Behind him in the courtyard, he heard unequal footsteps and turned to see his old friend and assistant Boltfoot Cooper shuffling toward him, dragging his clubfoot awkwardly on the cobbled stones. It occurred to Shakespeare that Boltfoot was becoming slower in his movements as he neared the age of forty. Perhaps this quiet life as a school gatekeeper did not suit an old mariner and veteran of Drake’s circumnavigation.
“Boltfoot?”
“You have a visitor, Mr. Shakespeare. A Mr. McGunn would speak with you. He has a serving-man with him.”
“Do we know Mr. McGunn? Is he the father of a prospective pupil?”
Boltfoot shook his head. “He says he is sent by the Earl of Essex to treat with you.”
Shakespeare’s furrowed brow betrayed his surprise. He laughed lightly. “Well, I suppose I had better see him.”
“I shall show him through.”
“Not here, Boltfoot. I will go to the library. Show this McGunn and his servant to the anteroom and offer them refreshment, then bring them to me in five minutes.”
As Shakespeare climbed the oaken staircase to the high-windowed library, with its shelves of books collected by the founder of this school, Thomas Woode, and, latterly, by himself, he considered Essex. He was famed throughout the land as Queen Elizabeth’s most favored courtier, a gallant blessed with high birth, dashing looks, courage in battle, sporting prowess, and the charm to enchant a princess. It was said he had even supplanted Sir Walter Ralegh in the Queen’s affections. What interest could the Earl of Essex have in an obscure schoolmaster like Shakespeare, a man so far from the center of public life that he doubted anyone at court even knew his name?
McGunn was a surprise. Shakespeare had half expected a livery-clad bluecoat to appear, but McGunn looked like no flunky Shakespeare had ever seen. He was of middle height, thick-set, with the fearless, belligerent aspect of a bull terrier about him. He had big, knotted hands. His face and head were bare and bald, save for two graying eyebrows beneath a gnarled and pulpy forehead. A heavy gold hoop was pierced into the lobe of his left ear. He smiled with good humor and held out a firm, meaty hand to John Shakespeare.
“Mr. Shakespeare, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he said.
“Mr. McGunn?”
“Indeed.”
Shakespeare guessed his accent to be Irish, but from which part or class of that dark, forbidding island he had no way of knowing. His attire struck him as incongruous: a wide, starched ruff circled his thick neck, a doublet finely braided with thread of gold girded his trunk, and he wore hose of good-quality blue serge and netherstocks the color of corn. It seemed to Shakespeare that he had a working man’s face and body in a gentleman’s clothing.
The serving-man at his side was introduced merely as Slyguff. He looked no more the bluecoat of a great house than did McGunn, though he was less richly dressed, in the buff jerkin of a smithy or a carter. Slyguff was smaller and thinner than his master. He was wiry like the taut cable of a ship’s anchor, with a narrow face and a sharp, gristly nose. Though smaller, he looked every bit as formidable as McGunn. One of Slyguff’s eyes, the left one, was dead, and the other betrayed no emotion at all.
“I hope that Mr. Cooper has offered you some ale. It is another hot day.”
“Indeed, it is and indeed, he has, Mr. Shakespeare,” McGunn said, smiling warmly. “For which we are both grateful. To tell you true, I could have drunk the Irish Sea dry this day.”
“How may I help you, Mr. McGunn?”
“Well, you could start by giving us yet more ale. No, no, I jest. We are here because we are sent by my lord of Essex to escort you to him at Essex House. He wishes to speak with you.”
“The Earl of Essex wishes to speak with me?”
“That is correct, Mr. Shakespeare.”
“Why should he wish to speak to an unknown schoolmaster, Mr. McGunn?”
“Perchance he wants lessons in Latin, or a little learning in counting. Could you help him with that, now? Or maybe you could show him how to command his temper, for certain he is as moody as the weather.”
“Mr. McGunn, I fear you jest again.”
“I do, I do. The truth is he wishes your advice on a particular matter of interest. But for certain you don’t do yourself credit when you call yourself an ‘unknown schoolmaster.’ Who has not heard of the brilliant exploits of John Shakespeare on behalf of queen and country?”
“Mr. McGunn, that is ancient history.”
“Not in the Earl’s eyes, it’s not. He is mighty impressed by the tale of your fierce courage in the face of an implacable foe. As am I, may I add. You have done admirable work, sir.”
Shakespeare accepted the compliment with good grace and bowed with a slight smile on his lips. “And what sort of advice is the Earl of Essex seeking, Mr. McGunn? He must know I am retired from my work as an intelligencer.”
“That is for him to say, Mr. Shakespeare. I am merely his humble servant.”
McGunn did not look at all humble, thought Shakespeare. Were it not for the fine clothes, he and Slyguff were the kind of duo an honest subject of Her Majesty might well cross the road to avoid. Yet for all his brutish appearance, McGunn seemed a good-humored fellow, and Shakespeare had to admit that he was intrigued. Who would not wish to meet the renowned Essex? “Well, then, let us make an appointment, and I will be there.”
“No, Mr. Shakespeare, we are to accompany you to him now. My lord of Essex does not wait on appointments.”
“Well, I am afraid he will have to wait. I have a lesson to conduct within the hour.”
McGunn smiled and clapped Shakespeare on the shoulder with a hand the size of a kitchen wife’s sieve. “Come now, Mr. Shakespeare, are you not high master of this school? Delegate one of your lesser masters to take over your tutoring for the morning. The Earl is a busy man and I know he will make it worth your while to take the time to meet him. Here.” McGunn took a gold coin from his purse and spun it in the air. He caught it and held it between thumb and forefinger in front of Shakespeare’s eyes. “That’s for starters. Take it. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
Shakespeare did not take the gold coin. He stared McGunn in the eye and saw only gently mocking humor. “Very well,” he said. “I will come with you. But give me a few minutes to arrange my lesson and let my wife know where I am going.”
As he spoke the words, he experienced a sense of dread; the battle with Catherine was far from done.
Chapter 3
Rumsey Blade, a small man with a pinched, unlovable face and thinning hair, was not happy about taking on Shakespeare’s lesson. He was in the yard, swishing his birch cane in preparation for flogging Pimlock, who was awaiting his punishment, hose about his knees and bent forward over the low wall where Shakespeare had recently been sitting.
“I am called away on urgent business, Mr. Blade. You will take my lesson.”
Blade frowned. “Indeed, Master Shakespeare?”
“Indeed, Mr. Blade.”
“Well, I cannot allow you to make a habit of such things. It is a bad example to the boys when masters fail to keep to the roster.”
Shakespeare did not have time to argue. “Mr. Blade, you are forgetting who is the high master here, to speak to me thus.” He looked at the boy. “And I would suggest you go easy with Pimlock.”
“Would you so, Mr. Shakespeare? And what use do you think a flogging would be if it did not draw blood?”
“It is of little or no use, whether blood be drawn or not.”
“At Winchester, Friday was always flogging day and a failure to stripe them with blood was considered not at all acceptable. Do you consider yourself superior to Winchester, sir?”
“Good-day, Mr. Blade.”
As Shakespeare turned away, Blade went rigid. His birchrod ceased swishing. “And have you discussed this matter with the bishop? He will not be happy with such a lax attitude to discipline and the good governance of boys.”