bicep – ‘though as drunk as any man I have seen, you still contrived to take your time. I wonder how you managed it?’

  A flash came – of another country, another scent. Another woman. La Contessa Lucrezia. Sable hair to this one’s fair, blue eyes to her black. ‘I lived awhile in Bologna,’ he mumbled. ‘They . . . manage things differently there.’

  ‘Ah, an Italian education. It explains much.’

  Fingers came together and pinched. He withdrew his arm, stared at her a long moment, then shook his head – which he instantly regretted. Carefully, he looked around. The room was small, barely furnished, undecorated. He had no idea where he was. He had vague memories of walking, and water; of leaning upon a woman he soon lay upon and beneath.

  He spotted bottles on the floor, reached for them. The first smelled temptingly of what it had contained, yet yielded but a drop. The second was near full, but further disappointment came when he found it contained only water. He rarely drank it. Yet with his mouth a desert and his brain an anvil in use, he did not restrain himself.

  ‘Heya,’ came her call, ‘save a little for me.’

  He passed her the bottle. When she took it, he fell back on to the bed beside her. ‘Christ’s bones,’ he moaned, wrist over his eyes.

  ‘Amen,’ she said, laying the bottle aside, descending to rest her arms upon his chest.

  He squinted up. ‘Why . . . why am I here?’

  ‘Why?’ She smiled. ‘You are taking pleasure here, are you not?’

  ‘And you? Are you here for the same reason?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. You are a lusty lover for one so old. And I like it when men take such joy in what I offer them. However,’ she sighed, ‘I am here for business, too.’

  ‘Business?’ His soggy mind would not let him quite take this in. ‘I fear I have little to pay you with.’

  ‘Not that sort of business, you fool. Do I talk or act like a drab?’ Her voice had sharpened, her eyes narrowing. Then both relaxed. ‘No, my business is different, even if perhaps it shares some . . . superficial similarities.’ She smiled. ‘My business is information.’

  ‘I see.’ His mind, though still wrapped in fire, was at least allowing him to think again. ‘And you are paid for this information by . . . Sir Robert Cecil.’

  ‘He is my principal employer. Not my sole one.’

  ‘And did you’ – he glanced around the room – ‘earn your wages last night?’

  ‘Perhaps. You were very talkative. About oh so many things. A few of interest to my employer. Most not. Talkative . . . and then just active. Oh so active.’ She laughed again, stretched.

  He could not help his smile. ‘I am glad to have been of service, lady.’

  ‘Well, you were, in some areas.’ She looked down at her breasts, hovering a hand’s breadth from his face. ‘And you weren’t in others. I tried to get you to address my concerns, but you would keep harping back to your own.’ She shook her head. ‘I now know much about the coldness and cruelty of one Tess. And I know far more than I care to of the lack of abilities and the deep well of envy of certain players.’ She mimed a yawn. ‘Yet I know little of what I truly want to learn.’ She reached down, and grabbed him firmly enough around his cods to make him gasp. ‘Would you care to tell me those secrets now?’

  His privates, he discovered, were tender and no doubt as chafed as her breasts. ‘Since you have my complete attention, lady, ask.’

  ‘What communication have you had with my lord of Essex?’

  It was not a surprise. She was Cecil’s creature, and had also been present in his interview with the Queen. Most of that discussion had concerned Robert Devereux. She must also, he realised with a clarity that startled him, have stolen the earl’s horoscope from Simon Forman, while another maid, or a drab hired from the street perhaps, distracted the magus. ‘I suppose it would not appease you to learn that I have had none?’

  ‘It might me. But it would not my master, and then I will not get paid.’ Her hold upon him changed. Where she had gripped, now she stroked. ‘May I not prevail upon you to satisfy us both?’

  He was surprised to find, after a night such as the one he had just spent, and with the blacksmith in his head still pounding his strokes, that his flesh responded to her touch. Still, there was little he cared to say. ‘I am afraid I can help you in one way only. Not the other.’

  ‘And I was afraid you would say that. Pity.’ She sighed – then struck him on his cock with enough force to make him gasp. She stood, reaching for clothes which flowed on in a series of swift movements. She changes costume as swiftly as a player, he thought. Which, of course, she is.

  He found he could not move, only watch her. She ignored him till she was fully clothed. Then she glanced at him once, put two fingers in her lips and blew a startlingly loud whistle. Thumps came almost immediately upon the stairs.

  John was up in a moment, seeking among the pile of clothing for his sword – which was not there, for the simple reason that it was in the hands of the large man who came through the door. He was followed by two more even larger. For just a moment John considered forcing the shutters. But he did not for several reasons. His nakedness, which would produce a hue and cry in moments; the three men, who looked fast enough to catch him and capable enough to have colleagues outside; most of all, his stomach. Running at speed while puking was a trick he’d never mastered.

  So he just stood there, holding his hose and doublet before him.

  ‘Get dressed,’ said his lady of cloves, the gentleness gone from her voice. ‘For I do not think the Master Secretary would care to see you as I have.’

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; XVII

  Lollards’ Tower

  The sun pierced him cruelly. Judging by its height, it was about mid morning – the only thing he was able to tell before a hard shove in his back propelled him from the doorway on to the street. It told him little – except he was no longer in Southwark. He’d have recognised the dwellings, smaller in the main, and usually beside some place of business, be it shop, brothel or tavern. This street’s houses were larger and well made, the common silvery grey of untreated oak beams here painted over with black, the beiges and umbers of loam, usually unpainted, here daubed a pristine white. A prosperous street then, and such inhabitants as he saw well dressed. Merchants or . . . clerics, he thought, the idea confirmed when they rounded the first corner and he took in three sights: the river before him, Westminster Abbey upon its far shore and, immediately before him, the thrusting stone and stained glass of Lambeth Palace.

  His party halted on a word from the lady. She studied him for a moment, then turned to the others. ‘Guard him well,’ she said, ‘for he is full’ – a little smile came – ‘of tricks.’ She turned and made for the river. There was a wherry dock at Lambeth Stair, John knew. She was bound, no doubt, for Whitehall. His feelings were jumbled as he watched her walk away and he resisted a further shove to look after her.

  ‘I do not know your name,’ he shouted.

  She did not even break stride, nor turn back. ‘No,’ she called, ‘you do not.’

  Since the push had had no effect, strong hands took him on either arm and he was propelled forward. Away from the river. Towards Lambeth Palace. When he realised it was their destination, if he could have run the opposite way, he would.

  London was full of prisons – and he had seen the inside of most of them over the years: the Fleet when his debtors caught up with him; the Clink for drunkenness. Newgate, where murderers were held, was the filthiest, fever and fellow inmates offering a variety of ways to die swiftly, long before the tumbril fetched one to Tyburn. Yet there were only two that he truly feared – the Tower of London, where suspected traitors went for examination, as he had on his return from Spain. And the one to which he was now being marched, the only one he had never visited.