Traitor (34 page)

‘Cover yourself, mistress,’ he said.

Slowly and with painful care, the girl pulled up her chemise, sliding her arms into the sleeves and anxiously arching her back so that the linen material did not touch her fresh and bloody wounds. She closed the garment around her small breasts and fixed the stays.

‘What is your name?’

‘Ursula. Ursula Dancer.’

Shakespeare turned to Trungle. ‘I wish to speak with this young lady alone.’

‘She is a common trull, a grubby vagabond! If that is a lady, then I am the King of England.’

‘Come, mistress. We will repair to the tavern.’

‘You’ll have her back in gaol before the hour is out, Shakespeare.’

Shakespeare fished in his purse and took out a crown. He tossed it towards Trungle, letting it fall short so that it clattered to the cobbles at his feet.

‘That will buy her freedom. She is in my care now. Begone, Trungle. I wish never to see your face again.’

The tavern-keeper was unhappy about letting the girl into his taproom, but a sixpence from Shakespeare put a halt to his grumbling. They were given a booth away from the eyes of the drinking men.

‘You must be hungry, Mistress Dancer.’

She looked at him with contempt. ‘I know what you pigging want and you’re not having it. You won’t buy me with pie and ale.’

‘I have no wish to buy you. I want information from you. About a boy named Andrew Woode, whom I believe you know.’

She looked away, towards the leaded window. ‘Never heard the name.’

‘A lad in a black scholar’s gown. Aged thirteen, but big and strong.’

‘Means nothing to me.’

‘He was with your vagabond band, with the two men hanging from the tree outside town: Watson and Spindle. They knew him.’

‘Well, ask them. You’ll get no more out of me than you will out of them.’

Shakespeare sighed. ‘Do you want money? If you know where he is, I beg you tell me. I am desperate to bring him home.’

She said nothing. Shakespeare signalled to the bar wench, who came over and, with a sidelong glance at Ursula, took an order for food and ale.

‘I ask you again, Mistress Dancer. Tell me what you know of Andrew. I wish you no ill.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Andrew’s father. His adoptive father. He was in some trouble and ran away from college in Oxford. I wish to get to him before the law officers do.’

‘How do I know you’re his pigging father? You could be anyone.’

‘So you
do
know him?’

She stiffened. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘If you are trying to protect him by maintaining silence, I thank you. But I beg you to trust me. I swear to you that I am his father. We live together in London, but he is presently gone up to Oxford to study.’

‘Swear on a Bible – in a church. Then I’ll believe you.’

‘Very well.’

‘First I want my pie and ale. Then we’ll go to the church. And I say just this: if I did know anything – and if I did tell you – then you’d have to promise me you won’t let them whip me more, nor put me back in their verminous, pigging gaol.’

‘I pledge it.’

The church of All Saints was in poor repair. It had clearly stood for many hundreds of years, but it had not fared well in recent times. Shakespeare swept his hand in an elegant invitation for the girl to precede him through the doorway. She held back.

‘I’ve never been in a church before.’

He smiled. ‘There is nothing to fear. God will look kindly on you.’

‘I’ve done things …’

‘I do not wish to know and neither, I am certain, does the Lord. Follow me.’

Shakespeare led the way. A young curate was at prayer but looked up.

‘Good day, reverend sir,’ Shakespeare said. ‘Do you have a Bible that we might borrow?’

‘I will fetch it for you.’

He returned swiftly with a large, much fingered and torn
tome, which he placed on the plain table that served as an altar.

The girl was looking about the building in awe. ‘It’s pigging huge. I knew they looked big from outside, but inside it’s amazing. What do they do in here?’

‘Converse with God, pray to him for all our needs: bread … forgiveness.’

She nodded towards the great book. ‘Is that it, then, the Bible?’

‘Indeed, it is.’

‘Go on then. Swear on it.’

Shakespeare placed the palm of his right hand on the book. ‘I swear by Almighty God that I am the adoptive father of Andrew Woode and that I am looking for him to save him, and not to do him any harm.’

‘That’s it, is it?’

‘Yes. Unless you wish me to say anything else.’

‘Say this: let God strike me down if I am lying.’

Shakespeare smiled. ‘Let God strike me down if I am lying.’

‘I suppose I had better believe you, then. Yes, I know Andrew Woode. Daft as a pig, but I liked him.’

‘Has anything ill happened?’

‘He was with our band. Now he’s been pressed and taken for a soldier.’

Shakespeare’s heart sank. ‘But he is only thirteen years!’

Ursula bristled, feeling herself under attack, as though this man blamed her for allowing the boy to be taken.

‘Well, he’s pigging alive, isn’t he? At least he has a chance with soldiering. It was either that or be hanged.’

Shakespeare paused before speaking. He needed her help and he needed it quickly.

‘Tell me when this all happened and where he might have been taken. Help me and I will help you. Tell me everything
– with honesty – and I will protect you and see you right. Do you understand?’

She laughed. ‘Honesty! That was his favourite pigging word! And look where it got him.’

B
OLTFOOT WAS PISSING
in the backyard when he heard the sound of a door closing. Quickly, he adjusted his dress and hobbled inside. Mistress Winter had long since departed from her daily chores; that could only mean Ivory had gone from the front door.

He muttered an oath, flung open the door and looked about. In the distance, he saw him – loping along like a wolf, southwards towards the river and the ferry.

‘Come back here!’

Ivory thrust two fingers in the air without turning round and increased his pace.

Boltfoot cursed, went indoors, collected his cutlass, caliver, powder and shot and limped out after Ivory. He was surprisingly nimble, despite his club-foot, but he was nowhere near as fast as his quarry. He dragged his foot along the dusty road towards the river, arriving just in time to see the ferry leaving the quayside, with Ivory waving to him merrily from the stern.

Boltfoot grabbed the grey-bearded mooring man. ‘How long until the next ferry?’

‘Half an hour. Why the haste?’

‘Is there a tilt-boat here? Is there a fast rower will get me across before the ferry is landed in Gravesend?’

‘How much you talking about?’

‘Two shillings?’

‘Half a crown and you’ve a deal.’

‘You’ll take me?’

‘No, but my boy will. He has a small wherry-boat. William!’

A strong-armed lad came running.

‘Want to earn two shillings for you and sixpence for me, William? This gentleman wants to cross the river in a hurry. Wants to beat the ferry. Can you manage that?’

The lad, who must have been eighteen, looked out at the wallowing, heavily laden ferry and the churning waters of the turning tide in this narrow stretch of the Thames.

‘Aye, Father, I reckon I can.’ He looked Boltfoot up and down uncritically, then walked down the water-stairs to his little wherry. ‘Do you need assistance embarking, master?’

Boltfoot smiled. He could have said, ‘I’ve jumped in more cockboats and wherries than you’ve had herring dinners,’ but instead he merely followed the lad down and shuffled himself into the boat.

‘Fine weapon-of-war you have there,’ the rower said, looking appreciatively at Boltfoot’s caliver, as he untied the mooring rope and pushed off.

‘And a fine strong arm you have, lad. Now show me how good you are at rowing.’

‘With a will, sir. With a will.’

The rower was as good as his father’s boast. He pulled hard against the encroaching tide and undertows, to far greater effect than the ferrymen, who were weighed down by a wagon, two oxen and a dozen or more passengers. As the little wherry caught and passed the ferry, Boltfoot gazed across at Ivory and put up two fingers in salute.

Boltfoot was waiting on the quay when the ferry docked. He had his caliver in his arms, primed with powder and with a
heavy ball thrust down the muzzle. Ivory’s face was clouded with wrath as he jumped ashore and, ignoring the weapon, strode past Boltfoot, shouldering him aside. Boltfoot stumbled sideways, but did not fall.

He turned and stabbed the butt of the weapon into Ivory’s back. Ivory lost his footing and fell to his knees on the grey slats of decking. Boltfoot stood above him, the muzzle now pointing downwards, pressed into the nape of his neck.

Ivory shook the cold steel off his neck and rose to his feet. He turned and faced Boltfoot.

‘If you think you can fright me with that, you are mightily mistaken, Cooper. I have been your prisoner too long. Today, I will have a game of cards and a turn with a woman, and I will not be stopped by a monstrous cripple with a Spanish gun and a pirate’s cutlass. Indeed, I will not, for I know you have orders to keep me alive and will not use it.’

Boltfoot pressed the muzzle into the man’s throat.

‘You know only part of my orders, Ivory. It is true I have been told to keep you alive, but above and beyond that I have been ordered to keep guard over the instrument you carry. They don’t want you to die, but if it is a choice between you and the glass, then they are quite clear about which must take precedence.’

‘Then shoot away, or shove your gun-muzzle up your arse, for I am off for some merriment at a little alehouse I know hereabouts. Come and watch me play at cards if you like, Cooper. I’ll buy you a gage of beer and you might even learn a trick or two.’

Boltfoot sighed and shrugged his shoulders in seeming resignation. He pulled the muzzle of the caliver to one side, but instead of putting it out of harm’s way, he swung it back with numbing force into the side of Ivory’s head.

‘This arrived for you less than an hour since,’ Dee said, handing Shakespeare a letter.

He recognised Cecil’s seal, hesitated, then opened it. He read it quickly, then looked up at Dee in surprise. ‘He says he understands my predicament and feels great sorrow. He offers to do what he can to help and protect Andrew.’

‘Then he is a better man than I had imagined, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘There is more …’

Shakespeare read the last two sentences again, to himself.

‘
But I must urge you to make haste with your inquiries, John, for I have great need of you here in London. There is a mission that I believe can be entrusted to you alone. Do this for England and all indiscretions will be washed away like dust in a summer rain
.’

Shakespeare sighed. It was a condition. Come to me, carry out this task I have for you and I will use all my considerable power to save your boy.

‘Mr Shakespeare?’

He shook his head. ‘It is nothing, Dr Dee … nothing more than I would expect.’

‘What will you do now? From what you say, you seem certain that Andrew has been pressed into service by this provost Pinkney.’

‘There can be no doubt. The girl’s description fits him precisely. They must be on their way to Brittany, or perhaps they are already there. Anyway, that is the way I must go. We will rest tonight and ride for Kent in the morning. Come, prepare yourself. We have a fair ride ahead of us. The girl will come with us. So will Oxx and Godwit.’

They were in their rented chamber in the Blue Boar. Oxx guarded the door, while Godwit had taken Ursula to the ordinary for food.

‘Do you not have unsettled business here in Oxford, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘I do not have the time to deal with it.’

‘I have been thinking about Mr Fitzherbert, the tutor.’

Shakespeare sighed. ‘I did not like the man, but does that mean he is a felon? He is related to traitors, Catholic exiles who lend assistance to Philip of Spain and the Pope. But as he pointed out himself, that does not make him either a Papist or a traitor.’

‘I still believe he warrants investigation. There is another Fitzherbert, Tom Fitzherbert, who occasionally rides with Richard Topcliffe and his vile band of priest-hunters.’

‘Indeed, yes, I have encountered him in past years, Dr Dee. I believe he considers priest-hunting a better sport than chasing deer.’

‘Well,
that
Fitzherbert is not a Papist.’

‘Indeed not. But what of it?’

‘Mr Shakespeare! I have heard it said that Topcliffe bears a blood-grudge against you. If he had some power over Tom Fitzherbert …’

There was no doubt that the white-haired old torturer Topcliffe would happily see the entire Shakespeare family go painfully to their graves. Their paths had crossed many times, for Shakespeare loathed Topcliffe’s delight in torture and Topcliffe despised Shakespeare for marrying a Catholic and for what he saw as the Papist sympathies of some in his family. But a link between Topcliffe and the tutor James Fitzherbert? To a plot against Andrew?

‘God’s teeth, Dr Dee, there is no shortage of Fitzherberts in England. They are a large family with roots back to the Conquest.’

‘Yet it is not such a long shot …’

Shakespeare pondered a moment. There was time enough
this evening to pay a visit to St John’s College. He strapped on his sword, then picked up the wheel-lock pistol he had acquired from the highway robber and thrust it into his belt. He clapped the old alchemist on the back.

‘Thank you, Dr Dee. You are a more clear-thinking man than I had given you credit for.’

‘Ah, Mr Shakespeare.’ The college servant at the gatehouse welcomed Shakespeare like an old friend. ‘Have you found that lad of yours?’

Shakespeare eyed the man and wondered again what part he might have played in Andrew’s escape. He shook his head.

‘Not yet, but I have hope.’

‘I pray he will be well, master. I do indeed.’

‘Thank you. I am here to see Mr Fitzherbert, my boy’s tutor.’