Shakespeare said, “Harry enjoyed drinking, making merry. But dicing? You’ve mistaken him for someone else.”
“No mistake. Whitman diced, gambled. And lost a great deal of money.”
“Tell me.”
Chambers became animated. “The first night his hap was sweet, his winnings large. But the last days of his stay—he was here for five days—”
“I thought you said four.”
“Four days then. Yes, it was four days. On the fourth night, when Harry became involved with a group of rogues—unscrupulous men—his luck suddenly changed.”
Shakespeare felt suddenly ired, frustrated. “He became someone’s coney—a dupe.”
Chambers nodded.
“You didn’t stop the rogues from cheating?”
Chambers said, “In my business one never interferes with gentlemen dicing. They become most resentful.”
Shakespeare asked him to continue.
“The stakes grew higher,” Chambers said. His eyes darted from side to side. “I know not exactly what happened, sir. It was said that Harry’s luck took a sudden turn for the better. Then it was discovered that Harry held in his pockets several pairs of false dice.”
Shakespeare cursed inwardly. Uncover things best left buried. He said, “Harry was many things—a philanderer and a carouser—but always an honest man.”
“Then it grieves me to tell you this, goodman, but in his possession were a flat carter-treys, a flat cinque-deuces, a barred carter-treys, and high fullam.”
“High fullam?”
“Dice weighed toward high numbers.”
“I don’t believe it,” Shakespeare said. “He was duped.”
“I was not there when the accusations were made, sir.”
“Where were you?” Shakespeare asked.
“I have a brother,” Chambers said. “He was in charge of the inn’s business that evening.”
“May I speak with him?” Shakespeare asked.
“He’s in Kent, sir.”
“Had you ever seen Harry dice on any previous visit here?” Shakespeare asked.
“Yes sir, I have.”
“You have?”
“Yes.” Chambers began to shake his left leg.
Shakespeare told him to complete the dreadful tale.
Chambers said, “The next morning I saw Harry paying off these men with big coins—angels, nobles, sovereigns.”
Where had Harry come to so much money? Shakespeare wondered. He asked, “The name of these rogues?”
“I divulge their identities only because you say he was a kindred spirit with your soul.”
“I speak honestly.”
“I only know two names. The leader—a vicious uprightman who’s quick with the sword—and his doxy.”
“His name?”
“Have respect for my soul. Do not breathe the name I’m about to utter.”
“On my honor.”
“And be careful for your hide,” Chambers warned. “He’s ruthless and evil.”
“I shall be wary,” Shakespeare said. “Pray, his name?”
“Mackering—George Mackering.”
Shakespeare groaned.
“You know him?” asked Chambers, frightened.
“By reputation only,” Shakespeare answered. “An atheist—a foul, cunning man. And deadly with a sword.”
Chambers swallowed back a dry heave.
Shakespeare said, “His woman is still Mary Biddle?”
Chambers nodded.
“Are they still here?” Shakespeare asked.
“No.”
“Back in London?”
“It seems likely. London is Mackering’s favorite place of operation.” Chambers paused, then said, “Pray, leave now.”
Shakespeare stood up and placed a shilling atop the table. Chambers snatched it up, bit it, and placed it in his purse before Shakespeare was out the door.
All was not well with Roderigo Lopez. Raphael’s death had been a black cloud, a storm that had left no one in the family untouched. Rebecca was once again a single woman, and Miguel’s peculiarities were keeping her that way for the moment.
But now Lopez was preoccupied with a single thought—it had been nearly a month since he’d been called to court. Though it could not be proven, he knew in his heart that the Queen was deliberately shunning his counsel, her avoidance no doubt fueled by evil words from the damnable Essex. Royal blood ran thick through the earl’s veins—another stubborn redhead with a fiery temperament.
Roderigo spewed out curses as he paced, his heavy bootsteps stomping through the straw and echoing against the stone pavers. Normally the East Cell of his home was his favorite place of refuge—a closet where he could work or relax unmolested. Warmed by the fires burning in an exceptionally large hearth, Roderigo often sat at his desk in his favorite chair, admiring his pewter inkstand or unfolding and studying his recently charted maps. Once a week he counted his assets on his calculating board. The chamber was his retreat from the outside world. But this afternoon its magical spell of tranquility had been broken by the presence of his nephews—Thomas and Dunstan—and Miguel Nuñoz, sitting around his personal writing table.
May we meet, they had asked. Details of the mission must be discussed at length … And other things.
He knew what they meant by other things, what they dared not say in public. He had lost favor with the Queen. Only a temporary condition, he assured himself as he marched to and fro. Essex’s doing today would be his undoing in the future. He’d see to that! And to think that he had once trusted the bloodlusting dog.
He had to reach the Queen. But how? As of late Her Grace had no need of his services. The woman was in perfect health, sound in both body and mind—as strong as a bull and as crafty as a witch.
“A
