Traitor

Chapter 22

DEATH HUNG OVER the great house. The pennants fluttering across the battlements were lowered. It was midday but the sky was black. The threat of thunder menaced the air. As Shakespeare approached, he knew that Ferdinando, the fifth Earl of Derby, a man who might have been king, lay dead.

By the time he had entered the great palace, the gloom was utterly pervasive. He dismounted and went into the great hall. Cole was there, issuing orders and responding to questions. A clergyman was talking to him.

‘Yes, my lord bishop, he will be buried in the family chapel at Ormskirk, with his forebears. We will organise everything from here. You need only be there for the service.’

‘I should stay with the body, Mr Cole. It is only right … I must pray for his eternal soul.’

‘The countess wishes to make her own arrangements in that regard.’

Bishop Chaderton scowled. ‘She is bringing in a greased priest, is she? Thomas Hesketh will hear of this, as will the Privy Council.’

Cole scratched in a ledger and did not look up at the cleric. ‘No, there will be no Catholic priest. The earl will be buried according to the rites of the Church in England, just as his father before him. And I am sure that your services will be required yet again.’ Cole looked up, unsmiling.

The bishop glared at him for a few moments, then sidled away, muttering.

Shakespeare approached. Cole met his eye, his countenance grim.

‘My lord died a few hours since, Mr Shakespeare. It was peaceful at the end. He said last night that he was resolved to die and would take no more remedies nor suffer any liquids to pass his lips, for he wished to fly swiftly into the arms of Christ, lightly, on eagle’s wings. Those were his very words.’

Shakespeare nodded. ‘Where is the countess?’

‘She is with the children.’

‘And the bishop? How did he arrive at such speed?

‘Mr Chaderton arrived last night, meaning to bring comfort to the earl, but the earl would not see him. I believe he also intends conversing with Dr Dee about the wardenship of Manchester collegiate church. There is talk that Bishop Chaderton will be translated to another see in the near future.’

‘Thank you. Keep me informed. I am going to my chamber.’ He began to walk towards the stairway.

‘Mr Shakespeare—’

He stopped. ‘Yes, Mr Cole?’

‘There have been other developments. The searcher, Mr Peace, has had his room rifled. I believe some of his property is missing.’

‘Is he hurt?’

‘He was not in the room at the time, but with Dr Dee. There is yet more news. A messenger has arrived from court. A commission of inquiry is to be sent here, for the Privy Council already fears the worst. It is said the Queen’s rage is tempestuous that a man so great as the late earl, her well-beloved cousin, should be beguiled and brought to his deathbed in such a manner. She insists the witch who cursed him be caught and made to face the full and terrible wrath of the law.’

‘Who are the commissioners?’

‘Sir Thomas Egerton and Sir George Carey. Sir Thomas has local connections. He is Chamberlain of Chester. He is also well known to the family, having served as an adviser to the earl and his father in earlier times. I think they will be here within the week. I have already sent messages that his lordship has died.’

Egerton. An interesting choice. As a lawyer, his star was rising, newly appointed Master of the Rolls in the Court of Chancery. Perhaps he was helped by the severity of his Protestant faith. He was a scourge of Catholics, having prosecuted the Jesuit priest Edmund Campion, Mary Queen of Scots and the Babington plotters. He spoke of Catholicism as ‘the devilish doctrine of Rome’. How closely would he inquire into the death of an earl suspected of being a crypto-Papist? He had been pleased enough to see Mary of Scots lose her head. And yet, if he had been close to this family in his earlier days, perhaps he would wish to see justice done.

Carey was a lesser known quantity, an administrator and diplomat – a man who went wherever he was ordered in the service of the Queen, and dealt with matters to her satisfaction.

‘What of the earl’s brother, William – the sixth earl as he must now be known – does he know what has happened?’

‘Word has been sent to him on the Island of Man. The weather does not look good for the sea crossing, I fear.’

‘No. Indeed not. Well, I am sure he will take up his inheritance in due course. Now, where is Joshua Peace?’

‘You will find him in his chamber. And I have here a letter for you, brought by messenger this very hour.’

Shakespeare took it, surprised to see it bore his brother’s seal. He stuffed it inside his doublet to read later and went in search of Joshua Peace.

Peace’s door was open. He went straight in and clasped the searcher’s hand.

‘Joshua, I have heard—’

‘I am well, John. But I am mighty glad you have returned. This place has been in turmoil. Wailing, shouting, heavy footfalls as servants and retainers run hither and thither. Not only that, but I have been robbed, my belongings turned upside down, my clothes torn to shreds.’

‘The Lamb letter?’

Peace sighed. ‘Safe. I am sure that is what they were after. But I had it about my person.’

‘Joshua!’

‘I applied gentle heat to it. You were right to think there was more to it. I revealed secret writing – lemon juice or some such ink.’ Peace grimaced. ‘It still does not mean much, not to me. The secret writing itself is like a riddle or puzzle. A riddle within a riddle.’

He fished in his doublet and held up a scrap of paper on which he had scrawled a few words.

‘The killing birds wait in line. The hawks edge nearer, even as golden eagles under soaring eyries dive. Malevolent dove, evil nightjar, baleful ibis and twisted hoodcrow toss overhead, preying on insects, shrews or newts. Let dogs fester, orphans rot, ere rooks lay down and die.’

‘God’s blood, Joshua, what is this about?’

As he spoke, it occurred to him that whoever Cecil had assigned to the decoding of the letter would not have discovered this hidden writing from the copy.

‘I have no idea of the significance. I will keep that copy. You take the original.’

Joshua delved once more into his pockets and produced the Lamb letter, wrapped in waxed paper for safe keeping.

Shakespeare took it. The secret writing was quite clear where the heat had revealed it.

‘The Earl of Derby’s crest has an eagle and child. It is everywhere. Even the inns are named after it. This is about Derby.’

‘But what exactly can we learn from it?’

Shakespeare read it again. It meant nothing to him.

‘All I have learnt is that it is mighty important to someone – important enough to ransack your chamber.’

And perhaps mine, too. Was that why the boy with the knife was in his room at the inn?

‘Well, I will continue to study it,’ Peace said. ‘But my work here is done. I must be away, to London.’

‘I know, Joshua, I know – and I thank you for your trouble in coming here. Before you go, however, I must ask you to examine the body of the earl, as a searcher rather than a physician.’

‘Very well.’

He looked at his old friend closely. Joshua Peace was normally imperturbable, but he seemed shaken. The evidence of the attack was all around – ripped clothing and bedding, a broken chest. Shakespeare could understand why he would wish to return to London. Summoning servants to help, the two men put the room to rights as best they could before Shakespeare set out for his own quarters, pulling out his brother’s letter to read on the way.

The letter was but three lines long and shook him to the core.

‘John, I have grave news. There has been an incident at St John’s. Andrew is missing, accused of a most shocking crime. Come to Oxford immediately. Your loving brother, Will.’

Shakespeare stopped in his tracks, scarce able to take it in. He felt his heart would stop with fear. It changed everything. He raced back to Joshua Peace, threw open his door and thrust the letter towards him.

The searcher read it quickly, then looked up into his friend’s eyes.

‘I cannot wait a moment longer,’ Shakespeare said. ‘I must go and I must take Dee with me.’ He took a deep breath and began to regain his composure. He pushed the letter back into his doublet. ‘Joshua, I must ask you to stay here on my behalf. Carry out your duties as Searcher of the Dead. Examine the earl’s body, then report to the commissioners, Egerton and Carey – and to me.’

Joshua Peace looked uncomfortable, but nodded in resignation. ‘I will stay and do what I can.’

‘I must go to Oxford.’ Shakespeare clasped him to his breast, then stood back. ‘I am sorry to involve you in this. Forgive me. I will bring you a gallon of French wine when next we meet, but until then I must leave you.’

Within the hour, he was mounted in the outer courtyard. Dr Dee came at last, shuffling along reluctantly in his rich alchemist’s gown, accompanied by the powerful figures of Oxx and Godwit. Shakespeare turned to the guards.

‘Mr Oxx, do you have a sharp knife?’

‘Indeed, I do, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Then use it to cut off Dr Dee’s beard. And you, Mr Godwit, demand a suit of apparel – a common jerkin and hose – to fit the doctor.’

Dee looked horrified. ‘What is this?’

‘Dr Dee, if you think I am riding through England with you attired like some latter-day Merlin, you are sorely mistaken. I might as well light beacons along the way to herald our advance!’

‘Very well. I will change into other clothes. But not my beard.’

‘You can grow another when this alarm is over. Now hurry, for we have no time to lose. You are coming with me to a safe place.’

Oxx and Godwit marched Dee into the house while Shakespeare sat and waited. Within the hour they returned. Dee’s face was clean shaven with a few flecks of blood. He wore the clothes of a working man.

‘You look a good deal more handsome, Dr Dee.’

‘This is an outrage!’

‘Ten years younger. Your wife and children will not recognise you. I assume the clothes belonged to a carpenter or groom. A little tight in places, but they will suffice. Now let us ride, gentlemen.’

Away from this benighted county. Shakespeare’s first duty was to Andrew, his adopted son. Any man’s priority must be his family.

As they trotted out of the great crenellated walls of Lathom House into the open countryside, Shakespeare spotted Mistress Knott, the chanting woman from the corner of the earl’s death chamber. Her hair was awry and a bright, tattered shawl was clutched around her large bosom. She was waddling towards him, trying to catch his attention.

‘Mr Shakespeare, I beg you—’

He did not stop, but kicked on into a canter. The air seemed clearer now. The thunder and dark clouds had passed eastwards. At last spring, real spring, was upon them. In two or three days’ riding, they would be in Oxford. He would find secure lodgings for Dee. And then he would set about finding what had become of Andrew.