Also by Rory Clements
Martyr
Revenger
Prince
www.johnmurray.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by John Murray (Publishers)
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Rory Clements 2012
The right of Rory Clements to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-84854-431-4
John Murray (Publishers)
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.johnmurray.co.uk
Contents
Cover
Also by Rory Clements
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Maps
Act 1: To Lancashire
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Act 2: To Oxford
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Act 3: To Brittany
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Acknowledgments
Historical Notes
Vagabonds in the Sixteenth Century
A Lexicon of Vagabond Slang
To the memory of my mother, the heart of our far-flung family
Act 1
To Lancashire
Chapter 1
WILLIAM IVORY TOSSED his cards across the table and picked up the coins. Three shillings, a sixpence, two farthings. He was aware of the resentful glares of the other players, but did not acknowledge them. He had all their money now; there was no point in staying. Without a word of farewell, he thrust the coins into his jerkin pocket, already bulging from the rest of his winnings, and strode to the doorway. It had been a long night and the tavern was heavy with the stench of smoke and ale.
At the doorway, he stopped, surprised by the glare of the dawn sun. He took a deep breath of the fresh air. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he looked about him. He resisted the temptation to pat the side of his dun-coloured jerkin where the perspective glass was secreted, tied hard against his ribs with leather straps. The street was busy, but his keen eyes told him no one was watching him.
The alehouse stood in a narrow alley close to Portsmouth docks. It was wedged between a broad-fronted ship-chandler’s shop with sail lofts on one side and, on the other, a noisy whorehouse where mariners paid for stale flesh with the spoils of their long months at sea. Ivory walked to his own house, in the next street. He lived alone, close to the bustle and noise of the dockyard. It gave him the anonymity he needed and the gaming houses he craved. He took out a heavy iron key to open the door, then changed his mind. He would eat before sleeping.
It was a cool morning, braced by a breeze blowing in from the Channel. He should have seen the watcher. At sea, he could spot a Spanish ship on the horizon hours before other men, yet here on land his senses failed him. He did not detect the presence of a predator ten paces away, nor did he see the pistol he held in the capacious folds of his cloak.
Ivory drew on a long, ornately carved pipe, filled with rich tobacco. He had acquired the pipe from natives on the coast of La Florida back in ’86, in a trade for a common English knife. He exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke, which was instantly gone on the wind. With a last look about him, he stepped back out into the street and headed down towards the quayside to buy herring and bread. A man in his mid-thirties, he wore long whiskers and combed his straggling grey-black hair forward across his brow. He looked what he was: a man of the sea. With his lean chest, his weather-lined hands and salt-engrained cheeks, there was little to pick him out from all the others in this seafaring town. His gait was rolling like all the rest of them: bodies that could never quite forget the pitch and heave of the ocean swell. Only the precise sparkle of his luminous, cornflower-blue eyes set him apart.
All around him there was noise – traders calling wares, seamen singing shanties as they hauled at cables, gulls cawing as they swooped for manavilins of fish, whores and gossips screaming oaths at each other, idlers laughing. Who could hear a heartbeat or a footfall above such a din?
The man with the wheel-lock pistol shuffled forward with the crowd, protected by it. He was unremarkable and stocky, totally enveloped in a cloak that billowed about him like a topgallant sail and cowled his face. His weapon was loaded and primed, ready to kill. Not quite yet, though, not here, not now. Not with all these people about. His present name was Janus Trayne, though that was not his real one. He had had many names in his forty years.
He followed his quarry down to the quay where men from a laden smack were hauling their catch ashore. He watched Ivory bargain for a pair of fish, all the while puffing at his strange pipe, then followed him to the baker where he bought a two-pound loaf and some butter.
Janus Trayne was not from these parts. He was in the pay of Spain, though not a native of that nation. His mission was to prise something from William Ivory, some instrument that he kept about his person at all times. Trayne did not understand what it was, nor did he care. All that mattered to him was that his masters would pay handsomely for it – two hundred ducats of gold.
He held back twenty yards from Ivory. His chance would come soon enough.
From the baker’s, Ivory walked on a little further, to the cookhouse that stood in the front bank of houses, close to the harbour. The low sun was blanked out by the towering forecastle of an armed merchantman, moored for refitting before its next voyage. At the cookhouse window, he handed over his two fish to a large, sweaty goodwife for scaling, gutting and frying. She tried to engage him in conversation, but he ignored her and walked down to the water’s edge to smoke his pipe and wait.
Less than ten minutes later, the drab called to him and he collected his food on a wide trencher, paying her a penny. He settled down in a quiet spot at the waterside to eat. First he laid his smouldering pipe beside him, then, with a sharp blade, he cut into the tender flesh of the herring and released the succulent juices and savoury smells. He ate slowly, chewing at hunks of bread and butter between bites of fish, taking his time, enjoying the
food and the perfect day.
The events of the next minute happened at bewildering speed.
There was the hard touch of a hand on his left shoulder, then the cold muzzle of a pistol at his right temple. Ivory dropped the trencher from his lap and tried to scramble back from the assailant.
‘Give me the instrument.’ The voice was low, growling. ‘You know exactly what I want, Ivory.’
So they had come for him at last. But it was not him they wanted, it was the glass.
‘I do not have it,’ he said, wrapping his arms around his chest as he leant away from the pistol. ‘Not here—’
‘Then I will cut it from you.’
And suddenly there was the shadow of another man, bearing down on them like a clawed demon. The demon’s talon-like right hand pulled the assailant’s pistol down while the left arm came past his neck, across his chest. Trayne might have been strong, but the demon was quicker. Clenching a blade, he thrust upwards into Trayne’s wrist. The man gasped with shock and pain as the sharp steel sliced up through tendons and flesh, into the very bone of his right arm. His gasp turned to a deep howl. The wadding and ball rolled harmlessly from the muzzle of his pistol. His finger pulled the trigger, igniting powder with a flash and a loud report. Fire spat out and smoke billowed, but there was no shot. The gun fell from his weakened grasp.
Ivory watched in fascinated horror. Within the space of a few seconds a man had held a pistol to his head and now that very man was squatting there with a knife protruding through his wrist, a knife thrust into him by a second assailant.
The wounded man leapt to his feet with surprising agility. Gritting his teeth, he wrenched the knife from his wrist. Blood gushed forth, splattering across the harbour wall. He hesitated a moment, instinctively shielding his face, then he ran, followed by a trail of blood drops.
Ivory watched him go, mouth agape in astonishment. Then he looked at the man who had saved him. It was a face he had not seen in many years, not since they had sailed the world together. A face he had had no interest in seeing again.
‘Boltfoot Cooper! What in the name of God are you doing here?’
‘Saving your life, Mr Ivory. Saving your worthless, poxy life.’
Chapter 2
‘IN DAYLIGHT? ON the quayside where anyone might have seen what he was doing? Christ’s tears, Mr Shakespeare, your man Cooper has surpassed himself this time.’
‘It was necessary, Sir Robert. The man was about to blow a hole in Ivory’s head.’
‘Gunfire, blood all over the quayside … If this reached Her Majesty’s ears, she would be most unhappy. She will not have men knifed in her towns and seaports in full view of passers-by.’
‘It was necessary, Sir Robert,’ Shakespeare repeated, slightly too sharply. ‘In defence of the realm …’ His voice trailed off, wondering whether he overstepped the mark in talking to Elizabeth’s first minister in such tones. ‘Forgive me for speaking plain.’
Sir Robert Cecil laughed, a dry little laugh. He was small in stature, not much over five feet tall, with a hunch of the shoulder that he tried to disguise by pulling back his head. He had a tidy spade of a beard and dark, inquiring eyes. John Shakespeare, six feet tall, with flowing hair, towered over him as they walked across the beautiful inner courtyard of Nonsuch Palace. Water gushed from a marble fountain. The walls seemed to close in with their profusion of intricate plaster reliefs of figures both noble and godly. Across the court and dominating all was the statue of the Queen’s father, Great Henry, his menacing, magnificent figure seeming to hold the very gods of Olympus in thrall.
As if on cue, the Queen herself emerged into the sunlight from the state rooms on the far side of the courtyard. She wore a French gown of white pearl, flourished with gold and silver, embroidered with tiny harts and stags. In her hand she carried a fan of white feathers with a handle of ornate gold. She shone in the sun’s glare, an aureole among the courtiers who thronged around her.
The Queen stopped a moment to breathe in the fresh spring air. Her courtiers stopped, too, responsive to her every movement. Chief among them was her favourite, the Earl of Essex, markedly taller than his companions. His eyes flitted from his sovereign to the bosom of a young lady-in-waiting two steps behind. On Elizabeth’s other side stood the bluff, handsome figure of Sir Thomas Heneage, her greatest friend and Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster. He was whispering some tittle-tattle in her ear and she smiled.
Also there was Sir Edward Coke. As the Queen stepped forward again, Coke moved too, a spring in his step, puffed up from his appointment that very morning as Attorney-General. Cecil’s father, Lord Burghley, hobbled behind, the pain of his gout evident in his expression. Southampton clasped Essex’s arm with one hand and with the other ran his silky fingers through his own long hair. Behind them Shakespeare spotted the squat, white-haired figure of the torturer Richard Topcliffe, and shuddered. No courtier’s elegant attire could disguise that feral, stale-sweat brutality.
Bile rose in Shakespeare’s gullet at the sight of the white-haired Queen’s servant. Their paths had crossed too many times and the loathing between them ran deep. Topcliffe had done his utmost to persecute Shakespeare and his family, believing them tainted by Catholicism. Shakespeare, in turn, had seen the inside of the private torture chamber Topcliffe maintained in his Westminster home. It was there that he had brought the natural father of Shakespeare’s adopted children to the point of death with his foul instruments of rope and iron. Shakespeare could smell the stench of pain and blood that hung there even now, and knew the torturer would not rest until he had destroyed him and all he held dear. As the royal party drew near, Topcliffe caught his eye and smirked. Shakespeare’s expression did not change, did not reveal his revulsion, nor his contempt.
He and Cecil both bowed low and went down on one knee at the Queen’s approach. She looked at them and for the briefest of moments her eye caught John Shakespeare’s. At this proximity he could not but notice what he had not seen from a distance – how marked her face had become by time, how tarnished her glow. Her golden hair was dry, her skin coated white, like a badly rendered façade. She did not acknowledge him, simply looked away and walked on with her courtiers and the ladies in her train. Topcliffe turned as he swept past and threw Shakespeare a half-smile that denoted nothing more than loathing and disdain.
Cecil rose and touched his hand to Shakespeare’s elbow to signify that he, too, should rise. The statesman’s gaze followed the departing group.
‘My lord of Essex has been swearing eternal love and devotion to his virgin queen,’ Cecil said in a low voice in Shakespeare’s ear. ‘Yet before the hour is out, he will have that wanton’s skirts about her waist with never a thought for Her Royal Majesty.’ He nodded towards the woman whose breasts Essex had been contemplating. The corners of Cecil’s mouth turned down in distaste. ‘Come, John, let us walk in the gardens, away from ears.’
Shakespeare was surprised by the note of bitterness in Cecil’s words. His enmity for Essex was well known, but it was unlike him to reveal so much of his inner feelings.
They ambled through the gatehouses. Chaffinches and sparrows sang with the promise of spring. Fruit trees burgeoned with blossom buds. From the outside, the fantastical turrets of Nonsuch Palace dazzled beneath blue slate and red-brick chimneys. Cecil patted the spaniel at his heels and then glanced up at a large lanner falcon that swooped and ranged above them and around them, hunting for food. He shook his neat head in admiration and acknowledged the falconer, who bowed to him. Cecil pointed out the bird to Shakespeare.
‘That is my lanner, John. Is she not comely?’ He paused and looked around. There was no one within earshot. ‘So tell me, now that we are in a quiet place, what do we know about the attacker?’
‘Nothing, except that he wore a large cloak, which concealed a German wheel-lock pistol, which we have. He ran like a hare. Boltfoot, with his club-foot, had no hope of giving chase. Anyway, he was more concerned to stay with Ivory.’
‘Did they follow the blood trail?
‘As far as it went, into the next street. After that, nothing.’
‘Would they recognise the man again?’
‘Unlikely – he closed his cloak about his face. This was no common felon, but a mercenary, a hired man.’
‘From Spain?’
‘We have no way of knowing.’
‘But not a common footpad after Mr Eye’s gold?’
Shakespeare grimaced. ‘No. Mr Ivory confirmed that he demanded the perspective glass. However, there is still a chance of identifying the assassin. Here …’ He withdrew the would-be killer’s pistol and handed it to Cecil. ‘It is a fine-wrought piece.’
Cecil handed it back. ‘Give it to my man, Clarkson. He will pass it on to Frank Mills to deal with. I have other requirements of you. This incident in Portsmouth has worried me greatly. Where are Mr Eye and the perspective glass now?’
‘I have them both safe, Sir Robert.’
‘And you do not think they should be parted? The glass kept safe in the Tower, perhaps?’
Shakespeare shrugged his shoulders. ‘That is for you to decide.’
‘But I would appreciate your opinion, John.’
‘Well, the glass is our priority, but Mr Ivory is also of great value to us. It seems rational to keep them together.’
Traitor Page 1
