Traitor js-4

by Rory Clements

  ‘I must go to Oxford.’ Shakespeare clasped him to his breast, then stood back. ‘I am sorry to involve you in this. Forgive me. I will bring you a gallon of French wine when next we meet, but until then I must leave you.’

  Within the hour, he was mounted in the outer courtyard. Dr Dee came at last, shuffling along reluctantly in his rich alchemist’s gown, accompanied by the powerful figures of Oxx and Godwit. Shakespeare turned to the guards.

  ‘Mr Oxx, do you have a sharp knife?’

  ‘Indeed, I do, Mr Shakespeare.’

  ‘Then use it to cut off Dr Dee’s beard. And you, Mr Godwit, demand a suit of apparel — a common jerkin and hose — to fit the doctor.’

  Dee looked horrified. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Dr Dee, if you think I am riding through England with you attired like some latter-day Merlin, you are sorely mistaken. I might as well light beacons along the way to herald our advance!’

  ‘Very well. I will change into other clothes. But not my beard.’

  ‘You can grow another when this alarm is over. Now hurry, for we have no time to lose. You are coming with me to a safe place.’

  Oxx and Godwit marched Dee into the house while Shakespeare sat and waited. Within the hour they returned. Dee’s face was clean shaven with a few flecks of blood. He wore the clothes of a working man.

  ‘You look a good deal more handsome, Dr Dee.’

  ‘This is an outrage!’

  ‘Ten years younger. Your wife and children will not recognise you. I assume the clothes belonged to a carpenter or groom. A little tight in places, but they will suffice. Now let us ride, gentlemen.’

  Away from this benighted county. Shakespeare’s first duty was to Andrew, his adopted son. Any man’s priority must be his family.

  As they trotted out of the great crenellated walls of Lathom House into the open countryside, Shakespeare spotted Mistress Knott, the chanting woman from the corner of the earl’s death chamber. Her hair was awry and a bright, tattered shawl was clutched around her large bosom. She was waddling towards him, trying to catch his attention.

  ‘Mr Shakespeare, I beg you-’

  He did not stop, but kicked on into a canter. The air seemed clearer now. The thunder and dark clouds had passed eastwards. At last spring, real spring, was upon them. In two or three days’ riding, they would be in Oxford. He would find secure lodgings for Dee. And then he would set about finding what had become of Andrew.

  Act 2

  To Oxford

  Chapter 23

  Andrew Woode awoke on a bed of long-dead leaves in forest undergrowth. He had lost track of time. He had drunk water from streams and foraged for food. Exhausted, he had crawled into this place and fallen into a dreamless, animal sleep.

  The sleep had been broken by noises close by. Voices. He held still. He did not move nor make a sound. He listened.

  One of the voices was a young woman or girl, a few yards away. She was angry.

  ‘He won’t have it. He will not have it, and he’ll pigging do for you if you try it. More than that, I’ll not have it!’

  ‘Oh, I’ll break you, dell. Don’t worry about that.’ The man’s voice was hard and full of scorn. ‘I’ll break you like the wild hawk that you are.’

  There were sounds of a struggle. They were closer now and Andrew could see them. A slim girl in peasant tatters, a man in a blue velvet doublet. He held her arm and was ripping at her chemise with a farmhand’s sickle. She wrenched herself away.

  The man laughed. He lurched forward, as though drunk, and grabbed at her skirts. ‘What’s in there is mine …’

  Andrew’s heart was hammering at his breastbone like a woodpecker’s beak boring oak. He knew he should stand up and help her, but that would give him away; that would mean his own death, either here or on the scaffold.

  The attacking man grunted with sudden pain. She had kicked him between the legs, hard.

  ‘Bitch slattern!’ He lashed out with his sickle but missed. She fell back, sprawling into the brambles.

  The man stumbled backwards, swearing oaths, groaning as he clutched his balls. The girl was scrabbling away from the man, trying to get deeper into the thorny undergrowth.

  Though he was doubled up, the assailant tried to kick her with his booted foot, but he could not get at her. Still clutching himself, he picked up a rock the size of a brick and flung it at her. It hit her leg and she yelped in pain. She shrank back further into the slashing brambles, thorns tearing her flesh.

  ‘I’ll have you — and then I’ll slit your throat!’ The man groaned again, then staggered away into the forest.

  For a few moments the woods were silent. Then the girl moved, trying to free herself from the cruel, tangled briars. Gently picking away every thorn, she edged forward.

  Andrew slid out from his hiding place.

  The girl gasped with surprise at his sudden appearance in front of her and backed once again into the long, twisting spikes.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ he said. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  He thought of a trapped kestrel he had once freed. He found a stout stick and used it to lever the brambles up and away. At last she was out. She stood up and began dusting herself down, removing thorns from her skin, applying spit to the little cuts that decorated her arms and legs, ignoring Andrew.

  He stood and gazed at her. She was fair-haired, slim — perhaps a little too slim — and underdressed, given that the day was not warm. She looked up from her grooming and seemed surprised to see him still there.

  Andrew suddenly felt incongruous in his torn and filthy scholar’s black cap and gown, and his mud-caked town shoes.

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

  ‘Master Woode — Andrew Woode.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you pigging help me?’

  ‘I did — I pulled the brambles away.’

  ‘When Reaphook was trying to do me, why didn’t you help me then? You must have seen everything.’

  Andrew hung his head. He couldn’t tell her he was scared for his life in case she summoned an officer of law.

  They were in a small glade. Light dappled through the ancient oak and ash. Andrew, not far off six foot tall, was seven or eight inches taller than the girl, though she was obviously several years the elder. She had no fear of him.

  ‘Why you dressed like that? You look a fool.’

  ‘I’m a scholar.’

  ‘What’s that? What do you mean?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘You know … a scholar.’

  ‘Well, don’t try anything, or I’ll kick you in the pigging offals, like I done to Reaphook. What you doing here?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘You a prentice, hiding from your master? Perhaps you’re a murderer hiding from the justice. You got anything to eat?’

  His belly hurt with hunger. Worse than the hunger was the thirst. His throat was parched, though he had licked rain from his cupped hands before the sleep took him. He shook his head.

  ‘How old are you?’ she demanded. ‘Seventeen? Come with me.’

  She reached out and clasped his hand. Her fingers were small and delicate to look at, but the palm was hard and callused.

  ‘Pig it, your fambles are like a pigging babe’s bum,’ she said. ‘What are you, a frater? A fingerer?’

  ‘I told you, I’m a scholar. But if you have food or drink, I would be grateful.’

  As he spoke, he was painfully aware of his measured London tones and the grammar-school precision of his words. The girl looked at him strangely. From her clothes — a tattered cheap kirtle and a stained rag of a shirt — it seemed likely to him that she was some sort of farmworker.

  ‘Are you a dairymaid, a shepherdess?’

  She frowned a moment, then burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Lord, oh dearie me, I seem to have lost my bleating cheats. Are they here in the ruffmans, hiding behind a bush?’ She smacked him on the face scornfully. ‘Do I look like a pigging shepherdess?’

  Andrew felt his fac
e heat up and knew his humiliation was there for the girl to see, crimson all over his cheeks and forehead.

  ‘I just meant … I just wondered who you are, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m Ursula, who did you think I was? Queen of England? Mort of Rome?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t even know where I am.’

  ‘You’re in Ursulaville, my kingdom. How old did you say you were?’

  ‘Thirteen. I’m on the run, hiding. Something happened at my college, and they blame me. They’ll hang me if they catch me.’

  ‘So you’re one of us then, a felon and a vagabond. What was it — thieving, horse-prigging, cutting purses? Big lad like you should be earning a fair crust of bread by now.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’m no thief. I don’t want to say.’

  ‘Well, that’s your business.’ She reached out, cupped his face in her hands and peered into his eyes. ‘Can you read?’

  He nodded.

  She seemed impressed. ‘Good, that’ll help you get a living. Forging licences and warrants is the thing for you. You got to have a living. Do you know anything else?’

  ‘I know Latin … and Greek.’

  ‘Well, that’s going to help us, isn’t it?’ She shook her head in exasperation. ‘As for what you done, that’s your business. Just say you’re running from the beak. No one’ll question that, because we’re all on the run from the gallows. And don’t ask too many pigging questions, or you’ll wake up with your throat cut.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Come on, come to the Dogghole and meet the Upright Man. If he likes you, you’ll sleep with a full belly tonight. If he don’t like you, then get running. Whatever else you do, stay away from Reaphook — and don’t let on that you saw what happened. You may be a big lad, but he’ll slit you up and spill your guts like a sheep at the shambles.’

  The Dogghole was a dilapidated cowshed, close by a tangle of overgrown stone rubble that had once been a farmhouse. All it had to recommend it was that it had some of its roof intact. Half a dozen ragged men were standing outside, picking at bits of meat and drinking.

  ‘Here we are. I met you on the road, right? I’ll say it again — don’t get in a brabble with pigging Reaphook.’

  ‘Who is Reaphook?’

  ‘He’s the Curtall — next in line to the Upright Man. All you need know is that they hate each other.’

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘It’s a boozing ken.’ She sighed and patted his cheeks, a little too hard. ‘And it’s called the Dogghole because it’s as appetising as a mastiff’s arse.’

  At the gaping entranceway, a thin one-eyed man sat in the dust. He wore rags. His bony legs were covered in sores and his scrawny hand was stretched out, grasping for coins. The girl kicked him and the beggar cowered. She turned to Andrew.

  ‘He’s a dirty palliard, don’t give him nothing.’

  ‘Palliard?’

  ‘Burns them sores into his legs with ratsbane, dug his own pigging eye out with a stick. Now no more questions.’

  They had walked two miles through the forest, then across fields to get to this place. At times, when she spotted someone, they had crouched out of sight. As they hid, he stole a glance at her and realised that she was strangely beautiful. She was thin and her face was lean, her nose almost too sharp and a little pinched, like the undernourished children he had seen begging on the streets of London and Oxford. She caught him looking at her on one occasion and punched his arm.

  ‘Here, what you looking at?’ she had demanded.

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, pigging don’t,’ she said.

  A heady brew of smoke and steam billowed out from the Dogghole. Stepping inside the low-ceilinged drinking den, Andrew decided he had entered the devil’s inferno. It was packed with men and women, drinking, smoking foul-smelling leaves in nutshell pipes, shouting to be heard above the din. One man had his hand up a woman’s skirt and she had her hand in his breeches, both of them groaning lasciviously. Andrew averted his eyes.

  Above it all was the fragrant aroma of woodsmoke and the smell of roasting pig. Andrew’s mouth watered.

  ‘There should be a keg at the back, I’ll get ale.’ Ursula said. ‘Got any coin?’

  ‘I have a groat.’

  ‘Give me the groat. Got a cup?’

  He shook his head while fishing into his pocket for the coin. ‘No.’

  ‘You can share mine, but if you filch it, I’ll find you and poke a scythe-handle up your arse. You know what filch is, don’t you? Then we’ll find Staffy — and before you ask, he’s the Upright Man.’

  ‘Did someone say my name?’

  Ursula recoiled. A dark presence loomed over her. Andrew stood rigid, rooted like a tree. The newcomer towered over him and everyone else. He was six inches over two yards tall by anyone’s reckoning, and his head scraped the remains of the ceiling. His beard was thick and dark, with flecks of grey. His eyes were deep and searching. He had a long ash staff, which he propped against the wall while he put his enormous hands around Ursula’s tiny waist and picked her up as though she were a doll. He frowned as he studied her.

  ‘Someone been cutting you, Ursula Dancer?’

  ‘Brambles. I got caught in pigging brambles running from a bull.’

  ‘Is that so? Is that so, indeed?’ He kissed her on the lips and gently put her down. Then he noticed Andrew. ‘And what is this maggot?’ he demanded with a deep-throated growl. ‘What has my cat brought home this time?’

  ‘This here’s Andrew Woode. He can read.’

  ‘Can he now? Can he so?’

  ‘But he’s as pigging daft as a plank of wood.’

  ‘He’ll have to pay his due whatever his brains.’ Staffy thrust out a hand. ‘Sixpence. And you owe me a shilling, Ursula Dancer.’

  ‘We’ve got no coin, but we’re going sharking. I’ll get some. I pledge it.’

  Staffy stared at her doubtfully. ‘You better had, lest you want my belt about your arse.’ He prodded Andrew with his staff. ‘Will he bring trouble down upon us? That is no ordinary apparel he wears.’

  ‘I’ll make sure he don’t.’

  ‘Then he is your responsibility, Ursula Dancer. You look out for him, and make sure he brings no harm to the band.’ The big man put one of his ham-sized hands on Andrew’s shoulder, almost crushing it. ‘And you, Mr Andrew, had better not try putting your paws or anything else on my Ursula. Because if you put your grubby fingers where you shouldn’t, I shall snap them in two. And then I’ll crack your spine. Do you understand?’

  Andrew wasn’t at all sure that he did understand, but he nodded obediently.

  Staffy looked around the room. Andrew noticed that all eyes were on him, as though he were their king.

  ‘And the same goes for any man,’ he boomed so all could hear. ‘I’ll break any man touches my Ursula Dancer!’

  Chapter 24

  Boltfoot Cooper climbed the ladder up to the hayloft. Ivory was sitting on a bale, playing with a pack of cards.

  ‘That’s what brought you to this state in the first place, Ivory. I should burn them if I were you.’

  Ivory ignored him. His face was still blue and yellow from the beating, but his hands were unharmed. His fingers skipped like mayflies as he shuffled the pack, fanned them out, took a middle card and held it up. Knave of Hearts. He shuffled the cards again, pulled the top card from the deck and, yet again, it was the Knave of Hearts. Six times in a row he did it, taking the card from top, bottom or middle at will. Boltfoot squinted to see the secret, but could not work out how he did it.

  ‘I can’t say I blame them in the Black Moth for tanning your miserable hide,’ he muttered.

  ‘That’s because you’re a lame, good-for-nothing speck of flotsam, Cooper, and know nothing of art.’

  Boltfoot felt himself bristling. He didn’t, in general, mind when folks laughed at his club-foot. It had not been easy as a child, but he had grown a skin as tough as oxhide since then and
usually managed to pay no heed to such comments. But coming from this dog Ivory, it was another matter. One day, he’d teach him a lesson in respect, but not now. They had to be on their way.

  ‘Come on, Ivory. I’ve got horses. We’re going. West of here. Warwickshire. I know a place there. It’ll be safer. Mr Shakespeare will know where to find me.’

  ‘And there will be dice there? And a game of primero?’

  ‘Certain to be.’

  ‘You always were a lying, worthless cripple, but I suppose I’ve got no choice.’

  ‘No. You got no choice.’

  Ivory rose from the haybale and nonchalantly stowed his card-pack in his jerkin pocket. Boltfoot climbed awkwardly back down the ladder and watched Ivory follow him.

  He heard a sound. Instinct kicked in and he turned, going down on one knee. In a swift movement, he unslung his caliver, which was loaded and ready to shoot.

  He relaxed. It was only Jane, standing in the doorway.

  He dropped the muzzle of his gun. ‘We’re on our way.’

  ‘I’m not alone, Boltfoot. There’s a man here for you.’

  Boltfoot raised the caliver again and trained it on the entranceway behind Jane.

  A man in black doublet and hose appeared from the daylight and stepped past Jane. His damascened pistol glinted in his belt. What little was left of his hair was white and he had an open, generous face. He bowed almost imperceptibly. After so many years in service to Lord Burghley and now Sir Robert Cecil, it was his way to show due deference to all men.

  ‘Mr Cooper …’

  Boltfoot breathed a sigh of relief and stowed his caliver. ‘It is a great delight to see you, Mr Clarkson. I was beginning to wonder whether we had been forgot.’

  ‘Indeed not.’ Clarkson turned to the other man and bowed again. ‘Mr Ivory, I have come here with orders to take you elsewhere.’

  ‘About time, too. Where we going — London?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. All I can tell you is that you are to be given an assignment. Your especial talent is required, Mr Ivory. And you, Mr Cooper, are to accompany us and continue your watch.’