Traitor (2 page)

‘I
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the quayside where anyone might have seen what he was doing? Christ’s tears, Mr Shakespeare, your man Cooper has surpassed himself this time.’

‘It was necessary, Sir Robert. The man was about to blow a hole in Ivory’s head.’

‘Gunfire, blood all over the quayside … If this reached Her Majesty’s ears, she would be most unhappy. She will not have men knifed in her towns and seaports in full view of passers-by.’

‘It was
necessary
, Sir Robert,’ Shakespeare repeated, slightly too sharply. ‘In defence of the realm …’ His voice trailed off, wondering whether he overstepped the mark in talking to Elizabeth’s first minister in such tones. ‘Forgive me for speaking plain.’

Sir Robert Cecil laughed, a dry little laugh. He was small in stature, not much over five feet tall, with a hunch of the shoulder that he tried to disguise by pulling back his head. He had a tidy spade of a beard and dark, inquiring eyes. John Shakespeare, six feet tall, with flowing hair, towered over him as they walked across the beautiful inner courtyard of Nonsuch Palace. Water gushed from a marble fountain. The walls seemed to close in with their profusion of intricate plaster reliefs of figures both noble and godly. Across the court and dominating all was the
statue of the Queen’s father, Great Henry, his menacing, magnificent figure seeming to hold the very gods of Olympus in thrall.

As if on cue, the Queen herself emerged into the sunlight from the state rooms on the far side of the courtyard. She wore a French gown of white pearl, flourished with gold and silver, embroidered with tiny harts and stags. In her hand she carried a fan of white feathers with a handle of ornate gold. She shone in the sun’s glare, an aureole among the courtiers who thronged around her.

The Queen stopped a moment to breathe in the fresh spring air. Her courtiers stopped, too, responsive to her every movement. Chief among them was her favourite, the Earl of Essex, markedly taller than his companions. His eyes flitted from his sovereign to the bosom of a young lady-in-waiting two steps behind. On Elizabeth’s other side stood the bluff, handsome figure of Sir Thomas Heneage, her greatest friend and Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster. He was whispering some tittle-tattle in her ear and she smiled.

Also there was Sir Edward Coke. As the Queen stepped forward again, Coke moved too, a spring in his step, puffed up from his appointment that very morning as Attorney-General. Cecil’s father, Lord Burghley, hobbled behind, the pain of his gout evident in his expression. Southampton clasped Essex’s arm with one hand and with the other ran his silky fingers through his own long hair. Behind them Shakespeare spotted the squat, white-haired figure of the torturer Richard Topcliffe, and shuddered. No courtier’s elegant attire could disguise that feral, stale-sweat brutality.

Bile rose in Shakespeare’s gullet at the sight of the white-haired Queen’s servant. Their paths had crossed too many times and the loathing between them ran deep. Topcliffe had done his utmost to persecute Shakespeare and his family,
believing them tainted by Catholicism. Shakespeare, in turn, had seen the inside of the private torture chamber Topcliffe maintained in his Westminster home. It was there that he had brought the natural father of Shakespeare’s adopted children to the point of death with his foul instruments of rope and iron. Shakespeare could smell the stench of pain and blood that hung there even now, and knew the torturer would not rest until he had destroyed him and all he held dear. As the royal party drew near, Topcliffe caught his eye and smirked. Shakespeare’s expression did not change, did not reveal his revulsion, nor his contempt.

He and Cecil both bowed low and went down on one knee at the Queen’s approach. She looked at them and for the briefest of moments her eye caught John Shakespeare’s. At this proximity he could not but notice what he had not seen from a distance – how marked her face had become by time, how tarnished her glow. Her golden hair was dry, her skin coated white, like a badly rendered façade. She did not acknowledge him, simply looked away and walked on with her courtiers and the ladies in her train. Topcliffe turned as he swept past and threw Shakespeare a half-smile that denoted nothing more than loathing and disdain.

Cecil rose and touched his hand to Shakespeare’s elbow to signify that he, too, should rise. The statesman’s gaze followed the departing group.

‘My lord of Essex has been swearing eternal love and devotion to his virgin queen,’ Cecil said in a low voice in Shakespeare’s ear. ‘Yet before the hour is out, he will have
that
wanton’s skirts about her waist with never a thought for Her Royal Majesty.’ He nodded towards the woman whose breasts Essex had been contemplating. The corners of Cecil’s mouth turned down in distaste. ‘Come, John, let us walk in the gardens, away from ears.’

Shakespeare was surprised by the note of bitterness in Cecil’s words. His enmity for Essex was well known, but it was unlike him to reveal so much of his inner feelings.

They ambled through the gatehouses. Chaffinches and sparrows sang with the promise of spring. Fruit trees burgeoned with blossom buds. From the outside, the fantastical turrets of Nonsuch Palace dazzled beneath blue slate and red-brick chimneys. Cecil patted the spaniel at his heels and then glanced up at a large lanner falcon that swooped and ranged above them and around them, hunting for food. He shook his neat head in admiration and acknowledged the falconer, who bowed to him. Cecil pointed out the bird to Shakespeare.

‘That is my lanner, John. Is she not comely?’ He paused and looked around. There was no one within earshot. ‘So tell me, now that we are in a quiet place, what do we know about the attacker?’

‘Nothing, except that he wore a large cloak, which concealed a German wheel-lock pistol, which we have. He ran like a hare. Boltfoot, with his club-foot, had no hope of giving chase. Anyway, he was more concerned to stay with Ivory.’

‘Did they follow the blood trail?

‘As far as it went, into the next street. After that, nothing.’

‘Would they recognise the man again?’

‘Unlikely – he closed his cloak about his face. This was no common felon, but a mercenary, a hired man.’

‘From Spain?’

‘We have no way of knowing.’

‘But not a common footpad after Mr Eye’s gold?’

Shakespeare grimaced. ‘No. Mr Ivory confirmed that he demanded the perspective glass. However, there is still a chance of identifying the assassin. Here …’ He withdrew the would-be killer’s pistol and handed it to Cecil. ‘It is a fine-wrought piece.’

Cecil handed it back. ‘Give it to my man, Clarkson. He will pass it on to Frank Mills to deal with. I have other requirements of you. This incident in Portsmouth has worried me greatly. Where are Mr Eye and the perspective glass now?’

‘I have them both safe, Sir Robert.’

‘And you do not think they should be parted? The glass kept safe in the Tower, perhaps?’

Shakespeare shrugged his shoulders. ‘That is for you to decide.’

‘But I would appreciate your opinion, John.’

‘Well, the glass is our priority, but Mr Ivory is also of great value to us. It seems rational to keep them together.’

Cecil smiled briefly. ‘My thoughts exactly. Keep the Eye and the implement secure. Tell no one where they are except Clarkson. And beware of men in cloaks with scarred wrists. I fear we will need Mr Eye again very soon.’

Shakespeare bowed solemnly. There were times when Cecil required obedience, not debate, and this was one of them. Many men loathed him, calling him Robin Crookback or Robertus Diabolus – mocking names, spoken with a tinge of fear – but there were few who did not respect him. Shakespeare went further. He liked to think he understood Cecil. He worked for him because he believed they shared some human creed and aims – peace and justice, the security of the realm, a prosperous commonwealth, the hoped-for triumph of good over evil. And if that sometimes meant being harder and more devious than the enemy, well, so be it.

‘I must tell you, John,’ Cecil continued, ‘that this perspective glass has assumed great significance. I do believe the very fate of the realm might rest on our strange instrument. We have culverins, we have ships-of-war, we have courage, yet this glass is our greatest weapon of all – for we alone have it. As the sparrowhawk’s eye provides its killing vantage, so it is for us.’

Shakespeare considered what he knew of the perspective glass. It was made of stiffened pig-hide and it concealed curved pieces of glass, like those used in spectacles to remedy feeble sight. These glass discs were precisely ground, highly polished and so conformed that, when a man looked in one end of the tube, the impossible happened – distant objects drew near.

As chief officer in Cecil’s intelligence network, he was one of a mere half-dozen men privileged to have used it. It had been at Greenwich for a demonstration in front of the Queen. When Shakespeare looked through it, he had clearly seen the markings of a deer a mile away and the freckles of a maiden hanging out her mother’s washing. Astonished, he had gazed through it for a full minute and then handed it back to Cecil suddenly, as though the glass contained some magic that might burn his hand or eye.

That had been a year ago. The next Shakespeare had heard of it was last month. Cecil had ordered him to assign Boltfoot Cooper to protect the glass’s keeper, William Ivory. Word had reached England from a spy in the court of King Philip that Spain had become aware of the glass’s existence – and wanted it.

‘We will keep Ivory and the glass safe.’

‘Good. Your man Boltfoot did well. But I must now tell you why I am so concerned that we will need the glass again very soon.’ He signalled to a liveried servant, who had been dogging their steps at a discreet distance. The man approached and bowed. ‘Give Mr Shakespeare the paper.’

The servant proffered a document. Shakespeare took it and instantly recognised his associate Frank Mills’s hand. It was a decoded intercept. He read it quickly and began to go cold. His eyes met Cecil’s.

Boltfoot lost Ivory in the busy street of Shoreditch. One moment, they were riding at a slow walk, a little way apart, the
next he was gone into the throng of people, livestock and wagons.

‘A plague of God,’ Boltfoot rasped beneath his breath. He was furious with himself. Progress had been slow. It had taken them over three days to get home to Dowgate from Portsmouth. And now, just an hour out on the way to join Jane and the family in the safety of Suffolk, he had let his guard drop. Standing up in his stirrups, he tried to look above the heads of the mob.

Boltfoot’s hand went to the hilt of his cutlass. He wished very much to do some injury to Ivory. Well, he would just have to find him; even among this teeming mass of humanity and animals, there was only a limited number of places he could be. He kicked on into the crowd.

Shakespeare read the message again. It was from a French intelligencer in Brittany to his masters at the royal court of Henri IV, and it revealed that the Spanish army of Don Juan del Águila was building a fort on the southern headlands that dominated the entrance to Brest Harbour.

‘The fort is almost complete, John, and will be powerfully equipped with long-range cannon and at least four companies of men. The Spanish will control the entrance to Brest Harbour – and will hold the port in thrall. If Brest is taken, with its deep-water harbour, they will be able to assemble a far more deadly armada against us than was attempted in ’88. And they will have liberty to pick their time, when the wind and weather are in their favour. Hawkins tells me the great danger is that the harbour is to windward of Plymouth, so their ships could use the prevailing winds to make a sudden attack. I do not know how we could withstand such a force. Our coffers are empty, our fleet is in disarray, our land is overrun with verminous bands of rogues and vagabonds. These are straitened times.
Dangerous
times.’

‘What can be done?’

‘What indeed? Sir Roger Williams has been sent secretly to survey the fort to see whether it can be taken. But the omens are not good. The forces we have in Brittany are woefully lacking after four years of skirmishing. General Sir John Norreys is down to his last thousand men, of which half are non-effective through sickness or wounds. They are holed up in the fishing port of Paimpol. Only now does Her Majesty see the importance of this forgotten war. She is summoning Norreys home to confer.’

‘What will you recommend, Sir Robert?’

‘That he must be reinforced. With seasoned men, new recruits, a siege train and a fleet. I have already sent out an order to the lords lieutenant to recruit men throughout southern England. And we will move a number of battle-hardened troops from the Low Countries. But it may all be too little, for we will be up against a well-equipped Spanish army and a constant patrol of galleons. Brittany is in turmoil, with French troops on both sides. Marshal Aumont’s army supports the English, but Mercoeur’s Catholic League militias are with the Spanish. In such circumstances of disarray, we need every advantage we can muster.’

‘The perspective glass.’

‘As Erasmus told us, in the country of the blind the one-eyed man is king. So in the world of dull-eyed pigeons, the hawk’s-eye kills.’

Shakespeare bowed. Ivory would be protected until he was needed. It would not be easy. He was prickly and churlish and would not take kindly to being nursemaided by Cooper. Reports suggested he lived a solitary life, communing with his fellow man only when he wanted a game of cards or a whore to satisfy his carnal desires. No one would ever have noted him except for his one great talent: his eyesight. Vision so precise
that his crewmates called him simply Eye, or Mr Eye. Even before the perspective glass, Drake had used his skills to good effect on the great circumnavigation of the globe. The glass had given him almost godlike powers to observe the land and sea.

One thing puzzled Shakespeare.

‘Sir Robert, could we not make more perspective glasses now that we have the secret? Surely the mechanism can be copied? There could be one on every ship-of-war and in every coastal fortress.’