Traitor

Chapter 29

A PIERCING WHISTLE shrilled in the morning air. The frenzied shouting of the crowd ceased instantly, leaving only an alarmed murmur. Eyes turned away, scouring the landscape. In the distance, they could hear dogs barking.

The vagabonds knew what it meant. The whistle had been blown by their lookout. The townsfolk, farmers and their hired hands were coming to drive them on. They had been expecting this for many days.

Spindle’s blade hovered like a dragonfly over Andrew’s tender skin, but the audience was already dispersing.

‘I think I’ll save this pleasure for another time.’ He slid the knife away and thrust it into the waist of his breeches, then pulled Andrew to his feet. ‘Arm yourself.’ He pulled one of the fighting-square posts from the ground and flung it to Andrew.

Instinctively, Andrew caught the pole. Ursula was at his side now, looking at his injured ear.

‘You’ll live,’ she said. ‘Come on, come with me.’

Spindle was curling the fighting-square’s rope around his shoulder and gathering the posts to hand out.

Staffy banged his staff on the side of a crate. All eyes turned to him. ‘Order now. We’ve got the men, but we must have order.’

‘We’re standing and fighting, yes?’ Reaphook snarled.

‘Mr Reaphook, shut your mouth and listen. We fight if I say so.’

‘Only—’

‘Mr Reaphook, if you say another word, I will push my staff down your gullet until it comes out your arse. Now go – take the eastern flank and wait for my word. I’ll hold the centre and the west. As soon as I know their numbers I’ll flag the signal. Black, we fight; white, we disperse.’

Reaphook was about to say something else, to protest, but Spindle touched his arm and shook his head. Together, they turned away and began rounding up men. Spindle glanced at Andrew, as if wondering whether to include him in his squadron, then looked away.

This band of men, eight-strong, spread out towards the rising sun with the blue-velvet figure of Reaphook in the centre, sickle in hand. They had staves, old billhooks, knives and clubs. One man powdered an arquebus and tried to light the match as he followed them at a fast trot. They were a ragged company in a strange assortment of clothes. Some looked tough, some frail. The rest of them, men, women and children, gathered close around Staffy.

‘Get up on the roof, Ursula Dancer. Tell us what you see.’

Staffy held out his enormous hands as a stirrup for her foot, then raised her to the broken, perilous roof of the Dogghole. Nimbly, she scrambled up. Standing with one foot on an exposed rafter, the other on the top of the wall, she shielded her brow with her small hand and looked northwards from where the barking seemed to have come.

‘What do you see?’

‘Men, mastiffs on leashes. They’re stretched out across the field. Coming this way.’

‘How far are they?’

‘Two furlongs, moving fast. I see bows and pikes and bills. Hagbuts, too. Half a dozen hagbuts, I’d say. Some men riding. More dogs at their hoofs. Archers, six archers.’

‘How many all told, Ursula? How many?’

‘Twenty-five … no, thirty-five. Six, seven horsemen.’

Staffy banged the empty keg again. The attackers were too well armed; the vagabonds would be overwhelmed. He tied a grubby white kerchief to the end of his staff and held it aloft, waving it.

‘Bills and pikes are one thing,’ he said to those around him. ‘Bowmen and mounted shot are another. We retreat. Go your own ways. We’ll meet at the white horse, where I will decide our next move. Good fortune to you all.’ He turned back to the roof and helped Ursula down. ‘Come on, Ursula Dancer, we got to go and quick. You take the boy. Look after yourself, girl.’

She looked at Andrew, and his bruises and cuts, and shook her head in resignation.

‘At least tell me you can run, Andrew Woode.’

He grinned. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I can pigging run.’

Walter Weld stood on the strand at Deptford and looked about him. His hand rested on the stock of his pistol. This was all familiar territory. He felt at home here with the caw of the gulls, the swoop of the cormorants, the slap of the sails, the bustle of a war machine under construction. He believed he knew every inch of the dockyards from here eastwards – Blackwall, Woolwich, Gravesend. This was where he needed to be. If Trayne did not manage to lay hands on the perspective glass first, then it would pass through these ports and quays. And with the war in Brittany coming to a head, he rather suspected it would be here very soon.

He turned away from the river and walked towards the Royal Docks. Time to lay the ground. He knew exactly what needed to be done.

‘I trust you realise how valuable I am to this realm, Cooper? I tell you this: I have brought more gold to the Queen’s coffers than all your Drakes, Frobishers and Raleghs.’

‘Is that so, Mr Ivory?’ Boltfoot said.

‘You may scorn me, but I tell you it is true. More gold from my blue eye than ever your London merchants or pirate venturers could bring in.’

They were on horseback. Ivory, Boltfoot and Cecil’s man Clarkson, moving southwards through Essex farmland at a pace slow enough to shame a side-saddled nun. Clarkson was a few lengths ahead. Boltfoot kept at Ivory’s side, his hand always close to his loaded caliver and his cutlass. From time to time he urged Ivory to go faster, but received nothing in return but derision.

‘What’s the haste? I like the countryside. Don’t worry, they’ll wait for me. They need me; that’s why little Cecil sends his best man for us.’

Boltfoot gritted his teeth in frustration. Ivory had been increasingly talkative since recovering from his injuries; Boltfoot wished to God he would return to his old, taciturn ways.

‘So where did all this fabled treasure come from, Mr Ivory?’

‘King Philip of Spain himself.’

‘You had better tell me about it, then. For I would be glad to hear such a faerie story. Let us hear your tall tale!’

‘Very well, then, Mr Cooper. I shall tell you. Do you know what this instrument is that I carry? This perspective glass?’

Boltfoot nodded, warily, not certain how much he was supposed to know. ‘My master has told me something of it.’

‘I first had use of it in the summer of 1592, two years past. I was keeping watch atop the mainmast of the bark Dainty as she patrolled west of the Azores looking for the plate fleet.’

‘I know the Dainty. A fair ship.’

‘Aye, fair enough. Day after day I was up there, observing the horizon through the glass. Then, on the third day of August, I caught sight of a speck of dust on the ocean’s rim. At first, I turned the strange instrument around to check whether a mote or splash of spray had polluted the glass. It was clear. Peering through the tube again, straining my bright eye, I began to realise that I was looking at the sails of a wallowing carrack of enormous dimensions, like a sea monster.’

‘I’ve seen a few sea monsters myself,’ Boltfoot said, eyeing him wryly. ‘In truth I do believe I am looking at one now.’

Ivory ignored the barb. ‘Descending the rigging in haste, quick as a monkey, I alerted the captain, Thomas Thompson. A good man, that. A fine ship’s master. He did not waste a moment. Straightway, he ordered the crew of the Dainty to battle stations and commanded the helm to drive the bark forward with the wind to intercept and attack the approaching carrack before its own master had any chance to turn and flee or run out the guns. They didn’t even know we were coming for them until we were almost upon them, so great was the advantage afforded by my work with the perspective glass. So what do you think, Cooper?’

I think I have never heard you string together so many words, and that I preferred your sullen silences.

‘You tell me, Mr Ivory. You tell me, for I am sure you will.’

‘Only the bloody Madre de Dios, wasn’t she! Only the largest ship the world has ever known – seven decks high, one thousand six hundred tons in weight, and with cannon enough to take on a whole flotilla of royal ships! Did that scare Captain Thompson and his crew? It did not. The Dainty may be no more than four hundred tons, but she is nimble and fleet – and full of courage. We pressed home the advantage and moved to engage the great carrack. Like an English mastiff against a Spanish bull, we came to close quarters and held on to the Madre de Dios, snapping at her with a constant barrage of gunfire until the rest of Frobisher’s ships could catch up with us and enter the fray. But it was we that held her, we that did the damage. The Madre de Dios’s decks ran with blood and we had our prize for Her Royal Majesty.’

‘I’m amazed and astounded she didn’t bestow a knighthood on you for uncommon valour, Mr Ivory.’

Ivory was too busy talking to listen.

‘The treasure we captured was enough to take a man’s breath away. Thousands upon thousands of rubies, chests full of diamonds and pearls, gold in such abundance the royal coffers could not hold it, silks and calico, camphor and perfumes, spices and ebony. All that and four hundred blackamoors that the Spaniards had taken for slavery. We did set them down upon an island of the Azores, but I could not say what became of them. It was the treasure we all had eyes for; no room for slaves. I heard Ralegh did say later that it was all reckoned at five hundred thousand pounds, which is a number I never even heard of before then. That was the worth of my blue eye to the Queen and this realm, Cooper. Think on that if you will. That’s why you will show me the respect I deserve.’

Boltfoot had had enough. He kicked on a little way ahead. He looked around him constantly. Every time they passed a horseman or wagon, he expected to see a man in a voluminous cape with a wheel-lock pistol. That wounded wrist must be healed by now. He was out there somewhere …

Joshua Peace woke early at his chamber in the Eagle and Child in Ormskirk. His first instinct on being dismissed from Lathom House had been to leave immediately for London. Yet his loyalty to John Shakespeare and his irritation at being evicted so peremptorily by the sixth earl and the commissioners had made up his mind. He would stay a little longer and keep his ears open.

He lay on the bed and wished himself anywhere but here. The room smelt stale, of smoke and sweat. But he would rise from the bed soon and venture out. He wished to find Cole, if he was still in the area after being dismissed as steward of Lathom House, and he wanted to talk with Mistress Knott.

There was a rap of knuckles at the door. He jumped up, smoothed his nightshirt to ensure he was decent and opened the door.

A surly youth stood there, scowling insolently. ‘Are you Peace?’

‘Mr Peace. Yes, I am.’

‘You’re to come with me.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Parfitt. Attorney Hesketh demands your presence.’

‘Tell your master that I shall be happy to attend his offices later this morning, after I have broken my fast.’

‘Now. He wants you now.’

‘Well, Master Parfitt, you can tell him I shall see him in two hours’ time. Good morning to you.’

He began to close the door, but Parfitt’s foot was already there.

‘You can walk across the square with me, Peace, or I shall drag you through the mud and horse-dung. Which is it to be?’

Peace sighed heavily. ‘Wait one minute. I will clothe myself and come with you.’

Thomas Hesketh leant back in his richly carved oak chair.

‘You know why I have summoned you here, Peace?’

‘No, Mr Hesketh.’

‘Because you are in possession of a letter, a traitor’s letter, which should have been handed to me when first it was discovered about the person of the boy-priest Lamb.’ Hesketh stretched out his fat hand. ‘Give it to me now.’

‘I have no letter.’

‘Where is it?’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr Hesketh. And I do not much care for your manner of asking.’

Hesketh turned to his assistant. ‘Search him, Parfitt. See what you can find. If it’s not on him, search his room at the Eagle and Child.’

‘By what authority—’

‘My own.’

Parfitt was standing in front of him, unhooking the buttons of his doublet. Peace struggled, but the boy, though lean, was powerful and tore the garment from him. He proceeded to feel every seam, paying particular atttention to the padded foreparts and sleeves. The boy took a poniard from his belt and slid it through the stitching, then pushed his ink-stained fingers up into the gaps, pulling out wool stuff. Peace looked on in horror.

When Parfitt discovered nothing in the doublet, he turned his attention to Peace’s shirt, then his hose, upper stocks and nether-stocks, patting the searcher most intimately. Thomas Hesketh, attorney to the Duchy of Lancaster, watched all the while, his moist eyes half hidden in the folds of his overfed face.

‘Nothing, Mr Hesketh, sir. It’s not on him.’

‘Go to his chamber then.’

‘This is an outrage!’

Hesketh glared at him. ‘I don’t know what you think you are doing in Lancashire, Peace. But I want you away from here by nightfall. If you are not gone by then, you will be arrested and charged with necromancy, for men have seen you consorting with the dead, casting spells over bodies, bidding them to rise. Am I clear, Mr Peace? Am I clear? Now get out of my sight – and do not return to the inn. Any possessions found there by Parfitt will be burnt.’

Gathering up his pack-saddle and sword, Shakespeare strode out into Oxford’s morning sunshine. The day was already warm and would be hot.

He looked about him. Who here might know the truth of Andrew’s flight from justice? What would he, Shakespeare, do in the same circumstances? Where would a boy alone head for? His first instinct, surely, would be to run wildly and then, when he had time to consider his options, to try to head for Stratford or London. Yet, at the front of Shakespeare’s mind there was still the fear that this had all been planned, and that Andrew might already be making the crossing to France, assisted by the underground network of Jesuits and seminary priests so active in England these days. Then he would follow the long trek south to the Catholic colleges of Rheims or Rome.

Shakespeare rode northwards and westwards. A mile outside Oxford, he turned left along a track, starting a tight circuit around the city, anticlockwise. He would do a circle at a time, like the rings on a target, calling at every village along the way, and speaking to every man, woman and child he encountered.

At a fork in the path, he spotted a group of farmhands sitting at the side on a grassy bank, eating their bread and drinking their cider. He stopped.

‘I am seeking someone, a runaway boy. A tall, strong lad. He would be dressed in black like a scholar.’

The men looked at each other blankly and shook their heads. He thanked them and rode on. Again and again he hailed passers-by and workers, asking each the same question. Some thought for a while, made suggestions as to where he might have gone, but none was convincing and Shakespeare stuck to his planned route. He followed the track around Oxford in this tight circle, then again in a wider circle, stopping every person he saw and constantly sweeping his eyes across the woods, fields and lanes for some sign of Andrew. It did not seem a hopeless mission; someone must have seen him. He must be somewhere.