Chapter 45
Ralegh?”
“Of course Ralegh. He was the butcher, and I have dogged his steps ever since. I have piled treasure upon treasure on Robert Devereux of Essex to increase his favor and reduce Ralegh’s. I have gone to the ends of the earth to destroy his ambitions and plans for a New World colony. I have killed his soldiers and his mariners, one by one. I made sure Essex dripped word in the ears of your sovereign when I heard of Ralegh’s new marriage so that he now languishes in the Tower. And I have told him about it all. He knows what happened at Roanoke. Oh, he knows it, for I wrote it for him plain. Everything I have done has been done to hurt Ralegh. Bit by bit, piece by little piece, I have cut the flesh from his reputation, bringing him ever closer to ruin and despair.”
“Why not simply kill him?”
“That would be but a moment’s pleasure. I wanted him to live long and be haunted until the end of his days. I wanted him to be married so I could destroy his wife and his child. He had to know that I would traverse the world to destroy him and all that was his. Vengeance without end.”
Shakespeare felt sick in his stomach. Could a man pursue vengeance with such relentless persistence down through the years? “But how do you know it was Ralegh? Were there survivors?”
McGunn laughed bitterly. “No, there were no survivors. But there was one there unseen: Maggie Maeve’s young brother was hidden behind a rock. He saw it all and described the man to me, though he was but six years old at the time. And later, years later, in the year 1585 when first we came to England, he pointed him out to me wide-eyed with horror and there was no doubt. I saw the terror and revulsion in his eyes and I knew for certain that it was Ralegh who had done this thing to my wife. It was as certain as if it had been printed on his eyes with a press. My vengeance burns now as bright as it did the day I learned what the English had done at Smerwick.”
“And Essex?”
“I was in England making my fortune, for I had a great need of gold. I gave your filthy people what they wanted and exacted my price. When I learned of the enmity between Essex and Ralegh, I knew that Essex must be my friend. And a good friend I have been to him, giving him gold aplenty. I asked nothing in return, for I knew that, enriched, he would give me what I needed: humiliation for Ralegh. It was a simple trade, though I doubt Essex ever had the wit to understand its workings.”
“But you speak of Ralegh’s wife and child as though you would even take vengeance on them…”
McGunn’s lips curled down in the humorless likeness of a smile. “His child is already dead, Mr. Shakespeare. Poor little Damerei Ralegh, damned and dead in the night.”
“This cannot be so.”
“Oh, can it not? Well, you shall see. And you shall know who has done it.”
“Well, McGunn, it is over now. There will be no more killing by you.”
“Just the one more…” He nodded to the flagon of ale and Shakespeare put it once again to his lips. “No. No more.”
“You must surely have deduced the name of Maggie Maeve’s brother, Mr. Shakespeare?”
“Joe Jaggard.”
“I had him brought up here in England, with a cousin, but he was always my boy. Do you think I could die with his death unpunished?”
“His killer is dead. He took a blow intended for me. He was a murderer, but he died honorably, saving my life.”
McGunn’s brow creased. “Do you still think Sir Toby Le Neve killed Joe and Amy?”
“I know it to be so, McGunn. There can be no doubt.”
“Then you know nothing. If you want the killer, go to London town, to a house on the corner of Beer Lane and Thames Street, by the gun foundry, and there you shall find your murderer.” McGunn burst out laughing, even though it hurt him greatly.
As he laughed his eyes strayed past Shakespeare, but the humor never left his face, even as Eleanor Dare stepped silently into the room, picked up Boltfoot Cooper’s loaded caliver wheel-lock from the floor where Shakespeare had placed it, reached forward with the octagonal muzzle full in McGunn’s thick-set, fighting-dog face, and fired.
Eleanor had waited and watched as Catherine’s eyes grew heavy. Finally, when Mr. Shakespeare’s wife could no longer stay awake, she rose quietly from the makeshift palliasse of blankets. Her throat was agony. A dark-bruised weal ringed her tender skin and her windpipe was so constricted that her rattling breathing was shallow and strained. She struggled to contain the noise as she walked barefoot from the little room to the other room, where she saw Shakespeare and McGunn and the wheel-lock on the floor.
She knew how to use a pistol as well as any man. All the women at Roanoke had been trained in their use. As she came into the room, her eye caught McGunn’s. He was laughing at something. That was good, because it distracted Shakespeare long enough for her to pick up the pistol. McGunn was still laughing at the point of death, as she thrust the infernal weapon close to his face and fired.
The recoil knocked her back. The ball gouged out the center of McGunn’s face, throwing him back against the wall.
As Shakespeare grabbed the smoking weapon from Eleanor’s hand, she was shaking. Tears were flowing from her eyes like the rain that battered the land outside. Through the fog of her tears, she gazed upon the gaping red cavern that had appeared in the triangle between McGunn’s eyes and the bridge of his nose, leading deep into the remains of his brain.
“That was for Virginia,” she whispered, her hoarse voice barely audible. “And for Davy and all the others.”
Chapter 46
The sound of children’s laughter drifted up from the garden to the open window of the second-floor chamber where Shakespeare lay naked beneath the sheets on an old oaken bed.
He opened his eyes and gazed up at the canopy above him. It was threadbare, but had once been a fine hand-woven fabric patterned with roses, all entangled like lovers’ limbs.
The light that streamed in at the edges of the curtains told him it was daytime; other than that, he had no idea whether it was morning or afternoon, nor which day. All he knew was that he was back at the home of Catherine’s parents, and had collapsed, exhausted, on this bed, falling straightway into a deep slumber.
His shoulder, now cleaned and bandaged, throbbed where he had been skimmed by the musket-ball. He breathed deeply and caught a heady, musky scent. He reached out his right arm; she was there, beside him. His hand lingered on the soft warm skin just beneath her left breast. His fingers traced her ribs. She did not shy away from him.
Without a word, she nestled closer to him in the warm pit of this comfortable cot. She wrapped her legs around his and her hand went to his yard and caressed it with exquisite tenderness. It needed little encouragement.
She kissed his neck. “Hello, husband,” she said in a quiet voice. “I have missed you.”
He lay still on his back, stretched out, enjoying her touch and willing it not to stop. She was pushing herself against his side as her hand stroked him and teased him. He turned half toward her and his hand caressed the base of her spine and the curves of her buttocks.
“I swear you have the finest arse in Christendom, Mistress Shakespeare.”
“Have you sampled them all, sir?”
She kissed his mouth, deep with longing. Her legs parted more, she moved across his body, and her hand guided him into her. They gasped together at his entry and filling of her.
“Mistress,” Shakespeare whispered, aware that the house was full and sound traveled, “you part your legs like a wanton.”
“And you prance up like a satyr, sir,” she breathed into his mouth. “Now, if it please you, stop your talking and get about your business.”