The matter of placing a spy inside O’Neill’s entourage was another thing. ‘I have been offered information by a disaffected member of his clan, one of the O’Neills,’ Shakespeare said. ‘The problem is that he has no intention of going back to Ireland.’
‘Can he be persuaded?’
‘I shall try. It is possible he knows of others in the clan who might be turned our way. We already have Byrne there, of course.’
‘Byrne?’ Cecil said the name quietly. Even here, at the heart of Greenwich Palace, there were all-hearing ears. ‘I don’t trust him any more than I trust Tyrone. Find me two intelligencers unknown to each other who can get close to Tyrone. We can check each man’s information against the other’s.’
‘It will take some little time.’
‘There will be gold available for them. The Irish love gold, do they not?’
Shakespeare bowed once more. ‘Do you wish me to go to Ireland, Sir Robert?’
‘In God’s faith, no, I need you here. Keep this at the forefront of your mind, John, and report back to me after Twelfth Night.’
Two weeks. Both men knew it could not be done so soon, especially not at this time of year, but there was to be no argument. Shakespeare nodded. ‘Very well.’ He paused, wondering how to broach the subject of the murder of the Earl of Oxford’s man.
Cecil spotted the hesitation. ‘Was there aught else you wished to say?’
‘Yes, sir. It is a matter on which I would look to you for guidance. It concerns the Earl of Oxford.’
Cecil’s small body tensed. ‘Well, John, then you command my interest immediately. You must surely know a little of my family’s difficult history with the earl?’
Shakespeare nodded. The Earl of Oxford had been married to Cecil’s sister, Anne. He had left his wife for long periods while he consorted with whores and courtesans and boys. It was said he squandered all his inherited wealth on luxurious living and poor investments and that his judgment was regarded as so poor that if he put money into a venture, investors fell over each other to withdraw their own stakes. All Oxford’s lands and properties were now gone and he was reduced to renting other men’s houses. Even with Anne Cecil dead, even with a new wife, he still held out a begging bowl to his former father-in-law and to Her Majesty. None of this was secret. Shakespeare knew it; the whole court knew it.
‘So, pray tell me what you have discovered.’
‘A member of the earl’s retinue has been murdered. One of those he brought back from Venice, a young Moor named Giovanni Jesu. I recognised him as soon as I was shown his corpse. He had been shot in the back at close range and left in the snow north of Bishopsgate. Because the body was frozen, Joshua Peace cannot put a time or date to his death.’
‘Giovanni. Well, well. Yes, I recall the young man. A charming fellow of great good humour. Now that is a sad thing. And a strange affair. Does Oxford know of this?’
‘I have not spoken to him. I came straight to you for your advice.’
‘Well, why are you involved, John?’
‘Joshua called on me. The body was taken to him by the watch because they did not know what to do with it. No one would inquire into the killing. Not the sheriff, not the justice. I fear they considered the poor man a heathen and of no worth.’
‘And you want my permission to investigate?’
‘I do.’
‘Then you have it. You have my full authority. Clarkson will prepare letters patent so that Oxford and his entourage are obliged to give you full cooperation.’ Cecil’s dark eyes were gleaming. ‘You must find out what you can of my lord of Oxford. Tell me how he lives. You know he sold the last of his estates, Castle Hedingham, to my father? And now he has a son to support! I am mighty intrigued – have reports brought to me without delay.’
‘Yes, Sir Robert.’ Shakespeare bowed once more and turned to leave the room.
‘Oh, and John, do not forget Ireland ...’
Chapter 3
The river journey against the tide was slow, cold and uncomfortable, the rowers complaining all the way. At the Swan water-stairs, Shakespeare paid the men the bare minimum, ignoring their grumbles.
The warmth of the kitchen fire at his home in Dowgate was welcome. Shakespeare took half an hour to thaw himself and satisfy his hunger with fresh white manchet bread and beef, then pulled his black bear cloak about his shoulders once more and walked with Boltfoot to the stables, where their horses awaited. They mounted and set off slowly through the icy, slush-brown streets northwards towards the village of Stoke Newington.
Snow began to fall as they reached the countryside just north of Shoreditch. All around them, the fields and farmhouse thatches were white and the horizon melded into the sky. And then the light faded. Shakespeare cursed. Night came so early. They should have waited until morning.
Stoke Newington was one of those wealthy villages beloved of the city traders. Rich merchants from the great guilds kept large houses here so that they might take the fresh air and recreation away from the noisome streets, crime and plague of the city. As they rode into the village, Shakespeare looked about him. It was a pleasant, peaceful place. The horses’ hoofs made no sound in the deep snow. From the candlelit church came the strains of Christmas caroling. It reminded Shakespeare of yuletide at home and he felt a pang for Stratford.
And yet, he guessed, to a man such as the Earl of Oxford the village must have held little charm. Indeed, it must have been a sorry comedown after his early life, raised in the palaces and grand halls of the royal court. Now, at the age of forty-five, deep in debt and desperate for gold, all hope of preferment for the Queen’s one-time favourite seemed gone for ever. Shakespeare had met him only once, when their paths had crossed at Fotheringhay, but he did not expect the earl to remember him.
Shakespeare reined in his horse as the earl’s rented manor house loomed up ahead through the darkness and the falling snow. It was a new stone building with glass a-plenty. Lights blazed in half a dozen windows.
‘A fair house, master,’ Boltfoot said.
‘For a local squire, merchant or justice, perhaps. But for the premier earl of all England? I think not.’
As no servant or groom approached, Shakespeare dismounted and handed his reins to Boltfoot. He trudged through the knee-deep snow up to the arched front porch and rapped his fist on solid oak.
The door was opened by a young, livery-clad footman.
‘My name is John Shakespeare. I wish to see the earl. Tell him I am here from the office of Sir Robert Cecil.’
‘I shall fetch Mr Stickley, his steward.’
Within a minute, the steward had arrived. He was old, very thin and bent, his black clothes hanging from him as though they belonged to a man twice his size.
‘Good evening, sir. I am afraid his lordship is indisposed.’
‘Is he ill?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then I will wait.’
The steward bowed his grey head with just the right amount of restrained deference.
Shakespeare and Boltfoot waited in a comfortable withdrawing room. A maid came in to stoke the fire and they stood before it, drying themselves.
As she was about to leave, she hesitated. ‘Shall I have refreshment brought to you, sir? Perhaps some mulled wine?’
‘Indeed. Thank you, mistress.’
She looked at Boltfoot, then turned back to Shakespeare. ‘Would your serving man like to accompany me to the kitchens? Mr Stickley says the earl would not be pleased to find him here.’
‘Well, Boltfoot, what do you say? Will you go to the kitchens or abide here with me and take your chances?’
‘I’ll go to the kitchens,’ said Boltfoot, who knew exactly what his master expected of him.
The maid bowed and left with Boltfoot. She returned a few minutes later with hot, spiced wine, then set about the fire with a pair of bellows.
‘How long have you worked for the earl?’
‘Five years, sir.’
‘I imagine
you know his associates.’
‘By sight and name only. His friends are all great ladies and gentlemen and do not notice me.’
‘What about a man named Giovanni Jesu?’
‘Giovanni?’ She said the name quietly.
‘Yes, Giovanni Jesu. He comes from this household, does he not? Do you know him?’
Carefully, she laid the bellows by the tongs and fire shovel. ‘Oh yes, sir, I know Giovanni very well. Do you bring news of him, sir?’
She was a comely young woman, Shakespeare noted, fair-haired with light blue eyes. She was dressed demurely in commonplace kirtle and lawn coif.
‘Has he been in the earl’s retinue of late?’
‘He has, though he often goes his own way these days. I have not seen him this past fortnight. Have you heard anything of him, sir? Is he in trouble?’
‘Why should you suppose that? What is your name?’
‘Dorcas, sir. Dorcas Catton—’ She started at the sound of voices outside.
Shakespeare saw her worried glance. ‘Thank you, Dorcas. You may leave.’
Shakespeare heard the earl before he saw him. He was shrieking profanities as he lurched through the withdrawing room door and Shakespeare saw immediately that he was drunk.
Edward de Vere, seventeenth Earl of Oxford, stood with legs apart, dagger in hand, as though ready to take on the world, if he did not fall on his face first.
Shakespeare bowed to him. ‘My lord.’
‘Who in the name of God are you? And what are you doing in my house? Cecil’s man, are you?’ The words were both angry and slurred.
‘Yes, my lord, I am John Shakespeare. I am an assistant secretary in Sir Robert’s office.’
‘And the dwarf has sent you, has he? If you have come to me with the means to remove myself from this hovel, then you are welcome. If you have come to tell me that the Queen of England has granted me the farming of Cornish tin, then I will shake your hand. If not, then I shall run you through like a dog.’ He waved his dagger erratically. It was long and deadly, with a haft of carved antler.
‘It is about a man named Giovanni Jesu.’
The earl swayed and frowned, his eyes narrowing as though trying to obtain a clearer view of his visitor. Transferring the dagger to his left hand, he grasped hold of the door with his right to steady himself. ‘I have heard of you. You are a spy. And brother to Will.’
‘Indeed, my lord. Will is one of my younger brothers.’
‘Then I will talk to you. What is this about Giovanni, damn his black hide?’
‘I am afraid he is dead.’
The words did not seem to register in the earl’s intoxicated brain.
‘He was shot. His body left in the snow,’ Shakespeare continued.
‘Giovanni dead?’
Shakespeare nodded, his eyes keenly attentive to Oxford’s florid face, trying to gauge his reaction.
‘Shot?’
‘In the back. One ball. It would have pierced his heart.’
‘No. You cannot kill Giovanni.’
‘I am sorry, my lord, but it is certain.’
The earl’s legs began to wobble. Shakespeare moved forward to take his upper arm and helped him towards a stool by the hearth. The earl was breathing heavily, gasping for breath, but managed to wrench himself away from Shakespeare’s grasp and stood with his hand against the fire-mantel. Giovanni Jesu, it seemed, had been more than just a servant.
Shakespeare gazed at the earl’s face intently. He had no more than a scratching of beard and a thin, wispy moustache and was attired in a doublet that had probably been tailored in Italy and was of a very fine cut and cloth, though a few years out of the mode. There were changes though. The tiredness in the eyes, the spidery veins on the skin’s surface, the softness of a man who had once been the hardest rider at the tilt. The main difference in Oxford, however, was his girth. He was a great deal fatter than Shakespeare recalled.
‘Do you need to lie down? Shall I summon a servant?’
‘Leave me alone, you damned puppy.’
Shakespeare turned away, picked up his goblet of mulled wine from the table and took a generous sip. He was aware that Oxford’s eyes were on him, following him blearily, waiting for a reaction. The whole world knew that the earl had once called the heroic Sir Philip Sidney a puppy, an incident that had resulted in a challenge to a duel. Shakespeare cared not a cat’s flea what the cup-shotten earl called him.
‘Did you hear what I said? I called you puppy. Are you man or cur?’
Shakespeare took another sip, then turned back with a smile. ‘It is getting late. I am hungry and I wish to see Signor Jesu’s accommodation.’
Oxford launched himself away from the fire towards the door. ‘Do what you please, puppy. Do what you damned well please.’
As he staggered out, a woman dressed in rich attire appeared in the corridor outside. Oxford looked at her with bloodshot indifference, shrugged his shoulders and was gone, cursing and banging as he went.
The woman waited until the noise died down, then directed her attention to their guest. ‘I am the Countess of Oxford,’ she said. ‘And I believe you are Mr Shakespeare?’
He bowed. ‘Indeed, my lady.’
‘It seems you bring grave news.’ She made no apology for her husband’s condition.
‘My lady?’
‘Your serving man rather abruptly told Dorcas of poor Giovanni’s death and she ran sobbing into the hall. It was exceeding tactless of him.’
Shakespeare sighed. He had wanted Boltfoot to observe the reaction of the servants, but he had not expected this. ‘I apologise if you heard it that way. It must be a terrible shock for you all.’
‘Especially for Dorcas. I may as well tell you, for you are certain to find out: she is mother to Giovanni’s bastard daughter.’
‘Indeed? I would know more of this.’
‘Then you will have to talk to her. Or to my husband. It was he who determined that she be allowed to remain here.’
Shakespeare was surprised. Few noble houses would have allowed a maidservant to stay in employment in such circumstances.
‘You are thinking this most unconventional, Mr Shakespeare. Well, my husband cares nothing for the strictures of clerics or the good opinion of burghers. I would have sent the girl packing, but there we are. She has been strung out like a skin on tenterhooks these past two weeks, awaiting some word of Giovanni.’
‘May I talk with her?’
‘You may. My husband, on the other hand is a different matter. He is past his best this evening and you will get no sense from him. I suggest you make plans to stay tonight and try tomorrow morning. Late morning ...’
Chapter 4
Boltfoot sat in the smoky kitchen eating a bowl of thick broth. In the far corner of the big room, Dorcas Catton was sobbing quietly, comforted by an older woman, while the other servants went about their business in silence, obviously shocked. Boltfoot noticed a well-built young man with a mass of red curls, a tidy gingery beard and dark, deep eyes, go over to Dorcas and try to comfort her. She shook him away and sobbed all the louder. When he persisted, she bared her teeth like a cat threatened by a dog. The man, wearing a cook’s apron, backed away, leering.
‘Who is that man, Mr Stickley?’ Boltfoot addressed the question quietly to the elderly steward who was hovering nearby.
‘That is Monsieur Marot the cook. Lucien Marot – or Curly, as he is known to us.’
‘Troublemaker is he?’
‘I would not say that, Mr Cooper. A little hot-headed, but not a troublemaker. He wants to comfort her, that is all. But Dorcas is too upset, which is natural for a young woman. Giovanni’s death is a shock to us all.’
Boltfoot said nothing more, merely ate his potage and watched.
Shakespeare was taken to a table in the dining parlour and brought the remains of a songbird pie and bread, with a cup of Gascon wine. He ate alone by the light of half a dozen beeswax candles until, eventually, the countess reappeared.
Elizabeth de Vere had a long face, clear skin and bright eyes. Born Elizabeth Trentham, she was in her early twenties, no more than half her husband’s age. Shakespeare found himself warming to her.
‘My husband suffers many disappointments. He has a position to uphold and the wherewithal is wanting.’
‘I quite understand.’
‘But that is not why you are here, is it?’
‘Indeed not, ma’am. I wish to discover who killed Signor Jesu and why. In the first instance, I should like to inspect his quarters and talk with anyone in the house who knew him. I am sure you would all wish his murderer brought to justice.’
‘You are certain he is the dead man?’
‘There can be no doubt. I met him once, nine years ago.’
Elizabeth de Vere smiled sadly. Shakespeare wondered about her role as Oxford’s second wife. Was he kinder to her than he had been to Anne Cecil? Elizabeth, a former maid of honour to the Queen, had at least given him the son and heir he longed for. And if he enjoyed collecting things of beauty, then she must surely qualify.
‘My lady, if I may ask, what precisely was Signor Jesu’s position in this household?’
‘Ah, yes, a very good question, Mr Shakespeare, and one that is not easily answered. It is complicated, you see. Giovanni was the residue of another time and place. He emanated from the days when my lord of Oxford was a great deal more wealthy and well-favoured. Edward considered Giovanni an ornament. There were other such young men of talent and beauty whom he brought home from his tour of the Italies, but they all drifted away; Giovanni stayed. He was not servant, but nor was he guest.’
The Man in the Snow (Ebook) Page 2
