The Man in the Snow (Ebook) (2 page)

 
Shakespeare looked up from the endless documents. The man was a blackamoor. ‘I am afraid this room has been taken over as Sir Francis’s private office. Who do you want?’

 
‘Edward ... the Earl of Oxford.’

 
‘Well, he is clearly not here.’

 
‘Do you know how long the commission will last?’

 
‘It will be finished soon enough.’

 
‘And so will the Scots Queen, yes?’

 
Shakespeare had looked at him sternly, hoping he would go away.

 
But the man made a comment about the impossibility of having two queens in one country, then added in his fluent but accented English, ‘In truth, sir, it is like having two wives in one bedchamber or kitchen, a thing that is always likely to lead to death.’

 
Shakespeare found himself laughing. ‘It would be wise, sir, to refrain from any more jests about the Queen or her cousin, unless you wish to join Mary on the block.’

 
‘If a jester can’t make jests, then who can?’

 
‘Are you a jester?’

 
The young man had shrugged. ‘Jester, bedfellow, curiosity, dog. People have called me all those and more.’

 
‘Then what are you?’

 
‘I am Giovanni Jesu, a man.’

 
‘And I am exceedingly busy, so I would be grateful if you would please leave me to my work.’

 
Jesu had grinned, bowed very low and retreated from the room. It had been the only time they met, but Shakespeare had never forgotten the encounter. He thought now of the cruel holly crown and the corpse on Joshua’s slab. How had this vital, witty man come to this?

Chapter 2

As he stepped from the boat on to the icy quayside at Greenwich Palace, Shakespeare spotted his colleague Francis Mills. ‘Are you arriving or departing, Frank?’

 
‘Departing. We have a priest to question in the Tower.’

 
‘We?’

 
Mills nodded towards a waiting tiltboat. In the back, Shakespeare saw the white-haired figure of Richard Topcliffe, the official torturer and relentless persecutor of priests. Topcliffe caught his eye, gave a mocking bow of the head and smirked. Shakespeare gritted his teeth. He knew what such
questioning
would involve.
He turned back to Mills. ‘Go easy, Frank. It is the season of goodwill.’

 
It was hard to see any goodwill in Mills’s grim expression. His eyes were haunted, his long, birdlike frame stooped as though a yoke of rocks weighed down his neck and shoulders. ‘If you are here for Sir Robert, he’s in council,’ he said brusquely, turning away to join Topcliffe in the tiltboat.

 
Shakespeare stayed him with his hand. ‘Before you go, Frank, do you know anything of a young man named Giovanni Jesu, in Oxford’s retinue?’

 
‘The blackamoor? One of Oxford’s catamites, so it is said.’

 
Shakespeare shrugged. The gossips had made merry with the Roman circus of exotic, glittering youth that Edward de Vere, seventeenth Earl of Oxford, had brought back from Italy. There had been much salacious tittle-tattle, none of it proven. ‘Have you ever met him? What else have you heard?’

 
‘I can tell you that he came to court a few times and caused a stir, but then the earl was advised that he was harming his own reputation by being seen with the boy, that the Queen might be amused by his pretty friends on first acquaintance, but that was it. Oxford, of course, continued to take Giovanni wherever he wished. I recall that Mr Secretary was appalled. Eventually, Oxford was
ordered
to keep the boy away from court, at the Queen’s command. As to your first question, no, I never spoke a word to the man. Why do you ask?’

 
‘Because he has been murdered. Who would wish him dead?’

 
‘I know not. But if any thoughts come to me, I will let you know.’ Mills raised his hand to touch Shakespeare’s sleeve in farewell. As he stepped into the tiltboat to join Topcliffe, he turned. ‘I can tell you, John, that Mr Secretary Walsingham had his doubts. Unless proved otherwise, he considered every stranger to this land a potential enemy of the realm. Signor Jesu was no different.’

 
They made a disturbing pair seated side by side: Mills, thin and decayed in spirit; Topcliffe, old and hoary and cruel, incongruous in his court attire of gold and blue and a cape of black velvet.

 
‘Our priest awaits,’ Mills said.

 
And then the boat was gone.

After an hour’s wait, Shakespeare was ushered into Sir Robert Cecil’s apartments. The Privy Councillor – de facto
principal secretary – was at his table, furling a scroll. He looked up, a small, neat man, with a well-cut beard. ‘Ah, John, I am glad you have come. I had intended sending for you. There is work to be done.’

 
‘Sir Robert.’ Shakespeare bowed, amused. As if there were not work enough to be done already. The task was vast and growing by the day. Hundreds of pieces of correspondence passed his way – correspondence that had to be dealt with, however inconsequential it might at first appear. And then there were the spies and informers who scratched around his door, promising to bring intelligence in exchange for gold and silver. Most of it was worthless, the tittle-tattle of mongrel beasts, overheard in beery taverns and putrid gaol cells. Yet there might be one small, seemingly unimportant, piece of information among it that revealed a threat to England or the safety of the sovereign. And all it took was one undiscovered plot ...

 
Cecil slipped a ribbon around the scroll and placed it on a shelf, then turned back and smiled. He was clearly in a festive mood; most unusual for one as grave as Elizabeth’s second most senior minister, especially in the immediate aftermath of a Privy Council meeting. ‘At last we have some movement on the chaos in Ireland. Black Jack Norreys is to go there to put down these damnable uprisings.’

 
‘I thought the general ailed.’

 
‘Norreys always complains of his health. He simply doesn’t want to go. Well, my father has answered all his demands and he
will
go. He doesn’t know it yet, but he will discover the truth soon enough. In the meantime, I want you to turn your mind to the intelligence from Ireland. We need reliable information from within the Tyrone camp. I wish to know when the man farts and when he coughs, whom he conspires with and what he plots. He feigns loyalty to Her Majesty but treats with Philip of Spain and James of Scotland, to
our
detriment, and can be trusted no longer. He is behind every raid, every uprising, every sly assassin’s blade. My father is certain that he will soon turn to open revolt.’

 
Shakespeare listened without surprise. He knew and understood the fears concerning Hugh O’Neill, Earl of Tyrone, the great Irish lord who had once been considered England’s truest friend. What was less clear was why the government insisted on sending General Sir John Norreys into the fray. He had done heroic work for Queen and country, yet he was no longer young and he had been wounded so often that there was no reason to doubt his protestations of ill-health. Surely, he deserved a rest.

 
The matter of placing a spy inside O’Neill’s entourage was another thing. ‘I have been offered information by a disaffected member of his clan, one of the O’Neills,’ Shakespeare said. ‘The problem is that he has no intention of going back to Ireland.’

 
‘Can he be persuaded?’

 
‘I shall try. It is possible he knows of others in the clan who might be turned our way. We already have Byrne there, of course.’

 
‘Byrne?’ Cecil said the name quietly. Even here, at the heart of Greenwich Palace, there were all-hearing ears. ‘I don’t trust him any more than I trust Tyrone. Find me two intelligencers unknown to each other who can get close to Tyrone. We can check each man’s information against the other’s.’

 
‘It will take some little time.’

 
‘There will be gold available for them. The Irish love gold, do they not?’

 
Shakespeare bowed once more. ‘Do you wish
me
to go to Ireland, Sir Robert?’

 
‘In God’s faith, no, I need you here. Keep this at the forefront of your mind, John, and report back to me after Twelfth Night.’

 
Two weeks. Both men knew it could not be done so soon, especially not at this time of year, but there was to be no argument. Shakespeare nodded. ‘Very well.’ He paused, wondering how to broach the subject of the murder of the Earl of Oxford’s man.

 
Cecil spotted the hesitation. ‘Was there aught else you wished to say?’

 
‘Yes, sir. It is a matter on which I would look to you for guidance. It concerns the Earl of Oxford.’

 
Cecil’s small body tensed. ‘Well, John, then you command my interest immediately. You must surely know a little of my family’s difficult history with the earl?’

 
Shakespeare nodded. The Earl of Oxford had been married to Cecil’s sister, Anne. He had left his wife for long periods while he consorted with whores and courtesans and boys. It was said he squandered all his inherited wealth on luxurious living and poor investments and that his judgment was regarded as so poor that if he put money into a venture, investors fell over each other to withdraw their own stakes. All Oxford’s lands and properties were now gone and he was reduced to renting other men’s houses. Even with Anne Cecil dead, even with a new wife, he still held out a begging bowl to his former father-in-law and to Her Majesty. None of this was secret. Shakespeare knew it; the whole court knew it.

 
‘So, pray tell me what you have discovered.’

 
‘A member of the earl’s retinue has been murdered. One of those he brought back from Venice, a young Moor named Giovanni Jesu. I recognised him as soon as I was shown his corpse. He had been shot in the back at close range and left in the snow north of Bishopsgate. Because the body was frozen, Joshua Peace cannot put a time or date to his death.’

 
‘Giovanni. Well, well. Yes, I recall the young man. A charming fellow of great good humour. Now that
is
a sad thing. And a strange affair. Does Oxford know of this?’

 
‘I have not spoken to him. I came straight to you for your advice.’

 
‘Well, why are
you
involved, John?’

 
‘Joshua called on me. The body was taken to him by the watch because they did not know what to do with it. No one would inquire into the killing. Not the sheriff, not the justice. I fear they considered the poor man a heathen and of no worth.’

 
‘And you want my permission to investigate?’

 
‘I do.’

 
‘Then you have it. You have my full authority. Clarkson will prepare letters patent so that Oxford and his entourage are obliged to give you full cooperation.’ Cecil’s dark eyes were gleaming. ‘You must find out what you can of my lord of Oxford. Tell me how he lives. You know he sold the last of his estates, Castle Hedingham, to my father? And now he has a son to support! I am mighty intrigued – have reports brought to me without delay.’

 
‘Yes, Sir Robert.’ Shakespeare bowed once more and turned to leave the room.

 
‘Oh, and John, do not forget Ireland ...’

Chapter 3

The river journey against the tide was slow, cold and uncomfortable, the rowers complaining all the way. At the Swan water-stairs, Shakespeare paid the men the bare minimum, ignoring their grumbles.

 
The warmth of the kitchen fire at his home in Dowgate was welcome. Shakespeare took half an hour to thaw himself and satisfy his hunger with fresh white manchet bread and beef, then pulled his black bear cloak about his shoulders once more and walked with Boltfoot to the stables, where their horses awaited. They mounted and set off slowly through the icy, slush-brown streets northwards towards the village of Stoke Newington.

 
Snow began to fall as they reached the countryside just north of Shoreditch. All around them, the fields and farmhouse thatches were white and the horizon melded into the sky. And then the light faded. Shakespeare cursed. Night came so early. They should have waited until morning.

 
Stoke Newington was one of those wealthy villages beloved of the city traders. Rich merchants from the great guilds kept large houses here so that they might take the fresh air and recreation away from the noisome streets, crime and plague of the city. As they rode into the village, Shakespeare looked about him. It was a pleasant, peaceful place. The horses’ hoofs made no sound in the deep snow. From the candlelit church came the strains of Christmas caroling. It reminded Shakespeare of yuletide at home and he felt a pang for Stratford.