Traitor (15 page)

‘Mr Oxx, Mr Godwit, you will take Dr Dee back to Lathom House now. There will be no digging for treasure this day. Keep him confined to his room, whether he wishes it or not.’

From the corner of his eye, he caught the satisfied smirk on the faces of the two diggers, but he did not look back nor wait for Dee’s protests. Instead, he pulled his mount’s head around, kicked the horse into a canter and rode for Ormskirk.

Andrew Woode was shaking. He stood in the hall of St John’s College, Oxford, and looked up at the wall behind the top table. The picture of his sovereign, Elizabeth, gazed down at him with an accusing eye.

‘Well, Master Woode?’ the college president, Ralph Hutchinson, said.

He tried to speak, to say that it was not him, but no words would come. He shook his head.

‘You do not speak, I presume, because you have no defence against the charges laid before you. Look at your gown, sir, your hands. They are red. You have, in the most literal sense, been caught red-hand.’

‘No.’ Andrew blurted the word. He had been dragged to a cell and locked there. Now this. He stood before Hutchinson and the Fellows, a boy alone, accused of a heinous crime.

Hutchinson’s eyes went once more to the red of his hands and the splattered red of his gown. ‘I fear you will have to do rather better than that, Master Woode. And I must say that I am sorry that your presence at St John’s has come to this, for I know you to be here at the personal request of Sir Robert Cecil. From what your tutor told me, I know you had some difficulties, but I greatly hoped that you would become a fine scholar.’

‘I didn’t do it, master. It wasn’t me.’

‘Then you must explain to me the red of your gown and the red of your hands.’

Andrew could scarcely catch his breath. He looked from one to another of the dozen men ranged before him. Their eyes were stern and unforgiving, their minds already decided against him. He was thirteen years old. He was tall, big for his age, and strong, but he felt very small here in this hall. Tears pricked at the back of his eyes.

‘Weeping will not help you, Master Woode. I must say to you now that this is more than a college matter. It is a felony. You will be taken from here to the town gaol and will there await your trial. May the Lord have mercy on your soul, young man, for I am certain that the law will not.’

Shakespeare found Goodwife Barrow with little difficulty. She lived close to the town square in Ormskirk, in a modest stone-built cottage.

She answered the door with two small children at her skirts. ‘Why, Mr Shakespeare.’ She smiled with evident good nature.

‘Goodwife Barrow, a word … I need a Romish priest.’

‘Indeed, and there was me taking you for a Protestant gentleman, sir.’

‘The Earl of Derby is gravely ill. There must be a priest in the neighbourhood. Tell him I will guarantee him free passage to the earl. I will not inquire after his name, nor question him
in any way. He will merely come, say his words, then leave, unhindered. Can you do that for me, Goody Barrow?’

She hesitated. ‘I think I know one who would do that for his lordship, yes. Though I cannot speak for him with certainty.’

‘Tell him to make haste, for there may not be much time.’

She nodded, genuine sadness in her eyes. ‘I am sorry to hear that, sir. While some seem to hate his lordship, there are many in the district with cause to love him, and I count myself among them.’

‘Thank you, Goody Barrow.’ Shakespeare handed her a sixpence coin. ‘Buy cakes for your children.’

She took the coin. ‘I will do that. Thank you, sir.’

‘One more thing. I believe the attorney Thomas Hesketh has offices in Ormskirk.’

Goodwife Barrow seemed to stiffen. ‘Indeed, sir. It is the great building that fronts the north of the market square.’

Shakespeare recalled that the Countess of Derby had spoken disparagingly of the wretched Richard Hesketh’s brother Thomas. It seemed Goody Barrow did not have much time for him either. Well, it would be convenient to meet him this day and make up his own mind. But first he had track down Bartholomew Ickman.

Ickman was not at the Eagle and Child in Ormskirk. The surly landlord shuffled uneasily from foot to foot and said that, yes, there had been a curious young gentleman of that name staying there, but that he had left in the night, without paying for his room or his food.

‘Take me to his room,’ Shakespeare demanded.

Begrudgingly, the landlord led the way to a cramped cell of a room with a small, hard cot, scarcely big enough for a child. Apart from that, it was bare.

‘How long was he here?’

‘Ten days, master. Paid straightway for a week, but these last three days he has had free of charge, the devil flay his hide. A fart in his face, I say.’

‘Did anyone come to him here?’

‘Tried to bring a whore here one night. I kicked her out. Not having that sort under my roof.’

‘Who was this whore?’

‘How should I know? Some vagabond slut. Never seen her before. Won’t see her again. She’ll be in the next county by now.’

The room smelt of sweat and stale tobacco smoke. Shakespeare tore the stinking blanket from the bed, then overturned the thin mattress. There was nothing here.

‘If he comes back, bring word to me up at Lathom House, landlord. There will be a shilling in it for you.’

‘If he comes back, I’ll slit him open and spill his entrails. No man leaves my inn without paying.’

Thomas Hesketh was poring over a vellum scroll, his ink-stained index finger pointing to the written words, one by one, like a child in the schoolroom. He did not look up as Shakespeare pushed past a servant and entered the room.

‘Mr Hesketh?’

‘Come back later, whoever you are,’ Hesketh said sharply, still not looking up from the bulbous folds of his well-fed face. ‘Can you not see I am busy here? Go away.’

Shakespeare reached forward, lifted Hesketh’s fat finger and removed the scroll from beneath it.

Hesketh looked up. His jaw was slack and descended into a series of chins. ‘Give me that back, damn you.’ As he spoke, his protruding lower lip quivered.

‘I wish to talk with you, Mr Hesketh.’

The lawyer leant across his table and lunged for the document. Shakespeare held it out of his reach with ease.

‘What is this? Why, it is a contract of leasehold. It seems a great deal of work has gone into it. And you have a fine fire burning in your hearth …’

Hesketh glared at him, then reached down beside him and pulled up a pistol. He pointed its muzzle at Shakespeare’s heart. ‘This is primed and loaded for just such a one as you. Return my contract, leave my chamber or die here.’

‘And how will you explain that to the justice?’

Hesketh’s finger tightened on the trigger of his finely ornamented wheel-lock. ‘I am the law in this town. I have the power of the Duchy and will answer to no man for my actions.’

‘Then how will you explain it to Sir Robert Cecil?’

The muzzle of the gun wobbled. Hesketh’s grim expression did not change but slowly he lowered the weapon and laid it on the table, within reach of his right hand.

‘So you’re Shakespeare. I had heard you were here.’

‘Good, then we can talk, which is why I have come to you today.’

Shakespeare tossed the dense scroll back to Hesketh, who caught it with his left hand.

‘Just because I have heard of you does not mean I have anything to say to you.’

‘I will decide that. You will answer my questions.’

Hesketh had the look of a judge who has eaten too many fat-basted fowls, drunk too many casks of good Gascon wine and sentenced too many felons to be whipped and hanged. An unwelcome vision came to mind of avarice and greed oozing from his skin like pus.

Shakespeare sat down on a three-legged stool and put his booted feet on the table. He looked about.

‘A well-appointed room you have here, Mr Hesketh. Fine panelling, good plasterwork …’

‘If you have a question, ask it.’

‘Yes, I have a question. I want to know about your brother Richard and the Earl of Derby. Some might wonder whether you desired vengeance for his untimely death.’

‘What is this gibberish? I am a busy man.’ Hesketh clapped his hands and a servant hurried in. ‘Bring me brandy.’

The servant hesitated, looking from his master to Shakespeare.

‘One goblet, damn you. For me.’

The servant scurried away.

‘Well?’

‘Shakespeare, you know nothing of the way things are around here. Does Cecil know what you are about? Go back to London before you get burnt.’

‘Are you trying to threaten me, Mr Hesketh?’

‘I am warning you, not threatening you.’

‘And are you saying you do not wish to avenge your brother’s death? Vengeance is a powerful instinct.’

The servant hastened back and poured a large brandy for Hesketh and none for Shakespeare. Hesketh took a swig. ‘Is it?’ he said tersely.

‘If it is not, then enlighten me.’

‘Richard got what he deserved. He was one of the most stupid men that ever walked this earth. He took the blame for that landowner’s murder, though it was none of his doing, then ran away to Bohemia, of all the world’s most godforsaken places. There he fell into the clutches of the Jesuits – and took their treacherous letter to Lathom House! Insanity. He is no loss to the world and is better dead. So die
all
Papist vermin. He ceased to be my brother many years since – him and all the Romish Hesketh cousins. William, marrying the foul Cardinal Allen’s sister Elizabeth, and William’s son Thomas becoming secretary to him. They are all dirt beneath my feet, and Richard was the worst of them, a stain on our house. Doing for him was
the one good thing Strange ever did in his life. But he’ll be dead himself soon, from what is said about town, which will be no sorrow.’

‘So you would wish the earl dead?’

‘You understand nothing, Shakespeare. I never wanted to avenge Richard’s death, but neither am I sorry to hear of the earl’s destruction, for he is a Papist, too, and has treasonable designs on the throne. He crosses me at every turn as I attempt to crush recusancy in this county. I would issue a writ of praemunire against him and consign him to the Tower if the Queen would allow it. He maintains the Pope’s supremacy. Everyone knows it. I told Walsingham often enough, and I have written to young Cecil in like wise.’ He sat back in his fine chair and folded his dark, fur-trimmed robe round his proud belly. ‘Nor would I be displeased to hear of
your
death, for are you not a Papist-swiving excuse for a man?’

Shakespeare was up from the stool in an instant. He rounded the table and gripped the lawyer’s throat in his right hand, pushing his head back into the wall behind the chair. Hesketh’s hand floundered for his pistol, but Shakespeare hammered down on his wrist with the rough edge of his bare fist. Hesketh yelped with pain and threw up his hand. Casually, Shakespeare released his throat and picked up the pistol.

‘Learn some civility, Mr Hesketh, or I will teach you manners the hard way.’

Hesketh rubbed his throat and glared at Shakespeare. ‘You think I seek vengeance for Richard’s death? I tell you, more people have motives to kill Derby than a rat has fleas.’

Hesketh thrust his thumb in the air.

‘One, the King of Scots, for he wants the throne of England for himself.’

His index finger joined the thumb.

‘Two, the earl’s own brother, for he will inherit his title and
lands as the earl has only daughters. Three, the Jesuits for betraying my hapless brother, who was their tool. Four, any number of enemies at court including Essex, little Cecil and old Burghley. Five, the Puritans for his patronage of the playhouses. Six, other members of my family deluded enough to think Richard Hesketh sinned against. I could go on, Shakespeare: local people with a grudge, resentful servants in his household, Dr Dee or some other witch – for does Derby not believe himself charmed? Perhaps the earl’s pretty wife has another man and wishes rid of him. You could put twenty men and women in a room and they would fight each other for the right to kill the earl. And then there is you, Shakespeare. Perhaps you would have him dead – perhaps you are Cecil’s assassin. You tell me.’

Shakespeare was silent. All those the lawyer had mentioned had a reason for killing the earl, but did they have the means? And then there was the other matter …

‘You have heard of the death of Father Lamb, Mr Hesketh. I ordered an inquest. Has it been held yet?’

‘No, nor will it. Everyone knows how he died, so there is no call for further inquiry. He is buried in unconsecrated ground, where he belongs. I will have no deserter or traitor buried in a Christian graveyard in this county.’

‘You take a great deal upon yourself, Mr Hesketh.’

‘Well, if we waited on action from the Lord Lieutenant,
my lord of Derby
,’ he said the words with scorn, ‘we would be overrun by Popish hordes. Someone must act on behalf of the Queen and Council in Lancashire. You may have powerful friends, Shakespeare, but you are not alone in that. I have my friends, too. My informants tell me you were sent here to protect Dr Dee. I suggest you keep to your mission and leave the inquiry into Derby’s
strange
sickness to others.’

‘What of the villainous Bartholomew Ickman, then? If you
know all that goes on in Lancashire, you must know that he has been here.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘He was lodged at the Eagle and Child. I suggest you have a word with the landlord if he is not passing on such information, for you must know that Ickman was linked to the affair that brought your brother to the scaffold. It was he that handed him the letter.’

‘Nonsense. The letter came from the sordid seminaries of Prague and Rome.’

‘And Pinkney? Provost Marshal Pinkney, supposedly scooping up men for the Brittany wars, here in your domain. Have you and the Duchy lost all control of these lands? Or perhaps you are in league with these men to harm the earl—’

‘Good day, Shakespeare. I have had enough of your impertinent questions. You will not get another word from my lips.’

Hesketh unfurled the scroll and searched for the passage he had been studying when his visitor arrived. For a brief moment of madness, Shakespeare pointed the pistol at him and considered blowing his head apart. Instead, shaking with rage, he dropped it clattering to the floor, and strode from the chamber.