Traitor

Chapter 28

ANDREW AND URSULA did their best to keep away from Reaphook and Spindle. It was a situation that could not last.

The evening was warm. Staffy was not around. Ursula and Andrew were at the Dogghole, cooking pigeon at the fire. A gaunt young man, newly arrived, was playing a tune on his wood whistle, hoping to get a bit of food for his pains.

Ursula repeated her refrain, ‘Don’t give him nothing.’

Suddenly, there was movement behind them.

‘Well, well.’

They turned to see Reaphook and Spindle standing over them.

‘Pig off, Reaphook.’

‘I wondered where you two had got to.’

‘Do you want Staffy to know what you been trying?’

‘Staffy ain’t around.’

‘But he will be.’

Spindle moved forward and stroked her hair. She shook him off. He laughed.

‘Word has it that you got coin, Ursula Dancer,’ Reaphook said. His hand was on the haft of his sickle. ‘Did some good sharking on market day. I don’t believe I’ve had my share.’

Ursula jumped to her feet and faced him aggressively. ‘The only one gets a share is the Upright Man. And Staffy’s had his coin from me. You get nothing.’

‘How about a kiss?’ Spindle said. He tried caressing her waist, but she brushed his hand away as she had done before.

Andrew leapt to his feet. ‘Why don’t you leave her alone?’

‘Oh dear, why don’t you leave her alone, Mr Spindle,’ Reaphook said, imitating Andrew’s refined vowels once more.

‘And you leave him alone. Come on, Andrew Woode, we’re going. It stinks of dog turd around here.’

‘Not so fast.’ Spindle had grabbed her by the skirts. ‘We’re having your coin.’

Andrew lunged forward and pushed the thin boy away.

Spindle clutched his chest in feigned horror. ‘Why, Mr Reaphook, he has hit me again. That’s twice now.’

Reaphook grinned, his mule’s teeth splayed across the lower part of his face. ‘There’s only one way to settle this, then. There’ll have to be a challenge fight. Only way to settle a feud in the band. Staffy’s own rules, I do believe.’

‘That’s it,’ Spindle said. ‘I want a challenge fight. Tomorrow morning.’

Ursula shook her head. ‘He hardly touched him. You got no cause for a fight.’

‘The challenge is made. That’s it. Even Staffy can’t break it.’ Reaphook eyed Andrew up and down. ‘Good fighter, are you? You better be, because you’re fighting young Spindle here. Vagabond law. You hit him – you fight him. One hour after daybreak. Be there or begone. He’ll enjoy doing for you, won’t you, Spindle?’

A mere fifteen miles away from Andrew and Ursula’s woodland lair, Shakespeare stood in the gatehouse of St John’s College. He was itching to get away, to hunt for Andrew, but there was no point in going before dawn and he had business here before leaving.

He examined the manciple’s face for signs of nervousness or guilt, but could detect nothing. The college servant was in his late twenties or early thirties. He was squat and bent, but looked strong enough to hold a boy of Andrew’s age.

‘How did he make his escape, Mr Porter?’

‘Slipped his ropes. Here –’ he picked up a length of cord from the table – ‘this is the very one used to tie the boy. I believe Tutor Fitzherbert tied him, so blame him if the knots were too loose.’

‘But you left him – and that’s when he got away?’

‘Aye, the tipstaff was a long time coming. Poor lad was dying of thirst. So was I! Never occurred to me that he’d work himself free of the rope.’

‘Did you see Andrew Woode run? Did you see what direction he went?’

‘No. When I came back with the ale he was gone. No idea where he went. But the justice’s men will find him soon enough, I’m certain. Is that all, Mr Shakespeare? I have work to do.’

‘For the present, Mr Porter.’

Shakespeare walked through the streets of Oxford. Even this late in the evening there were people about, going in and out of the various alehouses, brothels and taverns. Had Andrew made for one of these dens? Had he tried to find lodging – or did he, perhaps, have a friend in the town who had given him a space in a room? It seemed unlikely. Shakespeare guessed that Andrew’s instinct would have been to get out of Oxford as quickly as he could and make straight for the countryside. He would start his search at first light.

At the Blue Boar, he found Dee in the company of Oxx and Godwit. Shakespeare sent the two guards out for a break, their first in many days, and told them to be back by midnight.

‘And what of me, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘We will stay here together. I wish to hear your thoughts.’

Shakespeare proceeded to tell the old alchemist all that had passed at St John’s, along with the conversations with the college president, Hutchinson, James Fitzherbert and the manciple, Mr Porter. At last he was silent.

‘Your first instinct is that Andrew is innocent of this charge, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘Yes …’ He hesitated. ‘But I know, too, that the boy is angry. And he tends towards papism. His family has suffered grievously these past years. His mother died young, his father died after being tortured for his faith. If he has committed this madness, he has reason enough, though no excuse.’

‘Let us go with your first instinct. Let us say he is innocent. And if that is the case, then it means someone else is guilty. And that someone has deliberately laid the blame on Andrew.’

‘Yes.’

‘Had the painting been protected – guarded – in any way?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘Then I imagine almost anyone in the college – scholar or tutor or servant – could have inflicted the damage.’

Shakespeare nodded. ‘That must mean well over a hundred, perhaps two hundred people would be suspect.’

‘But we can narrow it down,’ Dee continued, putting his thoughts in order. ‘Not everyone would have access to the boy’s room. How many are lodged there?’

‘Besides Andrew? Three boys and their tutor, Fitzherbert.’

‘So any one of those four, or their servants, could have put paint on the boy’s gown and placed the pigments in his box?’

‘Again, yes.’

‘But we can narrow it yet further. There was paint on his hands, too. That would have had to be done during the night, stealthily, while he slept. Are there any servants lodged in the room?’

‘No.’

‘Then it had to be one of the other boys – or the tutor.’

Shakespeare listened carefully to Dr Dee’s analysis. It was clear and logical; his own mind had been a fog.

‘What of the other option: that Andrew is guilty?’

‘You say the boy is clever. Why did he implicate himself so? Why did he wait to be caught instead of making good his escape straightway? There is no logic there, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Indeed, not.’

‘And even if, for argument’s sake, he is guilty, then it would be reasonable to assume that he had already organised his flight from England to France or Rome, and would most likely be on his way there already. In which case, your decision to search in this area would be futile.’

‘But we have agreed that it is more likely that he is innocent.’

‘Yes, Mr Shakespeare. I think we are agreed on that. Yet in running from the college to save himself from the noose, he has done the cause of his defence no favours. Fleeing justice will always make a man seem guilty.’

What Dee said was harsh but true.

‘So you must do two things, Mr Shakespeare. You must not only find the boy, Andrew, but must also discover the true culprit.’

Shakespeare nodded. Yes, he would do that. And he could not but wonder at the timing of this grim event. It was almost as if someone had done this thing intending to draw him away from his inquiries in Lancashire. If so, then they had succeeded. But that was something to be investigated another day; finding Andrew must come first.

He sat at the table, dipped one of Dr Dee’s quills in an inkhorn and began to write to Sir Robert Cecil. The letter said simply:

‘Sir Robert, I have urgent business in Oxford concerning my son. This may take some little time and I beg your indulgence in the matter. Suffice it to say, my charge is safe and will remain so. I will report to you again as and when I may. Your faithful servant, John Shakespeare.’

He handed it to Dee. ‘Ask Mr Oxx to find a messenger in the morning.’

‘Cecil will not be happy.’

No, Shakespeare knew that. His letter would not be at all well received.

Close by the Dogghole, four fence posts had been driven into the ground and a rope strung around them to form a square, ten feet by ten feet. A crowd of the dispossessed was gathered around it, perhaps eighty strong. They were noisy and riotous. Drink was already being taken, despite the early hour. Men, women and children had appeared from their secret sleeping places in barns and copses. They smoked pipes of woodland leaves and clasped beakers of strong liquor and ale. They cheered and barracked the empty square, and had brawls of their own as they waited expectantly for the entertainment. There would be blood and broken bones here this day. Perhaps a death. That was worth waiting for.

The embers of last night’s fire had been stoked up and those fortunate enough to have food were cooking it: songbirds or their eggs, young hedgehogs, skinned weasel, rabbits, broth, potage of foraged leaves, roots and rancid meat found on the forest floor. Others were busy placing bets on the fight. The bets were not on the outcome, which was reckoned by all a certain win for the thin and wily Spindle, but the duration of the fight and the nature of Woode’s injuries.

‘Ten to one a busted arm! Four to one a gouged eye!’

‘Even money a broke nose!’

A short distance away, inside the Dogghole, Ursula slapped Andrew’s face. It hurt, and he sat back with a jolt.

She laughed. ‘You look pigging awful. I never saw a boy so cup-shotten as you last night.’

‘My head. I can’t fight.’

He was sitting on a three-legged stool, his shoulders slumped.

‘Well, if you don’t, you’ll have more than the catchpoles and constables to run from. Get out there and do your best.’

She pinched his nose to make him open his mouth, then pushed in a hunk of bread. She held a beaker of ale up to his face. ‘Drink. Wash it down. It’ll stop your shakes.’

He wanted to be sick again, but tried chewing as ordered, then took a sip.

‘That’s not so pigging bad, is it? Now remember what I told you. Spindle will fight dirty. He’ll trip you, stamp on your balls and gouge your glazers. He might be pike-thin but he’s a mean, slippery gullion. You’re a strong lad, too, though, and you’re bigger than he is.’

Suddenly the doorway darkened. Staffy was ducking in, then rose to his immense height. ‘Is he ready, Ursula Dancer?’

‘Ready as he ever will be. Don’t let Spindle hurt him too bad, Staffy. He’s like a big pigging baby and I doubt he’s ever had a fight in his life before.’

‘It’s out of my hands. The challenge has been made. You’re the one who let it come to this, Ursula Dancer. If he wants to stay with us, he’s got to see it through.’

‘You’re wrong, Staffy. This isn’t my doing.’

‘Maybe so, Ursula, but you should have steered clear of Reaphook. He’ll use anything to stir his followers. Well, I’m going to have it out with him, and soon. That’ll be the next challenge fight. There isn’t enough space for both of us in this fraternity.’

Andrew was only half listening. He grimaced and chewed. His head and body ached, but he was clear about what was happening. He should be up and running, not sitting around waiting to be mashed. But if he didn’t have the strength to run, how was he to fight?

‘What if I don’t want to stay with you?’ he said weakly as he managed to swallow the last bit of bread. ‘If I go now, you’ll have no more trouble on my account.’

Ursula shook her head. ‘If you go now, you’ll have handed victory to Reaphook. Anyway, how you going to survive on your own? You can’t feed yourself and you can’t even steal. If you don’t have a band around you to look out for you, teach you what’s what, you’ll be swinging from a tree within a week.’

‘I told you. I’ve got to get to London. That’s where I live. My family’s there. They’ll look after me.’

‘And it’ll be the first pigging place the law looks for you. If you’ve done a hanging felony, they’ll send a catchpole up to London to bring you back.’

A cheer went up from outside the filthy, crumbling building. Staffy nodded sharply. ‘That’s enough talk. Spindle’s arrived. Get your boy out there, Ursula.’

Spindle was weaving from side to side, parrying and ducking imagined punches. As Andrew and Ursula approached the fighting-square, the crowd murmured, but Spindle did not turn to look at them.

All the eyes in the audience were on Andrew, sizing him up. Was he worth a wager? Could he spring a surprise? Their scornful faces said No.

‘Fight for your life, Andrew Woode,’ Ursula whispered urgently in his ear. ‘Even if you’re down and bloody, show your courage.’

Andrew stumbled forward as if in a waking nightmare. Suddenly, the rope was held up and he was pushed under. He was in the fighting-square. He turned and tried to crawl back out, but half a dozen hands pushed him in again.

Ursula looked on with trepidation. Suddenly Reaphook was at her side, leering. He grabbed her arm.

‘We can stop this now, dell. It’s your choice.’

Ursula recoiled from the harsh voice in her ear and the iron grip of his hand. She tried vainly to shake him away. ‘Pig off, Reaphook.’

He pulled her to him. His breath smelt of ale and meat. ‘Open your legs, give me what’s mine and I’ll save your young friend. I laid the challenge, I can stop it.’ His other hand went to her skirts, grabbing at her through the coarse tatters.

She shied away from him again. She had a knife in her hand, and thrust its point at his belly. ‘Reaphook, I swear I’ll do for you.’

He laughed and pressed his belly into the point of the knife. ‘Then he’ll die in there. Your choice. Watch Spindle do for him. He’s got my orders: no quarter. Only one gets out alive.’

Staffy was now in the middle of the square, his enormous bulk dominating his surroundings. He had his six-foot ash staff gripped in his right hand. He didn’t have to hush the crowd. They went quiet at the mere sight of him. Even Spindle turned round and ceased his shadow-fighting.

‘You know why we’re all here,’ Staffy boomed. ‘We’ve got a fight, called by young Spindle. He reckons he’s got a quarrel with a newcomer named Andrew Woode. There’s only one way to settle it. I’m the Upright Man of this band and I say the fight is over only when both boys agree it’s over. Now let’s see if Woode is as hard as his name. Fight on. Nothing barred.’

An old woman screeched, ‘It’s like putting a week-old chick against a fighting-cock.’

Staffy ducked under the cord and out of the square. As he moved towards Ursula, Reaphook pulled away from her and slunk off.

The two boys were alone in the fighting-square, facing each other over a distance of five feet. Spindle had rags wrapped tight around his fists and around his feet. Andrew looked incongruous in the remains of his black college gown, spattered with mud and a few remaining daubs of red paint. Spindle began weaving his shoulders again, grinning that endless grin, as though his mouth had been permanently frozen in the shape of an upturned horseshoe. He swaggered towards Andrew, winked at him, then punched him in the stomach. Andrew doubled up, winded.

‘Go down on your belly, lick the dirt off my feet and I might let you live.’

Andrew gasped for breath. ‘You win. I never wanted this fight.’

‘Well, you got it. And I win when I say I’ve won.’

As he spoke, he wheeled on the balls of his feet and lashed out backwards with his right foot, cracking hard with his heel into Andrew’s shin. Andrew yelped and fell backwards against the rope. Spindle hadn’t stopped turning. He came around with his fist, which caught Andrew’s temple a crunching blow. The older boy’s knee jerked up and smacked hard into Andrew’s balls. Andrew howled and crumpled to the dusty ground.

The crowd roared approval. ‘Cut him, Spindle. Cut him and cook him.’

Spindle put his foot on the side of Andrew’s head, wedging it against the stony earth. He put all his weight on it and twirled around, grinding the head down, wrenching Andrew’s ear.

Ursula turned to Staffy. ‘Make him stop.’

‘I can’t.’

Spindle was dancing around the square, feinting punches and kicks. Andrew was lying still on the ground, blood seeping from his torn ear. Spindle went back to him, knelt at his side, grasped his balls and squeezed them with a grip like a smithy’s vice.

‘Do you like that?’

Suddenly Andrew lashed out with his elbow and tried to scrabble away. The blow didn’t hurt Spindle, but it caught him by surprise and he loosened his grip. Andrew crawled to his knees, his face twisted with pain. Spindle jumped to his feet with the agility of a cat, then kicked upwards, hitting Andrew an uppercut blow to the chin with his bony, bandaged foot. Andrew sprawled backwards, his head smacking down with a juddering crack.

The blood-hungry crowd laughed and jeered.

Spindle was angry now, enraged by Andrew’s blow. The lurid cries of the onlookers intensified his bloodlust.

‘I’ve had enough of this game,’ he said.

Across the square, Ursula locked eyes with Reaphook. He was smirking. She could bear it no longer and moved forward, pulling up the rope to the fighting-square. If Staffy wouldn’t put a stop to it, she would. But Staffy’s enormous hand grabbed the back of her ragged chemise and dragged her back.

She struggled to get free, but he was too strong.

‘No, Ursula Dancer. I’ve protected you these many years, but not this. You can’t interfere in a challenge fight. If it’s his time to die, so be it.’

Spindle had produced a knife. It was long and narrow with a dull blade but a bright, honed edge. He was pulling Andrew’s hair back and the blade was at his exposed throat. His voice was hoarse, quiet and gloating in Andrew’s bloodied ear.

‘Used to work at the shambles, didn’t I? No difference between bowelling a sheep and a man. I’ll drain your blood and cut you into joints, ready for the pot.’

The crowd hushed in taut expectation. The gamers who had wagered on this outcome kept a close watch on those who had taken their bets to be sure they didn’t run.

‘One little slice,’ Spindle said.

His raised his eyes and looked towards Reaphook for a signal. Reaphook nodded. Spindle grinned back.

‘One little slice and a rush of lovely blood …’