Traitor js-4

by Rory Clements

  Boltfoot’s hand went to the hilt of his cutlass. He wished very much to do some injury to Ivory. Well, he would just have to find him; even among this teeming mass of humanity and animals, there was only a limited number of places he could be. He kicked on into the crowd.

  Shakespeare read the message again. It was from a French intelligencer in Brittany to his masters at the royal court of Henri IV, and it revealed that the Spanish army of Don Juan del Aguila was building a fort on the southern headlands that dominated the entrance to Brest Harbour.

  ‘The fort is almost complete, John, and will be powerfully equipped with long-range cannon and at least four companies of men. The Spanish will control the entrance to Brest Harbour — and will hold the port in thrall. If Brest is taken, with its deep-water harbour, they will be able to assemble a far more deadly armada against us than was attempted in ’88. And they will have liberty to pick their time, when the wind and weather are in their favour. Hawkins tells me the great danger is that the harbour is to windward of Plymouth, so their ships could use the prevailing winds to make a sudden attack. I do not know how we could withstand such a force. Our coffers are empty, our fleet is in disarray, our land is overrun with verminous bands of rogues and vagabonds. These are straitened times. Dangerous times.’

  ‘What can be done?’

  ‘What indeed? Sir Roger Williams has been sent secretly to survey the fort to see whether it can be taken. But the omens are not good. The forces we have in Brittany are woefully lacking after four years of skirmishing. General Sir John Norreys is down to his last thousand men, of which half are non-effective through sickness or wounds. They are holed up in the fishing port of Paimpol. Only now does Her Majesty see the importance of this forgotten war. She is summoning Norreys home to confer.’

  ‘What will you recommend, Sir Robert?’

  ‘That he must be reinforced. With seasoned men, new recruits, a siege train and a fleet. I have already sent out an order to the lords lieutenant to recruit men throughout southern England. And we will move a number of battle-hardened troops from the Low Countries. But it may all be too little, for we will be up against a well-equipped Spanish army and a constant patrol of galleons. Brittany is in turmoil, with French troops on both sides. Marshal Aumont’s army supports the English, but Mercoeur’s Catholic League militias are with the Spanish. In such circumstances of disarray, we need every advantage we can muster.’

  ‘The perspective glass.’

  ‘As Erasmus told us, in the country of the blind the one-eyed man is king. So in the world of dull-eyed pigeons, the hawk’s-eye kills.’

  Shakespeare bowed. Ivory would be protected until he was needed. It would not be easy. He was prickly and churlish and would not take kindly to being nursemaided by Cooper. Reports suggested he lived a solitary life, communing with his fellow man only when he wanted a game of cards or a whore to satisfy his carnal desires. No one would ever have noted him except for his one great talent: his eyesight. Vision so precise that his crewmates called him simply Eye, or Mr Eye. Even before the perspective glass, Drake had used his skills to good effect on the great circumnavigation of the globe. The glass had given him almost godlike powers to observe the land and sea.

  One thing puzzled Shakespeare.

  ‘Sir Robert, could we not make more perspective glasses now that we have the secret? Surely the mechanism can be copied? There could be one on every ship-of-war and in every coastal fortress.’

  Cecil shook his head impatiently. ‘No. It is out of the question. The Queen won’t have it, nor will the Privy Council and neither will I. Protecting one glass is hard enough. How would we keep safe a dozen or more? How long would it be before one of them fell into Spanish hands — and then where would our advantage be?’ He stopped in the shade of a new-leafed horse-chestnut tree. ‘You realise, of course, John, that the incident in Portsmouth was but the beginning. There will be other attempts.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘But protecting Mr Eye is not sufficient. There are two other men who must also be safeguarded — the men who constructed the perspective glass. If the Spanish cannot get to the glass itself, they may seek to abduct one or both of the men who made it and learn their secrets.’

  ‘Dee and Digges …’ Shakespeare muttered.

  The two most learned sciencers in England were Dr John Dee, alchemist, spiritual seeker, stargazer and ingenious deviser of machines, and Thomas Digges, mathematician, military theorist, architect of forts and professor of navigation. Digges had been Dee’s student. Some men said he had now surpassed his master in the sciences.

  Dee and Digges, both remarkable but very different. In 1580, fourteen years ago, Lord Burghley — Cecil’s father and Lord Treasurer of England — had commissioned the two men to devise a perspective glass. They had assured Burghley that, with the best glass crafters and with time, the device was possible. There were difficulties, however, mainly in calculating the exact conformation of the glasses and in grinding and polishing them with the required precision. Dee had given up the struggle, leaving the country for Prague. Only after his return, and with the onset of open warfare with Spain, did he and Digges begin to overcome their difficulties. The invasion attempt by the Armada accelerated their efforts, which at last came good.

  ‘Do we know where they are, Sir Robert?’

  ‘Thomas Digges is at his country home, in Kent. He is writing a new volume on warfare science, but he ails. Frank Mills is organising his protection. Two men watch him day and night and Frank will follow them there.’

  ‘And Dee?’

  Cecil looked pained. ‘Ah, yes, Dee. He is more difficult, and that is your task. Since his return from Bohemia, he has been impoverished. He continually solicits my father and Her Majesty for grants or church livings. It is utterly tedious. He wants the chancellorship of St Paul’s or the mastership of St Cross, but he will have neither. His dabbling in the dark arts makes him most unsuitable for such positions and, anyway, he is an irritant. In truth we wish him away. My father has hinted to him that he might have the wardenship of the collegiate church in Manchester. Dee has now gone there to spy out the land, so to speak.’

  ‘That is almost as remote as Prague,’ Shakespeare said wryly.

  Cecil laughed. ‘I believe he views the prospect with some reluctance, but it is a good living with extensive lands, and he has few options. It would remove his infernal begging and complaining.’

  The lanner at last landed on the arm of the young statesman’s falconer with a fluttering of wings and took the shred of meat.

  ‘Come, John, for we must talk on this further and Sir Thomas Heneage must be included. As he is Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, the palatinate of Lancashire is his domain — and there are local sensitivities in the county. I have asked him to detach himself from Her Majesty’s presence and wait on us in my apartments.’

  Ivory’s grey gelding stood patiently in one of the smaller, quieter streets, to the north of Hog Lane. The animal was tethered to a post. Boltfoot slid from the saddle and looked around. There was only one house it could be, the one with the youth sitting outside, idly drinking a gage of ale.

  ‘How much for a woman?’

  The youth eyed him up and down with scornful boredom. ‘For a maggot like you? Sixpence. Tuppence for me, the rest for the wench. Take your pick?’

  Boltfoot handed him two coins and went into the dingy hovel. Three girls sat on the floor in the sawdust. The room stank of sweat and scent. Without thinking, the whores bared their breasts to him. He ignored them and examined his surroundings. There were two interior doors, one closed.

  Boltfoot pushed open the closed door. In front of him, less than a yard from his face, was Ivory’s white arse. His hose and stocks were down about his calves and ankles and he was at his business with a plump young woman who was moaning by rote. Boltfoot laughed. ‘You’ve got five minutes, Ivory, then I’m dragging you out.’ He closed the door again. He had his man.

  Chapter 3

/>   ‘While Dr Dee is in Lancashire, he is staying at Lathom House with the Earl of Derby. You are to go there and bring Dee away, John. Bring him down south to the home of Thomas Digges in Kent. Once there, you will hand him into the protective care of Frank Mills. That way Dee and Digges will both be in safe keeping.’

  Shakespeare acknowledged Cecil’s instructions with a nod, then his gaze drifted sideways and his eyes locked with Heneage’s. The older courtier’s eyes seemed permanently amused and friendly. He was a well-built handsome man in his early sixties, the sort of fellow you liked the instant you met him, the sort you might confide in at short acquaintance. He sat, apparently relaxed, but he was listening intently.

  ‘But you will tread carefully, John,’ Cecil went on. ‘While I have little time for Dee, for he is a nuisance, the Queen retains affection for him and relies on his auguries.’

  ‘I understand, Sir Robert.’

  Cecil seemed to hesitate. Shakespeare noted it. There was clearly more to this than just the removal of the sciencer and conjuror John Dee from Lancashire to Kent. Shakespeare said nothing. Cecil was not a man to be prodded for information.

  ‘Bear one other thing in mind, John: Dee’s circumstances are so dire that one must consider the possibility — however unpleasant — that he could be tempted to sell his knowledge of the perspective glass. Such a secret could fetch him much gold.’

  Dr Dee had a curious reputation. There had been scandalous talk about him over the years. Some said he was a Simon Magus — a demonic magician with godlike aspirations; others merely called him a conjuror, which was defamatory enough. But never had Shakespeare heard a suggestion that the man might be a party to treason. Still, he had encountered stranger things in his years of working in the world of secrets.

  Shakespeare turned again to Heneage, but he still said nothing, merely observing the proceedings with amused detachment.

  ‘What do we know of Dee’s character?’ Cecil said. ‘Is he treacherous? We have no reason to think so. But we do know that he is easily intimidated. I have seen his terror of my father. His hand shakes like barleycorn in the breeze when he is in the old man’s presence.’

  Afraid of old Burghley? That was reasonable enough, given the power he wielded. Only a fool would be duped by his kindly face and white beard.

  ‘We know, too, that Dee has no guile. That might seem an admirable attribute in a Christian gentleman, but in Dee’s case it simply means he can be deceived. For a man who claims to understand the heavens, he is mighty gullible here on earth. I fear a man would not have to be the most skilful cozener in England to lure a secret from him. Why, a pretended scryer could find out all he wished by informing him that the angels insist he reveal the secret of the perspective glass.’ Cecil laughed again, drily. ‘My father always had doubts about Dr Dee, John, and I share them.’

  Shakespeare did not laugh, but he smiled at Cecil’s cruel jest about the scryer and the angels, for he understood its scandalous provenance. During Dr Dee’s years in Prague, he had been persuaded by an ‘angel’ to exchange wives for a night with his scryer Edward Kelley. It was said that the comely young Jane Dee wept uncontrollably as her husband despatched her to Kelley’s quarters to be ravished — while Dee received Kelley’s rather less alluring wife, Joanna, in return.

  Yes, Cecil was right, Dee was gullible. There could be little argument about that.

  ‘Consider, too, the company he keeps,’ Cecil continued. ‘Kelley apart, Dee made some unsavoury friends during his time in Prague. The city is a hotbed of treason and Catholic intrigue. And we know, too, of the Earl of Derby’s unfortunate connection with that city and its English traitors.’

  Shakespeare stiffened. From the straightforward task of protecting Dee, Cecil was lurching into high politics. The Earl of Derby, with whom the doctor was now staying at Lathom House in Lancashire, was one of the premier claimants to succeed to the throne of England. This was not merely high politics, but dangerous politics: the earl’s religious sympathies had come under much scrutiny these past months.

  Cecil nodded in the direction of Heneage. ‘Sir Thomas, if you would …’

  Heneage smiled warmly. ‘Thank you, Sir Robert.’ His eyes met Shakespeare’s again. ‘I have long admired your work on behalf of England, Mr Shakespeare.’

  Shakespeare bowed. ‘Thank you, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘No, no, England must thank you. Sadly, there are those in our country who are not so loyal to our sovereign lady. My own county, Lancashire, I am afraid, has a great portion of such traitors and those who harbour them. Every week, new intelligence reaches my office of Jesuits and seminary priests walking our northern towns openly and without hindrance. It shames me, sir, as Chancellor of the Duchy, that such a state of affairs continues.’

  It was ever thus, Shakespeare knew. Mr Secretary Walsingham — four years dead now — had been driven half insane by reports of Catholic defiance in Lancashire. He had continually ordered purges with heavy fines to be paid for recusancy — non-attendance in the parish church. The priest-hunter Richard Topcliffe kept maps of the county marked with names and homes of prominent Catholics, each one underlined and circled with the frenzied scrapings of his quill.

  ‘In truth, Mr Shakespeare, there are many in my county so disaffected that they would rather sever their fingers than sign the Bond of Association.’

  Shakespeare’s jaw tightened. He shared the loyalty of those who had signed the Bond, but could also understand anyone’s reluctance to put their name to the paper. It had been formulated ten years ago, in 1584, by Walsingham and Burghley in the dark days following the Throckmorton plot against the Queen. All those who signed it made a pledge to do away with anyone who harmed or conspired to do harm to the Queen. It was dressed as an act of pure patriotism, but to Shakespeare it was a licence to kill, legitimised murder.

  ‘But that,’ Heneage continued with a wave of his elegant hand, ‘is by the by. I mention it merely so that you will know the dangers of the territory you are about to enter.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Thomas. I have a good understanding of the situation in Lancashire. I, too, have seen the reports from the county.’

  ‘Good. Then I am sure all will be well and you will remove Dr Dee safely. But before you do so, there is someone I wish you to make contact with there. Her name is Lady Eliska Novakova, and she is the daughter of a very dear friend of mine, sadly deceased. I have a letter for her, full of fond remembrances. I would be grateful if you would put it in her fair hand.’

  Heneage took a sealed paper from his gold and wine-red doublet and held it out. Shakespeare took it.

  ‘Of course, Sir Thomas. Where shall I find the lady?’

  ‘That is easy. Like Dr Dee, she is a guest of the Earl and Countess of Derby at Lathom House. He has few enough visitors these days, I believe.’

  Janus Trayne clutched the reins with his left hand. His right arm was held in a blood-stained sling fashioned from old rag. The horse he rode was slow and stubborn. Worst of all was the pain, the deep throbbing pain from his wrist where the knife had penetrated. Every so often he stopped and put his left hand to the injury, feeling for heat, wondering whether it was about to turn bad.

  He could not stop thinking about how nearly he had had the instrument within his grasp at Portsmouth. He had been so close to success, only to have it snatched away. But who was the assailant? Who thrust the dagger blade so deep into his flesh and bone? Somewhere, in the distant crannies of his remembering, there was a name attached to that stumpy body and grim, weathered face. Had he seen him before? If so, then in God’s name where?

  The road to the north-west was long and hard, yet he had to ride on, for although his empty pouch would not make him welcome, he was expected. He realised well enough that there would be more work to be done. This was not over yet. The chance of earning two hundred golden ducats was not to be passed up. Spain would have what it so desired, and he would have his gold.

  As Heneage strode from the offices, Cecil s
tayed Shakespeare with his hand.

  ‘Not you, John. We have a little more business.’

  ‘Sir Robert.’

  Cecil closed the door and walked towards the table, where he had a goblet of French wine. He took a sip, then sat down close to the window. Shakespeare remained standing.

  ‘Well, John, your thoughts …’

  ‘This is about a great deal more than the safety of Dr Dee.’

  ‘Yes, the Lady Eliska.’ Cecil’s tight mouth creased into a grimace. ‘Let us say that she is of great interest to me. Her father was a fervent Protestant, who died at the hands of the Inquisition. He worked closely with Sir Thomas for many years, trying to advance the Protestant cause in the German lands and the Dutch estates. Now she seems to wish to further his work against Rome. Heneage is certain she can be of great help to England, and we may well have a use for her. But I wish your opinion. Observe her, John, and report back to me. Is she to be trusted?’

  ‘From her name, I would suspect she is from the East.’

  ‘She is Bohemian, from Prague.’

  Prague. That city again. The place where Dee had gone in his strange peregrinations, the place whence so much trouble had come down upon the head of Lord Derby. Shakespeare’s raised eyebrow posed the question to Cecil.

  ‘How could she possibly help England?’

  Cecil looked ill at ease. He shifted the hunch of his shoulder. ‘As yet, I am not certain. But Sir Thomas is convinced. Though he is to marry Mary Wriothesley this summer, I sometimes wonder whether there might be some place in his heart for his young Bohemian friend. Love can cloud any man’s judgment.’

  Shakespeare said nothing. Walsingham had once believed that love had clouded his judgment, when Shakespeare fell for Catherine Marvell, the Catholic governess who became his wife and mother to his child.

  Cecil continued, ‘For all I know, the lady Eliska might be all that Sir Thomas claims and more. But I would like to hear your impressions. You will have little enough time with her, for you must remove Dee at speed. All I ask is that you find out what you can.’