Peace shuffled away to find cups. Shakespeare noticed that he was stooped and slow. He seemed to have aged ten years since last they met.
‘Well, Joshua?’
‘I scarce know where to start.’ Peace was hesitant, finally screwing up his eyes as if deciding this had to be told, however painful. ‘Soon after you left, commissioners Egerton and Carey arrived, as did William Stanley, the brother of the dead earl, from the Isle of Man to claim his inheritance as the sixth earl. If the loss of a brother pained him, you would not know it. I am sure he and his bride are settling most comfortably into the dead earl’s palace.’
‘Bride? Stanley has a bride?’
‘Why, yes, where have you been? He has married Sir Robert Cecil’s niece.’
‘Elizabeth de Vere?’ Shakespeare was shocked. He had no idea such a match had even been mooted.
‘You have been away from the world, John. Much else has happened besides. Yes, they married at Greenwich with the Queen in attendance. So the Derby line — with all its royal connections — is now secured for the Cecilians. Most convenient, do you not think? As for the bride, all I can say is God help the wretched woman, for the new Derby is a most cold and brusque man.’
Peace told Shakespeare how he had been sent packing from the house, as had the steward, Mr Cole.
Shakespeare listened intently. It must have been humiliating for him to be dismissed so peremptorily.
‘But you talked of fear, Joshua. That is a very different matter.’
‘There is more, much more. Do you recall the kitchen steward, Michael Dowty? The one you said acted as the earl’s taster?’
‘Why, yes, of course.’
‘It seems he has ambitions. His kitchen days are over. Cecil has sponsored him for Parliament. Soon he will be engaged in discourse with Ralegh and the rest at Westminster. But that is by the by. You cannot hang a man for seizing the main chance.’
Payment for services rendered? Was that what Peace was suggesting here? It was a thought Shakespeare disliked intensely, but could not easily cast aside. If the earl was poisoned, who would have more opportunity than his cook and taster?
‘Wait,’ Peace continued. ‘I can see the way your thoughts are going, but listen. There is more. I should have just come home to London straightway, but through some misplaced sense of loyalty to you, I stayed.’ The searcher laughed bitterly. ‘In future, I shall stick with dead bodies; they are a lot less dangerous than the living.’
‘What happened?’
Peace went through the whole affair of the meeting with Thomas Hesketh, the implied threat, the demand for the paper found on Father Lamb. And then, the encounter with Mistress Knott and the journey deep into the woods at Knowsley where the old crone had handed him the vial.
Shakespeare sipped the wine and waited. Peace was walking about the room. He looked out of the window, then walked to the door, opened it and looked about, as though he suspected he was overheard. He shut it again and bolted it.
‘Tell me of this woman of the woods.’
‘She was just a sly old hag, Mistress Knott’s ill-favoured mother. I can see why the ignorant local people called her a witch, for she was bent and crooked and unkempt. I am sure she lived there in the woods because she had been shunned and driven out of the village. I am certain, too, that the villagers still went to her secretly. Men and women will always follow the promise of cures and secret knowledge, and she had those a-plenty. Give her money and she would sell them herbs for gout and philtres for love. She had them in twists of paper, boxes and bottles. Probably most of them were no more harmful than the medicines dispensed by those fools from the College of Physicians. But then magical powers are not necessary, are they? Man and nature are quite deadly enough without any assistance from an imaginary world of spirits. Who needs to cast a death spell when you have bullets and knives … and poisons?’
Shakespeare nodded gravely. ‘What was in the vial that she handed you?’
‘Judge for yourself.’
Peace took the little bottle from its hiding place behind a book. Shakespeare removed the stopper and sniffed.
‘Death’s Cap mushroom,’ Peace said. ‘The odour of rose petals is faint, but definitely there. Its appearance is certain.’
Shakespeare hurriedly replaced the stopper. ‘But surely such a mushroom does not grow in springtime?’
‘Indeed not. But what if it had been picked the previous autumn and dried?’
‘Would that work?’
‘I believe it would retain its potency. If you left it in water, it would become whole again. Then it could be added to any strong-flavoured stew or mess of food.’
Shakespeare was aghast. Every country child in England was taught the dangers of the Death’s Cap mushroom. It was a filthy way to die: at first the victim ailed grievously, but then believed himself cured, only for the deadly illness to rage back and bring the sufferer to death. And yes, it fitted, for that was the way things had gone with the earl.
Peace continued his tale. ‘The old woman said something to me and laughed. “That’s what I sold them,” she said. “The monkey woman and the one with the viper’s tongue.” I wished to hear no more, John. I could not wait to get away from that woman. Outside the hag’s cabin, Mistress Knott was waiting for me. I knew by then that she was the old one’s daughter. Yet while the mother had no semblance of humanity about her, Mistress Knott had goodness in her soul. I talked to her more and it became clear that she was desperately ashamed of her mother and her dark dealings. When she had learnt of the earl’s sickness, she knew immediately that her mother must be involved and went to her to discover the truth. That is why she set up her vigil in the corner of the earl’s bedroom. She was trying all in her power to counteract her mother’s wicked deed, trying to find an antidote to the mushroom. But as we know, there is no antidote.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Not even the fabled bezoar stone.’
Shakespeare was listening, but all his thoughts came back to Eliska. She was the poisoner. Or, at least, the procurer of poison. He wished he was surprised. Yet the revelation raised more questions than it answered.
‘The monkey woman … Eliska.’
‘And the viper’s tongue. I have my own theory about that one. Yet I fear there are more involved. Indeed, I believe this conspiracy is like a trail through a labyrinth that continually divides and bewilders. What scares me most is where it might all end. Where is the centre of this maze? Dear God …’ He laughed savagely. ‘I had never thought to hear myself invoking the deity for mercy. You know my thoughts on superstitions of all kinds, be they religious or otherwise. But now I find myself wondering. I go to church not from fear of a fine, but to pray. You see, I know too much, and my life is worth nothing.’
‘Joshua, I am here. You are no longer alone.’
‘You are no safer than I.’
‘Look, Joshua, do you not think your fears and theories might be getting a little wild? Might you be exaggerating the danger? We have witnesses now, Mistress Knott and her mother. This can all be brought to court.’
Peace closed his eyes and said nothing.
‘Something has happened?’
At last Peace nodded.
‘It was the worst of all. I had arranged to see Mistress Knott one more time, in the village where she lived. In that village there is a large, deep millpond. I arrived just in time to see her and her mother being tried as witches. They were bound, hand and foot, to be thrown into the depths. If they floated, it was said, they must be satanists or anabaptists. If they sank, then they were innocent. They sank … and drowned, and all the children and goodwives cheered. Probably at some time each one of them had visited Mistress Knott or her mother for a potion or a cure, yet they stood and applauded their deaths.
‘And overseeing it all, smirking, talking to one another and idly smoking their pipes, were the judges at this court of the damned: Thomas Hesketh of the Duchy of Lancaster and one Bartholomew Ickman, whom I believe you know. When he saw me, he winked,
and his lips moved, saying, “You next.” His tongue seemed to flick like a viper’s. I fled Lancashire within the hour and have been expecting death every minute since.’
A little way upstream from Chelsea, at Mortlake, the oarsmen eased their tilt-boat into the landing stage. Shakespeare ordered them to wait, then stepped out. In front of him, less than a hundred yards back from the river, was an imposing house. It was a large property, almost a manor house, with exaggerated lozenge timbering and a new-thatched roof. It was not to his taste, but it was evident that a great deal of money had been spent building it, and it was in a fine position with superb views of the Thames and its adjacent meadows.
There was a bell outside the front door. He clanged it and a servant appeared within seconds. He was a young man in bright new livery of blue, with spotless white nether-stocks and good buckled shoes.
‘Is Mr Bartholomew Ickman at home?’
‘I shall endeavour to find out, master. Might I be permitted to know your name?’
‘John Shakespeare.’
The servant bowed and left him standing in the open doorway. A minute later, the servant reappeared. ‘Mr Ickman is in his solar. He will see you, sir. If you would follow me …’
Ickman was standing by a leaded window, a small volume in his hand, as though he were reading it. Shakespeare was not fooled for a moment by the studied affectation. Idly, the man looked up from his book.
‘Mr Ickman, sir, this is Mr Shakespeare.’
Ickman smiled. ‘Why, of course it is. We last met in a field in Lancashire, did we not?’ He turned to the servant. ‘Bring wine. Our best. With goblets and some cakes.’
The servant bowed preposterously low and backed out as though he was removing himself from the Queen’s presence.
‘Now then, Mr Shakespeare, how can I help you? I believe you have been spending some little time in western France. Did I not hear a whisper that you were involved in some part in England’s great victory over the Spanish at the Crozon peninsula? All London marvels and says you must soon be a minister of the crown. But what a tragedy that Admiral Frobisher should not survive to enjoy the fruits of his labours. For myself, I had rather be hanged by the neck than have a surgeon play his diabolical games with my parts.’
Shakespeare ignored him. ‘We had some unfinished business. I called on your lodgings in Ormskirk, but you had disappeared. The landlord wished very much to disembowel you as it seems you had neglected to pay the reckoning.’
Ickman laughed. ‘These northern peasants. Are they not droll?’
He was, thought Shakespeare, like a silk-skinned slow-worm, with his golden, beardless face and his exquisitely cut clothes.
‘You left in a great hurry. Where did you go?’
‘I had matters to attend to.’
‘Such as?’
‘That is my business. But I will tell you that the main reason I left Lancashire was because I was finding Dr Dee’s company exceedingly tiresome. And those brutish men you sent to accompany him, Mr Oxx and Mr Godwit. I could not hold my divining rod steady, so unnerving were they.’
‘If you found Dee’s company so tedious, why had you gone to him in the first place? Was there something about Lancashire that drew you there?’
‘What could there be about Lancashire? It is full of Papists and traitors. No place for a civilised man. The only reason I was there was that Dee and I are old friends. He has always believed I have some talent as a scryer.’
‘Ah, yes, you converse with angels.’
‘Remarkable, is it not? I can scarce believe it myself. But that was not why the good doctor wished to see me. He was in desperate need of gold, as always, and begged me to help him with my powers of divination. He had a treasure map of great antiquity.’
‘What were you hoping to gain?’ Pointedly, Shakespeare looked about the room with its sumptuous hangings and expensively carved oak furniture. ‘Surely you do not need to go on hopeless hunts for treasure. I do not take you for such a gull. The Ickman family did not get rich by hunting for buried gold or doing work without pay.’
‘Believe what you will. It was an act of charity.’
‘Nothing to do with hunting for mushrooms, then?’
‘Mushrooms? In springtime?’
‘Dried mushrooms. Death’s Cap mushrooms.’
Ickman’s eyes widened and he stepped back with exaggerated horror. ‘Dear Mr Shakespeare, what are you suggesting? Do you not realise that such things are exceeding poisonous?’
‘I am saying that you poisoned the fifth Earl of Derby. That you did so with Lady Eliska Novakova, Thomas Hesketh, Michael Dowty and others. I am saying you were part of a foul conspiracy, Ickman, and that you will hang for it.’
Ickman laughed with scorn. ‘The earl poisoned? Why, that cannot be. The commission of inquiry was quite precise on the matter. They found that he was beguiled with evil spells. Indeed, two foul witches who had copulated with the devil, prick and tail, were apprehended and justice meted out to them.’
‘Justice? You drown two women and you call that justice? And by your own twisted logic, does not the fact that they did not float prove their innocence? You are a repulsive man, Mr Ickman. And what of your dealings in the matter of the pitiable Richard Hesketh? You handed him a letter at the White Lion in Islington — a letter that brought him to the scaffold. Was that an act of charity? Or did someone pay you to do it? It sounds very close to treason to me.’
The change in Ickman’s demeanour was almost imperceptible, but Shakespeare noted it. ‘I have heard the tale, but that was not me, Mr Shakespeare. It was all made very clear at the time. As I understand it, the tavern-keeper’s boy was given the letter by a stranger to hand to Mr Hesketh. The White Lion is a pleasant inn and one that I sometimes frequent, which is why the boy was confused. He is very young and his mistake was quickly cleared up. That is the advantage of having friends at Her Majesty’s court. They can prevent miscarriages of justice.’
The servant reappeared with the wine. Shakespeare ignored the goblet offered him; he would rather sup with the anti-Christ than drink with this man.
‘Which friends, Mr Ickman?’
‘Great men, powerful men. Rest assured, Mr Shakespeare, I fear no man.’ He smiled unctuously. ‘Though perhaps you should.’
Shakespeare had had enough. His hand lashed out and gripped Ickman’s elegant, red and black doublet. ‘Do you threaten me, Ickman?’
Ickman brushed him away. He was a great deal stronger than Shakespeare had anticipated. His servant instantly appeared in the doorway with a pair of pistols, both trained on Shakespeare.
From behind the servant another figure emerged and entered the room. Shakespeare shuddered with revulsion. It was Topcliffe. Richard Topcliffe, priest-hunter, torturer and tormentor of souls. His hair was as white as a hoar frost and he leered with pleasure at Shakespeare’s discomfiture.
Ickman smiled. ‘You think you can assault me, Shakespeare? You think you can step into a man’s home and accuse him of felonies? You are treading on hot coals if you believe you can treat an Ickman so. What say you, Mr Topcliffe?’
‘I say he will burn for his temerity, Mr Ickman. Burn in hell.’
Shakespeare was appalled and yet not surprised. How could he be surprised to find Ickman close-coupled with Topcliffe? Both men shared a taste for evil.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This makes sense. The demon and his acolyte. But which is which?’
Topcliffe bared his teeth. His lips were foam-flecked. ‘Derby and all his clan are traitors — as are all the Shakespeares. We’ll do for them all, Mr Ickman!’
Shakespeare shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing more to be gained here. He knew Topcliffe well enough to know that he would merely lash out with his silver-tipped blackthorn cane before ever he answered any of his questions. He had already done much harm to Shakespeare and his family. The detestation was mutual. There was nothing more to be discovered about the white dog, but he had learnt something about Ickman this day. He i
gnored Topcliffe and threw a look of cold scorn at Ickman.
‘I have learnt what I wanted. I now know you, Ickman. You and your family are what I had come to believe you were: common felons, hired assassins. Trust me, the eyes of the law are on you now. You will be brought low.’
Yet even as he spoke the words, they sounded hollow. Without Sir Robert Cecil, he had no power against a man such as this.
Ickman and Topcliffe looked at each other and laughed, then Ickman turned to his serving man.
‘Remove this object,’ he ordered, nodding in Shakespeare’s direction. ‘He pollutes my air.’
Chapter 49
Jane served a supper of bream fried in butter, with fresh manchet bread. They sat around the table in the kitchen at Shakespeare’s large home in Dowgate: Shakespeare, Boltfoot, Andrew, Jane and the girls, Grace and Mary. Baby John Cooper was close by, asleep in a cot.
It was a fine, large house, built close to the river by the late father of Andrew and Grace Woode, and run as a school for the poor boys of London until the plague and other circumstances forced its closure. Now its future was uncertain.
At the table, the younger children prated merrily and wanted to know all about the great adventures in Brittany. Boltfoot was like a lovesick swain, touching hands with Jane at every opportunity, surreptitiously, as though he somehow thought no one would notice. It should have been a joyous occasion, but Shakespeare felt the darkness of Joshua Peace’s fears and his own suspicions clouding all. What in God’s name did Topcliffe have to do with all this? Nothing made sense, except for one thing: he knew that the white-haired dog of a man would do anything to harm him or those he loved.
He thought, too, of those brutish men who followed Topcliffe, his band of pursuivants, who wore the Queen’s escutcheon, and who had the power to seek out and arrest priests and those who harboured them. They considered such hunts to be sport, the tormenting of men, women and children more satisfying than the chasing of stags or otters. Among their number was one Thomas Fitzherbert, yet another of that difficult clan that included the Papist traitors, and one James Fitzherbert, until recently tutor of St John’s, Oxford. He had said he despised his treacherous, exiled Catholic cousins, Thomas and Nicholas. Well, that was possible enough.
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