Traitor

Chapter 47

LANTERNS WERE LIT all through the fleet. Aboard each ship, there was music – viols, lutes, mandolins. Sailors sang and danced. The marines drank themselves into a stupor, each one embellishing tales of his valour or mourning a lost friend.

Shakespeare and Andrew were among a dozen men crowded into Frobisher’s cabin. The admiral lay in state, complaining loudly as the surgeon dug a bullet from his hip bone. Shakespeare’s arm was around his boy’s shoulders. He barely recognised him. Andrew no longer looked like a boy, but a hard-bitten soldier, broad-shouldered, lean and silent.

In the distance, they heard the boom-boom of charges detonating; the pioneers were busy laying mines to blow the fort to rubble. Meanwhile other detachments buried the dead while the wounded sought treatment. The watch stayed alert, for it was feared that Águila could still come at them and try to take their rearguard by surprise.

The toll of dead showed that four hundred Spaniards had died and sixty English. The French had suffered disproportionately, losing hundreds of men in the earlier skirmishes. After Frobisher called his ceasefire, six Spaniards were found cowering among the rocks and were spared.

‘I think you need a brandy, Andrew,’ Shakespeare said.

He nodded. ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

‘You do know I tried to find you? I searched every byway in the shire of Oxford looking for you. I found a girl—’

Andrew suddenly looked up. ‘Ursula Dancer?’

‘She’s in England, safe. You will see her.’

‘She saved me, Father. She saved my life.’

Shakespeare clasped Andrew tight to him and held him.

Boltfoot had stayed on deck. He wouldn’t drink with the officers in Frobisher’s cabin. Shakespeare strolled out to him. A mist was drifting in along the strait. In the distance, the lights of Brest came and went as the fog thickened. There was a chill in the air. Shakespeare handed Boltfoot a pouch of tobacco. He accepted it gratefully and proceeded to fill a pipe. He was thinking of Jane and baby John. He had to get home.

‘Where is Mr Ivory, Boltfoot?’

Boltfoot gestured to the far bulwark. ‘Playing dice. It seems he can no longer hold cards properly, so he will have to devise a new method of cheating. He is a pimple on the world’s buttock, and a dog of a man.’

‘Well, at least he saved your life.’

‘Not as many times as I saved his.’

Shakespeare smiled. ‘Tell me about this man, this Lieutenant Millwater,’ he said.

‘They’ve patched him up and locked him away, master. They reckon Frobisher will string him up in the morning.’

‘Then I had better see him now. Andrew, stay with Boltfoot. Get drunk.’

Above him there was a chattering noise. Doda was in the rigging, eating titbits given her by the mariners. After the fighting, Shakespeare had brought the little monkey from Eliska’s chamber. He would leave her here, aboard the Vanguard. She would make a fine ship’s pet.

Shakespeare knew Morgan Millwater, but he had no idea why. Millwater’s eyes were closed and his breathing was strained. He lay on the floor of his makeshift cell, curled up, clutching his wounded side. Shakespeare could tell he was in great pain and wondered whether he would last long enough for his appointment with the hangman.

‘Mr Millwater?’

The man opened his eyes and the face half turned. Yes, Shakespeare had seen him before. He knew the profile of that face, with the light hair falling about his shoulders. His features were delicate and handsome. But where had he seen him? The name meant nothing.

Then Shakespeare remembered. He had seen that face just once, and then fleetingly. He had been walking out of the hall of Lathom House. His name was Walter Weld, he had been the household’s Gentleman of the Horse and he had left before Shakespeare could question him.

More than that, he now knew, this man was Spain’s chief spy in England. Under various names, he had wormed his way most successfully into the body of England. Until now.

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is John Shakespeare.’

The injured man nodded his head slowly, each breath more laboured as he raised an effort to speak. The words came out slowly.

‘Ah, yes … I recall. You were to come over to Spain. Eliska turned you …’ Millwater laughed, then cried out in pain. ‘Get me out of here, Mr Shakespeare.’

Shakespeare smiled. ‘I fear you are under a misapprehension. Unlike you, I am no traitor. You were duped by a pretty face, Mr Weld.’

Millwater groaned. A dribble of blood fell from his lips. ‘For pity’s sake … have you brought water, ale? I am dying here.’

Shakespeare handed him his own cup of wine.

‘Has the surgeon seen you?’

Millwater shook his head.

‘Can you sit up and talk?’

‘Bring me brandy … to dull the pain.’

Shakespeare signalled to the guard who stood by the door. ‘Get a flask of brandy.’

The guard was clearly reluctant to leave his post.

‘Fear not. This man is dying. He is going nowhere.’

The guard bowed and backed away.

‘So, Mr Millwater. You had designs on the perspective glass. How much did the Spanish offer you? A great many ducats, I imagine.’

Millwater said nothing. Shakespeare watched him and waited. At last the guard returned with brandy. Shakespeare knelt at the wounded officer’s side and put the neck of the flask to his lips. Millwater drank, then gasped, then drank again, desperate for a taste of oblivion.

‘Will you talk now? Aboard this ship, you had a confederate named Janus Trayne.’

‘Murdered … by that dog … Frobisher.’

‘And in Lancashire, you had some purpose. Were you hoping to gain the secret of the perspective glass from Dr Dee? Or were you there, perhaps, to murder Lord Strange, the Earl of Derby?’

The words provoked Millwater into movement. Gasping with pain, he struggled up to a sitting position. Shakespeare could see now how gaunt he was, how close to death. And yet his eyes were on fire.

‘Murder the Earl of Derby … why would we do that? He was our leader … our king-in-waiting … I would sooner have died a thousand deaths than harm him …’

‘But he betrayed Richard Hesketh.’

Millwater slumped back. Cold sweat beaded his brow. His clothes were streaked with blood. ‘He had no option … Hesketh was a fool. We tried to stop him … He believed himself sent by the Society of Jesus … He would not hear us.’

‘So you believe Hesketh was sent by others – men hostile to the earl?’

‘You know it to be true.’

‘Who?’

‘Lamb knew. Somehow he found out, but he would not tell me. I think he did not like me, nor trust me. We were made of different stuff. My mission was to help Spain and to bring my lord, the Earl of Derby, to his rightful place on the throne of England. Father Lamb sought only to save souls.’

‘There was a letter, a coded letter from Lamb to his masters in Rome. Speak now what it meant, and die with the truth on your lips like a Christian.’

Millwater’s eyes closed again. He was sliding down the wall. Shakespeare put an arm around him, trying to prop him up.

‘Who are you, really, Mr Millwater? Tell me now. There are many more questions I must ask you. Tell the truth and make your peace with God.’

But it was too late. Millwater was dead.