Traitor

Chapter 13

SLEEP DID NOT come easily to Shakespeare that night. The mattress that had soothed him to sleep before now seemed too narrow. His shoulders hurt from the hardness of the boards beneath the thin palliasse and a draught seeping under the door blew against his exposed neck. In the early hours he woke amid fitful dreams and thought of Catherine. He felt a sudden rage at her for dying. He felt angry, too, at her stubborn clinging to the Church of Rome; she had been so like his own father in that. What, in truth, did any of it matter? For the man or woman communing alone with God, the difference between one Christian faith and the next was nothing but trappings.

He thought of the earl’s secret chapel and of the letter he had found in Father Lamb’s doublet. It did not take the devious nature of a Walsingham or a Cecil to wonder whether the ‘great enterprise’ Lamb mentioned referred to the Catholic attempts to persuade the Earl of Derby to lead a rebellion against the crown of England. The hapless Richard Hesketh had tried to persuade the earl once. Who was to say it had not been attempted again, by Lamb?

Andrew Woode woke at dawn to the sound of church bells. After all the running and the late prayers, he had slept deeply and without dreams. Groggily, he slid from beneath the blanket. Around him there was the bustle of the other scholars and their tutor rising from the beds. He reached for his black scholar’s gown and recoiled. It was daubed red, as though washed in blood. He looked at his hand. That, too, was red. He tried to rub it off, but it was dry.

Paint. He had red paint all over his right hand. Confused, he looked up. All the other scholars and Mr Fitzherbert were staring at him.

In the morning Shakespeare spoke with Dee while the old doctor lay in bed.

‘I do not want you digging for treasure today.’

Dee stiffened. ‘I must, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘I am not requesting this. I am ordering you not to go.’

‘This is intolerable! I am in sore needs of funds, as I am sure you know. There is a possibility of a living to be had at the collegiate church in Manchester, but I would rather find other means to get wealth. I have no love for these cold northern climes.’

Shakespeare sighed. It would not do to antagonise the old man. Cecil had insisted he be persuaded rather than forced to cooperate.

‘Show me the map. Where did you get it?’

Dee rose from his bed eagerly and fetched the fragile parchment from his table.

‘It was in a chest, buried beneath the rubble of a ruined abbey. It was brought to me by a bookseller at St Paul’s who knows of my interest and my success in deciphering such papers. I have great expertise in the quest for buried metal.’ He went to a large box, opened the lid and took out a book. ‘This is Agricola’s De Re Metallica.’ He held up the volume for Shakespeare to examine. ‘It tells of earths and ores and how to discover them. In the past, I have discovered rare red soils that will produce gold, I am certain. With Ickman’s powers of divination, we cannot fail in our present quest. This land is ripe with lost and forgotten treasure, ready for harvesting from the soil.’

Shakespeare was unable to hide his disdain.

‘You are a coney, Dr Dee. The perfect gull for every trickster that ever lived. The booksellers of Paul’s must wring their hands with glee at your approach. And why, in God’s name, would you trust Bartholomew Ickman?’

If Dee was shocked to be so addressed, he did not show it. ‘How do we know what is in any man’s heart? For all I know, you could be an agent of Spain sent here to snatch me away. I have been called a coney and more, Mr Shakespeare. But could a fool have devised the perspective glass? If I am a fool, what does that make the rest of humanity?’

Shakespeare glared at him. He was about to say something harsh about Edward Kelley and angels and the exchanging of wives, but then thought better of it and laughed.

‘You are right, Dr Dee. Accept my apologies. But take care. Resume your questing, but go nowhere without Oxx and Godwit. Do not stray from your purpose – and do not be led away by Ickman. You may have great knowledge, but I know the ways of men better than you, and I tell you, he is not to be trusted. If I left a sound horse in his care I would expect to find it three-legged on my return.’

Cole came into the dining hall as Shakespeare ate bread and eggs and drank milk. The steward bowed.

‘His lordship wishes to speak with you, sir.’

‘The earl is well again?’

Cole grimaced. ‘He gets weaker by the hour. He knows he is dying.’

‘I will go to him straightway.’

‘There is something else I think you should know, Mr Shakespeare.’

Shakespeare was already up from the table and on his way to the great hall stairway. He stopped. ‘Yes?’

‘The Gentleman of the Horse has disappeared – and he has taken the earl’s best stallion.’

Shakespeare hesitated. ‘Mr Weld? I went to him yesterday, but he was not to be found.’

‘Yes. I know you had wished to speak with him. The grooms told me he rode out sometime in the night. I looked in his room. His possessions were gone.’

‘Call in the constable and the sheriff and raise a hue and cry. I want him apprehended.’

Cole shifted uneasily. ‘There is more to it, sir. Some people say he was a Jesuit lay brother – and that he poisoned the earl in revenge for the death of Richard Hesketh, then fled. My own belief is that he has gone to offer his services to the Earl of Essex, as have several other retainers of Lord Derby.’

Shakespeare looked closely at Cole, but saw only the nervous caution of a retainer trying his best to hold things together when everything was falling apart. The man was bathed in sweat and his starched ruff had flopped with the damp about his neck.

‘You had better tell me more,’ Shakespeare said.

‘There was a Jesuit priest in these parts. It was said Mr Weld spent much time with him.’

‘Father Lamb?’

Cole’s eyes widened in surprise.

‘You know he is dead, Mr Cole?’

Cole nodded. His voice became reverentially low. ‘Yes, I heard. The carters from Ormskirk brought the news.’

‘You were, I think, familiar with Father Lamb. He lived here, did he not?’

Cole said nothing.

‘And yet you did not consider that worthy of my attention?’

Still Cole remained silent.

Shakespeare suddenly became angry.

‘Mr Cole, if you think you will keep yourself out of trouble by sealing your lips, I must tell you that you are mistaken. If I find that you have been involved in anything unlawful, I shall see that you are brought to court. You know what that means. However, help me sort out what has been going on in this midden of a house, and I will do what I can to assist you and save your skin. And what is this other matter, of servants deserting this house and going to the Earl of Essex?’

Cole winced as though he had been hit across the face. ‘I fear it is disloyal of me to say this, but I know there has been a great falling-out between his lordship and Essex. I think my lord of Derby blames Essex for speaking against him to the Queen, and that is why he did not get the chamberlaincy of Chester. In these past four months other servants have gone from here to Essex House, where they have found employment. His lordship believes Essex is luring them away out of some spite.’

‘And the matter of Father Lamb?’

‘He did spend some time here. I am no Papist and I understood the danger in harbouring such a man. Not just the earl was in peril, but everyone in this house.’

‘Good. So this Walter Weld, this horse thief and possible Jesuit lay brother, was close to Father Lamb and may now have gone to Essex. But why would he poison the earl?’

‘In revenge for the execution of Richard Hesketh. That is what some of the estate workers say.’

‘Well, bring me some evidence, Mr Cole. Without evidence, it is nothing but tittle-tattle.’ The same uninformed tittle-tattle that accused Dee of bewitching the earl. ‘For the moment, I must go to my lord of Derby in his chamber.’

Before he is dead, Shakespeare thought grimly.

The earl was slumped in bed, supported by a bank of red velvet and gold braid cushions. His curiously disconnected eyes were open, staring one way and another into nothingness. His mouth, too, was open, drawing in shallow breaths.

He was still alive, but he had the pallor of death. Joshua Peace would have to arrive very soon from London if there was to be any hope.

The physicians were absent. Only the woman, Mistress Knott, was in the room. Her lips were moving, chanting soundlessly. She did not look at Shakespeare.

He cleared his throat to announce his presence, then bowed low to the sickbed. ‘My lord, you asked for me.’

The earl slowly turned his face towards Shakespeare. His hair was lank and flat, his complexion sallow. His very bones seemed to protrude through his brittle skin. He tried to raise himself further up his cushions, but fell back.

Shakespeare moved forward, but the earl shook his head.

‘I wish you to do something for me, Mr Shakespeare,’ he said. His voice, though quiet, was surprisingly clear, like a small bell. ‘There is a priest, Father Lamb. I would have you bring him to me, to perform the last rites.’

‘My lord—’

‘I ask you this because I know a little of your history, Mr Shakespeare. Your Papist wife, your disagreements with the late Mr Secretary over his methods concerning seminary priests. I do not wish to ask this of my own good wife, for she must not be endangered. Everyone else in this house is afraid. I had thought you might grant me this one dying wish.’

‘My lord, I cannot.’

‘I beg you, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Forgive me, my lord, I must impart sad tidings. Father Lamb is dead.’

It seemed for a moment that the earl went even paler. He gasped and then his breathing ceased, before starting again after a few seconds.

‘I could try to find you another priest. It may be possible.’

‘Matt is dead? How?’

‘Shot.’

‘But who … who would do that?’

Shakespeare approached the earl and stood by the bed, close to him.

‘Do not spare me, Mr Shakespeare. Soon, I will hope to meet our Lord. There is no place for dissembling in what little remains of this life. Though my suffering is great, he sends us nothing that we cannot endure.’

Shakespeare told him, briefly, of his encounter on the road and of the provost marshal, Pinkney.

‘Pinkney?’ The earl’s voice was barely audible.

‘He insisted he was recruiting men on your authority. I had thought it strange for men to be pressed for Brittany so far from the Channel ports.’

‘I do not know the name Pinkney.’

‘As Lord Lieutenant, have you authorised a muster in the area in recent days?’

‘No, Mr Shakespeare.’ The earl’s voice was becoming weaker. ‘It is two or three weeks’ march to the southern coast. Our Lancashire levies are always for Ireland or Scotland.’

So Pinkney was indeed a liar, and a murderer. Or was there something else to the man?

Shakespeare brought to mind a picture of the provost and his plough-horse of a companion. They were most certainly soldiers, for they had the garb and bearing of men-at-arms. But why were they here, in this far northern county? And why had they taken and killed a Jesuit priest – one who had acted as chaplain to the Earl of Derby? It could be no mere coincidence. And yet if they were pursuivants – state enforcers – they could have simply arrested Lamb, questioned him about his contacts and brought him before a court of law, where he would have been sentenced to die as a traitor. There could be no reason for summary execution on the road, as though he were an army deserter.

There must be more to this. Someone had to be behind this, someone powerful, someone who did not wish Father Lamb to talk, perhaps.

‘My lord of Derby, I know how weak you are, but I feel as though there is much I would ask you, while …’ His voice trailed away.

‘While I yet live, Mr Shakespeare? I think that is what you were about to say.’ The earl closed his eyes momentarily, as though sampling eternal darkness. ‘My death is of no account. But I do desire the comfort of the Holy Sacrament in these last hours. Ask your questions, as you must, Mr Intelligencer, and then find me a priest.’

He opened his eyes again and Shakespeare searched for a glimmer of light at their fading core.

‘Please, sit here on the edge of the bed, for it fatigues me to look up at you.’

Shakespeare sat down. The stench, close to the earl, was almost overwhelming. He looked him in the eye.

‘My lord, who do you believe has poisoned you?’

‘As surely as I believe in the Lord’s salvation, so I believe that I have not been poisoned but beguiled. There is no doubt in my mind. None.’

‘Humour me, my lord. Your food is tasted by Mr Dowty, is it not?’

‘Yes, that is so. Those who advise me thought it safer, after Mr Hesketh’s attempt to ensnare me.’

‘You believed Richard Hesketh was trying to trap you?’

‘I know it, sir, and so do you. He was not sent by Cardinal Allen nor anyone else from the Church of Rome. He was sent to test me by the government for which you work. He was their man, though he did not know it. The letter did not come from Prague or Rheims or Rome, but Islington-next-London. And from whom? Why was Hesketh there at the White Lion and who gave him the letter?’

‘I confess I do not know, my lord. I was not at his trial.’

‘There was no trial. He was shown the rack and made his confession. He was a tragic fool. I wish I could have sent him on his way with his ears boxed and told him to look to his own family. Yet I could not. If I had not handed his letter to the Queen – and condemned him as a traitor – then I would have been denounced for treason myself and taken to the scaffold in his place. I would have done anything to save poor Mr Hesketh, but I could not. It was not in my power without condemning myself and my own family.’

Shakespeare could not argue. The letter might well have been a trick to put the earl’s loyalties to the test. Shades of the late Mr Secretary Walsingham and his subtle entrapments.

‘It was not even enough for me to denounce Hesketh to the Privy Council,’ the earl continued, becoming agitated. ‘I had to take the information directly to Her Majesty, for if I had not, there are those on the Council who would have dripped lies into her ear, like bitter syrup.’

Shakespeare knew enough about the dog-pack that was Elizabeth’s court to realise the truth in this. When one courtier lost favour, the others descended on him like feral beasts.

‘Who do you believe sent Hesketh to you, then?’

The earl tried to laugh, but only coughed up a thin trickle of blood and grasped at his frail chest and throat.

The woman in the corner was immediately at his side with a beaker of some liquid, which he sipped, and the coughing eased.

‘My lord?’

‘Who knows? Your master, little crookback Cecil? His father, the serpentine Burghley? Essex, whom I once counted my friend? Heneage? Or perhaps the King of Scots himself? He would happily see all other claimants to the throne eliminated. Perhaps you had a hand in it, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘I vow to you that I did not. Nor do I believe my master was involved.’

‘I think you truly believe that, Mr Shakespeare. I have already told you that I trust you, as I love your brother. I also trust Mr Dowty. He has tasted my food and wine faithfully. If I am any judge, then I think him a true servant. The proof is that I am sick and he is not, so I have not been poisoned, for he has tasted every morsel of my food.’

Shakespeare had many questions to ask, but the earl was wasting away before his eyes; time was short.

‘You know why I am here, my lord?’

‘Alice told me that you were sent to protect Dr Dee and take him to Kent. I do not claim to understand what you are about, nor do I wish to. I have my own feelings about the doctor, and yet he has been a friend to my family, so he must be a welcome guest under my roof.’

‘Some say he is the cause of your sickness, that he consorts with the devil and has bewitched you.’

‘Dr Dee says he converses with angels, not demons. We are much alike, both questing for something unseen, both cast out …’ The earl attempted another laugh. ‘I think he will struggle to love Lancashire if he is consigned to the Manchester church.’

‘And the Bohemian woman – Lady Eliska?’

For a moment, the earl’s eyes lit up. ‘So you have met her?’

‘Is she an old friend of yours?’

‘No, no. She wrote with letters of introduction. Few enough have come to this palace these past six months, so she was very welcome. Anyone who does not shun me in these days is welcome …’ He paused, his thin breath rattling in his throat. ‘Every day, another servant or retainer leaves and goes I know not where …’

‘Yet many stay, my lord. Many love you.’

A ghostly smile crossed his lips. ‘I thank God for them. I thank God for my players. Their visit was arranged many months ago. I know that lesser men than your brother would not have come. I beg you, thank them on my behalf. Their play excelled and Alice was a marvel.’

‘We were talking of Eliska. When she sent letters, did you not think it strange that she hailed from the troubled city of Prague? The possible connection to Richard Hesketh could not have escaped you, my lord. And what of Dr Dee? He was in Prague some years ago. He knew Hesketh from earlier days and would have known many of those in contact with him.’

The earl’s eyes closed again and he slid down the wall of cushions, into the depths of the bedding. Shakespeare realised his barrage of questions had beaten the man down, and he was almost spent. Yet he could not give up.

‘My lord, one last question. There is the master of your stables, Walter Weld, now missing. While some say Dr Dee has bewitched you, others say Mr Weld is the cause of your present sickness.’

There was no reply from the Earl of Derby. Shakespeare gazed on him, sunk in the bedding. Only the flickering of an eye and the occasional soft, rasping breath gave evidence that life remained. A fly buzzed over the bed, as if awaiting the mortification of the flesh.

Shakespeare rose. There was no more to be learnt in this room at this time. He went to the woman in the corner and handed her a coin.

‘Bring me news, Mistress Knott, of any improvement or worsening of his condition.’

She took the coin and nodded.

‘I will give you more money if you bring me information of the truth behind the earl’s sickness.’

She said nothing, but returned to her silent chanting. Her lips moved, but no sound came.

Shakespeare strode to the door. His hand was on the latch when he heard a whisper from the bed. He turned back.

‘Did you say something, my lord?’

‘Closer,’ he said faintly. ‘Come closer.’

Shakespeare leant across the bed so that his ear was near the earl’s fetid mouth.

‘The name of the man who gave the letter to Hesketh at the White Lion,’ he breathed, his clammy, gaunt hand grasping Shakespeare’s. ‘Hesketh told me who it was. His name was Ickman, Mr Shakespeare. Bartholomew Ickman … Now for pity’s sake find me a priest.’