Traitor

Chapter 39

‘SHOULDER YOUR PIKES and march!’

Pinkney’s small company broke camp at dawn and headed westward across the farmland and lanes of northern Brittany. The troops marched in file, rank abreast, with a space of three yards between each pair.

‘We will spread the target in case of attack,’ Pinkney had rasped. ‘If one man goes down or cries out, you will turn and form into a wide circle.’

They marched without drumbeat. A corporal held the van, his arquebus ready for action with powder, ball and glowing match. In his belt was a pistol. At his side was the ensign with colours flying. The rearguard was a pike corporal. He was immediately preceded by Andrew Woode and Reaphook with their six-foot halberds. Both had learnt fast: the lower ends of their poles were three feet from the ground, sloping towards the right ham of the pikemen in front, as prescribed by Provost Pinkney. Some of the other new recruits were less well drilled; their pikes, bills and halberds swayed and clattered against those near by.

Pinkney watched angrily. He would dearly love to beat these men into shape, but his priority was to get them to Paimpol and rendezvous with the English army, for he was desperately short of food and munitions.

Their progress was interrupted by constant halts as they tried to gauge the lie of the land against ambush. They sought directions from the few French peasants who did not run into the woods at their approach. Pinkney discovered that Andrew Woode was the only man with more than two words of French, and he brought him close to him in the ranks, so that he might interpret. Yet as they moved further westward, they found that almost no one they met spoke French, only Breton, and communication became more difficult. Andrew was reduced to saying ‘Paimpol’ – or ‘Pempoull’ as the Bretons pronounced it – and watching to see which way the peasant pointed.

As they marched, Pinkney engaged the boy in conversation.

‘What are you, then? It seems you have had learning,’ he said as they skirted a town.

‘I have been at grammar school,’ Andrew replied cautiously. He had seen the savage beating meted out to Reaphook, and knew Pinkney was not a man to be gainsaid or lied to.

‘Well, I’ll hold that against no man if he has courage. You have the makings of a soldier. You have the height to be a pikeman, which is the heart of any army. Survive this campaign and you could one day be corporal on good pay. Half a mark a day or more.’

‘Thank you, Provost Pinkney.’

‘Have you ever shot with a hagbut?’

‘Yes, sir, and a pistol. My father taught me.’

‘Indeed. You are a most uncommon vagabond. I must assume you were fleeing home for some reason.’

Andrew said nothing.

‘And from your voice, I would say you were London born and bred.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What is your father? Schoolmaster? Lawyer?’

‘He has been both, but not now.’

‘Tell me more, Private Woode.’

‘He works in Her Majesty’s service, sir.’

‘Is that so? What is he, a scribe?’

‘No, sir, he is an assistant secretary, in the office of Sir Robert Cecil.’

They marched on in silence for a few more yards. Pinkney handed Andrew his ale flagon. ‘Have a quaff of that, lad. It’ll fortify the bones in your legs.’

‘Thank you, Provost Pinkney.’

The day was bright with few clouds. The terrors of the night were long gone. They could see for miles across fields. In the distance, to the north, the sea shimmered and there were white flecks of sail; they should be safe enough if the terrain could stay like this, and if they kept the sea to their right and visible. There was birdsong in the air. Andrew swigged the ale and gasped with satisfaction. It was good and quenching.

‘Assistant Secretary Woode? I have not heard the name.’

‘No, sir, that is not his name. His name is Shakespeare. He is my adoptive father.’

Pinkney did not break his stride, but he looked left and glanced at Andrew’s profile. ‘Indeed. Now that is interesting, lad.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Pinkney thought back to a lonely lane in Lancashire. ‘Yes, that is very interesting indeed.’

A dozen viols filled the grande salle with music. Sir John Norreys held the centre of the floor with the lady Eliska. They danced apart from each other, yet in time. He moved forward a step, she moved back. His shoulders were stiff and proud, her slender body mirrored his. As if suddenly tiring of this peacock display, his right hand went to the front of her exquisite skirts, clasping the busk of her corset in most intimate fashion; the other hand gripped her hip, just above her buttock. She pushed forward at his touch, moving closer to him so that their lips almost kissed, then as one they turned and sprang into the air, like doves taking flight.

The two hundred revellers crowding around the rim of this modest town hall burst into appreciative applause, then flooded forward to join their captain-general and his mistress in the volta.

Above the music, the din of laughing and cheering made it clear that this was an army with its blood up. They would drink and love their fill this night, for on the morrow the hard business of killing or dying began. There would be no more soft flesh to comfort them and the only music would be the martial beat of the drum and the shriek of the fife. At last they were being sent to win a war.

Most of the men here in this hall, in a square close to Paimpol Harbour, were English, but there were, too, officers of the French royalist army of Marshal Aumont.

John Shakespeare stood dripping in the doorway and watched with astonishment. For a moment he did not recognise the woman with Norreys. Then his eyes widened in disbelief. What in God’s name was Lady Eliska doing here in Brittany? And with Sir John Norreys, too?

A serving man passed by with a tray of goblets. Shakespeare took one and poured fine French wine into his mouth, followed immediately by another. The wine was dry and smooth and very welcome to his parched, salty throat. He had arrived in Paimpol less than half an hour earlier, having been delayed interminably at Weymouth. In the end he had ridden back to Poole to find a boat willing to make the crossing. Now, standing at the edge of this revel among smartly attired soldiers and exquisite young women, he realised he must look out of place. He was drenched with brine from the rough voyage across the sea. His salt-thick clothes stuck to his skin as though coated in wet sand. He had not even had time to find lodgings.

He strode into the mêlée of officers and their young women. Norreys and Eliska had ended their dance and were making their way back to the edge of the hall, where his senior officers were gathered. Shakespeare recognised the heroic Sir Anthony Wingfield, whom he knew slightly and recalled to be a great friend of Norreys; Sir Thomas Baskerville, too, his boots and clothes thick with dust as though he had hurried here from battle.

Something made Eliska turn. She came face to face with Shakespeare and a curious look crossed her beautiful features.

Shakespeare bowed stiffly. ‘My lady Eliska.’

‘Mr Shakespeare.’

Their eyes searched the other’s for some meaning to this encounter.

‘Is it really you? You have no idea how glad I am to see you.’

‘Indeed? That sounds as if you were almost expecting me, my lady.’

‘I always expect the unexpected. But tell me, I assume you have been sent by Cecil?’

‘In a manner of speaking. But how would you know of that?’

She at last managed to compose herself and smile, then leant forward for a kiss on her cheek. He did not oblige.

‘It has been my most fervent wish to see you here,’ she said. ‘But look at you, John. You are like a barnacled sea-monster just stepped from the depths. Your hair is a tangle, your apparel is drenched. You look wretched.’

Norreys had turned now and glared at the newcomer. He was not as tall as Shakespeare, but he had a powerful military bearing, a thick head of hair curling back from his forehead and a well-trimmed spade beard. ‘Lady Eliska?’

‘This is Mr Shakespeare, Sir John.’

‘Ah yes, Mr Shakespeare. Come to spy on me, have you?’

Shakespeare bowed. ‘Sir John.’

Norreys laughed. ‘Fear not, Mr Shakespeare. I know exactly why you are here.’ He downed his drink and looked at Shakespeare dispassionately. His mouth was as flat and unsmiling as the horizon. ‘Very well, Mr Shakespeare. Let us remove ourselves to somewhere quieter, and we will discuss our next move.’

They moved to a side room. It was stark and cheerless, some sort of civic office with a table and nothing else.

‘Sir Robert informed me that you might not be fully acquainted with his plans for you, Mr Shakespeare,’ Norreys said. He sipped a goblet of good wine. ‘So I am to brief you. Sir Robert Cecil desires you to undertake an operation of great daring and extreme danger.’

Shakespeare listened in silence.

‘We must take Fort El Léon to save Brest from the Spanish hordes. All our intelligence suggests it is practically impregnable, and is so well provisioned and manned that it would take a year or more to succumb to siege. That leaves us one option. We must take it from the inside.’

‘I assume Sir Robert has devised some method by which this miracle is to be achieved?’

Norreys shook his head and looked at Eliska. ‘No, but this lady has. And I can tell you that it all depends on the famed perspective glass – and you. It seems, Mr Shakespeare, you are to betray your Queen and country and become a traitor.’

Eliska came to him at three o’clock, when most of the revellers slept. His lodging was in a stable attached to Sir John’s own quarters, which was the largest house in Paimpol.

He was already awake, thinking of Andrew. Norreys had been unable to shed any light on the boy’s whereabouts, but said that Pinkney was expected with a hundred men. He knew the provost marshal well from the wars in the Low Countries. He was a hard man, but a good soldier.

Eliska broke into his reverie. She was about to touch his cheek with her fingertips, but he reached up and gripped her slim wrist.

‘Hush, it is only me.’ The candle that she carried lit up her fair skin so that it glowed.

‘I know your name. Now I think it is time to discover exactly who you are. You turn up in the most curious of places.’ Shakespeare pulled himself to his feet. He had been curled on a borrowed palliasse. She kissed him, her lips lingering a few moments on his. He stood back from her. ‘Well?’

‘I will tell you everything, but first things first.’

She put the candle down on the flagstone paving of the stall.

He kissed her and took her in his arms and laid her down on his thin palliasse.