Traitor

Chapter 27

SHAKESPEARE STOOD IN the hall of St John’s College, the evening sun slanting in from the west. At his side was the college president, Ralph Hutchinson. They were gazing at a blank space on the wall behind the top table. It was clear from the lighter colouring of the limewash – a square that had been exposed to neither sunlight nor woodsmoke from the hearth – that a picture had once hung there.

‘That space, Mr Shakespeare, is the reason for your boy’s disappearance,’ Hutchinson said.

‘I do not understand. What has happened here?’

‘Come with me.’

Hutchinson, an intelligent, energetic man with an engaging and commanding manner, led Shakespeare through to a storeroom leading off from the hall. A small window allowed in some light.

‘Over there, gathering dust.’

In the gloomy light, Shakespeare could not make out what he was supposed to be looking at. Then he saw it, carelessly propped against a cupboard door: a picture, turned so that the image faced inwards and could not be seen. He looked at Hutchinson, who nodded. Shakespeare picked it up and carried it from the room into the light. It was in a heavy, dark-stained frame. He turned it round and put it down against a stone wall, then stepped back and gazed at it. It was a portrait of the Queen, painted in the early years of her long reign. It was one of the better pictures of her that Shakespeare had seen: less flattering than most and more accurate. It seemed to capture more of her stubborn will and less of her supposed beauty.

But that was not what caught his eye. It was the four words scraped across it in red paint, like blood, that held his attention and brought a chill to his bones.

THIS IS NO VIRGIN

The words were written in a large script, in capital letters, and ran from the bottom left to the top right, covering her magnificent golden gown, her pale, determined young face and her golden hair. The paint of the lettering was thick and had clearly been applied over and over to ensure it could not be removed easily or covered up in any way.

‘God’s wounds …’

Hutchinson sighed. ‘Your language, Mr Shakespeare. I know such profanities are common currency at court, but I must insist that you do not use coarse oaths within college bounds. The scholars would be whipped for speaking thus.’

‘Are you saying that my boy is responsible for this outrage?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid he is. There can be no doubt. He was caught with red hand. There was even red paint on his gown.’

‘I cannot believe it.’

‘Indeed. I wish it were not so, for we had great hopes of young Master Woode. For his age he had good Latin and Greek, and I am told he was not given over to some of the excesses of the other boys, such as football, playing of cards and … other things.’

Hutchinson adjusted his sober clergyman’s gown as though the very thought of the scholars’ extra-curricular activities made him hot.

‘But which of us knows what demons lurk within the human heart?’

‘I know him enough to be certain he did not do this.’

Hutchinson smiled helplessly. ‘I fear that your understandable faith in the lad will not save him.’

‘I need to know more. Who found the painting like this? Who discovered the paint on Andrew’s hand and gown? I also need to know more about his time here and his acquaintances. Please show me to his rooms.’

Hutchinson moved closer to the painting to examine it. He dropped to his knees and narrowed his eyes in contemplation for a few moments.

‘We are trying to discover whether there is any way to save the work. Can the writing be removed or painted over? My inclination is to believe it ruined. The artist is long departed from this world.’

‘I will find the money to cover the costs. If a replacement is to be commissioned, then I shall pay for it.’

Hutchinson stood up again. ‘That is not the point, I’m afraid, Mr Shakespeare. Not as far as the boy is concerned. You must know the severity of this matter.’

Shakespeare bit his teeth together, hard. He understood the implications all too well.

‘Can this be kept a college disciplinary affair? At worst, send him down … if he be guilty, of course.’

Hutchinson shook his head. ‘It is too late for that. This is already a case for the town courts. Your son stands accused of conspiracy against the person of Her Majesty, which is a felony. A charge has been laid and there is a hue and cry for him. When he is arrested, he will be arraigned before the court, tried and hanged.’

‘He is a child!’

‘Mr Shakespeare, I wish I could ease your distress. What I can say is that Evensong is about to begin and I must be there. I trust you will join me, and go down on your knees in supplication. All that is left is our prayers. If man’s justice is unbending in this world, we can at least pray that the Lord will bestow forgiveness upon the boy in the next.’

The room stank of sweaty, seminal adolesence. It had little enough in the way of comfort: books, black gowns and caps hanging from hooks, quills and ink on an otherwise bare table, a full-sized bed, which housed a truckle bed poking out from beneath, boxes of meagre belongings and sweetmeats brought from home but eked out so long they had gone to mould. And over it all, that stale, unwholesome whiff of boy.

Shakespeare paced the room under the suspicious gaze of James Fitzherbert, a Fellow of St John’s and Andrew’s tutor. He hoped Mr Fitzherbert would prove more enlightening than the time spent at Evensong in the college chapel. He had not enjoyed the excessive display of prayers, Bible readings and sermonising.

‘Is this his box?’

A flicker of acknowledgment crossed Fitzherbert’s small red mouth. Shakespeare opened the wooden chest, picked up a small silver box and opened it. He stiffened at the sight of a lock of Catherine’s dark hair and snapped it shut again.

‘Where did he sleep, Mr Fitzherbert?’

‘Two or three would use the truckle bed, one or more would share mine.’

‘How many scholars share this room?’

‘Apart from Master Woode and myself, there are three others: Penn, Talbot and Lebrecht. Master Woode was the youngest.’

Shakespeare examined the black-clad Fitzherbert. He guessed he was in his mid-twenties. He had smooth skin, save for a covering of chin fluff that a good housewife would most likely try to dust away. His eyes were stern and joyless. He stood erect and still, like an underfed guard dog. Shakespeare understood: this was his territory, his little realm where he was king. He did not like strangers intruding.

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘In what respect, Mr Shakespeare? I am not sure I understand the question.’

‘The mutilation of the painting. Who discovered it? How did Master Woode become implicated?’

‘One of the college manciples found it at first light when he went to prepare the hall for the morning repast.’

Shakespeare looked out of the leaded window on to the quad. With the fading of the light, the rich honey colour of the sandstone walls had turned to drab grey. Scholars in black gowns, black nether-stocks and buckled black shoes walked about briskly. They did not stop to talk or fight or kick a ball as boys of their age were wont to do.

He had been told that after their supper of beef and oatmeal they were made to do a little exercise before their evening studies. How had Andrew fared here? Hutchinson said he was a good scholar, but this cheerless regimen would test the best of boys. Though scholars in the quad held their heads high and seemed alert, yet he could not quite get a picture out of his mind of the prisoners at Bridewell, milling endlessly, their heads hung in misery. Worst of all was the enclosed world of this rank and stuffy room.

‘And then?’

‘And then, naturally, an inquiry was set in motion. But the identity of the culprit was already clear, for the paint about Master Woode’s person was spotted as soon as he rose from his slumber. The other boys and their property were all examined but he was the only one at fault. He had paint on his hands and on his gown. He had pigments and oil in his box.’ Fitzherbert nodded sharply towards the wooden chest.

‘Not very clever for a boy noted for his reasoning powers, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Fitzherbert? I think a village idiot could have covered his tracks better.’

Fitzherbert said nothing. His closed little mouth clenched tighter.

‘So he was apprehended, red of hand. Did he confess?’

Fitzherbert hesitated a moment, then shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

‘Did he protest his innocence, Mr Fitzherbert?’

‘Yes.’

‘But no one believed him.’

‘Why should we? We had conclusive evidence to the contrary.’

‘But you had him in your custody. How, then, did he escape?’

‘Is there any point in all this, Mr Shakespeare? You are like the Inquisition—’

‘I don’t wish to remind you who I am, Mr Fitzherbert. Just answer my questions.’

Fitzherbert’s neck stiffened. ‘Very well. He was held here for three days while the President and Fellows discussed the matter with the proctor and decided what to do.’ Fitzherbert’s tone was crisp, irritable. ‘One or two Fellows wished the affair to be treated as a disciplinary matter within the college, but they were greatly outnumbered. This was an attack on the Queen of England, Mr Shakespeare, not just on the college. In days past, as a boy who could read well, Master Woode would have had benefit of clergy and would have been tried at an ecclesiastical court. But nowadays, as you must know, such benefit is applied only after conviction. It was determined that the offence was so grave that the town authorities had to be brought in.’

‘And then?’

‘He was to be taken to the Oxford gaol. Somehow, as he awaited his escort, he slipped the cords that bound him and ran away.’

‘Who was in charge of him while he was being escorted to gaol? Was it someone from the college – or a tipstaff?’

‘A college servant was with him awaiting the tipstaff. He has been questioned and reprimanded. It seems he left the boy for no more than a few moments to bring him a cup of ale. When he returned, the boy was gone.’

‘Just the one man?’

‘I believe so. Master Woode was bound. A scholar of thirteen would hardly need a squadron of men to take him the short distance to the gaol.’

Yes, he was but thirteen years of age. But for all that, thought Shakespeare, Andrew was tall and fleet of foot; he doubted very much whether he could catch the boy in a race.

A thought struck Shakespeare, born of years working in the devious underworld of intelligencers and assassins. Perhaps someone untied the cords for him. He would need to talk with the college servant.

‘Had you noticed any changes in Andrew in the days and weeks leading up to this event?’

‘Changes? What exactly do you mean?’

‘Was he withdrawn, melancholy? Had he become less attentive to his studies?’

Fitzherbert frowned. ‘This is a university college, Mr Shakespeare, not a nursery. Which of us is not afflicted by melancholy at some time or other? I am not a nursemaid. I cannot pay heed to such things.’

Shakespeare looked at Fitzherbert with scorn. The Fitzherberts were an old family who had courted much controversy in recent years, splitting like a cleft log between the causes of Catholicism and the new Protestant Church. Where did this man’s heart lie – and to which branch of the family did he belong?

‘Mr Fitzherbert, you may not be a nursemaid, but you were put in a position of trust and so I would know more. The names Thomas and Nicholas Fitzherbert must hold meaning for you …’

Shakespeare peered closely into the tutor’s eyes to see what reaction the names might invoke, for both men were Catholic exiles and deemed traitors: Nicholas was a member of Cardinal Allen’s household in Rome; Thomas was a paid adviser to King Philip of Spain.

‘They are my cousins. Would you hold that against me? I disown them. Is that enough for you? Have you no cousins that you would wish to disown?’

Shakespeare stepped forward with menace and the tutor backed off. ‘They are more than mere cousins, Mr Fitzherbert; they are traitors. You cannot cast them off so easily.’

Fitzherbert hunched into his bony shoulders and turned side on, like a cur that has seen the whip. ‘I am of the new Church, Mr Shakespeare, the true English Church. I despise the scarlet whore of Babylon and all its acolytes.’

‘Indeed?’

Something in this cringing man made Shakespeare want to strike him. Instead he turned away. He was unsatisified. The man’s answers were sound enough, if a little glib, yet the thought of Andrew being in his care made revulsion well up within him. He would have to investigate Fitzherbert in more depth, when Andrew was safe.

Janus Trayne lay still in the undergrowth watching the house. He had stayed there twenty-four hours, barely moving a muscle. The occupants of the house came and went. It looked like any other rural cottage. The chickens and pig were fed, vegetables were watered, children played in the muddy yard, the man of the house walked off to his work. There was no sign of Ivory or Cooper. Either they were not here, or they did not leave the house, even for a moment.

It occurred to him that they might be hid near by, in an outhouse or byre. On the second day, one of the young women of the house walked out in her Sunday clothes, carrying a basket. He followed her from a distance and observed her as she went to the market, bought meats and bargained for a kitchen pot, then returned home.

By the end of the day he knew for certain that his quarry was not here. And yet they must have been here or hereabouts, otherwise Ivory’s pipe could not have been at the Black Moth in Sudbury.

He watched a little longer. He needed to ask some questions and get some honest answers, at the point of death if need be. The master of the house, a man in his fifties, strode out in the early evening. Trayne guessed he was going to the alehouse and trailed him through woods. The man slowed down and stopped, as though considering which path to take. Trayne lunged forward. In a rush he was upon the man, thrusting the muzzle of his wheel-lock pistol into the side of his head.

‘Mr Cawston? You are Mr Cawston, I believe.’

Tom Cawston stood back from the pistol. ‘What if I am?’

‘This is loaded and will kill you if you do not answer me straight.’ Trayne noted a lack of fear in the man’s eyes and pushed the muzzle forward into the middle of his face. ‘Do not think I jest.’

‘Ask away then.’

‘I am looking for two men, William Ivory and Boltfoot Cooper. I know they are here.’

‘Friend of theirs, are you? Well, you’ve missed them. They were here but they’ve gone, and they didn’t tell me where.’

Trayne was taken aback. He was accustomed to see the fear in men’s eyes. ‘Are you not afraid of me?’

‘Afraid of you? In God’s name, why would I fear you? I go to church and I say my prayers and live in peace with the Lord. If this is my last day, so be it. You can pull the trigger and I’ll know nothing about it, or you can go on your way and leave me to live out my days.’

‘Or I could cause you much pain and force you to reveal the whereabouts of those I seek.’

Suddenly, Tom Cawston threw back his head and laughed out loud. ‘You must think me an ignorant country fellow. Indeed, you must think us all ignorant country doddypolls. Look around you, Mr Pistol, look around you.’

And he laughed even louder.

Trayne swivelled his head. Ahead of him and slightly to the right was a man with a bow, its string drawn, an arrow set and pointing directly at him. And then he saw another archer, to the left.

‘Did you think we weren’t expecting you? Did you think you could trawl these parts, hiding in woods and bracken, asking questions in towns and villages and not be noted? Shoot me if you like, but you’ll have two arrows in you before I hit the ground.’

Trayne had the weapon in his left hand. His right arm was still weak and painful. He realised the gun was shaking. He began to back off. The two bowmen advanced. Trayne stumbled on a branch but kept his footing. With his damaged right hand, he grabbed out and caught Tom Cawston by the lapel of his jerkin. The pain in his wrist was excruciating, but he pulled Cawston forward roughly. The archers hesitated. It was just enough for Trayne. He pushed Cawston away, turned, ducked low and ran into the depths of the wood. An arrow brushed past his temple. Another stabbed into a tree at his side. Behind him he heard laughter and footfalls.

Deeper and deeper into the wood he ran. Slowly the noises of his pursuers faded, then died. Somehow he had escaped. He crossed himself and thanked God, then cursed, for it seemed he was no nearer his quarry than he had ever been.