Free Revenger by Rory Clements

world of peace?”
    Yes , thought Shakespeare, I am like Cecil. In some ways . “But I have put this life of secrets behind me, Sir Robert.” As he said the words, he knew he spoke without conviction.
    “I can be of great assistance to you. I can protect you.”
    Even in the heat, a cold shiver ran through Shakespeare’s neck. “Do I need protection, Sir Robert?”
    “Do you think you do?”
    He knew he did. He needed protection from Topcliffe, a man whose lust for Catholic blood ran unchecked. And Cecil clearly knew it, too. “Yes, sir, my family does need some protection,” he admitted. “There are those that would harm them. My own safety is of little concern to me, but as for those I love …”
    “Then join me, Mr. Shakespeare.”
    Spy on Essex? That would bring yet more danger. Why, then, did he nod his head to signify his agreement to the mission? For a moment, he thought that Cecil might clap him on the back, but then he realized that Sir Robert had never clapped any man on the back and had never had a jovial feeling in his life.
    “I shall do all in my considerable power to protect you and yours from enemies,” Cecil continued. “We both know who they are. Being in the service of the government again, you will have all the authority that goes with your post. But I do not need to tell you that you—we—must be circumspect in that regard. No one must know for the present for whom you work. My lord of Essex must believe that you are his man. He must never know ofthis meeting and you must only come to me covertly and in exceptional circumstances.”
    Shakespeare felt somehow as if he were accepting five guineas for a horse he knew to be worth ten. Why would he work for one powerful man against another? The reason was clear. He still cared about this realm and his instinct told him that only one man, truly, had its interests at heart. Sir Robert Cecil. Pray God, he was right in this. “Very well,” he said. “I am your man. Whatever that entails.”
    “That is good.”
    “But what of the Countess of Shrewsbury and Arbella? Will you assign protection to them?”
    Cecil hesitated, as if weighing up how much to reveal. “Bess is aware there is a problem,” he said at last. “But she believes the danger is from Spain, that Catholics would kidnap Arbella and carry her abroad, to mold her as a figurehead for their own cause and insurrection. There may be truth in this. But you must remember, she has ambitions for Arbella. She would wish her to be Queen and has always raised her with that in mind. She nearly ended her days in the Tower when she ill-advisedly agreed for the girl to be betrothed to Leicester’s late son, Denbigh. The question is, has she learned her lesson well—would she countenance another illicit marriage proposal? The answer is that I do not know—which is why I cannot enlist her assistance in this, but I would have you go to her and get her away from London to one of her northern estates. She will be safer there. I warn you, though, Bess is a hard woman, as any of her displaced tenants or debtors will tell you. It is not for nothing that her late husband called her a sharp, bitter shrew.” Cecil paused and chuckled lightly. “Fear not, though, Mr. Shakespeare. You have wit and charm. Use it.”
    Shakespeare bowed his head. Cecil had stirred something in him, something long buried beneath the daily round of Latin verbs and domestic comings and goings that now made up hislife. It was the thought of returning to the fold, working in the world of secrets once again: the old days of Walsingham and his covert dealings and the thrill that went with them. Yes, he could admit it now: he did miss those days.
    “Now, ride home, for the world and your wife will be wondering where you are. Clarkson will accompany you, to bring back our horse.”
    “Thank you, Sir Robert.”
    “As you go, think on this. I have no way of knowing how advanced is this plot. I know, however, that it centers on