Traitor

Chapter 50

SHAKESPEARE STRODE INTO the ancient hall, past the Common Pleas. The Court of Chancery was at the upper end, at the left-hand side. This was where Lord Keeper Sir John Puckering presided, with Master of the Rolls Sir Thomas Egerton at his side. It briefly flickered through Shakespeare’s mind to wonder about some link between this court and Egerton’s recent role as commissioner inquiring into the death of Lord Derby in Lancashire. At times, he felt, a man could be strangled in the myriad interconnecting twines that linked the great men of England. He shook his head as though to sweep aside the entangled briars; such things might be a matter for another day. This day he wanted but one thing: to find Richard Topcliffe.

A hand touched his sleeve. He turned sharply, as though bitten, and stared into the familiar face of Clarkson, Sir Robert Cecil’s most trusted retainer. Shakespeare was about to pull away but Clarkson’s grip tightened.

‘I must speak with you, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘I have no time for talk, Mr Clarkson.’

‘Sir Robert Cecil wishes to see you. He is close by, at Whitehall Palace.’

‘How did you find me here?’

Clarkson smiled. He was, as always, formally attired in black doublet and hose.

‘It was thought probable – and understandable – that you would be seeking Mr Topcliffe this day. I know that Sir Robert wishes to give you certain assurances in that regard.’

Shakespeare laughed without humour. ‘Assurances that Topcliffe is to hang? I do not believe it.’

‘Please come with me, sir. I am sure it is for the best.’

Cecil welcomed Shakespeare to his offices in Whitehall with a warm smile and gave Clarkson the nod to leave them. The privy councillor personally poured wine into two silver goblets and handed one to his guest. Boltfoot remained outside with Andrew.

‘You received my message, John? I am glad you have come, for I know what dread events have taken place. Your house, the threat to your family.’

‘And you must know who was responsible, Sir Robert.’

‘Indeed, I have grave suspicions.’

‘It was Topcliffe and Ickman. They told me as much. They said I would burn.’

Cecil sighed. ‘Let me say at once that I consider Bartholomew Ickman no better than a diseased dog that should be disposed of. It was his men that laid the fire. But he will trouble the world no more. Trust me on this.’

‘Have you warned him off? He will laugh at you. Or are you trying to tell me something else? What are you saying?’

‘Nothing. I am saying nothing. Read nothing into my words. But worry about him no more.’

‘You ask a great deal, Sir Robert. My inclination is to kill him for what he has done to my home and my family. And what of Topcliffe? Now he sues his confederate Thomas Fitzherbert for not paying the agreed price for murder. Has England come to this?’

‘John, Her Majesty is beside herself with fury at Topcliffe. She can barely speak for anger. I have not seen such rage in her, no, not even when Ralegh was wed against her wishes.’

Cecil sat down. He looked for all the world like a mannequin put into place by a puppet-master, his feet barely touching the floor. He patted a cushion at his side. Shakespeare hesitated, then sat at the other end of the settle, so that they could see each other but were not touching.

‘I pledge you this, John: Topcliffe’s days of power are done. This court case … I tell you that if he is not brought to ruin within a six-month, then you may call me a liar. Her Royal Majesty has already ordered Puckering to hear it in closed session. I cannot overemphasise her displeasure. Never again will Topcliffe have access to her presence.’

‘Why are Topcliffe and Fitzherbert not simply brought to trial for conspiracy to do murder?’

Cecil clenched his eyes closed as though the question pained him, then opened them. ‘Because old John Fitzherbert was lawfully detained in the Tower for his seditious ways. And though he was tormented, he died of natural causes. That, it seems, is why his son refuses to pay the money Topcliffe believes is owed him. So there is no murder.’

‘And yet there was a contract to do murder. Is that not offence enough?’ Shakespeare hammered his fist into his hand. ‘But this is not my concern. What I care for is my own family. Was Topcliffe involved with James Fitzherbert the tutor? Did they conspire against Andrew?’

Cecil was silent a moment. When he spoke his voice was quiet and his words were precise.

‘I have no proof, John, but I can speculate on what happened. I surmise that Tom Fitzherbert was under a great deal of pressure from Topcliffe for the five thousand pounds that is now in dispute. To try to prevent Topcliffe’s suit proceeding, he offered him a trade-off. Knowing of Topcliffe’s loathing for your family, he would bribe or beg his cousin James Fitzherbert to bring false accusations against your boy at Oxford. Topcliffe went along with the idea. But your son’s redemption put an end to the deal, and now they are in court.’

Shakespeare could sit no longer. He rose from the settle and paced the room.

Cecil’s eyes followed him.

‘I know you are sceptical. I know you believe that I am some sort of Machiavel creature and that I had something to do with the events at Oxford and in Lancashire. I think you even believe me responsible for the death of the Earl of Derby. But ask yourself this: if I was organising a conspiracy and murder in Lancashire, why would I have sent you there in the first place? I know you well enough to realise that you would be bound to inquire into such an event. God’s blood, John, I wanted you at Lathom House to protect the secret of the perspective glass. With good cause, as it happens, for the man Walter Weld, or Millwater, or whatever his true name was, did indeed have designs on the instrument. And I needed you to meet Eliska Nováková.’

‘But you know that the earl was murdered. We both know that.’

Cecil shook his head. ‘I know nothing of the sort. I know that there were some curious goings-on at Lathom House. I know, too, that many people might have wished him dead. I confess that it suits my own purposes that he is succeeded by his brother William, whose loyalties are more certain. But that does not mean I killed him. Nor do I have any reason to believe that he died of anything but natural causes. A rupture of the gut, perhaps, a canker within, some bad shellfish … These things happen every day. Did he take his own life, deliberately, with some poison? He was always of a melancholy humour. We will never know what killed him. It is a tragic waste of a young life, but nothing out of the ordinary. If he was murdered, it was not by me, nor by my command and not with my knowledge.’

Shakespeare downed his goblet of wine. It was good wine, but it felt raw against his throat. His very nerve endings felt raw.

Cecil reached out and gripped Shakespeare’s hand, briefly.

‘A man in my position must do many bad things, John, but I promise you this: I have never stooped to murder, nor ever would. I have called you here today because it is important to me that you know that and believe it.’

‘And Eliska? What of Eliska? I know she obtained poison in Lancashire.’

‘Then you know more than I do.’ Cecil nodded slowly. ‘Dear Lady Eliska. That is where my deceit lies. I realise now that I should have told you more about her before you went to Lathom House. I wanted you to observe her without prejudice. She seemed desperate to do some harm to Catholicism and the Inquisition, but I couldn’t be sure whose side she was really on. There were times when I confess I doubted her. I knew she had to go to the French embassy, but who could know what really passed within those walls? In the end, we know that she spoke truth, that she was on our side; she had a rare passion and we made use of it, which you may think shames England. But it was what she yearned for. With this in mind, Sir Thomas Heneage had great plans for her – plans that needed your assistance. First, though, I wanted your reaction, for I trust your judgment.’

‘As you say, you should have told me before sending me to her. It might have saved much grief.’

Cecil threw wide his hands. ‘Mea culpa, as the Romans say.’ He stood up from the settle and walked across the room. ‘Mea maxima culpa, John.’ He took a paper from a shelf. ‘Do you believe me? May I tear this up?’

Shakespeare saw that it was his letter of resignation.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

He looked hard at Cecil. Did he really not know of the poisonous mushroom and Eliska’s role in acquiring it?

‘John, I need you. England needs you. You will be recompensed in full for all Ickman has done to you, I promise you. But I need you in my service. Your actions in Brittany … I can think of no other man who could have done such a thing.’ Cecil’s fingers hovered over the paper, ready to rip it to pieces.

‘Arrange an audience for me with Sir Thomas Heneage. When I have spoken with him, I will give you my answer. First, I have business elsewhere.’

Shakespeare bowed curtly and walked to the door. Cecil watched him go, deep foreboding in his careful eyes.

Sending Boltfoot and Andrew back to the family, Shakespeare went alone to Mortlake. Cold rage had supplanted the unreasoning fury he felt before. He still had violence in his heart but now he considered the consequences beyond the act. He could not implicate Boltfoot and Andrew in this.

At first the door to Bartholomew Ickman’s opulent dwelling was not opened. Finally, at the third beating of his poniard and fist against the oak, he heard a shuffling of feet from inside and the door was opened. A serving woman stood there in apron and smock.

‘Mr Ickman is not here, master.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Gone. He left soon after noon.’

‘Where is his manservant?’

The woman looked from side to side, as though fearing she might be overheard.

‘Speak, woman.’

‘He left soon after, sir. I think …’ She hesitated.

‘Yes?’

‘I think he has fled, master. In truth I do not know what is going on this day. Others have run away, too. There is a great fear, sir.’

For a moment, Shakespeare wondered whether the woman was going to break down in tears. He pushed past her into the house and strode from room to room. He went to the solar where he had met Ickman and Topcliffe. The hall echoed with silence. The whole place seemed deserted. What in God’s name was going on here?

The serving woman was still cowering by the door when he returned.

‘I will be back,’ he said. ‘Tell your master that there is no hiding place on earth from me.’

Two men were standing by the river. Shakespeare recognised them instantly. Provost Pinkney and his giant of a sergeant, Cordwright. They were watching him and he noticed that they both smiled.

He walked over to them and they made no attempt to avoid him.

‘Mr Shakespeare, we meet again,’ Pinkney said. ‘How fares private soldier Woode? Itching for blood and steel?’

‘He fares well enough.’

Shakespeare turned to Cordwright. The last time he had seen him, he was wasting away in a Weymouth gaol cell. Now he seemed almost back to his immense strength.

‘And how did you slip the hangman’s noose, Mr Cordwright?’

Pinkney laughed. ‘Takes more than a gaol cell to hold my sergeant.’

‘So it appears. Well, Mr Pinkney, it seems a mighty coincidence to find you here. Are you friends of Mr Ickman? Perhaps you lay fires for him.’

‘Indeed not, Mr Shakespeare. We are here because our word is our bond, as always. Small tasks for great gentlemen. No, indeed not, we are no friends of Mr Ickman, though it would be fair to say we have made his acquaintance.’

‘And where is he now?’

‘Why, I believe he is in the woods. Did he not venture into those woods yonder for his morning perambulation, Mr Cordwright, along that path?’

Pinkney nodded towards the thick woodland that stretched away from Ickman’s property.

‘Yes, sir, Provost Pinkney, I believe he did.’

‘But enough of common chatter, Mr Shakespeare,’ Pinkney said. ‘Our work here is done and we must be away. Be so good as to convey my greetings to private soldier Woode.’

Shakespeare had already noted two horses tethered to a tree close by. Pinkney and his sergeant walked towards them, mounted and rode away slowly in the direction of London, without turning back. Shakespeare watched them depart, then followed the path into the woods.

The body of Bartholomew Ickman hung from the branch of a tree, swaying gently in the breeze. Shakespeare gazed upon his grotesque face without emotion. The dead man was wearing the buttercup silk doublet he had worn in the fields of Lancashire, divining for treasure with Dee. His arms were unbound and a stool was on its side close to his dangling feet as though he had stood on it and kicked it away to take his own life. But Shakespeare knew better. He had a very good idea how Ickman had died.