He arrived pale and sweating, the flag flapping above him, the trumpets already sounding. He forced his way though the crush of playgoers clustered round the entrance and ducked into the playhouse. He looked around warily, but nothing seemed particularly amiss; the place was in no more of an uproar than usual.
‘Ah, there you are!’
Will braced himself as Burbage came bustling out of the tiring room, already in the Duke’s costume.
‘Where have you been? Did you find him? What took you so long?’ Will opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. Burbage always asked too many questions and never waited for an answer. ‘Well, no matter. Your fellow is out of a job. Armin’s back. Came in just after you left. News that another was about to take his place stopped his bowels.’
He would not have to play the part after all. Robert Armin, their usual clown, was there in his motley, chatting to one of the orange sellers. The little man waved his folly stick at Will and winked as he bit into the orange he had begged from the girl. He might be small, but he had a way with women.
Will’s delight was short-lived. The doors were opening, the crowd streaming in; the afternoon’s performance would soon begin. Burbage had to go off to finish getting ready for his part, but just before he did he reached into his doublet and took out a letter.
‘This came for you.’ He hefted it in his hand. ‘Looks official.’
Will took it from him, relief replaced by sudden foreboding. He stared at his name written in secretary hand, felt the quality of the paper. He turned it over carefully, as if it might explode. It was closed with a blob of black wax, marked with a very big seal. Burbage looked over his shoulder, curious to know what such a missive might contain, while Will eased a knife blade under the wax and opened the folds.
It was worse than he could have imagined. Will swallowed. The paper shook slightly as he conned more slowly, disbelieving his first quick reading. His eyes rested on the signature. The letter was from Secretary Cecil: Sir Robert invited him to an audience at his earliest convenience.
At the sight of that name, even Burbage paled.
‘God’s blood, Will! What could he want with you?’ The actor’s sonorous voice was soft now, the enquiry tinged with fear.
Will shrugged. He had no idea.
‘What have we done now?’ Burbage tugged at his beard. ‘I hope to God he’s not going to shut us down. From frying pan to fire, eh? You’d better get over there and find out what this is about. Now, I’ve got a part to play.’
Burbage went back to the tiring room. Will waited for the crowd to thin to latecomers and slipped out of the theatre. He made his way back to the river at Bankside to find a wherryman who would take him over the river to Whitehall.
Will had been here before and had marvelled at the portraits and paintings, the rich tapestries and strange objects collected from everywhere, but this time he had no eyes for the wonders afforded by the great Palace of Whitehall. He stated his business and was conducted through a series of galleries, past portraits of kings and queens, noble lords and great statesmen. Among these, he recognised Lord Burghley, Sir Robert Cecil’s father and Secretary before him. The son had taken over his office on his death and since the fall of the Earl of Essex had become the most powerful man in the land.
Will broke out sweating. He did not like to be close to great men. They were akin to the gods of old, liable to scorch any who came within their compass. What could Sir Robert want with him? Among his many other duties, the Secretary was responsible for keeping the Queen’s Realm safe from conspiracy and those who would harm Her Majesty. His spies and intelligencers were everywhere; city and country swarmed with his agents and pursuivants, hunting down Catholic priests and nosing out recusants. It did not do to be involved on either side.
Will took care not to fall under any suspicion. He tried to keep out of the way of the law, going to church as often as was necessary and combing contention out of his plays. This was not always possible, but he did his best not to invite trouble. He did not want to end up like Kit Marlowe, stabbed through the eye in some room in Deptford. Kit had been reckless in written word and spoken – some of his plays were still under prohibition – but that was not what had brought his life to an end. Kit had been on some secret service for Her Majesty and had been murdered by one of his fellow spies, his death very likely ordered by the man Will was about to see.
They were nearing the Privy Council Chamber and the Queen’s private quarters; beyond lay the Privy Chamber and the Presence Chamber. The Queen was not in residence, and she had taken her court and Council with her, but the corridors were still thick with those who had business with the Secretary or one of the other Officers of State. Will was taken through the knots of anxious men, the sweat beading on his own brow and prickling his beard.
The servant led him away from the more public areas, down a stone corridor. He was passed on to a dark-robed clerk, who in turn conducted him into an antechamber, where he was told to wait. The windows were too high to see outside, so he paced about until he was called. A bell tinkled and the clerk motioned him forward.
‘Secretary Cecil will see you now.’
Will followed the clerk into a wood-panelled room. He straightened his jerkin and hoped his cuffs were clean. Secretary Cecil sat behind a wide desk piled high with bundles of papers. The clerk withdrew and Cecil did not look up from writing notes on the pages he was reading. Will thought it best to wait to be noticed.
The Secretary’s delicate hands were heavy with jewelled rings. He wore a finely worked cambric ruff about his neck and a rich, fur-lined robe pulled about him as if he felt the cold. The robe bunched at the left shoulder, which was higher than the other, showing that he was hunchbacked. Some thought this the sign of an ill nature, the mark of the Devil. Will did not think that, but he was uncomfortably aware of the comparisons he had made between a twisted back and a twisted character in his play about the crookback Richard III.
‘Ah, Master Shakespeare.’ Sir Robert rose, hitching the robe on his left shoulder, as if conscious of Will’s scrutiny. ‘Thank you for coming to see me.’
‘My lord.’ Will bowed very low and said nothing more, judging it prudent to wait and see what Sir Robert Cecil might want with him.
The Queen’s Secretary was near dwarfish in stature, his head big on his narrow, uneven shoulders. It was easy to see why the Queen called him ‘my imp’ and ‘my pygmy’, but though he was small in size, an aura of power hung about him as close as his fur-lined mantle. Only a queen would dare to take such liberties. He was a man in his middle years, the grey beginning to streak the tawny brown of his formal, square-cut beard and to show where his reddish hair swept back from his high forehead. The excessive work and strain of his high office showed in the tight set of his mouth and the tiny creases of tiredness that had formed like webs round his large grey-green eyes. His forehead was heavily lined, and blue veins snaked beneath the papery, oat-pale skin at his temples. His gaze was calm, thoughtful, slightly amused, his eyes like windows into a subtle mind that retained much and missed nothing.
‘How do you do?’ he asked.
‘Well, my lord,’ Will replied. ‘And you?’
‘Well enough.’ He subsided into his seat, as if standing too long was uncomfortable for him. Will remained standing. ‘I expect you want to know why you have been summoned.’
Will nodded.
‘Very well, I will not preamble.’ Cecil steepled his slender fingers. A diamond sparked fire and the large ruby on his right hand gleamed like a heavy drop of blood. ‘It has come to my notice that you have recently made the acquaintance of a dangerous pair of strangers.’
This was not what Will had been expecting. He searched his mind briefly and found the strangers there. How did Cecil know about them? What did it matter? He was rumoured to know everything. Perhaps what they said was true.
‘Yes, my lord,’ he answered. ‘And then again, no.’
‘I am aware of your work,’ Cec
il sighed, ‘your skill at smithing words. I have seen many of your plays. You are quite a favourite of Her Majesty’s and I hope to see more.’ He leaned forward, knotting his fingers more tightly together. ‘But do not riddle with me, sirrah. It is not long since one of your company was here making full and grovelling apology for that disgraceful performance by your company of your play Richard II the very day before the Earl of Essex’s ill-starred rebellion.’ His voice became quieter as the threat in it grew. ‘Did you think us such fools that we would not note that the play’s meat contains the deposition of a king?’
Shakespeare opened his mouth to defend his company. They had been told to put on the performance. Actors do not argue with lords and earls. But he judged it best to keep silent. This would not be a good time to speak. He kept his eyes fixed on Saxton’s map of the counties of England and Wales that hung above the fireplace, trying to make out Warwickshire. It looked like Old Whittington, the Shottery shepherd, with craggy brows, a big hook of a nose, his chin tucked into his chest against the wind.
‘You are the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, are you not?’ Cecil demanded to know. Will assumed he did not require an answer. ‘One word from me, Master Shakespeare, and his patronage is withdrawn. Another to the Master of the Revels, and you lose your licence. Your company are reduced to strolling players, subject to arrest at the first squeak of a performance. I can have you closed down. I can have all of you closed down. I can invoke the Bills of Mortality. There is always plague somewhere in the city, or ’prentices marching and making a riot. I do not even need that as an excuse.’ He leaned forward, chin resting on his interlaced fingers. ‘I can have the playhouses plucked down around your very ears.’
Will knew all this to be true and was mindful of the need to tread carefully. Cecil was setting out the rules of play, making sure Will knew he held all the high cards. In his mind he saw the Fool: the card that can neither lose nor win.
‘Forgive me, my lord,’ he said. ‘I am aware what you can do to us, to me, to my company. I merely meant by my answer that, yes, these two strangers are of my acquaintance, but I cannot see how a girl and a Fool could be a danger or be of any interest to you.’
‘Strangers are always of interest.’ Cecil leaned back against the red leather padding of his chair. ‘And I did not say that these two were of danger to us necessarily. But they may well be seen to be a danger by others and therefore a danger to themselves. I do not want foreign quarrels and broils brought to our shores. We have enough of our own. I want to know exactly what they are doing here. I have to decide whether they are innocent and in need of protection, or if they are here for a more sinister purpose. I could take them in and put them to the rack,’ he added with a casual wave of his small jewelled hand, ‘but that is not how I do things and, besides, information received that way is often poor quality.’
‘I’ll find out what I can.’
Will bowed low. In his mind he saw Violetta and Feste tortured and broken. He could not risk that. He would keep what he knew to himself for a while yet. Just in case something he said led Cecil to change his mind about employing the rack.
‘Good man.’ Cecil was already sifting at the papers before him. ‘Report here to me tomorrow at three in the afternoon.’
‘But that is when . . .’ the play begins, Will was going to say, but did not finish the sentence. Cecil knew that. It was best not to argue with the highest in the land. ‘Very well, my lord.’
‘If you fulfil this task to my satisfaction, then your company will be allowed to continue. You might even find greater honours bestowed upon you. Who knows?’ Cecil did not look up. ‘You will be serving Her Majesty in this. I’m sure that the Lord Chamberlain’s Men can do without you for one performance.’
He reached for the bell on his desk. Will was dismissed.
‘I’ll do everything in my power, my lord,’ Will bowed again as he left Cecil’s presence. But first I have to find out where they are.
Will boarded a wherry at Whitehall Stairs. Simon Forman might well know where they were, and the doctor also knew about Cecil’s world of intelligencers and spies. It was a sphere that Will had taken care to avoid, especially after what happened to Kit Marlowe. There was no avoiding it now, and Simon was his only hope. Forman had a shrewd mind; his knowledge was wide, as was his social acquaintance. He had known Marlowe well. They had glided in and out of many different circles. They had mixed with dukes and earls as members of the atheistic cabal who had clustered round Raleigh and Northumberland, the Wizard Earl. The group had pursued the esoteric arts; there had been whispers of worse than atheism, if worse there could be. Will had never cared to know too much about the dark and arcane secrets they discussed. He could not afford to be so dainty now. The girl had hinted at such, when she talked about her father and that Dr Grimaldi. He had to know in which directions this thing ran. He needed Forman’s knowledge, but the doctor was unlikely to be at his house at this time of day. Will directed the wherrymen to take him to Billingsgate.
.
13
‘The melancholy god protect thee’
Forman was in his consulting room dispensing physic and advice. A veiled woman left as Will entered. Wealthy, judging by her gloves and her clothes, perhaps even titled.
‘Came to me with pains in her head, pains in her stomach, but what she really wants to know is whether her husband is being unfaithful,’ Forman remarked. ‘They come with one thing, but want to know something other. The secret is to know what they are really about.’ He fixed Will with his hot brown eyes. ‘So what brings you here?’
‘I went to the Hollander today, to fetch Feste the clown, and found the place shut down. I need to find him and the girl. It’s an urgent matter. Do you know where they are?’
‘I do. They are safe at my house in Lambeth. Sir Toby’s in the ice house. Funeral’s tomorrow.’
‘The old man’s dead?’
‘Yes. Yesterday. Bad business, Shakespeare. He didn’t die naturally.’
‘Murdered? But why kill a dying man? To ease his passing?’
‘It happens –’ Forman shrugged – ‘but not, I think, in this case. I saw it in his forecast. That’s the odd thing . . .’
‘Then why?’
‘An act of malice. Pure and simple. I have it from the girl.’
‘Malice?’ Will stared at him. ‘It must run deep to do that.’ He frowned. This was worsening by the minute. He heard Cecil’s quiet voice again: I do not want foreign quarrels and broils brought to our shores . . .
‘I have a feeling it does.’ Simon sat forward in his chair, chin resting on his folded hands. ‘Those two bring their quarrels with them. Why do you need them so urgently? I heard Armin’s back, so it can’t be the need of a clown.’
‘No, it’s something else. I have just come from Whitehall, from an interview with Robert Cecil.’
‘Cecil, eh? You are moving in high circles,’ Forman pulled at the flaps of his doctor’s cap. ‘I treat his niece, you know. Lady Norris –’
‘It wasn’t a social visit,’ Will said, cutting short Forman’s name-dropping. He described his recent interview with Sir Robert: the Secretary’s interest in Violetta and Feste. He wandered the room while he talked, absently examining the various instruments, medical and astrological, that were lying about, noticing the patterns on the painted pottery vessels ranged along the shelves. ‘How could he know?’ Will turned back from the cabinets to face Forman. ‘What can he want with them, Simon? What could his interest possibly be?’
Forman did not answer straight away. His already furrowed forehead set into even more of a frown as he squinted at the charts before him on the desk.
‘Riche could have told him. He’s one of Cecil’s spies. And those two are not exactly unknown. I told you about Doctor Grimaldi. In certain circles, Illyria has gained a notoriety. They say the Duke, her father, overreached himself. Dabbled too deeply in the dark arts. Unleashed forces he couldn’t control. Could be to do with that.’
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‘I don’t think it has to do with anything supernatural.’ Will picked up an astrolabe, turning it round in his hands. ‘It has to do with the collapse of the state. That’s why the girl’s here. Everything stems from it.’
‘Leave that alone.’ Forman reached across the desk to take the instrument off him. ‘It is very delicate and carefully adjusted to the exact date and time of birth of my next client. And don’t touch that!’
Will was now toying with a tiny agate pestle and mortar instead.
‘Why not? It is exquisite.’ He held it up, admiring the way the light struck through the semi-translucent green-and-red stone.
‘Because I use it for grinding poison. Don’t lick your fingers. Sit down. Stop roaming about.’
Will set the little pestle and mortar back in its place and sat down opposite Forman.
‘Now, back to the matter in hand.’ Simon leaned forward and picked up the compass he used for measuring charts. ‘Perhaps Cecil doesn’t know any more than we do. Perhaps he just suspects. What happens in one place in the world can have unseen effects elsewhere.’ He began describing circles. ‘Cecil collects information from every country and every city. He has intelligencers everywhere.’ Forman looked up at Will and gave a wheezing laugh. ‘It looks like he’s just recruited you.’ He thought for a moment, his face serious again. ‘Perhaps it is not what those two know, as such, which makes them of interest to him. It might be –’
‘Who they are.’ Will finished his sentence for him.
‘Precisely.’ Forman smiled. ‘She’s not just anyone, is she? She’s a duke’s daughter. Never mind what’s happened to her. There could be reasons we are not privy to that make her important.’
There could be. There could well be. Will had been right to come to Forman.