Traitor (35 page)

‘Then I fear you have had a wasted journey, sir, for he is gone.’

‘Gone where?’

‘No one knows, Mr Shakespeare. He just disappeared, along with his belongings, like a will-o’-the-wisp. The day after you were last here, it was, if I recall right.’

Clarkson was at the house in Tilbury when Boltfoot arrived home with Ivory. Cecil’s retainer looked at Ivory’s bandaged head with dismay.

‘How did this injury come about?’

Boltfoot grunted. ‘He can tell you himself.’

‘Well, Mr Ivory?’

‘He hit me with his caliver. This shambling ruin of a man could have killed me, Mr Clarkson. I would have been better served being guarded by a dog than this wretch.’

‘Is this true, Mr Cooper?’

‘Wish I
had
killed him.’ Boltfoot looked away.

Clarkson removed the makeshift bandage and examined Ivory’s head carefully. It was bruised and there was a small cut. The blow had clearly dazed the man, but he seemed otherwise hale.

‘I think you will live. And I take it the perspective glass is equally safe?’

‘As close-fixed to me as my prick but not so highly esteemed.’

‘Then let us go. A ship awaits you.’

Boltfoot said a silent prayer of thanks.

‘You, too, Mr Cooper.’

Boltfoot glared at Clarkson with sudden loathing. ‘If Ivory is to embark on a ship, then my work is done. I will not be needed there.’

‘I am afraid that is not how Sir Robert Cecil sees it. He is most impressed by your work so far in protecting Mr Ivory and the glass, and he wishes you to remain with him still. It seems you are both to undertake a mission of great importance to this realm. Your services are considered more vital now than ever, Mr Cooper.’

‘No. My seafaring days are done. I am a married man with a small child. I work for John Shakespeare and I must go to him.’

Clarkson touched Boltfoot’s arm as if they were old comrades. ‘I am sorry, Mr Cooper, but this is not being
asked
of you – you are
ordered
to do it, in the Queen’s name.’

Boltfoot ground his feet into the straw-strewn flooring like a stubborn colt that will not advance. ‘No. Unless I hear it from my master himself.’

Clarkson’s hand lingered on Boltfoot’s shoulder and gripped it. He made him meet his eyes.

‘Sir Robert is your master’s master, and Mr Shakespeare is engaged on other business …’

He paused. There was nothing to be gained in telling Boltfoot that that business concerned Andrew Woode.

‘I can tell you that this voyage you are to embark on with Mr Ivory may well be the most hazardous part of your mission.’

Boltfoot looked at Ivory and saw he was smirking. ‘A plague of Satan’s hornets on you, Ivory.’

Clarkson affected not to hear and continued with his instructions. ‘You will be posted aboard a royal ship, under the command of Sir Martin Frobisher. His fleet sails from the Thames on the morrow. You are to embark this evening. There is no time to be lost.’

Ivory burst out laughing. ‘Frobisher! He’ll love you, Cooper. Once he hears you were a Drake man, I say ten shillings to a mark he’ll have you striped at the mainmast by week’s end!’

S
HAKESPEARE REINED IN
and looked down at the fine manor house at Chevening in Kent. John Dee came to a halt on his left; Ursula Dancer, riding bareback and astride her gelding in the way of a gypsy rider, stopped at his right hand. Oxx and Godwit rode a little way ahead.

The journey here had taken two and a half days, cutting south by the western approaches to London town. It seemed to Shakespeare that his whole life these days was spent in the saddle. His thighs were like leather, beyond chafing.

The day was still. Not a breath of wind. A herd of fallow deer grazed beneath trees in the lee of the ragstone-built manor. It was the country home of Thomas Digges, one-time student under Dee and his joint deviser of the perspective glass.

‘Here we are, Dr Dee,’ Shakespeare said. ‘This is to be your home until it is decreed that you are no longer in danger.’

He signalled to Oxx, who kicked on ahead. Shakespeare and the others followed him, descending through the parkland and causing the deer to drift away as they passed.

They were stopped before they reached the stables by a man with a pair of pistols. Oxx had his own weapons primed and poised. Shakespeare shook his head to indicate to both men that there was no danger and rode up to the man with the pistols.

‘Good day, Mr Shoe.’

‘Ah, Mr Shakespeare. Can’t be too careful, sir.’

‘Quite so. It is good to see you so diligent.’

Jonas Shoe was an unprepossessing man – short, squat and bald. He worked for Francis Mills, Shakespeare’s associate in the service of Sir Robert Cecil. His very ordinariness was one of his great strengths, for he could meld into any crowd without remark.

‘Is Frank Mills here?’

‘He is indeed. Shall I convey a message to him, sir?’

‘Tell him I am here with Dr Dee. Tell this also to Mr Digges, if you would. And send a groom for our horses. They are in great need of drink, as are we.’

Thomas Digges clasped Dee in an embrace that would have done credit to the bears of Southwark.

‘Let me look at you, my wondrous mathematical father. It is too long since last we met.’

‘Far too long, mathematical son and heir, far too long. And I had heard you were unwell.’

‘Oh, that is nothing. The sunshine cures all ills. But pray, what has happened to your resplendent beard?’

‘It is my disguise. It seems you and I are the most wanted men in England, though I wish it were reflected in the weight of my always empty purse.’

‘Well, thanks be to Pythagoras and Archimedes that you are here at last, for I was going mad with this fellow.’ He nodded towards Mills. ‘I am told he is the cleverest intelligencer in Cecil’s employ, and can disentangle the most complex of codes. Yet when I try to converse with him on the flaws of Ptolemy and the true movements of the celestial spheres, his eyes cloud like an old man’s. Talking to him is like trying to teach new tricks to a dying dog.’

Mills, tall and stooped, ignored the insult and, turning to
Shakespeare, drew him aside. ‘It is a pleasure to welcome you, John, but I must tell you that Cecil is most anxious to see you. There is work he wishes you to do.’

‘So I understand. Have you any idea what he has in mind?’

‘Only that it involves the perspective glass and Brittany. The war there gathers pace. If we cannot secure Brest from the Spanish, the outlook for England is bleak.’

‘Is there word from Boltfoot?’

‘He is safe, but I know no more than that.’

Well, that was some comfort. If only the same were true of Andrew.

They were all in the withdrawing room of Digges’s manor, taking refreshment. Ursula had been sent to the kitchens with Oxx and Godwit to be fed and found lodgings within the house.

‘I am told by Jonas Shoe that there is some ragged vagabond girl with you,’ Mills said.

‘I am indebted to her, yet do not know what to do with her. For the present, she must stay here.’

And yet he could see the difficulties. The girl was an inveterate thief. On the ride here, she had filched a tankard from an inn and he had caught her trying to remove coins from his own purse. He had promised to protect her, but he feared no good would come of it. She would likely make off with the family silver.

‘But I promise I will return for her.’

Shakespeare told his story over supper. Digges, a large man who looked older than Dee, although he must have been at least ten years the younger, listened attentively. He hammered his fist on the table.

‘It is what I have been telling Her Royal Majesty for years. We need to model a new army – a professional standing army.
With respect to your lad, Mr Shakespeare, what use is a terrified boy of thirteen? Or an ancient drunken vagrant? Pressed men are the dregs of our land, gentlemen – and a hindrance to military endeavours.’

Shakespeare knew a little of Digges’s history. Though not a fighting man, he was acknowledged a master of the art and science of war. He had written on the great siege guns, the proper building of fortifications, military formations and mining. As a follower of the late Earl of Leicester, he had been both muster-master general and trench-master in the Low Countries campaign of ’85.

‘How is Captain-General Norreys to protect the port of Brest with such men sent to him? And if the Spaniard snares Brest, we shall all be saying Hail Marys before the year is out. A professional army of well-trained English soldiers is what we need. They would be a match for any army Spain could muster and, I believe, would save money, too.’

‘Save money, Mr Digges?’ Mills demanded, heavy scepticism in his tone.

Digges eyed Mills with distaste. ‘You have never been to war, sir, or you would understand the way things are. Fraud, sir, fraud! It is a greater menace than enemy fire or God-given flux. And always it is the bawdy-house captains who are to blame. My lord of Leicester knew it – and Black John Norreys knows it but connives at it. Too many captains go to war to fill their purses, not fight for Queen and country. They are petty princes, more concerned with swiving the camp followers than campaigning. I tell you, many of them withhold their men’s pay until the clamour becomes too great – and then they send them out to skirmish with little hope of survival. Dead men’s pay, gentlemen. Dead men’s pay! With
my
army, we would have live soldiers and dead Spaniards.’

Shakespeare’s jaw tightened. The conversation threw the
bloody horror of what Andrew faced into stark relief. Shakespeare could not be concerned about reorganising the army. Leave that to another day; he had to deal with matters as they were. He had to find Andrew and haul him out of the line of fire before some Spanish sword or ball cut him down.

The talk turned to old times and alchemy. Shakespeare took the opportunity to speak quietly again with Francis Mills.

‘Give me the truth about the war, Frank.’

‘Bad. The Spanish have completed their fort at the spit of land known as Crozon, on cliffs overlooking Brest roads. It is clear they have the cannon-power to control all shipping in and out of the harbour. It cannot be long before they take the town of Brest itself.’

‘How strong is this fortress?’

‘Exceptionally so. The walls are built of stone up to thirty-seven feet thick, above two-hundred-foot cliffs. It was designed by the engineer Don Cristobal de Rojas who, I am told by Mr Digges, knows as much about military fortifications as any man living. He was responsible for the fortification of Cadiz and Lisbon and Águila’s main Brittany fort at the mouth of the Blavet river.’

‘Then the news is all bad.’

‘Well, at least Her Majesty now sees the danger. She has recalled Black John to court and has assured him that he will have everything he needs. He returns to the war with new levies any day. There are three thousand men being recruited from eighteen counties.’

‘Not Lancashire?’

‘No. Only southern counties. They are being removed to Brittany with great speed. Norreys is supported by a fleet under Frobisher. The new levies are to be embarked at ports all along the south coast, as far as Plymouth. The fear is that this will all be too late.’

Shakespeare listened intently. Andrew would be in one of those levies – but at which port would they embark? From Oxfordshire, Provost Pinkney would likely take the recruits directly south towards Portsmouth, or perhaps further west towards Poole, Weymouth or Plymouth. Certainly not to the naval dockyards east of London on the Thames. There was nothing for it: Shakespeare would have to trawl through them. He just prayed he was in time to find the boy before he crossed the narrow sea to war.

Men and equipment thronged the muddy banks of the Thames. A tangle of humanity, iron, steel, tar and rope, wrought for killing.

Four great royal ships, their sails furled, were anchored in midstream along with three armed merchantmen. Three more merchantmen and a fifth royal ship, the
Vanguard
, were moored against the long quayside. Loading of barrels of powder and biscuit was constant. The river teemed with traffic – cockboats and wherries, taking men and supplies in all directions. Cries of salute, the stench of fresh-applied pitch, the creak of cables, the splash of oars – the sounds and smells of the river.

Treadwheel cranes of oak swung out their jibs, hoisting the great siege guns inch by inch towards the decks of the merchantmen. One crane was set aside for embarking the beasts: warhorses suspended in cradles, pigs in netting, chickens in closed woven baskets.

The panoply of war was immense, from the might of cannon to the commonplace: thousands of bricks to build ovens, hundreds of frying pans, lanterns, mortars and pestles, funnels, taps and tap-borers, great bundles of firewood, tallow for light, bells to summon the men to meals, weighing scales and fishing nets. The men carried their weapons and packs, with all they
would need on the march: powder, lead, knives, porringers and cups.

Among this brutal bustle of a war machine preparing to depart, few would have noticed the three men disembarking from a wherry. Clarkson walked beside Ivory, with Boltfoot limping behind as they made their way from the water-stairs towards the Treasurer’s House beside the Royal Docks.

Boltfoot cradled his primed caliver. His grip was tight, his finger on the trigger. His eyes moved constantly, looking for the face in the crowd that stared too long, or the man who was out of step. His eyes were sharp and had been trained for this by his years in service with John Shakespeare. Ivory might have the best eye in the realm, but Boltfoot could not think himself far behind.

Frobisher was in the Treasurer’s House. He glanced at the newcomers without interest, then turned back to his conversation with one of his lieutenants.

‘All powder is accounted for, Mr Millwater? Two hundred thousand pounds for cannon, fifty thousand for hagbuts and calivers. All dry and tight?’

‘Yes, Sir Martin.’

‘None skimmed?’