Revenger

Chapter 25

Boltfoot woke with a pounding head pain. He tried to look up, but could not focus. He seemed to see beams and an unfamiliar ceiling. Strange sounds all around only made the throbbing of his skull the worse. He was too weak to move.

A woman clothed in a simple gown, with a long white apron and a crisp white coif, like a nun’s wimple, floated across his field of vision. She peered down at him, two warm brown eyes looking into his with concern.

“Where am I?” he managed to say. “What has happened to me?”

“You are in the Hospital of St. Thomas, sir.”

He reached up to his head and found it was bandaged. He winced at the mere touch of his hand. “Why?”

“You have been injured. But it is good to see you have awakened, sir, for we had feared for your life.”

He closed his eyes and it began to come back to him.

“And the day?”

The nurse laughed lightly. She was dumpy, but made pretty by her smile and evident kindness. “You have been here more than twenty hours. A young woman saw you, all bloody in the street, and came here to ask the beadles to fetch you. You were fortunate, for many would have left you there to die, so poor was your health. If you have more questions, the hospitaller will walk through the ward within the hour, and you may ask him.”

Boltfoot held up a hand from the coverlet. He needed to get out of here. He felt dizzy. He tried to move up onto his elbows, but immediately fell back, fighting for breath. His head felt as though it had been struck by the edge of a halberd. “Please, get word to Dowgate for me,” he said weakly. “Tell my goodwife, who is big with child, that I am here, and my master.”

She smiled. “Do not fret yourself, sir. I will come and talk with you later. If you are good and quiet, I shall try to find you a bed of feathers. And if you are not good, I must tell you that there is a whipping post and stocks in the yard. You will be excused chapel in the morning, though not again.”

She bustled off about the ward, examining bandages, taking away fouled bedding to be laundered. Through the haze of his pulsating head, Boltfoot tried to remember what had happened to him.

He had been in one of the small streets to the west of Long Southwark on the way back to the house of Davy Kerk. He remembered how faint he felt, how his clothes dripped with sweat. Across the narrow road he had noticed a woman, all covered in a hood, watching him, and then, from behind, a shadow and then the blow. And that was all.

If only Jane would come to him.

He drifted off to sleep again, this time proper sleep, not the loss of consciousness, the simulacrum of death, that comes with a crushing blow to the head.

When Shakespeare got back to Dowgate, Sidesman was washing down a horse on the cobbles by the stables. He shook his dour head slowly. He had seen neither Boltfoot nor Jack. Shakespeare felt a gnawing, churning terror in his stomach. Neither man would have been out of contact this long.

“But you will find that a lady has arrived to see you, sir,” the groom said.

Cordelia Le Neve was in the anteroom. She was looking through a Latin primer, but put it down on a coffer when Shakespeare entered.

“You are very welcome, Lady Le Neve,” he said, “although your custom of entering people’s rooms without being invited is a little unnerving. I trust this time you come unarmed?” he added wryly.

She was disheveled and dusty from the ride. Her hair was windswept and tangled about her shoulders. She wore a linen kirtle and a close-fitted chemise, open at the neck, where her skin glowed. She might have passed for a serving wench except there was something about her bearing, the tilt of her head, and her fine looks that said otherwise.

“You may search me if you wish.”

He smiled. “I shall leave it to trust, Lady Le Neve.”

“As you will. Do you have refreshment, Mr. Shakespeare? I fear I will perish without a little ale to ease my poor parched throat.”

He went to the buttery, where the keg was kept. She followed him.

“This is a fine school, Mr. Shakespeare. I would say it is new built.”

“The main part is but five years old, originally built as a home for the merchant Thomas Woode, the Lord rest him. I am afraid the bishop has now closed it down, however.”

“I am sorry.”

“Fear not, I am sure we will reopen come All Hallows.”

“It is curious that you run errands for the Searcher of the Dead as well as being high master of a school.”

Shakespeare pulled two pints of ale, handing one to Cordelia. “I have spent many years as an intelligencer and investigator of certain crimes for the late Mr. Secretary. The searcher is a friend of mine.”

“Why do I feel there is something you are not telling me?”

“I could ask the same of you, Lady Le Neve. Your connection with McGunn, my lord Essex, and Mr. Winterberry is most intriguing. Tell me: why have you come here?”

“I have come here to answer your questions.”

“That is good.” He waited.

“And… there are things… things that someone-you-should know.”

“Such as?”

“Let us talk awhile.”

Shakespeare shrugged his shoulders. “As you wish. Start by telling me how much Winterberry was going to pay you for your daughter’s hand.”

“Five thousand pounds, I believe, though such details are men’s business. We have seen none of it, and never will.”

“What did he hope for in return? Did he believe your daughter loved him? He is an austere man.”

“All men are the same when you strip away the attire, be it Puritan broadcloth or courtly taffeta. It is lechery and vanity. He wanted a pretty maiden for his bed and he wanted connection to our family name. He had already been to the College of Arms to see how he might adopt my husband’s armorial bearings. But then he did not know of Amy’s feelings for the boy Jaggard, and nor did we at first.”

“Now he lies buried at the crossroads, for taking his own life and another’s, though the truth is very different.”

“He does not lie at the crossroads. McGunn has taken his body and given him a burial by the church on Essex’s estate of Wanstead.”

Shakespeare paused. The silence hung between them. Then, abruptly, he said, “This marriage, Lady Le Neve, did it not trouble you that you were selling your stepdaughter like a…?” He stopped.

“A whore, Mr. Shakespeare?”

If she was offended, Lady Le Neve did not show it. “Winterberry is not a young man,” she said, “and in time Amy would have been left one of the wealthiest widows in the realm, to pursue whatever fancies she desired. I know what poverty is like, and I can tell you that it is a great deal worse than the fumbling attentions of an aging man.”

Shakespeare watched her closely. There was something not right here. The last time he had seen this woman, she had wanted rid of him. “I ask you again, Lady Le Neve, why have you come here?”

She breathed deeply, as if summoning up some inner fortitude. The silence drifted on until, at last, she spoke.

“I have no one else to turn to. I thought you might be that rare thing, an honest man. I am scared, Mr. Shakespeare.”

“You know the name of the killer?”

“I must tell you in my own way. It is a long story.”

“Come. Let us go to my solar. We will be more comfortable.”

They proceeded to the room where Shakespeare most liked to work. Through the west window he saw that the sun was low in the sky. Lady Le Neve, so unlike Catherine in her looks and manner, sat on a settle, and he stood by the cold hearth.

“We are impoverished because my husband likes to gamble,” she said. “He plays cent, primero, and tables. He will hazard money on the fighting skills of a cock or the speed of a horse. He plays with my lord of Essex’s friends: Southampton, Rutland, Danvers, Gelli Meyrick, his brother-in-arms Roger Williams. They all wager more money than is sensible, huge sums. And Sir Toby is the maddest of them all, for his inheritance was poor.”

“And McGunn?” Shakespeare persisted, eager to get to the point, the name.

“Essex told my husband that if ever he needed money, McGunn was the man. There could be no higher recommendation than that. Sir Toby is intensely loyal; he comes from a long feudal line and regards Essex as his liege lord.”

“And why, pray, does Essex keep the company of a man like McGunn?”

Cordelia’s mouth was set. “Gold. Essex lives like a sultan of Turkey, with his vast houses, his legions of retainers, his army of knights all liveried in tangerine. Where does he find the money to maintain these men at his command? The Queen keeps him stretched like a bowstring. McGunn keeps Essex afloat, for he has such a burden of debt, he could sink to the depths of the northern seas.”

“And what does McGunn get in return?”

“Power, Mr. Shakespeare. Control. Overlordship. The same as he exercised over us. But how would I or anyone else know what desires lie hidden in the cold, dark shadows of Charlie McGunn’s mind? Watch his impudent boldness with great men-you would not think that Essex was the premier Earl and that McGunn was the lowly kern from the boglands of Ireland. You would think McGunn the chief of the two.”

“And how has McGunn come into so much treasure, Lady Le Neve?”

“Usury, violence, debauchery. He is as cold-blooded as a snake. He would kill and his heart would beat no faster.”

“You said you had seen such men before?”

She stood up abruptly. “I have said enough.” She turned to go. The sun was close to the roofs toward the west of the city. The sky was darkening.

Shakespeare put up his hand. “No. I want the name.”

“It is late. I should not have come.”

“You say you are scared. Well, you are safe here. You cannot ride back alone to Wanstead this evening.”

“Do you think I have not been out alone in the darkest of nights?” She laughed.

“There is The Swan nearby.” He closed his eyes. “Or there is this house. There are empty beds this night. You may make use of one, but you will give me the information I require.”

Her eyes, unabashed, met his. “Yes,” she said. “I will tell you the killer’s name.” She sat down again.

“Let me tell you my story, if you have the stomach for it. I am of the notorious Kett family from Norwich in Norfolk. Have you heard of us, Mr. Shakespeare?”

“Indeed.”

“It is a name tainted with treason, but I wear it with pride. Robert Kett was my grandfather and a landowner of wealth. Our family lived well, with landholdings around Norwich and Wymondham. My grandfather’s rebellion, though he would not have called it such, ended all that. When he was hanged in chains from the battlements of Blanche Fleur, all his lands were attainted and given by King Edward to Lord Audley, his captor. My father and his brothers, who had thought they would inherit lands, were brought to impoverishment.”

Shakespeare refilled their goblets.

“By the time I was born in the first year of Her Majesty’s reign, we lived in a small cottage not far from Wymondham. My father worked for Audley’s estate as a common farmhand, a serf, and my mother took in weaver’s work. It was a modest enough life, but we had enough to eat and my parents ensured we were all educated in reading and some writing. They taught us, too, that we were better than the place to which we had been brought by fate. There were three of us, all girls, and I was the eldest. The others in the village thought we were above ourselves; they did not like to see maidens with books and mocked us for it. At the age of eight, we had to work on the farm, milking, churning, reaping, feeding the stock, and collecting the eggs. Then, when I was twelve, we were brought yet lower.” She stopped for a moment, unable to find a voice to speak. “Forgive me, Mr. Shakespeare.”

“Drink a little wine.”

“The sickness came. The sweat. It pains me grievously to recall it, even now. It took Mother and Father and my youngest sister, all in the space of a fortnight. That left just Matilda and me. We had no help from our neighbors. Even the almoner called me a dirty maunderer, spat in my face, and said he would not give me so much as a farthing.”

“So what did you do?”

“We took the road to London, as I thought. But it was no such thing. We joined a band of vagabonds for protection and became runagates ourselves. That is no life. You can have no idea of the cold, Mr. Shakespeare. In midwinter the frost bites so deep that the elders and babes amongst us froze where they slept.” She held a hand to her bare throat, as if overcome by the recollection. “There were men there, and women, too, that would kill for half a loaf. I saw them fight until the blood ran freely into the mud over the ownership of a dead hare. We scavenged for anything and everything. Nettles, insects, all the fruits of the forest and hedgerow, cats and dogs and rats, too. Whatever we could find. I don’t doubt there were some that gnawed on human flesh. There were fifty of us in our roving camp and we were unwelcome wherever we went. If we went near towns, the men would drive us away with whips and mastiffs. If the headborough or foreign officer caught a vagabond man, he would be accused of every crime committed within the year and be hanged that day without trial. If they could catch a dell, they would treat her no better than a whore, even though she might be a maiden. And we were flogged without mercy. I have the stripes still.”

“I believe you.”

“We stayed in the open air. But there was always a hamlet nearby, so they would gather all the farmhands to drive us away. Some were Christian folk, a few, and would give us loaves and ale, but they always told us we must be on our way after our repast. There was no money to be had and we slept beneath hedgerows or in byres if we could.”

“How long were you on the road?”

“Two years. Two years that aged me a hundred. I have not even told you the worst.” Her voice broke again. She tried to regain her composure. Tears streamed down her cheeks, yet she did not sob. “My sister…”

“You do not need to tell me this.”

“My little sister, Mr. Shakespeare. Poor Matilda. Eleven years. They took her in the night.”

“The vagabonds?”

“No. Men from a town. It was in the shire of Cambridge. I do not even know the name of the town. They came in the night while we slept. They came with bats and poleaxes and torches to light the way for their foul designs. We rose from our slumber and gathered our few belongings and ran and ran, as we had done many times before. But there was a fog and the night was dark, and I lost Matilda. I lost her, then heard her voice cry out. I think she had stumbled and fallen and the men were on her like ravening animals. I ran in the direction of her voice, but I became tangled in thorns and could not find a path. In the distance, growing fainter, I heard her as they carried her away. She was pleading, screaming, ‘No, please no, in God’s name no.’ Nothing else, just that, over and over. And I could not get to her. We found her body in the morning.”

“I am so sorry.”

She wiped the tears from her face, but still they came. “They had taken all her clothes and left her naked. She was impaled on the prongs of a dung fork. Its handle was buried into the earth like a fence pole, and she was on the other end, five feet off the ground, face-down. One of the two prongs had pierced her breastbone, the other her belly. It was clear to one and all how they had used her before killing her.” She closed her eyes.

Shakespeare watched her in silence. There was nothing to say.

“There,” she said at last, looking up. “That is my story. It is the first time I have told it, Mr. Shakespeare. It is how I know about men like Charlie McGunn. It is why I know that the slavering and pawing of an evil-smelling Puritan is better than poverty.”

“It is a tale of monstrous cruelty.”

She touched his hand as if trying to break the dark spell she had woven. “Gentle townsfolk do not know what is done in their name. Go to Bridewell one day and see how the vagabonds are treated there.”

“I know Bridewell. I know how they flog the prisoners every Friday for the entertainment of any who would pay to watch. It is not something I like.” He looked at her bowed head. He wanted to reach out and touch her. Instead, with an effort, he asked, “Are you recovered a little, Lady Le Neve? Can I find you a kerchief?”

“It is not important.”

“Your story is not quite finished, is it? You have not told me how you came to your present pass as the lady of a great knight.”

“It was pure chance, nothing more than that. Pure chance, or perhaps an act of God, who decided I had been punished enough for one lifetime. We were by the roadside in Kent, a few weeks after Matilda’s death. The camp had broken up and there were no more than a dozen of us, looking to pick in the orchards. I was sitting alone at the side of the Canterbury road when a troop of a dozen cavalry soldiers came riding our way. In the past, we would have run ten miles at the sight of the soldiers, for we knew what they might do to the women. But I no longer cared whether I lived or died or who used my flesh. And so I sat there and watched them ride along in their shining armor and mail, their pistols and swords flashing in the sun. They rode past and then the officer called them to a halt. He trotted back and leaned from his saddle to me and asked me what I was doing. I suppose there was something in my looks that caught his eye, or in my voice, which was of a more refined timbre than others on the road. He asked me what my family was and I told him I was a Kett. He knew of the history of my family, for it is a famed story. He asked me whether I could read the Holy Book and play music and dance, which I could. Then he said, ‘Climb up here behind me, mistress.’ ” She smiled. “And so I did, for what did I have to fear? When you have nothing, you have nothing to lose.”

Shakespeare was not certain he believed this part of her tale, but it was of no consequence and he let it pass. More than anything, he wanted a name. “And now?”

“Now I will tell you the name of Amy’s murderer.”

Shakespeare looked at her expectantly, his face set.

“It was my husband, Mr. Shakespeare. Sir Toby killed his daughter Amy and the boy Joe Jaggard. He beat them about the head with his war mace. I know this for certain, for I found the weapon in his armory, and it was stained with the blood of his own poor daughter.”