The Queen's Cipher (57 page)

“I have mingled equal quantities of distilled wild poppy and rose syrup,” he explained solicitously. “If that does not match your need I will give you laudanum.”  

Anthony drank sparingly. Like most potent therapies, imbibing raw opium dissolved in alcohol had its side effects. The patient could expect his skin to go cold and clammy and for drowsiness to set in. Once his brother’s eyes had closed Francis gave orders he should not be disturbed, picked up his codex, and set off in search of Shakespeare’s inauspicious new lodgings in Winding Lane.

Tripping over a pair of rats fornicating in the alley outside the poet’s doorway, he stumbled up three flights of narrow, badly lit stairs before sliding into an equally dark garret which was positively billowing with smoke.

The unannounced visitor struggled to adjust his eyes to the surrounding gloom and coughed violently, choking on the acrid fumes of a guttering tallow candle. As he did so a lean shape emerged from the shadows, dropped his quill on the writing desk and gave a knowing wink.

“The lamentable Roman tragedy,” said Shakespeare, “is less lamentable than before. I have changed the pie scene.”

Will’s dark intelligent eyes were his most remarkable feature. They were set in a pale oval face where a wispy beard strengthened a weak, lecherous mouth and a receding hairline. He was of average height and build and his shirt, once white but now grey with usage and lack of proper laundering, was covered by a sleeveless black leather jerkin that had also seen better days. Not that he seemed to care. His only concession to fashion was a golden earring, worn to ape his betters. His wealthy patron, the Earl of Southampton, often tricked himself out in earrings, not to mention necklaces and bracelets.

Francis couldn’t help but smile as he watched his inky-fingered collaborator swoop from secretary to italic hand and from blot to blot. Without any apparent effort he had mastered the iambic pentameter and the rhymed quatrain to describe beauty, love and mortality in a way that was both earthy and sublime. William Shakespeare was a new kind of dramatist, a professional writer. Kit Marlowe hadn’t understood this. He had treated Will as a joke, telling his drinking friends he had ‘anonymity written all over him.’ The prince of playwrights should have known better than to judge a book by its cover.

Rising from his rickety chair, the new man dislodged a pile of bonds that fell to the floor in a cloud of dust. Leaving them there, he shuffled over to an improvised drinks cupboard and opened a bottle of sack for his guest while treating himself to a mug of Huffecap.

They were like an old married couple, totally at ease in each other’s company.

“There are things to discuss,” Will spoke in a matter-of-fact kind of way. A short season at the Newington Butts theatre had given them the chance to revise one of their first plays,
The Most Lamentable Roman Tragedy of Titus Andronicus
.  “How about screeching fiddles and a plaintive note on the viola de gamba to accompany Lavinia’s entrance after she’s been raped and had her tongue cut out?”

“I leave that to you,” Francis said quietly. They were both perfectionists but the partnership worked on trust. He supplied his powerful brain, prodigious knowledge and psychological insights while Will possessed an instinctive feel for poetry together with a thorough grounding in Elizabethan stagecraft and an uncanny ability to locate old plays whose plots were worth plagiarizing.

How quickly things had changed in the theatre. The plague and the untimely deaths of noble patrons had decimated the old performing companies but now the playhouses were reopening and Lord Hunsdon had formed his own troupe of players, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. As a trial run, they would share the stage at Newington Butts with the Admiral’s Men and, as usual, they were crying out for plays, old and new.

“What we need to talk about is this.” Francis dropped the open codex on Shakespeare’s desk. “Do you think the metaphorical message in
The Shrew
is clear enough?”

The Chamberlain’s Men were about to give
The Taming of the Shrew
its first performance.

“I think so,” said Will. “The domestic dispute parallels what is happening in England now. Audiences love coded language and hate Puritanism.”

What went unsaid was Will’s personal loathing for a religious sect that had robbed him of a normal domestic life. The other actors had their families with them in London but Anne refused to share his ‘life of sin.’ Although of different temperament and taste, Francis fully understood Will’s frustration for he too had to deal with a puritanical Anne.

How far we have come, Francis thought, and how careful we have to be about what we say. The commercial theatre is less than twenty years old and already it is altering society and those who write for it must be aware of how dangerous words can be. Kit Marlowe had discovered this to his cost. His history play Edward II had challenged the royal prerogative by implying monarchs had no absolute rights and now, whether by accident or design, the dramatist was dead. That was why he and Will published anonymously. It was safer that way.

Will hiccupped loudly. “More sack, Francis. Good for the digestion.”

“Thank you kindly, Will, maybe later. First I have something to show you.”

Opening his satchel he pulled out a small book with an embroidered red and gold cover. “
The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet
is a rambling affair but full of passion and conflict.”

He passed the volume to Will whose sibilant voice soon filled the garret.

‘There is beyond the Alps a town of ancient fame

Whose bright renown yet shineth clear; Verona men it name …’

“By my beard, Francis, how these lines strut. I detest alternating alexandrines and fourteeners! But how did this abomination come to be called a poulter’s measure?”

“That was George Gascoigne’s doing. He thought this verse pattern was about as arbitrary as a poultry seller who gives you a dozen birds and sometimes fourteen.”

Will burst out laughing and began to make chicken noises.

“A fitting explanation for such a foul line,” he chortled.

A mouse ran across the room, depositing droppings on the rushes. “It cannot be pleasant coming here,” said Will apologetically.

Francis shook his head. “No, by my troth, I would rather sit here telling sad stories about the death of kings than wait for the queen to summon me to court.”     

“I did not know you were so critical of our divine ruler?”

“I merely speak the truth.”

“Ah, but what is truth? I wonder that daily. Now inner truth, that’s a different commodity and you obviously see it in Romeus and Juliet? You’ve got that look in your eye, Francis.”

It was Francis’ turn to laugh. “You know me too well,” he said. “Consider the story this poem tells – feuding families, star-crossed lovers, tragic deaths, it has everything.”

He sat back in his chair and gestured for Will to take over. “The first thing that’s wrong is the timescale,” the actor suggested. “Like pregnancy, it covers nine months. If we compress our drama to a few days it increases the intensity of the action and makes the young lovers’ death more tragic.”     

“You say young,” Francis countered. “Juliet is sixteen in the poem. Why not make her thirteen? A girl entering puberty whose awakening desire is set against her family’s will? And talking of changes, how about turning Romeus to Romeo? It isn’t so leaden sounding.”

The ideas came thick and fast as they attacked the poem’s narrative, honing the story until it was razor sharp. What was required was a preface. Will sat in the candlelight sucking the ink off his quill pen. Then he began to write. Several blots and crossings out later, he turned to his companion and said, “How about this?”

Two households, both alike in dignity

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

Francis Bacon closed his eyes and listened to the verse, his lips puckered in concentration.

“Ah, fair Verona,” he sighed.

24 JULY 2014

What started in Verona had ended in Venice. The Italian dream was over. He had packed his bags, paid his hotel bill and booked a water taxi to take him to the airport. What else was there to do? Reeling from so many blows, Freddie couldn’t think of anything. With time to kill before the taxi came, he would have one last meal on the hotel’s floating restaurant.

“Would you like to see the menu signor?” A waiter was hovering over him. He must have dozed off. He had been doing that a lot lately. Yes, he would be dining alone. Having placed his order he closed his eyes.  A white spot – the retina memory of the sun’s glare – flickered annoyingly in front of his lids. Behind him, on the Zattere, he could hear the sound of laughter – people enjoying a warm summer’s day in the world’s most beautiful city – and felt useless and unwanted. A young couple sat down at a nearby table with a crying baby, reminding him that self-pity was the most childish of emotions. They looked so happy together. A few months ago he’d felt like that.

What should he do about Sam? He imagined a reunion in which she stood before him, her head bowed contritely, while he explained the depth of his feelings and how much she had hurt him. Yet, if he cared so much for her, why didn’t he pick up the phone and give her a call. Pride, he supposed.

A vaporetto reached the jetty and he caught a glimpse of russet hair among the passengers getting off the boat. His heart lurched, reminding him of the second girl he cared about.

His food arrived on a trolley. Duck ragu and pasta.

“
Buon appetito
!” said a familiar voice. The waiter moved away and he lost all interest in his food. Standing in front of him clutching a small travel case was Cheryl Stone, her deep coppery-red locks highlighted by the sun. She looked somehow older, more sophisticated, in a dusty pink prom dress with a string of pearls knotted around her neck.

“W-where did you come from,” he stammered.

“I came as soon as I heard.”

“And I’m awfully glad you did.”

She sat down at the table and took his hand. “Couldn’t keep away, could I?”

“How did you find me?”

“Simon rang. Told me where you were and what had happened. What is it with you and water?”

He studied her green, heavy-lidded eyes and her slender neck as if they were new to him. And in a way they were. What he’d looked at in Oxford was a sexy, audacious girl willing to share his bed when he needed female company, and he had taken her for granted, without realizing what was happening to his promiscuous heart.

Cheryl seemed to find his intense gaze disconcerting. “I know what you’re thinking,” she tapped the side of her nose. “You fancy a kinky old time in the bath with Lizzie Siddal.”

“How true, but there’s a problem,” he sighed ruefully. “I’ve already checked out.”

“We’ll see about that.” She was all bustle and efficiency. “Eat your ragu, Freddie. Drink some wine. Think what you’re going to do to me later. That’s if you’re up to it.”

She disappeared into the hotel, leaving him to wonder what she could possibly say to change hotel bookings. She was soon back, grinning from ear to ear. “Right that’s settled. You’ve got your old room and I’ve taken my case up. I also got the manager to cancel your flight and water taxi.”

“How did you pull that off?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t think the manager believed a word I said but he’s an absolute sweetheart.”

Freddie cleared his plate out of the way. “You must be hungry. They’ve got some lovely inky squid and the seafood risotto is also pretty good here.”

She gave him a little smile. “You know what, Freddie Brett, the food can wait. I’ve put a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on your door.”

“Then what the hell are we waiting for,” he said hoarsely. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Her green eyes widened. “I’ll try to be gentle,” she whispered.

But there was nothing gentle about their lovemaking once the bedroom door was closed. In their urgent need for intimacy clothes were torn off and bodies explored with fingers and tongues as they worked their way towards a startling climax.

Afterwards Cheryl snuggled up, soft and receptive. “That was worth coming for.”

He cradled her in his arms and they made love again, this time slowly, speaking to one another with their bodies.

“Nurse Nightingale on a mercy mission,” she cooed, as she kissed his puffy eyes and the livid bruises on his chest. “You can’t do without her, you know.”

“I’ve come to realize that.” He ran his fingers through her thick tresses.

“So what happened this time? All Simon would say was that you’d almost drowned in a Venetian canal after somebody knocked you into the water. Was it the Irish guy who mugged you in Oxford?”

Freddie told her his very unlikely story: how he had traced the Bacon notebook to Wolfenbuttel library only to discover it had been stolen by a foreign diplomat almost four hundred years ago; how he came to find the codex in the Venetian State Archive and stole it himself.

“So I’m shagging a thief, am I? And here I was putting you on a pedestal.”

“A very unsuccessful thief at that,” he admitted. “I only had the diary for a few minutes before Brennan caught up with me and we had another fight which, needless to say, I lost. He knocked me out. I fell into the canal and when I woke up I couldn’t swim.”

“So how did you get out of the water?”

“Brennan fished me out.”

“You mean to say your enemy dived into the canal and rescued you?”

“Yes, but remember, he had to rescue me in order to save the treatise.”

He decides to tell her everything. “Brennan did say he’d been looking out for me ever since my parents died in Ireland. Believe it or not, he murdered the two professors, Cartwright and Dawkins, to keep me out of trouble.”

Cheryl pursed her lips. “You’ve got to be joking! A psychopathic killer is incapable of empathy.”