Revenger by Rory Clements Page B

England with fire and steel. “Yes, I am sure King Philip burns with desire for vengeance,” he acknowledged.
    Cecil smiled thinly. “Good. It is good that you understand. I have firm information that forty great galleons are being built in the ports of Spain—forty fighting ships and each one finer than the best vessels of war that Philip threw at us before. He is strengthening his ports; he is preparing to attack again. The prospect of a second Armada sent against us is very real, Mr. Shakespeare. Like a pack dog, Philip watches England closely for signs of weakness. When he sees us tired, sick, or divided, he will go for our throat.”
    “But we are strong at sea.”
    “Not as strong as we were. The war chest is bare. Many of the great ships are laid up in port, neglected and in need of refitting; others are sent fishing or trading. At home the country grows weaker. Our crops fail; the plague comes upon us; armies of vagabonds roam the land, bringing terror to villages and towns.”
    Shakespeare knew all this. By the same token, he knew that Spain, too, had her troubles. The endless war in the Spanish Netherlands had drained Philip’s treasury. Nor could Spanish morale have recovered from the beating inflicted on the Armada by Drake. But this was no time to argue such points.
    “The worst of it, Mr. Shakespeare, is this constant speculation about the succession. This is what makes us seem feeble.Courtiers and ambassadors talk of little else when they huddle in corners or dine together. Maids of honor twitter and gossip and examine the Queen’s face for every wrinkle, every lost hair, the state of her teeth, any perceived diminishing of powers that might signify the end is near. What, they wonder, will become of them when the Lord takes her? It is a contagion of fear. King Philip sees it and plots how he may exploit it.”
    “How, then, Sir Robert, does this bring you to your conclusion regarding my lord of Essex?”
    “Let me tell you a little about Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex. He is a strong man, valiant in war, formidable at the tilt, charming and amusing. That is why the Queen loves him. That is why so many cluster around him. When a strong man rises up in times like these, he becomes a lodestone that draws weaker men in. Especially when, as in France last year, he personally knights twenty-four of his men, much to the dismay and fury of his sovereign. Why does he do such a thing unless he would build up a power base of men who owe him everything?”
    “But he is not of the blood royal,” Shakespeare pointed out. “The Scotch king, James VI, must surely have a prior claim. The young Lady Arbella Stuart, too. Even the Countess of Derby or her son Lord Strange …”
    Cecil interrupted. “Many do not want a Scotchman as their king. The Countess of Derby is long in the tooth—or what few she has left—and has no support. Her son is tainted with suspicion of Catholic sympathies. There are those who believe it must, then, be Arbella. She is English-born and has youth and, some say, beauty to commend her.”
    “Then Arbella must look most likely to succeed.”
    “What would you say if I were to tell you that she is being wooed, secretly, by Essex?”
    “I would say that my lord of Essex has a wife. He is married to Frances, daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham and widow of Sir Philip Sidney.”
    Cecil stood and signaled to a flunky to take their empty glasses. He began to walk again through the gardens, basking in the dappled sunshine and warm air. Shakespeare followed him, studying him intently. Never since his days working for Walsingham had he met a man so utterly in command of himself and his surroundings. It seemed almost that he did not blink without first weighing up the consequences. He would be a hard man to warm to, but an easy man to respect.
    “You are not so innocent, Mr. Shakespeare. You did not work for Mr. Secretary for nine years without learning something about the dark heart of