Traitor (49 page)

He heard another sound, from the schoolroom. Shakespeare pushed through the open door. There were flames at the back of the room, curling up around the window. A body lay on the floor: Boltfoot, bound and gagged.

Shakespeare dragged Boltfoot by the arms, crouching low against the choking black smoke that billowed across the room and out into the hall. It was now thick with an acrid cloud. He knew they had to stay below the smoke or, within moments, they would be overcome and die. There was no time to unbind him and he had no blade to cut the cords that held him tight.

He slung his assistant over his shoulder like a sack of beets and thanked God he was a squat, lean man with little in the way of weight to drag them down. Now which way? He was lost, disoriented. He had a sudden horror: they were going to die here, suffocated in their own home.

Scrabbling around, he pulled Boltfoot off his back and dragged him by his shoulders. A face loomed out of the darkness: Andrew. Sweat dripped in soot-black rivulets from his forehead and streaked his cheeks. He was crawling towards them, a damp cloth about his mouth and nostrils. He handed wet rags to Shakespeare, who clamped one about his own face, one on Boltfoot.

‘Come, Father,’ Andrew said. ‘Follow me.’

For hours they fought the blaze, bringing pail after pail of water to douse the flames. Men, women and children from a mile around left their beds to watch the flames light up the night sky or to help. Jane stayed with the children at the house of a neighbour, while Shakespeare, Andrew and Boltfoot joined the local watch and scores of other men ferrying water from the river. It was hot, brutal work that left skin scorched, faces striped with soot and sweat, and hair singed.

At last, soon after dawn, the worst of the fire was out. But what was left was no more than half a house, the remainder just a black carcass of smoking timbers. They had lost important belongings, but they had protected neighbouring properties. For Shakespeare the worst loss was the few jewels and small
trinkets of his late wife, Catherine; for Andrew, it was the destruction of a painting of his long-dead mother.

The firefighters quenched their thirst with tankards of ale, while Shakespeare and Boltfoot picked through the half of the house that was saved. Even the part of it that stood was damaged by water and smoke, and would need extensive repairs before it would be habitable again. They found their weapons and some coin, but little else of use.

At last, Shakespeare had a moment to speak with Boltfoot.

‘Now tell me. What happened? Who was it?’

‘I heard a noise downstairs and went to investigate. I spotted instantly that the front door was open, broken. Then they were on to me from the shadows. Three of them, master. They knew exactly what they were doing, binding and gagging me in moments, without a word spoken. I did not stand a chance. All I could do was watch them as they went from room to room, setting the fire, laying trails of powder and kindling all along the walls, beneath the drapes and hangings.’

‘Did you recognise them?’

‘No, they were masked in cowls.’

Shakespeare gritted his teeth and swept a hand through his soot-thick hair. He knew exactly who had done this, even if he had not been here in person: Bartholomew Ickman. Joshua Peace had been right to fear him.

And not only Ickman, but Topcliffe, too. His malign presence cast a dank, heavy cloud across this whole affair. London was a great distance from Oxford, but the foul Topcliffe was a monster with a long reach. He should have seen it …

You will burn for your temerity
, he had said.

Shakespeare’s hand went to his hip, seeking a steel haft. He was still in his tattered nightgown, but he had fastened his seared sword belt about his waist. His hand gripped the hilt with unreasoning ferocity. He uttered a rare profanity. He
wished very much to kill a man this day. Or, better, two men.

Will had two rooms above a cobbler’s shop in Shoreditch.

‘They are not much, John, but you are welcome here as long as you wish. I shall stay at an inn.’

John Shakespeare looked around the rooms. Papers and books and broken quills were everywhere. Inkstains dotted the floors. The rooms were both of a size, about eighteen feet by twelve. There was enough space for the seven of them; many families lived like this all their lives. But it would be a great imposition on his brother.

‘This is where you work.’

Will glanced at his guests: Jane, Boltfoot and the children stood awkwardly at the wall closest to the doorway. All wore clothes borrowed from neighbours. They must have looked a motley group, riding through the streets of London on the horses from their stables. He smiled at them.

‘Your need is the greater. Besides, John, you have done much for me.’

Shakespeare shook his head. ‘One day and night, Will, that is all we require. On the morrow, we will find other lodgings, more suitable to small children.’ He turned to Boltfoot and Andrew. ‘Are you armed? Then let us ride.’

Skirting the city along well-used, rain-sodden tracks, the ride to Westminster was no more than four miles, but took them an hour and a half. The dark, baleful stone of Richard Topcliffe’s house rose in the shadow of St Margaret’s church. It was a house that John Shakespeare knew all too well. A house that stank of sweat and blood. A house where torture was licensed. A house with its own chamber of iron and fire, and a rack that was its owner’s pride. A house that stained England.

Shakespeare hammered at the heavy oak door with the haft of his poniard. Boltfoot stood to his left, caliver loaded and ready. Andrew stood to his right, hand gripped on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

The door opened. A young heavy-set man stood there, his straggle-hair slicked with grease. He looked at the three visitors with unconcealed loathing. Shakespeare knew him well: Nicholas Jones, apprentice in cruelty to Topcliffe.

‘Where is your master, Jones?’

‘You won’t find him here.’

He made as if to close the door, but Shakespeare was ahead of him. His hand grasped at the young man’s throat, pushing him back into the hallway. Jones stumbled backwards under the onslaught and fell to the floor. Shakespeare, Boltfoot and Andrew looked down at him. The muzzle of Boltfoot’s caliver was trained on his face.

‘Where is he, Jones?’

Jones spat and Boltfoot pushed the muzzle down harder so that the cold steel flattened his nose. Jones wrenched his head sideways.

‘Shall I blast his head away, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘All in good time, Boltfoot.’

‘Court of Chancery,’ Jones spluttered. ‘He’s at the Court of Chancery!’

Shakespeare brushed Boltfoot’s caliver aside and dragged Jones to his feet. He held him against the wall by the lapels of his leather jerkin.

‘What is this? What is Topcliffe doing at Chancery? It is a civil court; there are no poor creatures to persecute there.’

‘He has brought a suit for non-payment of contract.’

‘Tell me more!’

‘There is no more.’

‘Finish him, Boltfoot.’

‘Please, wait.’ Jones could see the rage of death in these men’s eyes. He had never before believed Shakespeare capable of cold-blooded killing: he did now. ‘He is suing Tom Fitzherbert.’

Shakespeare could not disguise his astonishment. How could this square with his theory that Tom Fitzherbert and Topcliffe had conspired with James Fitzherbert falsely to accuse Andrew? Why, if they were co-conspirators, would Topcliffe be suing him in Chancery?

‘What is the debt?’

‘Five thousand pounds. Fitzherbert promised Mr Topcliffe five thousand pounds.’

‘For what?’

Jones hesitated. Shakespeare slammed his head into wall, hard.

Jones cried out in pain, then cringed away. ‘Hell’s turds, Mr Shakespeare, I’ll tell you. It is no secret for it will be heard in court. Tom Fitzherbert pledged to pay Mr Topcliffe five thousand pounds to bring his Papist father to his death so that he might inherit his lands and properties. Old John Fitzherbert has died in the Tower – and yet Tom Fitzherbert will not pay. Mr Topcliffe wants his money. He wants his five thousand. That is what this is about. Go to court yourself and you shall see.’

Shakespeare stared with astonishment into Jones’s eyes and saw fear, not dissimulation. Could it be true? Could an Englishman sue a man for non-payment of a contract to kill?

Suddenly, he flung the wretched Jones down the hall, turned on his heel and marched a hundred yards in the direction of Westminster Hall, with Andrew and Boltfoot close behind.

S
HAKESPEARE STRODE INTO
the ancient hall, past the Common Pleas. The Court of Chancery was at the upper end, at the left-hand side. This was where Lord Keeper Sir John Puckering presided, with Master of the Rolls Sir Thomas Egerton at his side. It briefly flickered through Shakespeare’s mind to wonder about some link between this court and Egerton’s recent role as commissioner inquiring into the death of Lord Derby in Lancashire. At times, he felt, a man could be strangled in the myriad interconnecting twines that linked the great men of England. He shook his head as though to sweep aside the entangled briars; such things might be a matter for another day. This day he wanted but one thing: to find Richard Topcliffe.

A hand touched his sleeve. He turned sharply, as though bitten, and stared into the familiar face of Clarkson, Sir Robert Cecil’s most trusted retainer. Shakespeare was about to pull away but Clarkson’s grip tightened.

‘I must speak with you, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘I have no time for talk, Mr Clarkson.’

‘Sir Robert Cecil wishes to see you. He is close by, at Whitehall Palace.’

‘How did you find me here?’

Clarkson smiled. He was, as always, formally attired in black doublet and hose.

‘It was thought probable – and understandable – that you would be seeking Mr Topcliffe this day. I know that Sir Robert wishes to give you certain assurances in that regard.’

Shakespeare laughed without humour. ‘Assurances that Topcliffe is to hang? I do not believe it.’

‘Please come with me, sir. I am sure it is for the best.’

Cecil welcomed Shakespeare to his offices in Whitehall with a warm smile and gave Clarkson the nod to leave them. The privy councillor personally poured wine into two silver goblets and handed one to his guest. Boltfoot remained outside with Andrew.

‘You received my message, John? I am glad you have come, for I know what dread events have taken place. Your house, the threat to your family.’

‘And you must know who was responsible, Sir Robert.’

‘Indeed, I have grave suspicions.’

‘It was Topcliffe and Ickman. They told me as much. They said I would burn.’

Cecil sighed. ‘Let me say at once that I consider Bartholomew Ickman no better than a diseased dog that should be disposed of. It was his men that laid the fire. But he will trouble the world no more. Trust me on this.’

‘Have you warned him off? He will laugh at you. Or are you trying to tell me something else? What
are
you saying?’

‘Nothing. I am saying nothing. Read nothing into my words. But worry about him no more.’

‘You ask a great deal, Sir Robert. My inclination is to kill him for what he has done to my home and my family. And what of Topcliffe? Now he sues his confederate Thomas Fitzherbert for not paying the agreed price for murder. Has England come to this?’

‘John, Her Majesty is beside herself with fury at Topcliffe.
She can barely speak for anger. I have not seen such rage in her, no, not even when Ralegh was wed against her wishes.’

Cecil sat down. He looked for all the world like a mannequin put into place by a puppet-master, his feet barely touching the floor. He patted a cushion at his side. Shakespeare hesitated, then sat at the other end of the settle, so that they could see each other but were not touching.

‘I pledge you this, John: Topcliffe’s days of power are done. This court case … I tell you that if he is not brought to ruin within a six-month, then you may call me a liar. Her Royal Majesty has already ordered Puckering to hear it in closed session. I cannot overemphasise her displeasure. Never again will Topcliffe have access to her presence.’

‘Why are Topcliffe and Fitzherbert not simply brought to trial for conspiracy to do murder?’

Cecil clenched his eyes closed as though the question pained him, then opened them. ‘Because old John Fitzherbert was lawfully detained in the Tower for his seditious ways. And though he was tormented, he died of natural causes. That, it seems, is why his son refuses to pay the money Topcliffe believes is owed him. So there is no murder.’

‘And yet there was a contract to do murder. Is that not offence enough?’ Shakespeare hammered his fist into his hand. ‘But this is not my concern. What I care for is my own family. Was Topcliffe involved with James Fitzherbert the tutor? Did they conspire against Andrew?’

Cecil was silent a moment. When he spoke his voice was quiet and his words were precise.

‘I have no proof, John, but I can speculate on what happened. I surmise that Tom Fitzherbert was under a great deal of pressure from Topcliffe for the five thousand pounds that is now in dispute. To try to prevent Topcliffe’s suit proceeding, he offered him a trade-off. Knowing of Topcliffe’s loathing for
your family, he would bribe or beg his cousin James Fitzherbert to bring false accusations against your boy at Oxford. Topcliffe went along with the idea. But your son’s redemption put an end to the deal, and now they are in court.’

Shakespeare could sit no longer. He rose from the settle and paced the room.

Cecil’s eyes followed him.

‘I know you are sceptical. I know you believe that I am some sort of Machiavel creature and that I had something to do with the events at Oxford and in Lancashire. I think you even believe me responsible for the death of the Earl of Derby. But ask yourself this: if I was organising a conspiracy and murder in Lancashire, why would I have sent you there in the first place? I know you well enough to realise that you would be bound to inquire into such an event. God’s blood, John, I wanted you at Lathom House to protect the secret of the perspective glass. With good cause, as it happens, for the man Walter Weld, or Millwater, or whatever his true name was, did indeed have designs on the instrument. And I needed you to meet Eliska Nováková.’