Revenger by Rory Clements Page A

the seventh, Dr. Forman.”
    “And the year?”
    “Fifteen thirty-three.”
    Forman looked up at her from his parchment again. This time, his expression was inquisitive yet fearful. “Do you know what date this is, my lady?”
    “Indeed, Dr. Forman, I do. It is the date for which I require a chart. I can also tell you the time of birth, which was a little after three of the clock in the afternoon. And I am sure you needs must have the place, too, which was Greenwich.”
    “My lady, I cannot do this thing for you.”
    “Cannot, Dr. Forman? Do you say ‘cannot’ to me?”
    “I mean I would rather not do it.”
    “And if I insist?”
    “Then I would have to ask you for a great deal of money. A man might lose his liberty, perchance even his head, for divining such a chart.”
    “Shall we say three gold sovereigns, Dr. Forman?”
    Forman rubbed his throat beneath his dark, bushy beard and grimaced. “I have great reservations. My neck, my head … I feel the sharp edge of the axe and the rough edge of the rope. This is not the thing for those among us who would sleep well in our beds at night.”
    “My information, Dr. Forman, is that you do very little sleeping when you are abed. I hear tell of exceeding energetic nights with much cavorting.”
    “My lady, you flatter me. There is much gossip and rumor about in these troubled days. The broadsheets, madam, they print calumnies.”
    Penelope threw back her head of blonde curls and let out a great laugh. “It is not the broadsheets, sir, it is my friends that tell me this. Now, let us say five sovereigns and be done with it. You will take this offer, or you are like to have a visit from the sheriff, who may wish to lay a charge against you of necromancy.”
    “Of course, my lady, of course. I will produce the chart you require.”
    “And would you like me to give you the name of the person whose chart I am asking you to divine?”
    “My lady, I would like it very much if you would not give me the name. It would not be at all good for my health to know it.”
    Penelope laughed again. “You are a droll little man, Dr. Forman. I like you very much, very much indeed. Perhaps another time you will show me more of your famed trickery.”

Chapter 8

    T ELL ME, MR. SHAKESPEARE,” CECIL SAID. “WHY DO you think I have called you here to Theobalds and entrusted you with this information regarding my lord of Essex?”
    Shakespeare sipped his wine. He felt distinctly ill at ease. “Well, Sir Robert,” he said at last. “I confess I really do not know what to say.”
    Cecil looked at him coolly. “You know, of course, Mr. Shakespeare, that Sir Francis Walsingham felt obliged to dispense with your services because of your marriage, but he admitted to me in his latter days that it had been a mistake. He said his secret operation was never so strong again. That is how highly he valued you. England needed you then—and I believe it needs you again.”
    “You flatter me, Sir Robert.”
    “I am not here to flatter you. There is a vacuum, Mr. Shakespeare. If nature, as we are told, abhors a vacuum, how much more so does the world of secrets. If I do not fill it, others will, others less scrupulous.”
    Shakespeare knew the truth of this. Though he was no longer part of that world, it was the one he understood better than any other.
    “I need you for this. There are few enough men of your caliber.Yes, there are many spies, men who can be set to a task with the lure of gold, but are they trustworthy? Can any of them inquire, organize, and pursue as, I believe, you can? With relentless energy and attention to detail. With such talents, you are needed. These are dangerous days.”
    Shakespeare nodded. These were the most perilous times since the dark days of the Armada—one hundred and thirty warships wallowing slow and purposeful down the Channel under the weight of heavy cannons, culverins, and thirty thousand battle-hardened Spanish troops, all hungry to descend on