Traitor (20 page)

The knife lowered and became less threatening. She was a short woman with a large belly and heavy breasts, her face lined with worry. Shakespeare wondered whether she had smiled these past five years.

The capon had stopped running and lay dead, close to the block where it had lost its head. Isabel Hesketh picked it up by the talons.

‘You had better come indoors then … whoever you are.’ She pointed at the monkey with her knife. ‘But that stays outside. I’m not having godless beasts and gargoyles in this house.’

The inside of the building was spacious and surprisingly well tended, despite the obvious lack of servants. Mistress Hesketh might have lost her husband and her wealth, but she retained her pride. Eliska left the monkey tethered to the saddle and followed Shakespeare and Mistress Hesketh into the kitchen.

‘We are brought so low, this is where we spend most of our time,’ she said, with a sweep of the hand to indicate the pots and old crockery that remained. ‘That way we need only the one fire. And all because my fool of a husband brought disgrace and ruin upon us.’

‘That is what I wish to talk to you about, mistress.’

‘He always had more kindness than sense, but I loved him
so. And I know that he loved me. Why did he not stay with buying and selling of cloth, which was what he knew? Always had to get involved with someone else’s business, and look where it brought him. I do pray that he did not suffer too greatly. Well, it’s over now.’

Shakespeare looked at her and suddenly realised that she was not so much fat as big with child.

She caught his glance. ‘Another two months. I know the date well enough, for Mr Hesketh was here only three nights. It was between the twenty-second and twenty-fourth of September last.’ A tear appeared and she dabbed at it with the corner of her blood-stained apron. ‘It’s the babe I feel for, waiting to come into the world when his father has already left it in disgrace. He’ll have no father, the poor mite. Nor have any of the others, only the scorn and jeering of their fellows. I do not know what’s to become of us, for no one wishes to be seen to help us, stained as we are with Richard’s treason.’ She breathed deeply, trying to regain her composure.

‘Can you tell us about your husband’s last days here in Lancashire?’ Eliska asked.

Isabel Hesketh was taken aback by her husky accent.

‘Lady Eliska is from the eastern lands,’ Shakespeare said by way of explanation. ‘She is my companion today. I am here on behalf of the Privy Council investigating certain matters pertaining to your husband and his tragic dealings with my lord of Derby. I promise you, there is nothing to alarm you in any way. Anything said here today is private, between the three of us. Your husband has paid his penalty and no more is required of you or your family.’

‘So you’re not sent by that brother of his?’

‘Thomas, the attorney? No, we are not sent by him. I say again, I am John Shakespeare, an officer of the crown, in the service of Sir Robert Cecil.’

A look of distaste crossed her mouth. In other, less cruel times, her lips would have been generous and warm. Now there was an edge of bitterness that might never be erased.

‘There was no love between my Richard and his brother, nor any of the other Heskeths. You will find a Hesketh in most every parish of south-west Lancashire, but none came forward on behalf of my husband, God rest him.’

Shakespeare let her expend her quiet bile, then questioned her further. ‘Tell me, you must have been surprised when he turned up last September, for he had been gone four years, had he not?’

‘No, Mr Shakespeare, I was not surprised, for Mr Hesketh was always a loving husband and communicated with me often by letter. He told me he was coming. My only wish is that he had never gone away to Prague and those filthy, hateful places, but had remained with me and kept away from all the troubles he always fell in. Fighting court battles over property, arguing over cattle, then that murder of Thomas Hoghton, which he swore to me was none of his doing but which drove him into exile.’ Her eyes misted again. ‘He was my third husband, you know, but the only one I ever loved.’

‘Some time in late September, he did return to you. Was he alone?’

‘No, by no means. I am certain it must have been said at the trial: Trumpeter Baylie was with him.’

‘Baylie?’

‘Trumpeter Baylie – Richard Baylie, a soldier lad, discharged from the Low Country wars. My Richard met him in Canterbury on his return journey and took him as his servant.’

‘What sort of man was this Baylie?’

‘I liked him. We both did. He was fair and strong and honest.’

‘So they came from Canterbury together. What was their route?’

She proceeded to pour three small measures of wine from a flagon on the sideboard while she pondered the question. The last one was merely a trickle. She turned the flagon upside down to get the final drops.

‘I don’t know, Mr Shakespeare,’ she said at last, handing him one of the fuller beakers. ‘We did not talk of it. There were more important affairs to discuss: the children’s tutoring, the court battles over my inheritance. We still cannot get title to Ambrose Hall up by Preston, and I fear we never will, though it should be mine by rights. Everything fell into a bad way when Mr Hesketh went into exile in that dirty foreign land.’

‘Do you believe he came here directly from Canterbury?’

‘In God’s faith, I do not know. But I tell you this, he looked mighty thin and gaunt. I just wanted to feed him up and get him in my bed, and that’s about what I did do. He brought a smile to this house, and now look at the place …’

She nodded to the dead fowl lying on a slab.

‘And that’s the last of the capons. All we’ve got now is laying hens, so there’ll be no more chickens in the pot from now on. We cannot even afford to keep the eggs for ourselves but must sell them.’

‘What date did your husband leave here?’

‘The morning of September the twenty-fifth. He went on horse with Trumpeter Baylie. And that was the last I ever saw of Mr Hesketh.’

‘Did he tell you where he was going, or why?’

‘Yes. He said he had to go to my lord of Derby and present his passport and letters, saying he was not wanted for the murder of Mr Hoghton and was a free man.’

‘Did he show you these letters?’

‘No, but I know he had them, for he was promised them
before he came back to England and received them at Sandwich when he landed.’

‘And who signed these letters and this passport? It must have been someone in the Privy Council.’

‘I do not know that.’

‘Did he mention anything about a letter he was given at the White Lion in Islington, the one he was to take to the Earl of Derby, the one that was said to concern the royal succession?’

Mistress Hesketh shook her head quickly, agitated. ‘No, though I have since heard of it. That was the letter that brought the trouble upon him.’

‘Indeed. And do you know the name of the man who asked him to carry the letter?’

‘No.’

‘Bartholomew Ickman. Have you heard that name?’

‘No. No, I don’t know anything other than I have told you.’

Eliska was listening to the exchange in silence. She sat on a hard wooden settle ranged against a cold stone wall, watching with keen eyes.

‘Did you hear nothing of the trial or your husband’s confession?’

Isabel Hesketh put her hands over her ears and closed her eyes and shook her head with great agitation.

Eliska rose and touched Shakespeare’s sleeve with the tips of her fingers. ‘I think she has said enough for the present.’

‘No. I want to get this over with. Mistress Hesketh, are you a Roman Catholic?’

‘No, I am not.’

‘But Mr Hesketh was?’

‘One day he was, one day he wasn’t. I told you, Mr Shakespeare, he was a fool. If he was with a crowd of Catholics, I believe he would be a Catholic; if he was with a throng of murderers, he would be shouting murder. That’s how he was
always getting into the mire. But when he was at home with his family, he was the kindest husband and father a family could ever have – and that’s the only way we ever saw him.’

‘Did you hear from your husband again? Did he write to you after he left?’

‘There was one letter before he was captured.’

‘Do you have it? I would like to see it.’

‘It was taken from me, along with other correspondence, but I can recall what it said. He wrote it from Brereton Hall in Cheshire on the second of October, when he was with the earl but before he was arrested. It was brought to me by Trumpeter Baylie. Mr Hesketh wrote that he could not come home as quick as he had hoped because the Earl of Derby had taken a great liking to him and wished him to go with him to court. He also asked me to provide lodging for Trumpeter Baylie until next he came.’

Shakespeare’s jaw tightened. He knew what had happened next. Hesketh had, indeed, accompanied the earl to court – but soon found that his ‘great liking’ was nothing of the sort, but a trick to get him to accompany him south where he could show Hesketh’s treasonable document to the Queen and have him arrested. Instead of being fêted as the boon companion of a premier earl, the Lancashire cloth merchant had been taken to a dungeon, and the grim proceedings were set in motion that would end at the scaffold.

Eliska sat down beside Isabel Hesketh and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. ‘And that was the last you heard?’

Mistress Hesketh breathed deeply before she was able to continue. ‘No. There was another letter, sent from St Albans the night before he died. He commended his soul to God and wished his love upon the family. And he said we would be provided for well by a noble gentleman.’

Shakespeare leant forward, alert. ‘And have you been
provided for?’ He gazed around the dismal surroundings, which spoke of impending poverty.

‘No, sir, we are still waiting for alms from the noble gentleman. Mr Hesketh was certain gold would come to us, but we have not seen it yet. You are not the one bringing it to us, are you?’ She suddenly looked hopeful.

‘I fear not, mistress. Tell me, who is the noble gentleman? Did your husband name him?’

Her face fell as quickly as it had lit up. ‘I cannot say, sir.’

‘Cannot – or will not?’

‘I do not know his name and the letter said I must never inquire, or it would bring yet greater trouble on me and the children.’

Shakespeare and Eliska looked at each other. A noble gentleman had promised to pay for the family’s upkeep. It was blood money – money to be paid in exchange for a confession that would silence Hesketh for ever. Yet it had not been paid, and for a very good reason. To pay such a debt would in itself be seen as an admission of guilt.

‘Mistress Hesketh,’ Shakespeare persisted, ‘this is important information. I must tell you that the Earl of Derby is mighty sick and likely to die. There are those who believe he has been poisoned in revenge for your husband’s execution. You must not withhold any evidence that might have a bearing on that.’

She was wringing her hands and shaking her head wildly. ‘No, I will say nothing further.’

Eliska reached out to comfort her again, but Hesketh’s widow pushed her away.

‘Is it the Earl of Derby?’ Shakespeare demanded, his tone no longer coaxing, but urgent and stern. ‘Did he promise to pay you to buy remission of his sins?’

The woman appeared bewildered. She shrank from them.

‘Or do you, perhaps, know of any plot against the earl? Have
you or your husband’s family sworn vengeance for the earl’s betrayal?’

Suddenly she lunged for the knife that she had used on the capon. She held it at arm’s length in front of her, pointing first at Shakespeare’s throat, then Eliska’s. ‘Get out. I know nothing of any poison. Get out of my home!’

Eliska stepped towards the woman, smiling. ‘Mistress Hesketh, there is really no need for this. We will go if you wish. But you must understand that we are here to seek the truth, and to help you if we can.’ She took out a purse from beneath her riding safegard. ‘Here, there is a little gold for you.’

Isabel Hesketh’s knife wavered, then with her left hand she snatched the gold and the knife fell from her grasp. She clutched the purse of gold to her bosom, then broke down and fell to her knees, gasping for air as great, choking sobs came from her throat. Eliska knelt beside her, saying soothing words.

‘I beg you,’ Shakespeare said, ‘tell us what you know.’

Eliska looked up at him and shook her head softly. ‘She says she does not know the name, John.’

Shakespeare studied the woman. She was untying the strings of the purse, pouring its contents into the palm of her hand. Counting the money. She was a simple soul, brought to the edge of the abyss by great, cataclysmic events. There was no more to be gained from her.

He nodded to Eliska. It was time to go.

T
HEY HAD RESERVED
a chamber at the Sheared Fleece, the post-house where they had taken their midday repast. With evening upon them, they reined in there once more, handing their mounts into the care of ostlers for feeding and stabling for the night.

It was a large but modest inn. Riders with horses and clothes of such quality as those belonging to Shakespeare and Eliska were rare. The innkeeper had seemed overwhelmed by their presence earlier in the day. Now, when they asked to be shown to their rooms, he bowed so low in their honour that his nose might have scraped the sawdust floor.

‘It is a fine chamber, your worships, a very fine chamber.’

‘We will need two—’ Shakespeare began.

‘One will be enough. Show it to us,’ Eliska said.

The landlord bowed again and stepped with short little strides to the room, turning every two paces to smile ingratiatingly at his especial visitors and make sure they really were still with him. He opened the door to the room and wrung his hands. It was large, with a goodly sized curtained bed, and smelt of lavender.

‘Why, this will suit us perfectly, landlord,’ Eliska said. ‘Have supper and your finest wines sent to us. And bring fruits and nuts for my little friend.’

‘There are no fruits, save one or two old apples, well past their best.’