Martyr by Rory Clements

companion, Diego, the slave he freed in the Spanish Indies and who had since circumnavigated the world with him, stood at a window, gazing idly out at a bark drifting slowly downstream toward the estuary. He had seen these rages so many times before, and they had long since ceased to frighten him. Drake glared at the new arrivals—Shakespeare, Stanley, and Boltfoot—and stopped his pacing.
    In God’s faith, this is a sorry affair, Stanley. She won’t see me. There was a time when I would be admitted to her presence eight times a day; now, when we need her most, she closets herself with lady’s-maid poltroons like Davison and Burghley. This realm will be a Spanish colony before summer’s end if she continues this way!
    Sir Francis, Captain Stanley said, bowing briskly. May I introduce Mr. John Shakespeare, an assistant secretary to Mr. Secretary Walsingham.
    The furious cloud momentarily lifted from Drake’s brow. Ah yes, Mr. Shakespeare, I have been expecting you.
    It is an honor to meet you, Sir Francis.
    Likewise, likewise. A good man, Walsingham. England would be lost without him. I love him like a brother. Now, what exactly is his concern?
    Shakespeare viewed the tableau before him with fascination. The great, heroic mariner, in a rage because the Queen refused to see him, his wife so busy in her poems that she scarce looked up at the new arrivals, and a blackamoor dressed like a fine English gentleman and affecting disinterest in the proceedings. What glue held these three disparate creatures together?
    Catching the direction of Shakespeare’s eye, Drake broke in before he could speak. Forgive me, Mr. Shakespeare, I have not introduced you to my wife, Elizabeth …
    Elizabeth’s delicate, heart-shaped face lit up in a guileless smile that seemed to cast sparkles in the fat sapphires, rubies, and pearls that adorned her neck and fingers. Shakespeare bowed to her and she held out her delicate white hand for a kiss. Drake, meanwhile, was moving swiftly on: … and my very good friend Diego, who probably hates the Spanish even more than I do.
    Boltfoot Cooper had been hanging back, behind Shakespeare and Stanley, but now Diego caught sight of him and strode forward to shake his hand. Boltfoot, it is good to see you.
    It is good to see you, too, Diego.
    I saved Diego from the Spanish in Nombre de Dios, Drake continued, addressing Shakespeare and Stanley and ignoring Boltfoot. I think they had an idea that a hanging would make their saints look favorably on them, and Diego was to be the day’s entertainment. Luckily, he has a strong neck, because he was already dancing the hempen jig when we cut him down. Been my fine companion ever since. He is a master of tongues who has helped me many times talk to my captives when we have boarded ship or taken a town. How many languages do you speak now, Diego?
    Four.
    Four! English, Spanish, Portuguese …
    And Mandingo, my own tongue.
    Tell me again, Diego, what would you like to do to the Spanish King?
    Diego laughed, too, as if he had heard it all before a thousand times. Chain him up, brand him, sling him and two hundred other Spaniards into the stinking hold of a slow carrack across the western sea, set him to work on a Caribbean plantation for ten years. And then I’d hang him.
    Drake clapped his hands. And may he burn an eternity in hell, the way he has burned so many others. At last he turned to Boltfoot Cooper. They were both short, squat men and they stood toe to toe, neither man blinking. And you, Cooper, what in God’s name are you doing here? Why aren’t you shaping your staves, bending your hoops, and fashioning your faucets someplace?
    He is in my employ, Shakespeare said.
    Drake put an arm around Boltfoot’s shoulder. Boltfoot stood sullenly and stiffly as if in the grip of a tropic snake. I know, I know, Drake told Shakespeare. He works for you and Mr. Secretary. You’re a shipwreck of a man, Cooper. You should be building casks, which is what God put you on