The Man in the Snow (Ebook) (10 page)

 
The earl lunged forward and stumbled to the ground. He had been pushed in the back by the octagonal muzzle of Boltfoot’s caliver. Boltfoot stood over him, his gun pointing down, directly at his heart.

 
‘Keep him there, Boltfoot.’ Shakespeare pushed on. He heard a cry and a crashing noise from somewhere above. Feet, heavy on floorboards, the sound of a struggle. He began to run, tripping up the stairwell.

 
Throwing open the door, he stepped in to the chamber, his sword-tip extended ahead of him. The light was dim, no more than one candle. Two figures were wrestling on the floor, gasping and growling. Two
men
. Dorcas was standing against a wall clutching her baby.

 
There was a lurch and twisting of bodies. One of the men threw the other one on to his back. Shakespeare saw that it was the French cook, Curly Marot, on top. He had one hand at Stickley’s throat, the other gripped the steward’s knife-hand at the wrist.

 
Shakespeare realised that Marot, though strong, would not be able to hold back Stickley’s long dagger. Suddenly the Frenchman’s grip slipped and the blade plunged into his upper arm. Marot cried out. As the dagger came away, ready to stab again, blood leapt out and spat into Stickley’s eye. He wrenched his thin face sideways and pulled back the dagger for the second strike.

 
The blade hovered. This time its trajectory would be better controlled. It would plunge into Marot’s throat.

 
Stickley was too slow. Shakespeare was already moving forward. With a low, arcing cut, his sword sliced through the air and struck the wrist beneath Stickley’s hand. The blade was sharp and slashed easily through flesh, tendons and bone. The dagger flew, spinning, across the room, its hilt still gripped by Stickley’s severed hand.

 
Blood rushed forth from both the men on the floor. Marot fell back, clutching his arm. Stickley groaned and rose to his knees. He looked about wildly and saw a baby’s swaddle band. Grabbing it with his left hand, he wrapped it furiously around the blood-drenched stump where his right hand had been. Wild-eyed, he tried to rise to his feet. For the first time, his eyes met Shakespeare’s.

 
Shakespeare kicked him backwards with the snow-soaked heel of his boot and the killer sprawled helplessly across the floor.

 
‘You are going nowhere, Mr Stickley. Nowhere but the gallows. And as for you, Monsieur Marot, I have yet to discover your part in this bloody mayhem—’

 
‘Don’t do anything to him.’

 
Shakespeare looked across at Dorcas with surprise.

 
‘He saved me. He came here to try to bring me comfort, and I sent him away. He was just leaving when Mr Stickley burst in with the knife. Curly stopped him. Save his life, Mr Shakespeare. I beg you ...’

‘Another day of Christmas and I would have been done for, John. Everything stops and yet there is work to be done.’

 
‘As you say, Sir Robert.’ Shakespeare smiled. Cecil’s festive cheer at their last meeting had clearly not survived the two weeks of merry-making and revels and dancing beneath the kissing bough. Well, it was over now. Twelfth Night had come and gone, and given way to Epiphany. The snows were beginning to melt.

 
They were in the Privy Councillor’s apartments at Greenwich Palace once more. A fire blazed and a dozen or more candles lit the room.

 
‘Have you solved the Irish matter?’

 
‘I have taken the liberty of engaging Arthur Gregory. I believe he knows more about Ireland and the Irish than any man in England. He is eager to assist me.’

 
‘Good. Well, let us hope he finds what we want.’ Cecil was not a man to enthuse overmuch. ‘I read your letter regarding the events at Stoke Newington with great interest. A mighty strange incident. It is the talk of the court. Who
was
this man Stickley?’

 
‘As I said, he was Mendoza’s chief spy in England and had been so for years since the Earl of Oxford’s great trip to Italy in the 1570s. I know little more than that, save what has since been discovered under questioning in the Tower. He came from a family that had been in service to the de Veres for generations. When the earl went to Italy, Stickley was converted and offered himself to the service of Rome and Spain. Word was sent from there to Mendoza, who later contacted him in England. Stickley was a man full of zeal and fervour, a man willing to betray his country and those around him.’

 
‘For money?’

 
Shakespeare shook his head. ‘Faith and power. All information went through him and he recruited yet more intelligencers. I would say he is our most important catch of the year, if not the decade.’

 
Cecil sipped at a goblet. ‘Well, he has been safely relieved of his life. And it all came about through the death of this Venetian Ethiop. Most fortuitous.’

 
‘Giovanni Jesu was Stickley’s lieutenant, a man trapped by his past. He was long suspected by Mr Secretary Walsingham, which was exactly what Stickley desired, for he then had a channel to pass disinformation to Walsingham. The arrangement suited Mendoza’s purposes perfectly.’

 
‘Surely the earl must have known all this was going on?’

 
‘It appears not. Stickley is a man of great cunning. He has lived a secret life these many years; his position as the earl’s steward was the perfect cover. But then Topcliffe became involved. He was utterly convinced the earl himself was a traitor. He took control of Giovanni and began to bring pressure to bear on him to find evidence against the earl; or failing that to tell him the identity of the real traitor.’

 
‘I can well understand that any pressure applied by Richard Topcliffe must have been intolerable.’

 
‘It was, Sir Robert. Giovanni Jesu was stretched taut between Stickley and Topcliffe. His only way out was to flee with Dorcas Catton, the mother of his child. And to return to Venice with his new family, he needed money, a great deal of money. He began clipping coins, which was his undoing. Stickley found out about this – for nothing escaped his attention in that house – and decided that Giovanni was no longer to be trusted. Without hesitation, he took a dag and shot him dead.’

 
Cecil looked out of the window. ‘This winter isn’t over yet. There is still more snow to come. I feel it.’ He turned back to Shakespeare. ‘You usually have a remarkable instinct, John. Did you not detect something suspicious about Mr Stickley when you arrived at the house?’

 
Shakespeare laughed. ‘Indeed I did. My instinct told me he was a man with a secret life. I thought him a priest. It is not uncommon for priests in great houses to disguise themselves as servants. This one was something more ... I should have delved deeper sooner.’

 
There had been other strange aspects to the incident, matters that had only become clear once Dorcas had started to talk. It had been Topcliffe who had dragged her from her bed into the snow and cut her nightclothes from her. He was convinced she must have evidence against the earl – evidence passed on to her by her man. But Giovanni had never told her anything about his double life, only that he was in danger. She had known nothing about Stickley.

 
‘You may be interested in the reason Topcliffe ordered the corpse taken to Mr Peace.’

 
‘I would be,’ said Cecil drily.

 
‘Because he believed that Peace would come straight to me, which he did. And he deduced – also correctly – that I would wish to investigate and that I could gain your authority to go into the earl’s household, something that Topcliffe himself would never have been able to do. He wanted
me
to bring the Earl of Oxford to the scaffold. I was not unhappy to disappoint him.’

The road was slushy and brown, banked up on either side with the dripping remains of drifts and shovelled snow. Shakespeare reined in his mount and gazed along the driveway towards the Earl of Oxford’s house. Trails of smoke rose from half a dozen chimneys. Meltwater dripped from the roof. It really was a building of very great beauty.

 
He kicked on and rode into the stable-yard, where he handed the horse to a groom and ordered it to be fed and watered. A servant came scurrying out and bowed low in recognition.

 
‘Is the earl at home?’

 
‘He is at court, master.’

 
‘And her ladyship?’

 
‘She is here, sir.’

 
‘Please convey my greetings to her and ask if she would do me the honour of granting me an audience.’

 
‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, well, Mr Shakespeare, you really can’t keep away.’

 
‘I was passing, ma’am,’ he lied. ‘I wished to know how Dorcas fared.’

 
‘Dorcas is well enough. Her baby thrives. How very solicitous of you.’

       
‘And Monsieur Marot?’

 
‘Quite recovered. The wound has healed over. It seems he and Dorcas had once been secretly betrothed, until Giovanni won her heart and broke his. These Italians and Frenchmen have such passions!’

 
‘And is there any hope for Monsieur Marot’s suit now that Giovanni is dead?’

 
‘Perhaps. After all, he did save her life. It may be merely a matter of time. Who knows?’

 
Shakespeare met her eye and she smiled warmly. Elizabeth de Vere, the Countess of Oxford, really was a remarkably handsome woman. The earl did not deserve her.        

 
Their eyes still held. The countess cleared her throat. ‘I am all alone, Mr Shakespeare. My husband has gone to court to beg for patrimony. He will grovel for the farming of Cornish tin. Perhaps you would stay and sup with me and afford me a little company ...’

The fourth historical thriller featuring John Shakespeare, available soon in paperback

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The Elizabethan navy has a secret weapon: an optical instrument so powerful it gives England unassailable superiority at sea. Spain will stop at nothing to steal it and seize the three men who understand its secrets – its operative William Ivory, known as ‘Mr Eye’, its inventor, the mercurial Dr Dee, and his protégé Thomas Digges.

With a second Armada threatened, intelligencer John Shakespeare is sent north to escort Dr Dee to safety. But his mission is far from straightforward. While Shakespeare attempts to untangle a plot that points to treachery at the very heart of Elizabeth’s court, he also faces serious accusations far closer to home. With so much at stake, he is torn between family and his duty to Queen and country.

The fifth historical thriller featuring John Shakespeare, available soon in hardback

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England survived the Armada threat of 1588, but when Spanish galleys land troops in Cornwall seven years later, is it a dry-run for a new invasion? Or is there a more sinister motive? The Queen is speechless with rage. Intelligencer John Shakespeare tries to get a grip on events, but one by one his network of spies is murdered. What has this to do with Thomasyn Jade, driven to the edge of madness by the rituals of exorcism? And what is the link to a group of priests held prisoner in Wisbech Castle?

From the torture rooms of the Inquisition in Seville to the marshy wastes of fenland, and from the condemned cell at Newgate to the stench of brimstone,
The Heretics
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