Traitor js-4

by Rory Clements

  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 th
e 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.’

  ‘Then I fear you have had a wasted journey, sir, for he is gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘No one knows, Mr Shakespeare. He just disappeared, along with his belongings, like a will-o’-the-wisp. The day after you were last here, it was, if I recall right.’

  Clarkson was at the house in Tilbury when Boltfoot arrived home with Ivory. Cecil’s retainer looked at Ivory’s bandaged head with dismay.

  ‘How did this injury come about?’

  Boltfoot grunted. ‘He can tell you himself.’

  ‘Well, Mr Ivory?’

  ‘He hit me with his caliver. This shambling ruin of a man could have killed me, Mr Clarkson. I would have been better served being guarded by a dog than this wretch.’

  ‘Is this true, Mr Cooper?’

  ‘Wish I had killed him.’ Boltfoot looked away.

  Clarkson removed the makeshift bandage and examined Ivory’s head carefully. It was bruised and there was a small cut. The blow had clearly dazed the man, but he seemed otherwise hale.

  ‘I think you will live. And I take it the perspective glass is equally safe?’

  ‘As close-fixed to me as my prick but not so highly esteemed.’

  ‘Then let us go. A ship awaits you.’

  Boltfoot said a silent prayer of thanks.

  ‘You, too, Mr Cooper.’

  Boltfoot glared at Clarkson with sudden loathing. ‘If Ivory is to embark on a ship, then my work is done. I will not be needed there.’

  ‘I am afraid that is not how Sir Robert Cecil sees it. He is most impressed by your work so far in protecting Mr Ivory and the glass, and he wishes you to remain with him still. It seems you are both to undertake a mission of great importance to this realm. Your services are considered more vital now than ever, Mr Cooper.’

  ‘No. My seafaring days are done. I am a married man with a small child. I work for John Shakespeare and I must go to him.’

  Clarkson touched Boltfoot’s arm as if they were old comrades. ‘I am sorry, Mr Cooper, but this is not being asked of you — you are ordered to do it, in the Queen’s name.’

  Boltfoot ground his feet into the straw-strewn flooring like a stubborn colt that will not advance. ‘No. Unless I hear it from my master himself.’

  Clarkson’s hand lingered on Boltfoot’s shoulder and gripped it. He made him meet his eyes.

  ‘Sir Robert is your master’s master, and Mr Shakespeare is engaged on other business …’

  He paused. There was nothing to be gained in telling Boltfoot that that business concerned Andrew Woode.

  ‘I can tell you that this voyage you are to embark on with Mr Ivory may well be the most hazardous part of your mission.’

  Boltfoot looked at Ivory and saw he was smirking. ‘A plague of Satan’s hornets on you, Ivory.’

  Clarkson affected not to hear and continued with his instructions. ‘You will be posted aboard a royal ship, under the command of Sir Martin Frobisher. His fleet sails from the Thames on the morrow. You are to embark this evening. There is no time to be lost.’

  Ivory burst out laughing. ‘Frobisher! He’ll love you, Cooper. Once he hears you were a Drake man, I say ten shillings to a mark he’ll have you striped at the mainmast by week’s end!’

  Act 3

  To Brittany

  Chapter 36

  Shakespeare reined in and looked down at the fine manor house at Chevening in Kent. John Dee came to a halt on his left; Ursula Dancer, riding bareback and astride her gelding in the way of a gypsy rider, stopped at his right hand. Oxx and Godwit rode a little way ahead.

  The journey here had taken two and a half days, cutting south by the western approaches to London town. It seemed to Shakespeare that his whole life these days was spent in the saddle. His thighs were like leather, beyond chafing.

  The day was still. Not a breath of wind. A herd of fallow deer grazed beneath trees in the lee of the ragstone-built manor. It was the country home of Thomas Digges, one-time student under Dee and his joint deviser of the perspective glass.

  ‘Here we are, Dr Dee,’ Shakespeare said. ‘This is to be your home until it is decreed that you are no longer in danger.’

  He signalled to Oxx, who kicked on ahead. Shakespeare and the others followed him, descending through the parkland and causing the deer to drift away as they passed.

  They were stopped before they reached the stables by a man with a pair of pistols. Oxx had his own weapons primed and poised. Shakespeare shook his head to indicate to both men that there was no danger and rode up to the man with the pistols.

  ‘Good day, Mr Shoe.’

  ‘Ah, Mr Shakespeare. Can’t be too careful, sir.’

  ‘Quite so. It is good to see you so diligent.’

  Jonas Shoe was an unprepossessing man — short, squat and bald. He worked for Francis Mills, Shakespeare’s associate in the service of Sir Robert Cecil. His very ordinariness was one of his great strengths, for he could meld into any crowd without remark.

  ‘Is Frank Mills here?’

  ‘He is indeed. Shall I convey a message to him, sir?’

  ‘Tell him I am here with Dr Dee. Tell this also to Mr Digges, if you would. And send a groom for our horses. They are in great need of drink, as are we.’

  Thomas Digges clasped Dee in an embrace that would have done credit to the bears of Southwark.

  ‘Let me look at you, my wondrous mathematical father. It is too long since last we met.’

  ‘Far too long, mathematical son and heir, far too long. And I had heard you were unwell.’

  ‘Oh, that is nothing. The sunshine cures all ills. But pray, what has happened to your resplendent beard?’

  ‘It is my disguise. It seems you and I are the most wanted men in England, though I wish it were reflected in the weight of my always empty purse.’

  ‘Well, thanks be to Pythagoras and Archimedes that you are here at last, for I was going mad with this fellow.’ He nodded towards Mills. ‘I am told he is the cleverest intelligencer in Cecil’s employ, and can disentangle the most complex of codes. Yet when I try to converse with him on the flaws of Ptolemy and the true movements of the celestial spheres, his eyes cloud like an old man’s. Talking to him is like trying to teach new tricks to a dying dog.’

  Mills, tall and stooped, ignored the insult and, turning to Shakespeare, drew him aside. ‘It is a pleasure to welcome you, John, but I must tell you that Cecil is most anxious to see you. There is work he wishes you to do.’

  ‘So I understand. Have you any idea what he has in mind?’

  ‘Only that it involves the perspective glass and Brittany. The war there gathers pace. If we cannot secure Brest from the Spanish, the outlook for England is bleak.’

  ‘Is there word from Boltfoot?’

  ‘He is safe, but I know no more than that.’

  Well, that was some comfort. If only the same were true of Andrew.

  They were all in the withdrawing room of Digges’s manor, taking refreshment. Ursula had been sent to the kitchens with Oxx and Godwit to be fed and found lodgings within the house.

  ‘I am told by Jonas Shoe that there is some ragged vagabond girl with you,’ Mills said.

  ‘I am indebted to her, yet do not know what to do with her. For the present, she must stay here.’

  And yet he could see the difficulties. The girl was an inveterate thief. On the ride here, she had filched a tankard from an inn and he had caught her trying to remove coins from his own purse. He had promised to protect her, but he feared no good would come of it. She would likely make off with the family silver.

  ‘But I promise I will retu
rn for her.’

  Shakespeare told his story over supper. Digges, a large man who looked older than Dee, although he must have been at least ten years the younger, listened attentively. He hammered his fist on the table.

  ‘It is what I have been telling Her Royal Majesty for years. We need to model a new army — a professional standing army. With respect to your lad, Mr Shakespeare, what use is a terrified boy of thirteen? Or an ancient drunken vagrant? Pressed men are the dregs of our land, gentlemen — and a hindrance to military endeavours.’

  Shakespeare knew a little of Digges’s history. Though not a fighting man, he was acknowledged a master of the art and science of war. He had written on the great siege guns, the proper building of fortifications, military formations and mining. As a follower of the late Earl of Leicester, he had been both muster-master general and trench-master in the Low Countries campaign of ’85.

  ‘How is Captain-General Norreys to protect the port of Brest with such men sent to him? And if the Spaniard snares Brest, we shall all be saying Hail Marys before the year is out. A professional army of well-trained English soldiers is what we need. They would be a match for any army Spain could muster and, I believe, would save money, too.’

  ‘Save money, Mr Digges?’ Mills demanded, heavy scepticism in his tone.

  Digges eyed Mills with distaste. ‘You have never been to war, sir, or you would understand the way things are. Fraud, sir, fraud! It is a greater menace than enemy fire or God-given flux. And always it is the bawdy-house captains who are to blame. My lord of Leicester knew it — and Black John Norreys knows it but connives at it. Too many captains go to war to fill their purses, not fight for Queen and country. They are petty princes, more concerned with swiving the camp followers than campaigning. I tell you, many of them withhold their men’s pay until the clamour becomes too great — and then they send them out to skirmish with little hope of survival. Dead men’s pay, gentlemen. Dead men’s pay! With my army, we would have live soldiers and dead Spaniards.’

  Shakespeare’s jaw tightened. The conversation threw the bloody horror of what Andrew faced into stark relief. Shakespeare could not be concerned about reorganising the army. Leave that to another day; he had to deal with matters as they were. He had to find Andrew and haul him out of the line of fire before some Spanish sword or ball cut him down.