Free Revenger by Rory Clements Page A

the belief that the Queen cannot live much longer. Essex wishes to position himself as the next in line. At the moment, I do not believe he plans an assassination. He hopes to marry Arbella, intending to take the crown when Elizabeth dies a natural death. But we all know that it is but a short step from wishing her dead to making it happen.…”

Chapter 9

    B OLTFOOT AND JANE LOOKED AN ILL-ASSORTED couple as they entered the school refectory. He dragged his foot, while she waddled, her distended belly pushed forward proudly in her thirty-fifth week of pregnancy. Shakespeare, sitting alone at an early evening supper after the ride back from Theobalds, smiled at the sight and called them to him.
    “Jane,” he said, “I imagine you have had enough of this ugly old ruffler getting under your feet.”
    Jane laughed. “He is worse than useless, Master Shakespeare. He thinks I am made of glass and as breakable, and will scarce let me do my work. Please find him some task away from here. It will bring us all peace of mind, I am certain.”
    “A fine thought, Jane. I will do that.”
    Jane and Boltfoot had been married five years. She was young still—perhaps twenty-two—while Boltfoot was in his late thirties and looked older; his short, grizzled body had been carved and battered by harsh years at sea. Yet this disparate pair suited each other; their mutual devotion was there for all to see. Sometimes, Shakespeare caught them looking at each other with unabashed affection. If only his own marriage were in such good repair.
    Boltfoot appeared disconsolate. He treasured Jane above pearls and was worried about the baby that swelled her belly. Hecould not bear the thought of losing this one. Yet he felt helpless to do anything except be with her. Fighting Spaniards and savages was easy compared to this. He blamed himself for the loss of the first child, as if somehow the boy had inherited his bad blood, just as he had taken on the sins of his own father and forefathers in his clubfoot.
    “What say you, Boltfoot? Will you undertake a task for me? Can you bear to be parted from Jane’s side for five minutes?”
    Boltfoot hunched into his shoulders, his face a picture of gloom. “You are the master, Mr. Shakespeare,” he said in a low voice that betrayed his reluctance to be anywhere but with his wife.
    “So I am, Boltfoot. And I have a simple but intriguing mission for you. I wish you to go to all your old shipyard haunts—the taprooms, taverns, chandleries, and wharves of Southwark, Deptford, Blackwall, and beyond—and there talk to whomsoever you may about Roanoke and the New World.”
    Boltfoot grunted, which Shakespeare took to be a yes.
    “Find me a mariner who has been there, one from the very first voyage when the colonists were carried to their new home, if you can. Or listen for tales. Discover what is being said, what the seafarers believe happened to the souls now lost. Are they dead or alive? If dead, how did they die? If alive, where might they be? I want to know the conditions out there, how they might have survived. Most of all, I wish to know whether any of the colonists might somehow have returned to England.”
    Boltfoot looked at Jane, as if hoping she might tell his master that he could not possibly go on such a mission because he was needed here, to look out for her in these last few weeks.
    “Thank you, Master Shakespeare,” Jane said. “I am sure it is useful work and it will do us both a world of good. He needs something else to think on.”
    “Good. Well, that’s settled. I will talk with you alone regarding the details, Boltfoot.” Shakespeare turned back to Jane. His voicesoftened and he hesitated, unsure. “Pray tell me, Jane, do you know where Mistress Shakespeare is this afternoon?”
    Jane could not meet her master’s eyes. Her mistress had clearly said she had no wish to speak with her husband. “I do not think she is herself today, master. She says she wishes to be alone. She is