Traitor js-4

by Rory Clements

  The sun was dipping low when he arrived. He found a desolate, ghostly place. He tethered the mare and walked about. It had clearly been occupied recently, for the earth was either muddy or scuffed by many feet. An old cowhouse had been broken apart and burnt to the ground. Spirals of smoke ascended from charred rafters. Yes, people had been here recently, that was certain. But it was deserted now. The farmers and their men had done their work well in sending this lot of vagabonds on their way.

  Wandering into the woods, he found evidence of small campfires and beaten-down ferns where people might have slept. There were a few abandoned belongings — a cup, a child’s carved doll — but no sign of Andrew.

  Exhausted, Shakespeare built a bed of ferns and lay down, close to the horse. There was nothing for him here. Sleep came instantly.

  ‘We cannot fail in this, Sir Thomas. The Spaniard must not be allowed to seize Brest. Does Her Majesty understand that?’

  It was late evening. They were in Sir Robert Cecil’s private rooms.

  Heneage nodded his handsome head. ‘I think she does understand now. Norreys has been persuasive. She will give him the men she needs. About time, too.’

  ‘Indeed. And no risk of Essex taking over command …’

  ‘No, thank the Lord. We need a soldier, not a peafowl.’

  There had been rumours around court that the Earl of Essex would replace Norreys in command of the English army in Brittany for the final push to secure Morlaix and the Fort of El Leon on the Crozon peninsula. It had been a moment of panic for the Cecils and their allies, but Elizabeth was having none of Essex. Too much was at stake in Brittany. Essex had failed in Normandy; she needed a successful, battle-hardened general for this operation. That man was Sir John Norreys.

  Cecil had sighed with relief at the news, but his comfort was short-lived. The truth was that Norreys and his army could do only so much. The two men in this small, cool room, away from the hubbub and listening ears of court, knew that there was more to this battle than a good general and an adequate complement of men. Their reports on the fortress of El Leon suggested it was all but impregnable.

  Cecil handed a paper to Heneage. ‘This arrived within the hour. It is a letter from John Shakespeare.’

  Heneage read it quickly and looked up at Cecil in dismay. ‘God’s blood, the man has midsummer madness.’

  ‘I rather fear so. What do you suggest?’

  ‘Well, it is certain that we need him for this operation. We are agreed on that. A great deal of work has already gone into preparing his path. It would be impossible to replace him at such a late stage.’

  Cecil nodded. More than that, Shakespeare had the guile, the skill, the courage and the command of Spanish required. Most importantly of all, he had a huge working knowledge of England’s intelligence network. No, there was no other man.

  ‘You must send a squadron of men to Oxford,’ Heneage continued. ‘Bring him back, by force if necessary.’

  ‘We need his cooperation, not his enmity. Everything I know about him tells me that he would not comply if we did such a thing. He will put his family first. That was how he came to part company with Mr Secretary Walsingham.’

  ‘Can we not threaten him?’

  ‘With what? No court would consider it a felony to refuse to undertake such a mission. He is not subject to military law.’

  On the far side of the table, there was a soft clearing of the throat. Both men looked across at Lady Eliska.

  ‘If I may say something, gentlemen …’

  ‘My lady?’

  She held up the letter. ‘I do believe that you are both looking at this from the wrong angle. In my opinion, the letter from Mr Shakespeare is most opportune. Used with subtlety, it might just help us to persuade Mr Shakespeare to play his part with great willing.’

  Cecil smiled. ‘I think I begin to understand.’

  ‘The missing boy should not be seen as a bar to our plans,’ Eliska said, ‘but as the key to securing his father’s cooperation.’

  Shakespeare rose at dawn, wakened by an earwig crawling across his nose. He looked around once more, just to be certain there was nothing more to be learnt, then untethered the horse and rode back towards the village to resume his meticulous quest.

  Just before the first house, he stopped beside a man of middle years and began questioning him.

  The man put up his hand to interrupt. ‘I heard there was someone around asking questions.’ His tone was gruff and he was clearly accustomed to being heard and obeyed. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is John Shakespeare. I am a government officer, looking for a boy, a scholar, who has gone missing from his Oxford college.’

  ‘That’s what I heard. Tell me more.’

  Shakespeare described Andrew in detail.

  ‘Why?’ he said eventually. ‘Have you seen or heard of such a boy?’

  ‘There would be some money in it if I had, wouldn’t there? A scholar boy on the run, there’d be gold in that, I reckon.’

  ‘It is possible.’

  ‘He’d be worth gold to others, too, then. Reward money for bringing a fugitive to justice.’

  Shakespeare rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. The man had the satisfied, well-fed look of a yeoman farmer. But more than that, he had, too, the brutish eyes of an employer who habitually drove his workmen hard and drove commercial deals harder.

  ‘What are you saying? Have you seen such a boy?’

  ‘I would need to know a bit more. Who is this scholar? Son of a nobleman, perchance? In trouble with a girl, is he?’

  Shakespeare leapt down from the horse and pulled out his sword. He drove its tip into the ground, with menace.

  ‘You don’t need to know more, nor ask any questions. If you know something, you need to tell me without delay or suffer the consequences.’

  The yeoman farmer glared back, his chest puffed out. ‘Scare me with your sword, will you? I’m a justice in these parts and I’ll have you strung up.’

  Shakespeare raised his sword, its tip to the man’s large chest. ‘I do not use my sword to scare people. I use it to kill them.’

  The farmer hesitated, then backed off gingerly, his hands up, palms towards Shakespeare. ‘Hold on now. Hold on. I didn’t say I did know anything about a boy. Just wanted to know what it would be worth if I found anything.’

  ‘There would be a little silver in it, for information leading to his discovery — his safe discovery.’

  ‘Because I know all the farmers and most of the tradesmen in these parts. And the worst sort come before me in court. I could ask about for you, if there was something in it for me …’

  Shakespeare lowered his sword, slowly. ‘Do so. If you hear anything — anything at all — bring word to me or my servant, Mr Mustard, at the Blue Boar in Oxford. Meanwhile, I will be travelling these ways around the county until I find the lad.’

  ‘And the reward?’

  ‘We will discuss that when you have something to tell me, Mr-’

  ‘Trungle. Farmer Trungle.’

  ‘Where can I find you?’

  ‘Church Farm.’ He nodded westwards. ‘Or at my horsemill, where I’m headed now, a half-mile further on from the alehouse. I’ll ask around for you, Mr Shakespeare. As to the silver, no offence wished upon you, sir, but a man’s got to make a living the best way he may in these hard times.’

  Shakespeare said nothing. He slotted the sword into its sheath, remounted and rode southward on his next circuit of Oxford. He was beginning to feel like a man on an ever-enlarging treadmill. He could end up in the sea and still find no word of the boy.

  Clarkson swept his arm around the room. ‘Mr Cooper, Mr Ivory, you will wait here. This house is to be your hiding place until you are called upon. I cannot tell when that might be, but I am leaving you well supplied with money, powder and shot to protect yourselves and the perspective glass. Is that understood?’

  Both men nodded. Boltfoot’s face was set and grim. He could not have been less ha
ppy.

  ‘A woman will come in each day to bring food and to clean,’ Clarkson continued. ‘Sir Robert Cecil is most anxious that you be well looked after, for he understands that there may well be arduous times ahead. The woman’s name is Mistress Winter. She will arrive an hour after first light each day and will give three knocks and then a double knock at the door. She has been instructed to ask no questions, nor to reveal your names to any man. She will, however, endeavour to bring you news of the outside world so that you do not feel cut off.’

  ‘What about our needs — our bodily needs?’ Ivory demanded.

  Clarkson eyed him sceptically. ‘I am sure that two men who have spent months, even years, on the ocean wave without the company of womenfolk, will have no problem there. Sir Robert quite understands, though, that to stay healthy you will need fresh air and exercise. Your horses will be kept in livery in the village. I will take them there now, when I leave. If you wish to ride, Mistress Winter will have them brought to you, ready saddled. You are only to ride inland, northwards into Essex, and no more than five miles, returning the same day. You must never be away from this house for more than three hours and you will always go armed. These are tight restrictions, and I pray they will not be necessary too long. As my other duties permit, I shall make an effort to visit you to keep you informed. Is that all clear?’

  They nodded again, but said nothing.

  ‘Then I shall take my leave of you.’ Clarkson bowed, then shook them by the hand. ‘I have faith in you both, as does Sir Robert. He knows how deeply felt is your desire to work in the interests of England and Her Royal Majesty. Good day to you.’

  With another, slightly deeper, bow, he turned and walked from the house where he had brought the two men.

  ‘Well, we shall have a merry time here, Mr Cooper, I do believe.’

  ‘Do you so, Mr Ivory?’

  Boltfoot was certain his time in this house would be utter misery. The house was a mile from the northern banks of the Thames, in a village two miles to the west of Fort Tilbury and its river crossing. From the back, the marshland swept down to the endless vista of the estuary.

  ‘In truth, I do not like this Thames marshland,’ he said, half to himself, half to Ivory. ‘It is unhealthy.’

  He stretched his aching back. The pain was raw from his old injuries. He had bad memories of this stretch of water.

  ‘It’s a good enough place. Better than your goodwife’s rotten farmyard cottage. Here, we are but a boat ride from Gravesend. Taprooms, bowling alleys, games of chance, bawdy houses. What more could a man want?’

  ‘You go nowhere without my let, Ivory.’

  Boltfoot understood well enough why they had been brought here. It was close to the naval dockyards, so that Ivory could be embarked upon any man-of-war leaving Gravesend, Deptford or Blackwall in haste. But it was the very proximity of a place such as Gravesend that worried him; if Ivory went there to the gaming rooms or brothels, there could be mariners who might recognise him.

  ‘You have tried to get away from me twice. If you vanish from this house in quest of some trickery or wager, then I will blow a hole in your head and look after the glass instrument myself.’

  Ivory laughed. ‘And I suspect you wish to God you could do that, Cooper. Well, put aside such thoughts, because we both know well that you cannot.’

  At eight o’clock, Shakespeare was halfway through his fourth circuit, some seven miles out from St John’s College. He was south and east of the city, near the London road. A wooden sign hammered into the ground beside a milestone told him there was a post-house no more than a mile and a half away. It promised a welcome, good food and a bed for the night. More to the point, thought Shakespeare, there would be men there to question — men who had travelled this road and might have seen or heard tell of a boy heading towards the capital.

  Two men rode up behind him, passed him, then stopped a little way ahead. One of them wheeled his horse and came back to Shakespeare, reining in as he halted his own mount.

  ‘Are you Mr Shakespeare?’ the man asked. ‘The Shakespeare who has been asking hereabouts for a boy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, your fortune’s in, Mr Shakespeare. I do believe I know where he is.’

  Shakespeare’s body tensed. ‘Where?’

  ‘If I am correct, he’s in a village near here, Haseley Talmage. It is said he has been taken in by a widow of the parish. The talk is that she is feeding him like he was her own lad and that he is as happy as a cock in a hencoop. Your lad, is he?’

  Shakespeare looked the man in the eye. The eye was smiling, and the teeth were bared without guile. He was twenty-four or twenty-five, in a good leather jerkin and a cap over his brow. Shakespeare’s gaze travelled to his companion. They were of an age and wore similar working clothes.

  ‘What are you men?’

  ‘Timbermen. Been foresting not far from here.’

  ‘And do you live in Haseley Talmage?’

  ‘No, but we’ve been lodging there. We’ve been given our wages this day. We’re off to the post-house to spend a little.’

  Shakespeare hesitated. Mr Secretary Walsingham would have told him to trust his first instinct: there was something wrong here. Yet he so badly wanted to believe it, and it was a sound enough story.

  ‘How far is it to Haseley Talmage?’

  ‘Just over a mile. We’ll take you there. Never met the widow, but I know where she lives. Little cottage with thatch almost to the ground, like a fine manchet loaf.’

  ‘I thank you for your kindness, but I could not allow you to break into your well-earned evening of pleasure. Point me the direction if you would.’

  ‘No, no. We’ll take you. We can go the short way, through the woods where we been working and over the fields. It would be our pleasure to see you and the boy brought back together. That would be the greatest joy a man could have, nor would we ask for a farthing’s pay.’ He turned around to his companion. ‘Are we agreed? We’ll take Mr Shakespeare to his boy.’

  The other man grinned and nodded.

  ‘No,’ Shakespeare said decisively. ‘I thank you once again for your assistance, but I am continuing on my way. I will go to Haseley Talmage on the morrow. Alone.’

  The smile slowly vanished. ‘Why do I get the impression that you do not trust us, Mr Shakespeare? Are you suggesting we might harbour some villainous intentions towards you?’

  Shakespeare’s hand had never strayed far from the hilt of his sword. The men were armed with visible daggers but that was nothing strange. There could, perhaps, be other weapons, concealed. He tried to smile, but knew it was not convincing. Yet he did not care whether they believed him, or took offence at his refusal to be taken to the woods and be robbed by them.

  ‘I have already given you my gratitude. Now let us all go our ways in peace. Ride on. I am sure you have a hotpot and a game of cards awaiting at the post-house.’

  ‘There is an insinuation in your tone. We have made you a generous offer. I would consider it an affront to be refused. We are two men, you are one. Do you consider it wise to insult and cross us?’

  Shakespeare sighed heavily. His hand now cupped his sword-hilt. It was a small movement of his fingers, yet the eyes of the man followed it, then fluttered up and their eyes locked. Shakespeare shook his head, almost imperceptibly. ‘It is your decision, good friend — your life,’ he said quietly. ‘Preserve it. Ride on, and enjoy it, for death is the shadow that hangs over us all.’

  The man was about to say something else. His own hand hovered near his dagger. He was weighing the odds. Two against one was powerfully persuasive — and yet that one was an unknown quantity and did not lack confidence.

  Of a sudden, the man grabbed up the reins, wheeled the horse and kicked the barrel of its chest.

  ‘Come. Let us leave this place.’

  The other man glared briefly at Shakespeare, but said nothing. In a stamping of hoofs, they spurred on their mounts and galloped away, throwing up a clo
ud of dust.

  Shakespeare rode on at a sedate walk. A quart of beer, a trencher of roast beef and a fine down mattress would serve him well this night. And in the morning? He would ride to the village of Haseley Talmage, if it existed.

  Chapter 32

  The soft folds of green around the enormous chalk horse carved into the top of the downs was dotted with Staffy’s camp of vagabonds. Andrew and Ursula had a little fire going, using dead wood collected in a nearby spinney. They were in the white horse’s eye. Staffy was just below them, beside the hindleg, beating his staff noisily against a wooden handcart to call the band to gather around him.

  Staffy nodded to Ursula. ‘Do a head count, Ursula Dancer. See how many we got.’ He turned to the crowd and his voice rose. ‘We’re here because we didn’t have the arms to fight the men who were coming at us,’ he boomed. ‘We’re here so we can live — and fight — another day.’

  ‘We ran like craven dogs.’

  There was silence.

  Staffy pointed his staff at Reaphook. ‘Another word from you, Mr Reaphook, and I shall stop your mouth for good.’ He paused. ‘I shall deal with you in a while.’ He glared a moment, then turned back to the crowd. ‘You all know why we had to disperse. There was nothing craven in what we did. We made our escape because we would have been blown to dust if we had stayed. I want to hear no more of it. We have to think where we’re to go now. We can’t stay here. So, do we go back to the Dogghole — or do we move on? And if we move on, which path do we take?’

  ‘We can’t go back to the Dogghole, Mr Upright Man,’ Reaphook called out, with heavy, sarcastic emphasis on the word Upright. ‘It’s not there!’

  Staffy had had enough. ‘Begone!’

  Reaphook would not be stopped. ‘It’s not there, Mr Upright Man, because the villagers burnt it down while you turned and ran! Our drinking hole went up in smoke and flames! And what have you done about it? Have you burnt down their drinking hole in revenge? Or will you leave that to a man?’