Traitor (11 page)

‘He is thirteen, but he has the passions of a man. He has lost everyone he loved – his mother, his father and now Catherine, whom he loved as his own. He rages against their deaths and blames the English Church and this government for all that has happened. He sees me working for Cecil against the interests of Rome.’

‘But now he is at Oxford. I am sure a change of place will help him. He will meet new people, immerse himself in a new world.’

If only that were the case. Shakespeare sighed.

‘Am I not right, brother?’ Will persisted.

‘I pray it is so. But I worry that the opposite will happen. He would have no college but St John’s. I had to engage the assistance of Cecil himself to persuade the Merchant Taylors to give him a place. I had to do something – Andrew was going as mad as a caged lion. We were all deep in mourning for Catherine, yet Andrew’s dark presence left no room for light. Our house at Dowgate was a dungeon of despair.’

Will smiled. ‘You have been through a great deal.’

‘And so I arranged for him to go to St John’s, even though I understood the perilous reason why it had to be that college. It was the
alma mater
of the Jesuit martyr Campion, you see. Andrew had heard tales of him from Catherine’s lips and discovered some ill-founded inspiration there.’

‘You think he wishes to emulate him and seek martyrdom?’

Shakespeare nodded. It was exactly what he feared.

The brothers were silent for a while. There was nothing to be said. Both knew the dangers. As children they had seen the passion of the old faith in their own home. It was a passion that did not easily die nor succumb to threats. They drank their cider and refilled their cups. At last, Will touched John’s shoulder.

‘Walk with me a little way further, John. I would rather speak in low voices. Trouble dogs you, and I do not wish to be bitten.’

They strolled into the woodland. John, six years older and a little taller than his brother, was more soberly dressed in his felt cap, black and brown striped woollen doublet and black hose.

‘Well?’

‘They say he is bewitched, you know. All say it. The players, the ploughmen in the alehouses, the goodwives at their looms, the drovers with their cattle. All say the earl is bewitched.’

‘He believes it himself. I think poison a more likely cause of his ills.’

‘Indeed, but you should know what people say.’

‘Thank you, Will. So who has bewitched him – and why?’

Will stopped. He looked about him, then his voice sank to a whisper. ‘Some say the Pope, others say Dr Dee.’

‘Dee!’

‘They fear him. Children run screaming from his presence. The men call him conjuror and necromancer. He wanders
about in a cloud, looking for gold, unaware of men’s distaste for him and his ways. They do not trust him. Many would burn him as a witch.’

Shakespeare could not help laughing. Dee a witch! Had England not rid itself of such superstition along with relics and incense? Laughable as it was, however, that did not mean there was no threat.

‘Thank you, Will. You have strengthened my resolve. I will remove Dr Dee from Lancashire as soon as I may.’

‘I
CANNOT STAY
here, Jane,’ Boltfoot said. ‘I will go mad.’

‘You know you must stay here, to protect Mr Ivory. Where else would you go?’

‘I know not, but I must take him away. I do not like being indoors while he remains out. And I am concerned about Judith and her foolish attachment to him.’

‘That is just a miserly excuse, Mr Cooper, and you know it. She is a pretty young woman and he is a man. It is the way of the world, no more.’

‘It’s not healthy, Jane, and I won’t have it. The man’s a dog. Never did I meet a seafaring man with such sly ways.’

They were in their cramped little chamber, in the early evening. Baby John slept in his crib. From below, the sounds of the family reverberated through the old walls. This feeling of Boltfoot’s had been building all day.

Jane stroked her husband’s face. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Boltfoot. There’s a farmer in the next village who used to be friendly. Maybe he’ll let you and Mr Ivory stay in his barn.’

Boltfoot rubbed his arm across his brow. It was hot in here and he was sweating. His throat and bones ached. He needed fresh air.

What he could not tell Jane was that he was eaten away by terror. He was not a man who felt fear for himself, but the
safety of his wife, son and their other charges was another matter. And fear was gnawing at his heart like a deadly black canker. They weren’t safe here. Ivory wasn’t safe. The whole Cawston family was not safe. He had seen nothing suspicious, but this instinct of the gut had saved him on more than one occasion when faced with enemy shot or arrows in the Pacific isles. He had to go. Tonight preferably, tomorrow at the latest.

Walter Weld sat motionless astride his bay mare. He watched from the distance of a furlong as John Shakespeare strode across the outer courtyard towards the stable block. Weld’s hand went to the pistol in his belt, but he did not draw it.

The presence of Shakespeare made things less simple. Two strong-armed men now guarded Dee. They would have to be blown away with pistol shot. It would be messy, and the abduction would be met by a hue and cry. Well, so be it. There were ways to get Dee away, get him to a place near by where he could be interrogated and his secrets drawn from him. The cause of Spain and God had friends enough in this county.

Weld took a last look at Cecil’s man, then wheeled the mare’s head and kicked on. This was no place to be today.

Unable to find Walter Weld, Shakespeare talked with men around the stables.

‘Aye, he’s the Gentleman of the Horse,’ said the head groom, a man with a tongue as loose in his mouth as his belt was tight about his girth. ‘Gone riding, most like.’ His voice lowered. ‘But I can tell you, master, that we have heard rumours bruited about. Folks say Mr Weld is a most devotional Catholic gentleman.’

‘That does not seem to be a rarity in these parts.’

‘No, but it is the manner of his devotions that has made men talk. Some say he is Christ’s fellow, a boy-priest.’

Shakespeare understood the insinuation. ‘Is there anyone in particular, any man, to whom he is close?’

The groom shook his head. ‘I do not know, master.’

‘Think carefully.’

‘No, sir, no names come to mind.’

‘What sort of man is Mr Weld?’

‘Good with horses. Can pacify a nervy one. Gentle hands. A lean, well-formed man, always wears fine clothes. He is a fair master, but aloof. He likes the horses, but does not converse much with me or the lads.’

‘And his family?’

‘You’ll have to ask him that. All I can tell you is that he’s not from Lancashire. Comes from somewhere in the southern shires, I believe. I cannot tell you more, for I know no more. He has not been here longer than a six-month.’

‘Take me to his chamber.’

The head groom eyed Shakespeare, but then shrugged his shoulders. ‘As you wish, sir. Follow me.’

They went to Weld’s room close by the stable block. It was protected by a heavy door, which was locked.

‘Do you have the key, master groom?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, tell Mr Weld when he returns that John Shakespeare would speak with him on urgent business. He will find me in the great house.’

Young Andrew Woode had known much unhappiness. First the death of his mother, then of his father and, finally, the loss of Catherine Shakespeare, who had been like a second mother to him. It could not have occurred to him that life could get worse.

Hubert Penn was gazing at him in that unsettling way he had. At seventeen, he was four years older than Andrew and
was in his second year at St John’s. Andrew tried not to meet his eye, for he did not like what he saw there.

Fitzherbert, their tutor, came into the room.

‘Have you scholars done your exercises? I did not see you in the quadrangle.’

‘I have, Mr Fitzherbert, but Woode hasn’t.’

‘But I have run for a quarter of the clock, Mr Fitzherbert!’

‘Are you calling Penn a liar?’

‘No, sir, but he is mistaken.’

‘You will run until the clock strikes nine, then you will continue with your studies by candlelight – and pray for an hour before bed.’

‘Yes, master,’ Andrew said.

He knew that if he argued, the alternative would be a great deal worse: a birch-rod flogging, half-rations for a week and the chores of every boy in the dormitory. He looked across at Hubert Penn, expecting to see him smirk. But his handsome face had the innocent cast of an angel.

‘And you, Penn,’ Fitzherbert said, ‘shall have the privilege of sharing the comfort of my cot this night as reward for your honest dealing.’

A low stage had been erected close to the west wall of Lathom House among the grove of parkland trees. The evening was fine. Honoured guests from Ormskirk and the surrounding villages were arriving and quickly filling the audience enclosure.

They had been summoned in great haste, but none refused the invitation. All wanted to see the wondrous new play presented by the Earl of Derby’s company. They wished, also, to pay their respects to the earl, their liege lord. But most of all, they were eager to see for themselves if the stories spoken abroad were true: that he had been bewitched and was now but a shadow of a man.

John Shakespeare leant idly against the trunk of an ash tree and watched. He held a silver goblet of Gascon wine, rich and unsweetened. Bluecoats flitted here and there with drinks and delicacies. He almost laughed as he saw a local dignitary hesitate before accepting a sweetmeat, as though fearful that it might be poisoned or cursed. Lathom House was gaining an unfortunate reputation.

Suddenly the world went dark. Instinctively, Shakespeare’s own hands went up to throw off the two that were covering his eyes. As he did so, he saw they were small, feminine and neatly encased in soft cream gloves. He spun around. It was Lady Eliska. She smiled. The monkey on her shoulder bared its sharp little teeth at Shakespeare. It wore a collar around its neck studded with gemstones that looked very much like diamonds.

‘Mr Shakespeare, I told you we should meet again. And here we are.’

He bowed. ‘Madame. Lady Eliska.’

‘We met in sad circumstances.’ Her voice was husky and rich. ‘It is pleasant to meet again in these more benign surroundings.’

‘Indeed.’ He fished into his doublet. ‘And I bring you tidings from an old friend.’

He handed her the letter entrusted to him by Sir Thomas Heneage. She took it with a frown, then saw the distinctive red seal and smiled.

‘Why, thank you, Mr Shakespeare. This is most welcome. I shall read it in due course, in the privacy of my chamber.’

‘You will be pleased to know that he was in good health and spirits when I saw him most recently.’

As he spoke, Shakespeare could not help but be entranced by her appearance. She wore a slender-waisted gown of gold and black. The golden bodice descended dramatically to a sharp-pointed stomacher; the sleeves were black, cuffed with gold
braid and a ring of intricate lace. At her neck was a small white ruff, delicate and unstarched, revealing her inviting and flawless skin. Her hair, uncapped now, was fair and Shakespeare fancied she might be Germanic, though her pronounced cheekbones suggested some Slav blood. She was exquisite.

She proffered her hand. He took it and kissed it. ‘And I must thank you again for your assistance, my lady.’

Her hand lingered in his, then she stroked her pet. ‘This is my little friend Doda. Or Lady Doda, perhaps.’

‘I am told you are from Bohemia.’

‘Has Sir Thomas been gossiping about me?’

‘I assure you he said nothing indiscreet.’

She laughed. ‘There is little enough to know. My father was a member of Rudolf II’s court, a noble merchant of Prague and a patron of the arts. There – I have told you all you need to know. Now tell me, do you like my pretty little monkey, Doda? Is she not the sweetest thing?’

‘No. I do not like your monkey,’ he said evenly.

Lady Eliska took a delicacy from a passing tray and fed it to her pet. ‘I like your honesty, Mr Shakespeare, though your queen might not. I believe she too has a monkey. In Prague, I could have had a man walled up and starved to death for saying an ill word about my little friend. Could your Elizabeth do that?’

Shakespeare changed the subject. ‘Again, I owe you much gratitude for coming to my assistance on the road. It was a sorry affair.’

‘You must tell me all about it later, after the masque.’

‘Few grooms are as skilled with a pistol as your coachman.’

‘Solko was my father’s faithful servant, and now he is mine. That is why I know I can travel the world in safety.’

‘What brings you to England?’

‘The pleasure of meeting friends old and new. If you are
concerned, I will show you my letters of pass, issued by Lord Burghley himself.’

Yes, he thought, I would like to see them.

‘Indeed, my lady, as an officer of Sir Robert Cecil, I consider it my duty.’

‘After the masque, then. I will happily show you whatever you desire.’ She kissed his cheek. Her lips were cool. ‘Come to my chamber later. There are other matters I would discuss with you further.’

‘Such as?’

‘You will discover soon enough. I can assist you – and Sir Robert.’

‘In which part of the house are you staying?’

‘There is a stairwell from the smaller hall. I am sure a man of your ingenuity will find me.’

She smiled again and was about to go, but he stayed her with his hand.

‘Mr Shakespeare?’

‘I saw you in the hall, talking with Mr Weld, the earl’s Gentleman of the Horse.’

‘Indeed?’

‘He is a man that interests me. What do you know of him?’

She laughed. ‘That he looks after the horses, including mine.’

And she was gone.

Apart from a few stragglers, the guests had all arrived. The air was cool. Clouds were blowing in and Shakespeare gauged that the weather was about to turn. He looked again. Dr Dee was in the front row beside an empty settle adorned with cushions: clearly the place reserved for the earl. Oxx and Godwit stood behind Dee, their eyes alert. It would take determined men to get past them. The silent bolt of an assassin’s crossbow
could kill Dee easily, but that would not acquire his secret for Spain. Under the circumstances, he was as safe as could be.