Shakespeare said nothing, but looked around. There were shelves of ledgers and correspondence; the whole workings of this complex and costly household were contained within this small room.
‘What did Stanley want with you just now?’
‘He asked me to arrange his baggage and retinue. He wishes to leave imminently. He is returning to Man.’ Cole smiled, regaining his composure. ‘Was there anything in particular that you wished to talk of, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘Yes. In the first instance, I want one of your servants or riders to take me to where Dr Dee is engaged on his dig. While I am there, I would like you to draw up a list of all who work here and all your guests, both recently departed from the house and those still here. I would know who else is closeted in this great house – and why.’
‘Naturally, I would require the earl’s permission to disclose such information.’
‘I am sure that the earl would do nothing to hamper the inquiries of an officer of Sir Robert Cecil.’
Cole inclined his head. ‘Indeed, sir, I am sure he would not. I will make all haste with your requirements.’
‘What guests are here apart from Dee and myself?’
‘Well, there is Sir William, whom you have just seen. And Lady Eliska from the Bohemian lands, whom I have already mentioned. That is all. It is strangely quiet, sir.’
‘Where is this lady?’
‘She is out on some private business today. I believe she will return in the evening.’
‘I would hear what you know of Mr Dowty.’
‘Michael Dowty? He is our Clerk of the Kitchen.’
‘He says he is the earl’s taster.’
‘That is true.’
‘How long has he been at Lathom?’
‘He arrived a little over a year ago.’
‘That does not seem a great length of service for a man given a position of such trust.’
‘He came with the most impeccable letters of reference, Mr Shakespeare – from the household of Sir Thomas Heneage, Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster. There can be none better, I think.’
Ah, Heneage again. It seemed he took his duties as Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster most seriously. Shakespeare smiled wryly to himself. If Sir Thomas Heneage trusted Dowty, why should any man not?
The muzzle of a petronel appeared from a thicket. It was thrust into the stomach of Shakespeare’s escort and would have blown him away had the trigger been pulled. Oxx, who held the heavy pistol, emerged from the bush, his face uncompromising. He turned to Shakespeare, nodded in recognition and removed the weapon from the man’s belly.
They had ridden out immediately after leaving Cole’s office. Now Shakespeare nodded to Oxx.
‘I presume we are close to Dr Dee’s dig?’
The guard signalled with his head. ‘A little further, beyond the spinney. There are three men with him. We searched them thoroughly, though we know them.’
Behind the clump of woodland, at the edge of a low-lying meadow, Shakespeare found Dr Dee and his three assistants beside a mound of new-dug peat and a deep hole in the ground. There was no sign of Godwit. Shakespeare assumed he was as well concealed as Oxx had been; that, at least, was something.
Dr Dee was sitting on a three-legged stool, wearing his long gown and an exotic, embroidered gold and red cap with a gold-thread tassel. Two of his assistants, working men with their shirt-sleeves rolled to the tops of their weathered and muscled arms, were up to their chests in the hole. The third was standing a little further off, drinking from a beaker of ale and idly flicking a thin, catapult-shaped stick. He looked a different cut from the diggers, for he wore a buttercup silk doublet, its ties unfastened, and green hose.
Shakespeare took in the scene and dismounted. He dismissed his escort and turned to the man he was commissioned to protect.
‘Dr Dee—’ he began sharply.
‘Mr Shakespeare. I trust you found my missive.’
‘I did, and I was mighty displeased.’
‘Oh, Mr Shakespeare, I am quite safe in the hands of Mr Oxx and Mr Godwit.’
‘I have no reason to doubt them, but you must discuss your plans with me before you venture outside the house. Or even your chamber.’
Dee stood up from the stool. His long sleeves fell below his hands so that they were not visible unless he flicked back the cuffs.
‘Mr Shakespeare, I have travelled to the farthest reaches of the world – through the Allemain lands to Bohemia and to Poland, along mountain tracks plagued by bandits and wolves. Do you think me less safe here in England’s green bosom?’
Shakespeare was irritated. ‘It is not so much your safety, Dr Dee, that concerns me as the safety of your knowledge. If an assassin’s ball strikes you dead, then your secret remains secure. But all the while you live, I must protect the knowledge inside your head, whether you like it or not. Do not cross me in this, or I will restrict you further – and I will have the backing of Cecil and the Council.’
Dee, unperturbed, continued to press his case. ‘But am I safer inside Lathom House than here in the open air? Is his lordship, the Earl of Derby, safer in the confines of his home?’
‘You have said enough, Dr Dee. You know my feelings on this – and you will obey me. Who are these men with you?’
Dee smiled. ‘My diggers are honest, hard-toiling peasants as you can surely tell from their callused hands and their skill with pick and shovel.’ He swept his arm in the direction of the third man. ‘My friend over there is Mr Ickman, my scryer.’
Ickman. Shakespeare felt a stab of alarm. The Ickman family had proved useful to Walsingham in the old days before the Armada fright, but Mr Secretary had never really trusted them. Was this man of that clan?
Shakespeare called over to him.
‘Mr Ickman?’
The man approached and bowed with excessive display. ‘Mr Shakespeare … Bartholomew Ickman at your service, sir.’
Shakespeare studied him more closely. Above the costly yellow doublet, he had a face of smooth, burnished skin, so unblemished that it might have been a maiden’s, or an adder’s. It was if he had never grown a beard, nor even shaved. His voice was soft and strangely ethereal.
‘Do I know you, Mr Ickman?’
‘I think not, but I certainly know of you, Mr Shakespeare, for I performed certain duties in the service of Mr Secretary, your chief man that was. You may know my uncle Richard, or brothers William and Ambrose.’
Shakespeare held his gaze steady. He certainly knew Richard Ickman, and a more villainous creature he had seldom met. He was a broad, rough bully of a man, who had made a great deal of money from his crooked dealings. He looked nothing like this sylph-like fellow.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Assisting my good friend and patron, Dr Dee, as always.’
Shakespeare gave him a severe look. ‘That is no answer. Why are you here at Lathom in Lancashire? And you, Dr Dee, why did you not mention his presence to me?’
‘Bartholomew is my medium, my pathway to the great world of spirits beyond. Few have such a gift. I had once thought Mr Kelley – but that is another story. We are here, together, to find a hoard of Roman gold, of which we have sure information. This chart, on ancient parchment …’
Dee opened a wooden box that lay on the ground at his feet and produced the map that Shakespeare recognised as the one he had seen on the doctor’s table the previous evening.
‘… it is very fragile because of its great age, but it tells of a Roman governor of Deva Victrix – the city we now know as Chester. He had a country villa where Lathom House is now situated. The parchment implies that he buried the gold coin for safe keeping at a time of great unrest towards the end of the fourth century, intending to return for it one day. There is no reason to believe he ever had the opportunity to come back, so it should still be here.’
‘And what is your role in this, Mr Ickman?’
Ickman held out the Y-shaped stick, one twig in each palm. ‘This is my virgula divina, Mr Shakesp
eare. It may seem as naught but a stick to you, but to those with the power of divination, it is the guide to untold riches.’ He turned his hands to lay open his soft palms. ‘It is all in the sensitive touch of the hands. In this, I am merely the good doctor’s tool in his quest for electric bodies. Are you sensitive, Mr Shakespeare? Would you care to hold my stick and see what you find?’
Shakespeare glared at him. ‘Be careful, Mr Ickman. I am not a man to be toyed with.’ He glanced again at Dee. ‘You have not answered the second part of my question. Why did you not tell me of this man’s presence here? How can I protect you if you keep secrets?’
‘I had not thought it relevant. Mr Ickman is an old friend—’
‘Is he roomed at Lathom House?’
‘No.’ Ickman spoke for himself. ‘I have lodgings in Ormskirk.’
Shakespeare strode over to the new-dug hole and looked in at the diggers, thick with peaty earth and sweat. ‘How much gold have you found thus far, Dr Dee?’
Ickman arrived at his shoulder. ‘None as yet,’ he said, twiddling his divining rod too close to Shakespeare’s face. ‘But given time, we will. I am certain we will.’
Shakespeare gripped the man’s slender wrist.
‘Be careful not to answer for others, Mr Ickman, lest I take you for someone other than you are. You may find I treat you with less gentleness than you believe you deserve.’
Shakespeare found his brother at the base of an oak tree, eyes closed as if asleep. Will was wearing a fantastical green costume with fringes of many colours and gossamer decorations, like a sprite. At his side lay a cheap crown of gilded tin.
‘Will?’
‘Brother …’ Will opened his eyes.
‘Did I wake you?’
‘A daydream. This place is full of strange magic. I feed off such dreams.’
‘Strange indeed. Stranger yet is the sickness, then sudden recovery, of my lord Strange, the Earl of Derby.’
‘Yes. And now he is insisting we proceed with our performance this evening. Half of me fears he will die during the first act, yet the other half is greatly relieved. I do not wish to stay in these parts a moment longer than necessary for the discharge of my duties to the good earl.’
‘You call him the good earl, Will? I confess I have always liked him well enough, but there are those who speak of him as having so haughty a stomach, and so great a will, that he believes himself fit for a crown. They say, too, that his arrogance will one day be his overthrow. When I saw him last night, I rather thought that day had come.’
‘I will not listen to such talk. He has been a fine patron of players over the years. He gave me this life, you know. His troupe accepted me when no one knew my name. He is there for us still, even at this troubled time.’
Shakespeare prodded his brother with a foot and laughed. ‘Never mind Derby’s ambitions. You look as if you would be king.’
Will rose to his feet and bowed. ‘Oberon, king of the faeries,’ he announced with a flourish, then paused before sighing wearily. ‘And my lady, the Countess Alice, will be my queen, proud Titania. What would the Master of the Revels say about a lady playing on stage?’
‘Mr Tilney is not here, so fear not.’
‘But usurping the role of a queen, a faerie queen? How would that news fare at court?’
‘Not well, so say nothing.’
‘Come, let us find cider, John. I have a thirst.’
Shakespeare followed his brother into a tent where a boy served them a powerful draught of apple cider from a flagon. They went outside once more and settled by a tree with a fine view of the magnificent old palace. It seemed a good time to talk.
‘John, you are in a dark humour. You still grieve deeply.’
He shook his head. ‘It is not just that. I have many worries. No, more than that – fears. Fears that I find hard to share.’
‘This place would make anyone feverish.’
‘I have as great a desire as you to be away from this place. I must take Dr Dee to Kent. But that is not my only concern. I also fear what lies behind this illness of the earl. And I worry about my boy, Andrew.’
‘I will not ask why you must remove Dr Dee, and I can understand your concerns about Derby. As for Andrew, yes, I can see how he might give you sleepless nights. A lad of strong will.’
‘He is thirteen, but he has the passions of a man. He has lost everyone he loved – his mother, his father and now Catherine, whom he loved as his own. He rages against their deaths and blames the English Church and this government for all that has happened. He sees me working for Cecil against the interests of Rome.’
‘But now he is at Oxford. I am sure a change of place will help him. He will meet new people, immerse himself in a new world.’
If only that were the case. Shakespeare sighed.
‘Am I not right, brother?’ Will persisted.
‘I pray it is so. But I worry that the opposite will happen. He would have no college but St John’s. I had to engage the assistance of Cecil himself to persuade the Merchant Taylors to give him a place. I had to do something – Andrew was going as mad as a caged lion. We were all deep in mourning for Catherine, yet Andrew’s dark presence left no room for light. Our house at Dowgate was a dungeon of despair.’
Will smiled. ‘You have been through a great deal.’
‘And so I arranged for him to go to St John’s, even though I understood the perilous reason why it had to be that college. It was the alma mater of the Jesuit martyr Campion, you see. Andrew had heard tales of him from Catherine’s lips and discovered some ill-founded inspiration there.’
‘You think he wishes to emulate him and seek martyrdom?’
Shakespeare nodded. It was exactly what he feared.
The brothers were silent for a while. There was nothing to be said. Both knew the dangers. As children they had seen the passion of the old faith in their own home. It was a passion that did not easily die nor succumb to threats. They drank their cider and refilled their cups. At last, Will touched John’s shoulder.
‘Walk with me a little way further, John. I would rather speak in low voices. Trouble dogs you, and I do not wish to be bitten.’
They strolled into the woodland. John, six years older and a little taller than his brother, was more soberly dressed in his felt cap, black and brown striped woollen doublet and black hose.
‘Well?’
‘They say he is bewitched, you know. All say it. The players, the ploughmen in the alehouses, the goodwives at their looms, the drovers with their cattle. All say the earl is bewitched.’
‘He believes it himself. I think poison a more likely cause of his ills.’
‘Indeed, but you should know what people say.’
‘Thank you, Will. So who has bewitched him – and why?’
Will stopped. He looked about him, then his voice sank to a whisper. ‘Some say the Pope, others say Dr Dee.’
‘Dee!’
‘They fear him. Children run screaming from his presence. The men call him conjuror and necromancer. He wanders about in a cloud, looking for gold, unaware of men’s distaste for him and his ways. They do not trust him. Many would burn him as a witch.’
Shakespeare could not help laughing. Dee a witch! Had England not rid itself of such superstition along with relics and incense? Laughable as it was, however, that did not mean there was no threat.
‘Thank you, Will. You have strengthened my resolve. I will remove Dr Dee from Lancashire as soon as I may.’
Chapter 11
‘I CANNOT STAY here, Jane,’ Boltfoot said. ‘I will go mad.’
‘You know you must stay here, to protect Mr Ivory. Where else would you go?’
‘I know not, but I must take him away. I do not like being indoors while he remains out. And I am concerned about Judith and her foolish attachment to him.’
‘That is just a miserly excuse, Mr Cooper, and you know it. She is a pretty young woman and he is a man. It is the way of the world, no more.’
‘It’s not healthy, Jane, and I won’t have it. The man’s a dog. Never did I meet a seafaring man with such sly ways.’
They were in their cramped little chamber, in the early evening. Baby John slept in his crib. From below, the sounds of the family reverberated through the old walls. This feeling of Boltfoot’s had been building all day.
Jane stroked her husband’s face. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Boltfoot. There’s a farmer in the next village who used to be friendly. Maybe he’ll let you and Mr Ivory stay in his barn.’
Boltfoot rubbed his arm across his brow. It was hot in here and he was sweating. His throat and bones ached. He needed fresh air.
What he could not tell Jane was that he was eaten away by terror. He was not a man who felt fear for himself, but the safety of his wife, son and their other charges was another matter. And fear was gnawing at his heart like a deadly black canker. They weren’t safe here. Ivory wasn’t safe. The whole Cawston family was not safe. He had seen nothing suspicious, but this instinct of the gut had saved him on more than one occasion when faced with enemy shot or arrows in the Pacific isles. He had to go. Tonight preferably, tomorrow at the latest.
Walter Weld sat motionless astride his bay mare. He watched from the distance of a furlong as John Shakespeare strode across the outer courtyard towards the stable block. Weld’s hand went to the pistol in his belt, but he did not draw it.
The presence of Shakespeare made things less simple. Two strong-armed men now guarded Dee. They would have to be blown away with pistol shot. It would be messy, and the abduction would be met by a hue and cry. Well, so be it. There were ways to get Dee away, get him to a place near by where he could be interrogated and his secrets drawn from him. The cause of Spain and God had friends enough in this county.
Weld took a last look at Cecil’s man, then wheeled the mare’s head and kicked on. This was no place to be today.
Unable to find Walter Weld, Shakespeare talked with men around the stables.
‘Aye, he’s the Gentleman of the Horse,’ said the head groom, a man with a tongue as loose in his mouth as his belt was tight about his girth. ‘Gone riding, most like.’ His voice lowered. ‘But I can tell you, master, that we have heard rumours bruited about. Folks say Mr Weld is a most devotional Catholic gentleman.’
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