‘Of course, Sir Thomas. Where shall I find the lady?’
‘That is easy. Like Dr Dee, she is a guest of the Earl and Countess of Derby at Lathom House. He has few enough visitors these days, I believe.’
Janus Trayne clutched the reins with his left hand. His right arm was held in a blood-stained sling fashioned from old rag. The horse he rode was slow and stubborn. Worst of all was the pain, the deep throbbing pain from his wrist where the knife had penetrated. Every so often he stopped and put his left hand to the injury, feeling for heat, wondering whether it was about to turn bad.
He could not stop thinking about how nearly he had had the instrument within his grasp at Portsmouth. He had been so close to success, only to have it snatched away. But who was the assailant? Who thrust the dagger blade so deep into his flesh and bone? Somewhere, in the distant crannies of his remembering, there was a name attached to that stumpy body and grim, weathered face. Had he seen him before? If so, then in God’s name where?
The road to the north-west was long and hard, yet he had to ride on, for although his empty pouch would not make him welcome, he was expected. He realised well enough that there would be more work to be done. This was not over yet. The chance of earning two hundred golden ducats was not to be passed up. Spain would have what it so desired, and he would have his gold.
As Heneage strode from the offices, Cecil stayed Shakespeare with his hand.
‘Not you, John. We have a little more business.’
‘Sir Robert.’
Cecil closed the door and walked towards the table, where he had a goblet of French wine. He took a sip, then sat down close to the window. Shakespeare remained standing.
‘Well, John, your thoughts …’
‘This is about a great deal more than the safety of Dr Dee.’
‘Yes, the Lady Eliska.’ Cecil’s tight mouth creased into a grimace. ‘Let us say that she is of great interest to me. Her father was a fervent Protestant, who died at the hands of the Inquisition. He worked closely with Sir Thomas for many years, trying to advance the Protestant cause in the German lands and the Dutch estates. Now she seems to wish to further his work against Rome. Heneage is certain she can be of great help to England, and we may well have a use for her. But I wish your opinion. Observe her, John, and report back to me. Is she to be trusted?’
‘From her name, I would suspect she is from the East.’
‘She is Bohemian, from Prague.’
Prague. That city again. The place where Dee had gone in his strange peregrinations, the place whence so much trouble had come down upon the head of Lord Derby. Shakespeare’s raised eyebrow posed the question to Cecil.
‘How could she possibly help England?’
Cecil looked ill at ease. He shifted the hunch of his shoulder. ‘As yet, I am not certain. But Sir Thomas is convinced. Though he is to marry Mary Wriothesley this summer, I sometimes wonder whether there might be some place in his heart for his young Bohemian friend. Love can cloud any man’s judgment.’
Shakespeare said nothing. Walsingham had once believed that love had clouded his judgment, when Shakespeare fell for Catherine Marvell, the Catholic governess who became his wife and mother to his child.
Cecil continued, ‘For all I know, the lady Eliska might be all that Sir Thomas claims and more. But I would like to hear your impressions. You will have little enough time with her, for you must remove Dee at speed. All I ask is that you find out what you can.’
‘And my lord of Derby?’
Cecil hesitated again, then stood and looked out the window. At last he turned back.
‘Yes, it is true. I wish to know the state of things there. Do what you would do wherever you find yourself: keep a watchful eye. I fear, like a stag at bay, he lies isolated in his northern fastness. Since the events of last September, I know he feels endangered and cut adrift. He fights with his brother and is in conflict with the Duchy of Lancaster. As for those who would have made him king, the Jesuits, I believe he has received a death threat from them. Many of the more militant Catholics feel betrayed by him and desire revenge.’
‘That does not surprise me.’
Shakespeare knew enough of the perilous situation Derby had faced seven months earlier in the early autumn of ’93. A man named Richard Hesketh had approached the earl with a treasonable letter from the Catholic exiles in Prague, entreating him to be their anointed chief in England, their king-in-waiting. Derby had turned Hesketh over to the authorities, and the wretched man had been butchered on the scaffold for treason. But had the earl simply sacrificed Hesketh to save his own skin? Was he, as many still suspected, a crypto-Catholic with designs on the crown of England?
Cecil lifted the flask from the table and poured wine for them both. His mood seemed to lighten.
‘Come, John, tell me a little of your family. How do they fare? I was glad to help your boy Andrew go up to Oxford. These have been hard months for you all since—’
Shakespeare’s hand went up. ‘I am sorry, Sir Robert, I cannot talk about it. Forgive me.’ The death of Catherine was as raw today as ever. Sometimes he feared the pain would never ease.
‘I understand,’ Cecil said softly. ‘But sup with me, John. Take a little wine and sustenance. You have a long ride ahead.’
Chapter 4
THE ROAD NORTH-WEST took Shakespeare through Oxford. He considered stopping to visit his adopted son, Andrew Woode. He could spend a few hours with him and bring him news of their family from London. He worried for Andrew constantly, for the boy’s Catholic passions seemed to run deep, and England was a dangerous place for anyone with such a powerful attachment to the sacraments of Rome.
Shakespeare shook the reins. He would lose the rest of the day if he stopped now – a day that he could not afford. Reluctantly, he rode on, resolving instead to stop the night here on his return journey with Dr Dee.
For the next forty hours, save a five-hour sleep at an inn, he drove northwards relentlessly, urging on post-horse after post-horse, exchanging them for fresh animals as soon as they flagged.
Two hundred miles later, John Shakespeare was deep into Lancashire. It had been a rough slog, leaving him saddle-sore, angry and exhausted. He had made good progress, but the thought that he had not taken the opportunity to visit Andrew nagged at him all the way. What worried him most – something he barely dared admit to himself – was that Andrew might leave the country.
Too many Catholic youths fled England for the seminaries of Rheims and Rome and Valladolid; some of them sought freedom of worship, some trained to return to England as priests. Under the law of the land, it was treason for a Catholic priest to enter England secretly, and the punishment was death, martyrdom.
Andrew’s college, St John’s, was reckoned hard Protestant now, but nothing was ever that simple. There were still disturbances in the college, still Fellows whose hearts lay with the old ways. Shakespeare had a deep sense of foreboding.
As he rode on, he thought about the rest of his family. With Andrew gone, their large house in Dowgate, on the banks of the Thames in the city of London, seemed empty. It had been a school for the poor boys of London, dedicated to Andrew’s mother, Margaret Woode, but it had been closed by two years of plague and showed little sign of reopening. It was a pleasantly appointed property in a fine setting, but Shakespeare found its echoing spaces unsettling and oppressive. He turned corners expecting to see Catherine, his wife, but she was not there.
These thoughts crowded in as he came down Parbold Hill from the sensuous folds of southern Lancashire towards the flatlands that led to the sea. He was within the last few miles of the market town of Ormskirk and of Lathom House.
From the hill, the land stretched out before him. Then he came once more into woods where the road narrowed and became more rutted.
Suddenly a gunshot rent the air. Shakespeare reined in the tough, flea-bitten post-horse. They were on a beaten track through a wood of oak and ash. Light played through the fresh spring leaves. He w
aited a moment, then walked the horse on, more cautiously. It was probably a huntsman with a fowling piece, but it paid to be wary along these outlaw-infested paths. Every lane of England seemed inhabited by criminal bands of vagabonds in these straitened times.
Turning a corner, he pulled his mount to a halt again. Revulsion welled up within him. There were three men at the side of the road, one of them with a hempen noose about his neck, his arms bound behind his back. The other two men were dressed in heavy cassock coats of the type worn by soldiers. They were powerful-looking and heavily armed. The smaller of the two had a smoking petronel pistol dangling from his hand and was picking up a dead rabbit. Neither man seemed concerned at the arrival of Shakespeare. They eyed him coldly, then continued about their business. One of them, the taller, a plough-horse of a man at six and a half feet with a muscled frame and a gaunt face that seemed to tell of battles fought and survived, held the loose end of the long hemp rope. Casually, he tossed it over a thick, ungiving branch of oak, perhaps ten feet off the ground. The other one slung his spent petronel pistol across his back, then tied the dead rabbit to the stirrup of his horse.
He looked up the road and saw Shakespeare, but ignored him and joined the bigger man. Together, they began pulling on the rope, hoisting the condemned man off the ground, his legs kicking frantically at the air. The executioners seemed unconcerned, bored even, as though this was their daily work.
‘What is this?’ Shakespeare demanded, urging his horse forward close to the hanging tree.
‘Deserter. What’s it to you?’ the plough-horse man said.
The two hangmen nonchalantly knotted the loose end of the rope around a lower branch, to secure it. The man with the petronel wore the Queen’s escutcheon on his tawny cassock and seemed to be in charge. There was a pitiless quality to his eyes. Half his face was badly disfigured, as though his cheek had been shot away. The remainder of his face had black spots, like parchment on which ink has been flicked. Shakespeare guessed it had been peppered with fragments of shot.
The rope creaked as the knot was pulled tight. Shakespeare moved his horse closer, drew his sword and slashed at the hempen cord, just above the condemned man’s head. The steel blade, new-honed and as sharp as a scythe at harvest-time, sliced through the fibres with one strike.
The man fell helplessly to the hard, dusty earth, cracked his knees, crumpled and tipped face-forward with a juddering crunch to the nose and forehead. Shakespeare jumped from his horse and, pulling out his poniard, cut the noose away from the man’s neck. He lay there, still, then sucked in a short, desperate measure of air. He gasped again, the breath rattling in his throat.
Four hands dragged Shakespeare away and flung him, sprawling, into a hedge. The leader, his pocked, callous face lacking any emotion – not even wrath – strode over and put his boot in the middle of Shakespeare’s chest. He took a wheel-lock pistol from his belt and aimed it at the bridge of Shakespeare’s nose, dead between the eyes.
‘I could kill you here and now, you maggot’s arse.’
Shakespeare grabbed at the booted foot and tried in vain to lift it and twist it so he could roll away and get up.
‘You are wondering who I am. Well, my name’s Pinkney. Does that mean anything to you?’
Pinkney removed his foot and Shakespeare rose to his feet, dusting himself down, then looked at the man. The name meant nothing.
‘Provost Marshal Pinkney, under orders to press men for the wars in Brittany and hang deserters and outlaws. You have interfered with lawful business here. I should shoot you dead as I just shot that rabbit.’ He nodded towards the wretched, skinny carcass hanging from the stirrup.
The half-hanged man was now on his knees, face down in the dirt with his hands still tight bound behind him, coughing and rasping as blood dripped from his mouth. He was struggling to say something.
‘Rope him again, Cordwright,’ Pinkney ordered his assistant. ‘He hasn’t done dancing his jig.’
‘No, wait!’ Shakespeare held up his hand. ‘I am John Shakespeare, an officer of Sir Robert Cecil. I want to hear what the man has to say for himself.’ He stepped forward and placed himself between the condemned man and the provost. Kneeling at the man’s side, he cradled his battered head. ‘Who are you?’
The man could not speak, but he looked like no common soldier or deserter. Shakespeare would have taken him for a clerk or scribe; the skin of his face and hands was soft and pallid.
‘Who is this man, Mr Pinkney?’ Shakespeare said, trying to lift the hanged man from the ground. ‘Get me drink to wet his lips so that we may listen to him.’
‘I say he is a deserter, so that is what he is. Martial law, Mr Shakespeare, martial law. These are hard times and I am authorised to work in the interests of England. Captain-General Norreys needs all the men he can get for the Royal Army, even vermin like this. And as this man won’t go to the wars, though he has cost the Queen sixteen shillings for coat and conduct, and three shillings for a pikestaff, I say he is a deserter and will hang for it. Look at his good broadcloth venetians, his kersey nether-stocks and his new shoes! In faith, this is good English justice, Mr Shakespeare, and I will not be balked by you, Cecil or any man save Sir John Norreys himself.’
‘Justice? This may be military law, but there is no martial law in place here. What trial has this man had?’
‘Summary justice, as decreed by martial law. He is a masterless man, pressed for service. He took the coat and our food – and then he disappeared from camp. We found him hiding in this wood. He has no defence.’
Shakespeare snorted. ‘You are collecting men a long way north for an expedition to Brittany. I have never heard of a levy so far from the ports of embarkation. Why, it is two weeks’ march and more to Portsmouth or Poole.’
‘Needs must, Mr Shakespeare. These are perilous times and I will take masterless men wherever I find them.’
‘Well, I say he will not hang until he has been examined further.’
Provost Pinkney laughed. ‘You have no jurisdiction here.’ He turned to his man. ‘Hang him, then relieve him of his boots and coat.’
Provost Pinkney stood in front of Shakespeare, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other gripping the butt of his pistol, while his powerful foot soldier set about fashioning a new noose from the severed rope.
Shakespeare glared into Pinkney’s grey, unblinking eyes and saw no hope of reprieve. Pinkney was a couple of inches shorter than him. The lower portion of his shot-ravaged face was covered in bristles. He had red, longbow lips and a chin that pushed forward aggressively from the canopy of his thick barley-harvest of hair.
The hangman wrenched the condemned man’s head back and pulled it into the noose, dragging the rope choking-tight around his already damaged neck. Then he yanked the victim to his feet, roughly, by the bindings at his back. Guilty or innocent, the man was about to die and, at the point of a gun, there was nothing John Shakespeare, an officer of the most senior government officer in England, could do to stop it. This was martial law, summary justice, wolf law. No justice at all.
The thunder of an approaching wagon jolted the hangman to a halt in his grisly business. Shod hoofs on a hard, uneven road and the rattle of metal-rimmed wheels grew louder.
In a swirl of dust, a black carriage appeared from the woods. It was a curious lightweight coach with a golden cupola atop each corner, driven hard by a coachman with a black cape and a long lash.
The soldiers and Shakespeare stood and stared at this apparition. The carriage, which was pulled by just one heavy black horse, was going fast and seemed about to sweep past them eastwards, in a clatter of wheels and hoofs. But the passenger inside banged at the coach’s wooden casing, and the coachman reined in the horse in a fury of stamping and whinnying.
The horse was dripping with white-flecked sweat, its great barrel chest heaving with exertion. The coachman jumped down from his roost and opened the small door, bowing low to its occupant as he did so.
Without hesita
ting, Shakespeare brushed away the provost marshal’s pistol and moved towards the carriage. The coachman tried to restrain him, but Shakespeare held his ground and peered in. A woman sat there, still, silent and veiled. So small and dark was she, seated in the corner, that at first he thought she was in widow’s weeds. But as his eyes became accustomed to the gloomy interior, he saw that her clothes were, in truth, an exquisitely tailored black travelling costume and not at all in the English mode.
She seemed to be staring at Shakespeare as one might gaze at an alien creature imported from the southern seas. A tiny monkey with a long tail sat on her shoulder. It began chattering with little yellow teeth. Shakespeare bowed.
‘My lady …’ he began.
‘Is there to be an execution here?’ she said in a throaty, heavily accented voice. ‘A hanging?’
Shakespeare could not quite place her accent, but it was unlikely there would be many foreign aristocrats in Lancashire. Was this the Bohemian woman whom Heneage had asked him to seek out?
‘My name is John Shakespeare, my lady. I am an officer of Sir Robert Cecil.’
The word Cecil had an immediate impact.
‘Cecil?’ the woman said, pulling aside her black veil with delicate gloved fingers, to reveal a fair, unlined complexion. She was young, perhaps in her mid-twenties. Her expression revealed nothing except her interest. ‘The son of Lord Burghley?’
‘Indeed, my lady. May I inquire who you are?’
‘You may, of course, Mr Shakespeare, but I may not wish to tell you.’
There was a sudden scuffling from behind Shakespeare.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ the provost said. ‘Get on with the hanging, Cordwright. If the lady wants to watch, that’s her business. She can have a front-row seat.’
Pinkney’s executioner threw the rope over the branch again and began to pull it taut.
‘Stop!’ Shakespeare bellowed.
The woman in the carriage leant forward and peered out. ‘Pray, tell me, Mr Shakespeare, what is going on here?’
Traitor Page 3
