Revenger (43 page)

Of a sudden, help was at hand. Strong arms lifted him from all sides and he wondered, for a moment, if angels had come to raise him up to heaven.

But instead of floating on Elysian clouds, he came down with a crack of the head, thrown unceremoniously into the back of a farm cart. And he heard a voice, which was decidedly not the voice of God.

“Come on, Reverend, you’ve got to get yourself sober. There’s a job of work to be done in the morning.”

B
ESS LISTENED TO
Shakespeare intently. She did not interrupt him, until finally he said, “So, I believe we must somehow remove the lady Arbella to a place of safety.”

“You know, Mr. Shakespeare,” she said with great deliberation, “I have never made any secret of my ambitions for my granddaughter. I have raised her as a royal princess, believing—hoping—that she would one day, in the fullness of time, ascend to the throne of England, for I consider her to be first in line. This
has not always been appreciated by the Queen, who does not care to dwell on her own mortality. I confess that we have not always seen eye to eye on the matter. But never did I think to do such a thing—such a treasonable thing—as is now being proposed by my lord of Essex. We must prevent it, Mr. Shakespeare, or we will all lose our heads.”

“Can she be spirited away?”

Shakespeare could not imagine Bess losing her composure, yet now he saw real anxiety in her eyes. Her small hands were clenched into balls.

“First we will have to find her.”

“My lady?”

“I went to her chamber not two hours since. She was not there. Her lady’s maid was most flustered and said she had gone off with a group of young gentlemen, she knew not where. I looked for her in vain. I asked my lord of Essex where she was and he said he had not seen her. His men feigned ignorance, too, and made a great show of looking for her. Even her tutors could not tell me where she was.”

Shakespeare felt his whole body tightening. Bess’s demeanor told him that she, too, was fully aware of the extreme danger of the situation. “Your tutors—I believe one is called Morley?”

“Indeed, Mr. Shakespeare. You seem to know a great deal about my arrangements.”

“He conspires with Essex, my lady. He is one of them. It seems clear they already have the lady Arbella in their keeping. I fear we may be too late.…”

Chapter 38

T
HE ANCIENT CHURCH OF ST. JOHN DOMINATED
the fields like a specter in the gray morning light. Its stone walls, five or six hundred years old and first built before the Conqueror came to England, were weather-worn and strangely welcoming. The bells in the square tower were silent this day.

At the head of the wedding procession that traipsed slowly on horseback across the meadow toward the yew-planted churchyard were Essex and his best man, Southampton, richly attired and mounted on caparisoned war stallions.

The rain had gone, but the clouds remained heavy and threatening. A lone plowman gazed over at the wedding party but did not stop his work. He lashed the ox pulling the plow and carried on carving a deep furrow for winter wheat.

Inside the church, Oswald Finningley stood at the altar, a shaking hand clasped to the communion railing to support himself. He could not hold himself still, his head ached, and he was desperate for ale or brandy to take away the shaking and the nausea. Last night was a blur. He had been abducted and locked away in some strange room, and this morning two men had come for him and woken him with a pail of cold water over his face. They had given him a good breakfast, most of which he had puked up,
and had then brought a clean cassock and new-laundered, bright white surplice and ruff. It was only as they set off for the church that he realized that he had been held within the servants’ quarters at Hardwick Hall.

The two men had jogged him along mercilessly on the back of a rattling farm cart, which served only to make him feel more sick. He now stood silently, a man at either side to prevent escape.

Essex and his guests entered the church: twenty hard-edged but finely dressed men. The Reverend Finningley looked at them as if they were strange creatures from some far-flung land. He had no idea who they were, nor what they wanted of him. Yet from their apparel and demeanor, he could tell that they were of noble blood, and his knees began to buckle.

The two men guarding him thrust their hands under his armpits to keep him from falling. “Just say the wedding words, minister, and you will be back at the tavern pouring ale down your throat in no time,” one of the men whispered in his ear. “Make a commotion and I’ll pour boiling tallow down your miserable gullet instead.”

Essex’s men found places to sit or pillars to lean against, hands on sword hilts. Essex paced about like a caged leopard, waiting for his bride to appear. He did not have long to wait.

Heralds at the doorway trumpeted her arrival. Two ushers escorted her into the building and indicated the altar, where Finningley fought back an overwhelming desire to bring up the last remnants of his breakfast.

A man in scarlet and gold velvet escorted the lady Arbella along the aisle. He was slender and languid, scarce bearded with a thin, dark mustache.

Arbella was almost skipping with excitement. She wore ivory satin and gold thread, her face covered by a lace net. As she reached the Earl of Essex, she looked up at him from beneath her
veil with adoring, besotted eyes. He looked at her distractedly, then, as if remembering that this was to be his wife, he smiled at her.

“Now, Mr. Finningley,” one of the men at his side said. “Do your business, sir. And remember the hot tallow.”

Finningley recognized Arbella and was horrified. He wanted to say that the banns had not been called, that this was most irregular, but he was convulsed by fear. He took a deep breath and began to intone the words of the service in a weak, spindly voice that belied his great bulk.

“Dearly beloved friends, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of his congregation, to join together this man and woman in holy matrimony.…”

He droned on through the service as laid down in the Book of Common Prayer introduced during the first year of Elizabeth’s long reign. All the while, Essex glared at him impatiently.

“… and therefore is not to be enterprised, nor taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding—”

“I know all that. Get on with it, man.”

“It is the form of solemnization of matrimony, sir … my lord.”

“Yes, yes.”

The congregation of his friends and supporters mumbled their approval. One or two applauded with clapping of hands.

Finningley sighed. What did it matter? He couldn’t imagine any of this was legal anyway, not without the banns. And so he omitted the next part and got on to the nub. “Will you have this woman to your wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health? And forsaking all other, keep you only to her, so long as you both shall live?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“You must say ‘I will,’ my lord …”

“I will. I will. Is that it? Are we married?”

“Almost, my lord, almost …”

I
N THE TREES
, unseen, John Shakespeare had watched the wedding party proceed toward the church. He knew the bride must come eventually and so he waited for her. At last she came with Penelope Rich and a man he did not know, appareled in scarlet velvet, a sword at his waist. His head moved this way and that, slowly, like an adder. Shakespeare found himself half expecting the man’s tongue to flick out and be forked. Some instinct told him the man was Morley.

The ivory bride dismounted. She moved her veil aside momentarily to look about her, and Shakespeare recognized the sad face he had seen at the window in Shrewsbury House, Chelsea. Her eyes were blue and a little too big; her mouth was too severe and her nose large. Now she smiled and her eyes darted. Yet even the smile did not suit her and nor did it disguise her loneliness and unease; she cut a poignant figure, here with these people who wanted everything from her, but nothing for her.

The men at the door helped her from her horse and then Penelope and the man in scarlet took her inside the church. As soon as they had gone in, Shakespeare entered the porch, hesitating at the door as long as he dared. From inside, he heard the words of the minister as the service got under way. He looked about him before turning the latch on the strong old oak door. As he pushed it, the iron hinges creaked loudly, then the iron edge of the door clanged as it swung inward against the stone wall.

Shakespeare stepped inside. Heads swiveled in his direction; eyes bore down upon him as if seeing some apparition. At first there was surprise and curiosity in their expressions, then a gathering rage. The vicar’s mouth hung agape, in mid-sentence.

“In the Queen’s name, I say this wedding cannot proceed,” Shakespeare bellowed in a voice of surprising power and
confidence. He was unarmed, for what use would one poor sword or pistol be against twenty war-hardened men? He walked forward along the nave, between the ranks of Essex’s supporters, their fingers suddenly tightening on the hilts of their swords.

Penelope Rich rose from her seat and stepped forward to bar his path. “I am afraid you are too late, Mr. Shakespeare. The ceremony is completed. My brother and the lady Arbella now stand before you as man and wife.”

Shakespeare stopped. He did not believe it; there had not been sufficient time. He turned to the minister, who was quivering like an ash leaf in the breeze. “Is this true?”

Even through the haze of his muddled, befuddled, and panicking mind, Oswald Finningley knew he was caught up in something very bad; this man, whoever he was, had invoked the authority of the Queen herself. To talk to these nobles in such wise must, at the very least, make him a senior officer in her government. Though hopelessly outnumbered and at the mercy of these armed men, he understood that to stand
with
them might very well result in a traitor’s death, with everything that entailed. He shook his head.

“No,” he said, his voice no more than a whimper.

“They are not married?”

Finningley shook his head again.

“Then I say this wedding will not take place. It is forbidden under the law, not only because it is unlicensed by Her Majesty, but also because the bridegroom already has a wife.”

The gangling figure of Essex moved away from his bride toward the source of interruption. His handsome head was angled forward from his awkward, sloping shoulders. “
Had
a wife, Shakespeare,” he said, spitting the words. “I am recently bereaved and am, sadly, a widower. She died of her madness. God’s blood, sir,” he shouted, “what is all this to you?”

Shakespeare suddenly realized what loathing he felt for this man who would sacrifice his wife, the mother of his child, to self-serving
ambition. A man who would turn on the very monarch who had raised him to such great power and public esteem.