the north. Across the ditch, the castle keep where Mary lodged was raised high on its motte. Shakespeare studied the ancient earthwork and fortress for a few minutes, then made his way slowly back to the great hall. He had clearly missed the start of the midday repast, for the place was already as raucous as a lawyers’ dinner at Gray’s Inn. The table was packed with senior officers and administrators, eating, talking and laughing with abandon. At the table’s head, the earl was chewing at the wing bone of a fowl. At his left side sat a comely woman. Shrewsbury hammered the haft of his knife on the table. ‘Mr Shakeshaft, you will sit here beside me,’ he boomed across the hall. All eyes turned to Shakespeare. ‘Have you met Mistress Britten?’
Shakespeare bowed, not bothering to correct his name. So this was the earl’s pastry cook, Elinor Britten. Walsingham had told him of her. She smiled at him and pushed forward her large bosom in welcome and the image of an appetising apple pie came to mind. No wonder the countess, Bess, had absented herself from the marriage bed. She was at Hardwick Hall with her young grand-daughter Arbella Stuart, and was said to be in a towering rage that her husband had taken this wench as his mistress.
‘Good day to you, Mr Shake speare ,’ Elinor Britten said, laughing. ‘You see, I know your name even if my lord does not. He is most forgetful these days. With that and the gout and the prattling, one could imagine him a feeble old man soon. We shall have to feed him potage with a babe’s spoon.’
‘Enough of that, Mistress Britten! How can a man be old when he has a warm woman in his bed to keep him up? Do I not rise and crow when duty calls?’
Elinor graced his lordship with a tolerant smile, then turned back to their guest. ‘Please be seated, Mr Shakespeare.’ She swept her plump pink hand in the direction of the bird in the centre of the table. ‘Have you tried ptarmigan? It is really quite delicious. One of Mary’s men had a dozen sent down in cages from his estates in Scotland for us. I think it has the flavour of swan. It is a fine royal roasting bird.’
Shakespeare was astonished at the manner in which the earl’s bed companion flaunted their relationship. He was just about to reply when the room fell silent. All eyes swivelled to the doorway and Shakespeare turned to see what they were looking at.
A dark shadow of a man stood there, the light of the sun behind him. All Shakespeare could make out was the whiteness of his hair, like a demonic halo, and the heavy stick that he held in his right hand.
‘Ah, Mr Topcliffe,’ the earl bellowed. ‘How went the chase?’
‘Too simple, my lord, too simple. No sport at all.’
‘And poor eating.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Step forward, sir, and say well met to our guest. His name is Mr Shake speare. There, I have it, Mistress Britten.’
Richard Topcliffe strode forward, tapping his blackthorn stick at every third step, and Shakespeare now saw him clearly. From his skin and strength, he looked fifty or so, yet his hoary white hair was that of a man many years older. He was not tall, but he emanated a brutish power. He was grinning through yellow-brown teeth which, rather oddly, matched the colour of his marigold silk doublet. Shakespeare wondered exactly what manner of work he did for Walsingham.
‘Mr Topcliffe,’ the earl continued when the white-haired man came to a halt. ‘I am pleased to introduce you to Mr Shakespeare who has letters of introduction from Mr Secretary.’
Topcliffe stood square like a mastiff at bay. ‘If you are Walsingham’s man, then you are indeed well-met, Mr Shakespeare.’ His voice was a dark and unpleasant syrup. ‘Any friend of Mr Secretary is an enemy of the Antichrist, and so you must be my friend, too.’
Shakespeare was surprised. Was this truly one of Mr Secretary’s men? ‘It is my honour to meet you, Mr Topcliffe.’ He proffered his hand, but it was not taken. Instead
Shakespeare bowed, not bothering to correct his name. So this was the earl’s pastry cook, Elinor Britten. Walsingham had told him of her. She smiled at him and pushed forward her large bosom in welcome and the image of an appetising apple pie came to mind. No wonder the countess, Bess, had absented herself from the marriage bed. She was at Hardwick Hall with her young grand-daughter Arbella Stuart, and was said to be in a towering rage that her husband had taken this wench as his mistress.
‘Good day to you, Mr Shake speare ,’ Elinor Britten said, laughing. ‘You see, I know your name even if my lord does not. He is most forgetful these days. With that and the gout and the prattling, one could imagine him a feeble old man soon. We shall have to feed him potage with a babe’s spoon.’
‘Enough of that, Mistress Britten! How can a man be old when he has a warm woman in his bed to keep him up? Do I not rise and crow when duty calls?’
Elinor graced his lordship with a tolerant smile, then turned back to their guest. ‘Please be seated, Mr Shakespeare.’ She swept her plump pink hand in the direction of the bird in the centre of the table. ‘Have you tried ptarmigan? It is really quite delicious. One of Mary’s men had a dozen sent down in cages from his estates in Scotland for us. I think it has the flavour of swan. It is a fine royal roasting bird.’
Shakespeare was astonished at the manner in which the earl’s bed companion flaunted their relationship. He was just about to reply when the room fell silent. All eyes swivelled to the doorway and Shakespeare turned to see what they were looking at.
A dark shadow of a man stood there, the light of the sun behind him. All Shakespeare could make out was the whiteness of his hair, like a demonic halo, and the heavy stick that he held in his right hand.
‘Ah, Mr Topcliffe,’ the earl bellowed. ‘How went the chase?’
‘Too simple, my lord, too simple. No sport at all.’
‘And poor eating.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Step forward, sir, and say well met to our guest. His name is Mr Shake speare. There, I have it, Mistress Britten.’
Richard Topcliffe strode forward, tapping his blackthorn stick at every third step, and Shakespeare now saw him clearly. From his skin and strength, he looked fifty or so, yet his hoary white hair was that of a man many years older. He was not tall, but he emanated a brutish power. He was grinning through yellow-brown teeth which, rather oddly, matched the colour of his marigold silk doublet. Shakespeare wondered exactly what manner of work he did for Walsingham.
‘Mr Topcliffe,’ the earl continued when the white-haired man came to a halt. ‘I am pleased to introduce you to Mr Shakespeare who has letters of introduction from Mr Secretary.’
Topcliffe stood square like a mastiff at bay. ‘If you are Walsingham’s man, then you are indeed well-met, Mr Shakespeare.’ His voice was a dark and unpleasant syrup. ‘Any friend of Mr Secretary is an enemy of the Antichrist, and so you must be my friend, too.’
Shakespeare was surprised. Was this truly one of Mr Secretary’s men? ‘It is my honour to meet you, Mr Topcliffe.’ He proffered his hand, but it was not taken. Instead
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