The Man in the Snow (Ebook) (3 page)

 
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.

 
She sat down near him and smiled wanly. ‘I am afraid Edward cannot abide any of this. He hates this place, living among all these peasants and merchants. These
sordid tradesmen
, as he calls them. He considers himself brought very low and blames the Cecil family for all his travails.’

 
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?’