Free Revenger by Rory Clements Page B

with Mary.”
    Shakespeare accepted the situation with a smile. “Thank you, Jane. When you see Mistress Shakespeare, please tell her that my thoughts are with her and that I understand. I must go to Essex House but I would see her later, should she wish it.”
    “Yes, master,” Jane said, her gaze still averted, then hurried away as fast as her swollen belly would allow.
    The sun was dipping and the sky had a hue of golds and reds. Tomorrow would be another hot day. “Let me finish my meats and then we will share a quart of ale, Boltfoot,” Shakespeare said. “I will tell you more of this Roanoke inquiry. It seems we are to go intelligencing again, my friend. You will have to dust down your caliver and hone your cutlass for the fray.” As he spoke, Shakespeare thought he saw a sparkle in the eye of his old copesmate. Perhaps Boltfoot would be happier away from the cares of impending fatherhood after all.

    S HAKESPEARE HAD NEVER seen a woman more lovely. His first sight of her was at a distance, in profile, along the evening-shadowed long gallery of Essex House, and he was transfixed. The room had fine elm-wood paneling and frescoed walls with pictures of nymphs and satyrs in woodland scenes. She was laughing and her fair hair fell back across the soft skin of her nape and shoulder blades. Her neck was adorned by three strings of precious stones that looked to him like diamonds and rubies.
    He was a married man and Catherine was to him the loveliest of God’s creations. And yet he could not take his eyes off this fair woman.
    Slyguff walked a step ahead of him, his hand gripped on the hilt of a dagger that was thrust in the belt buckled tight about his narrow, wiry waist.
    Only at the last moment, as they came near, did Shakespeare avert his gaze from the woman and see that she was with Charlie McGunn, deep in conversation.
    The woman looked up with nonchalant curiosity at Shakespeare’s approach. Her eyes were black, like still, dark water. She raised an eyebrow questioningly. McGunn turned to him, too, and a grin broke across his fleshy, bald face. “Ah, Mr. Shakespeare, I believe you have seen sense. Welcome to the fold.”
    “Thank you.”
    “I hope you will introduce us, Mr. McGunn,” the woman said.
    “My apologies, Lady Rich. This is Mr. Shakespeare. Mr. John Shakespeare.”
    Shakespeare bowed. “My lady.” Of course, he had seen her portrait. Penelope Rich, sister of the Earl of Essex, was said to be the most beautiful woman at court, if not in the whole of England. It was an assessment that Shakespeare could not dispute.
    “Mr. Shakespeare,” she said, “you must be brother to the other Mr. Shakespeare, the Earl of Southampton’s poet, for I can see that there is a little family likeness in your eyes and brow, though you are taller.”
    “Indeed, my lady. And I am a little older, too.”
    McGunn clasped his arm around Shakespeare’s shoulders. Too tight for friendship. Shakespeare winced at the memory of his viselike hand taking him by the throat. “Mr. Shakespeare has agreed to join our great enterprise of all the talents, Lady Penelope. He is to seek out and find the mysterious lost colonist, if one such really exists.”
    “Oh, I am sure she exists, Mr. McGunn. It is an intriguing tale. Do find her, Mr. Shakespeare. I should so like to hear what she has to say for herself, about the perils she has endured in the New World and how she came to make her crossing of the oceanhome to England. It will be the talk of the court. And, of course, it is certain to discomfit Ralegh, which will be most amusing.”
    “I will do my utmost.”
    She smiled the sweetest smile he had ever seen. “And I want you here tomorrow evening for the summer revels. Do say you will come.”
    “Well, my lady …” He thought of Catherine, back home, turning from him, not even admitting him to her presence. How long was it since he had seen her smile at him like that?
    McGunn’s grip about his shoulders tightened.