‘I am trying to stop a murder, my lady,’ Shakespeare growled. ‘But I am outgunned.’
The woman laughed lightly. ‘Well, I enjoy a hanging as much as the next lady, but if you say you are Cecil’s man, then I believe I shall assist you in this matter.’
She nodded to her coachman who strode forward and, without ado, pulled the condemned man up by the scruff of his coat, removed the noose from his neck and, throwing him across his shoulder, carried him over to the carriage, where he laid him down on the ground, in full view of the passenger. The would-be hangmen looked on, astonished.
John Shakespeare took his water-flask from a hook on his saddle, his eyes all the while remaining on Provost Pinkney. Stepping forward, then kneeling, he held the clay flask to the lips of the half-hanged man. He sucked at the water thirstily, then coughed and spluttered.
‘Who are you?’ Shakespeare asked.
‘Lamb …’ The voice was weak. ‘Matthew Lamb. You cannot save me …’
‘Yes, I can.’ He turned back to the woman in the coach. ‘My lady, I entreat you, help me take this prisoner to Ormskirk. If there is evidence of wrongdoing, he will face a court of law.’
The woman smiled at Shakespeare, then said a few words to her coachman in her own language. He bowed.
Shakespeare held the flask once more to Lamb’s lips. He drank, but coughed up blood. Shakespeare wiped his sleeve across the man’s mouth. ‘Take small sips,’ he said.
‘There is no time,’ the man said, barely audible between hacking, painful coughs. ‘You must save Strange, sir. I beg you, save Strange.’
‘Strange? What are you saying, Mr Lamb?’
Lamb’s eyes opened wide, for he saw what was coming. Provost Pinkney had stepped forward with his pistol and the muzzle was now aiming full at his body. Pinkney pulled the trigger.
Chapter 5
THE BALL FROM Pinkney’s gun drove deep into Lamb’s body. The crack of the shot jinked the carriage-horse sideways, shaking the coach from side to side.
The coachman leapt on Pinkney and put a wheel-lock of his own to the side of his head. Pinkney shrugged him off and looked dispassionately at his handiwork. He bowed in an exaggerated, scornful manner in the direction of the coach.
‘My apologies for the disturbance, my lady. I trust your horse did not injure itself. If it needs attention, you may send the reckoning to Captain-General Norreys or to the Lord Lieutenant of Lancashire.’
Shakespeare stood up. His doublet, hands and face were spotted with the dead man’s gore. ‘You are a murderer, Pinkney.’
‘A pustule on your prick, Shakespeare. If you have anything to say on this matter, I would refer you to the Lord Lieutenant, for I have no other master in this county.’
Shakespeare pulled back his fist, but the other soldier, Cordwright, restrained him.
‘Please come here, Mr Shakespeare,’ the woman called from the carriage.
Shakespeare lowered his fist. He shook off Cordwright’s restraining hands, turned and strode angrily to the lady in the carriage, wiping blood from his face on to his sleeve.
‘I do not know what any of this is about,’ she said, ‘nor do I wish to. But I am exceedingly put out if, as you say, the poor man has been killed without benefit of judge or jury.’
‘This cannot end here. I would ask you to help me lift the dead man’s body so that I may remove it to a nearby town, where he can be properly identified and examined. The least he deserves is a coroner’s inquest.’
‘Then that is what we shall do. Solko.’
She nodded to the coachman. Solko picked up the body of Lamb and laid it across the back of Shakespeare’s horse.
The two would-be hangmen looked back with indifference. With the coachman’s assistance, Shakespeare mounted up in front of the corpse and bowed to the woman in the coach.
‘Thank you, my lady. And may I ask you once again – who are you?’
She smiled. It was a smile of such beguiling innocence that a more credulous man than Shakespeare might have been entranced. ‘My name is Eliska Nováková,’ she said, then retreated into the depths of her carriage.
Before Shakespeare had a chance to say another word, the coachman closed the carriage door, mounted his perch and lashed the horse forward.
Ormskirk was a small market town. Shakespeare stopped at an inn in the central square. This was no market day. The dusty space was almost deserted, save for an old man sitting against the inn wall, whittling a stick to pass the time. Above him, a painted sign swung slowly in the breeze, creaking. It bore a picture of an eagle, clasping a swaddled child in its talons.
Ignoring the old man, Shakespeare walked into the taproom where he found the landlord, a broad-bellied, grim-visaged man of middle years, and told him he had a body outside, a victim of murder. He demanded he send for the coroner.
‘He won’t come unless you pay him a mark. He’ll send his man to view and bury the body.’
‘Tell him I am an officer of the Queen. And while you’re about it, bring me the constable, too.’
‘You could be an officer of Christ himself and the coroner still wouldn’t come without his coin.’ The landlord suddenly noticed Shakespeare’s hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘But I’ll go and tell him what you say.’
‘The body will be in here.’
‘Not in my taproom, it won’t. You’ll bring me bad fortune, and I’ve enough of that already.’
‘You’ll have more if you don’t make haste.’
As the landlord shuffled out, his head hung in gloom, Shakespeare went and hefted in the body, which was surprisingly thin and light, and laid it on a table. As he waited, he looked down at the dead man’s face and recalled his last words.
You must save Strange … I beg you, save Strange.
What possible connection could there be between a deserter from Provost Pinkney’s militia and the Earl of Derby? The Earl of Derby, who until the death of his father, the fourth earl, the previous September, had been known as Ferdinando, Lord Strange. Shakespeare paced the room in frustration. He had been delayed long enough. It was imperative that he got to Lathom House to put the matter to Derby himself … and to carry Dr Dee away to safety.
At last the constable arrived with the landlord.
‘Where is the coroner?’ Shakespeare demanded.
‘Hunting duck. I left a message for him to come when he returns,’ the landlord said, eyeing the body in his taproom with distaste. ‘How long will that be there? Customers will be coming soon, thirsty yeomen. They won’t want to share their ale with a corpse.’
‘Is there somewhere else?’
‘Out in the backyard, there’s a workshop. Put him in there.’
‘You two – you and the constable – carry the body.’
Reluctantly, the two men lifted Lamb’s corpse from the table and carried it out through a postern door. Shakespeare followed them. It seemed to him that the constable was nervous. He was a big man, like most constables, with sweat on his brow and shifting eyes. So far he had said nothing, merely nodding in deference to Shakespeare.
‘What is your name, constable?’
‘Barrow, master. Constable Barrow.’
‘Do you recognise this dead man?’
The constable averted his eyes and did not reply.
‘What was his name?’
The constable said nothing.
‘I shall have this information from you, constable, whether you like it or not. I am on Queen’s business.’
The constable turned back and met Shakespeare’s eye. ‘Lamb. The man was Matthew Lamb, commonly known as Matt.’
‘What was he?’
‘A man of some private means. He was new to this area, came last year. Never wanted for a shilling or two, caused no trouble, so I had no dealings with him.’
‘Did he have no trade nor master?’
‘No.’
‘Where did he stay?’
The constable looked at the landlord, as though unsure what to say
next.
‘Well, man?’
‘He had no permanent lodgings, master. He came and went … stayed here and there.’
Shakespeare began to understand. ‘Send a woman to prepare this body for the inquest and burial. I want her here quickly and she shall have threepence. In the meantime, leave me. I wish to examine him myself. Oh,’ he turned to the landlord, ‘and bring me a blackjack of your best bitter beer and some pie. Now go.’
Shakespeare removed the corpse’s doublet first. It had a wide, ragged hole in the side where Pinkney’s pistol had blasted its deadly ball. Beneath it, the dead man’s torso was tightly wrapped in a stinking horsehair undergarment, which crawled with lice. Lamb had been mortifying his flesh. It was as Shakespeare had suspected from Constable Barrow’s evasive responses: the dead man was a Roman Catholic priest, sent illegally from a seminary into England.
The door to the workshop opened wider and a thin, bright-eyed woman bustled in. ‘Good day, master, good day,’ she said cheerily.
‘Good day, mistress.’
‘Now, who have we here? Oh, Lord help us, it’s Father Lamb.’
‘You knew him?’
‘Indeed, sir. He was well known in these parts.’
‘What was he?’
‘From the Society of Jesus. Brought his ministry to many people in this district. Has anyone said words over him?’
‘Are you of the Roman faith?’
‘What if I am, master? That is between me and God.’
‘Indeed, mistress. All I wish is to get to the truth of this man and his untimely death.’
The woman moved closer to the woodworking bench on which Lamb’s body lay. Shakespeare liked her face; he could see that she must have been comely before motherhood and the years took their toll, but she retained sweetness and mirth.
‘Oh, poor man,’ she said, touching the hairshirt. ‘I had no idea he wore one of those. How could a man think for the constant pain and irritation in wearing such a thing?’
‘Tell me, mistress, what is your name?’
‘Goody Barrow, sir. I am the constable’s wife, whom you have met. Did he not say words over Father Lamb? Such a craven man, but we must abide with what we have.’
‘I believe there are many Papists hereabouts.’
‘It would be difficult to find any other than a Papist, sir. We hold to the old way here, the true way.’
Shakespeare was surprised to find how openly the woman talked of her Romish allegiance. ‘Do you not fear the consequences of recusancy?’
‘What consequences, sir? There are not enough Protestants in these parts to apply southern law, though Derby tries his hand when he can, for appearances’ sake.’
Shakespeare let the matter pass. ‘Well, get on with your work, Goody Barrow. I want this body stripped.’
He drank beer and watched the goodwife go about her work. She was adept at removing the clothes with due reverence and cleaning the body with care.
While she worked, Shakespeare went over to the pile of clothes the goodwife had placed, neatly folded, on the floor and he picked up the dead man’s doublet. He felt it carefully with the tips of his fingers, then sliced open the bottom seam with his poniard. Slipping his fingers up into the stuffing, he found a paper and withdrew it.
The goodwife looked over at him with curiosity and something else – fear, perhaps?
The paper was folded, stitched and had a wax seal. Shakespeare cut it open. It was a letter, written in a small, neat hand. It was addressed to ‘His Eminence WCA’. A name sprang to mind instantly – William Cardinal Allen, foremost of the English Catholics in exile and responsible for sending dozens of young men to martyrdom in their homeland. It was a poor way to disguise his name. Who but a cardinal was addressed as His Eminence? Shakespeare read on, for the remainder of the letter was not obviously encoded.
‘On arriving in Lancashire at the end of my long journey from Rome, I was heartened by the generosity of the reception from people great and low. All here hunger for the mass and are happy to receive me into their dwellings, so that I never have fear of discovery. My arrival has been the happiest possible, inspiring and cheering the flock in equal measure, for though there is less to fear here than in other parts of this benighted isle, yet they have felt dismayed and abandoned by the Church …’
So the letter went on, detailing the joys and tribulations of the priest’s mission in England. Shakespeare had seen many such intercepted letters from Jesuits and seminary priests to their controllers in Rome and Rheims. They were always careful not to divulge names, places or dates, and this was no exception. Their codes were subtle, so that there seemed to be no code. However, one phrase towards the end leapt out from the parchment.
‘As to the great enterprise, all is not well. We must pray, and hope, for better times ahead.’
The great enterprise? King Philip of Spain had described his Armada invasion plans as the Enterprise of England.
Shakespeare’s jaw stiffened. He read the words again, then stuffed the paper in his own doublet, bade Mistress Barrow good day and took horse for Lathom House.
Chapter 6
THE HOUSE SOON came into view. It seemed to Shakespeare that it spilt across the landscape like a sleeping dragon. Its grey towers and turrets were the horns and its embattlements were the spikes and notches of the spine. The place was immense – on a scale with the magnificent Windsor Castle, and of similar appearance. No wonder men spoke of it as the Northern Court.
By now, Shakespeare was almost asleep in the saddle, but he reined in his mount and took a few moments to gaze on the scene. His eyes alighted on a small encampment of brightly hued tents that dotted the parkland outside the moat, not far from the main drawbridge and portcullis gate. Men milled about, cooked over open fires and smoked pipes. Outside a larger canvas pavilion, a group of half a dozen men were acting out a play of some sort. Shakespeare squinted into the evening sun. Among the players, he thought he spied the upright form and dark, swept-back hair of his brother.
As he steered the flea-bitten horse through the tents and heavy wagons he reflected: after all, why should Will not be here? He had often played with Lord Strange’s Men, now, after Strange’s accession to the earldom, known as Derby’s Men. The earl had helped foster Will’s career for many years.
Will held the playbook and seemed to be leading a rehearsal. When he looked up and saw his brother, he put up a hand for the players to take a break and walked over to him, smiling.
‘Have you come all this way to see us perform, John?’
Shakespeare laughed and slid from the horse. He embraced his brother, then stood back to look at him.
‘I would, of course, go to the Moluccas to see you. But not in this instance. I have other concerns. You appear well, brother.’
‘Well, it is always a pleasant part of England to spend a few days. The theatres in London and Southwark open and then close, then open again, then close. These plague years will do for us. In the meanwhile, my lord of Derby begged a light confection to cheer him, so I have brought a tale of faeries and spells and midsummer in the woods. I hope he will like it well.’
‘When is it to be performed?’
‘It was to have been this evening, here among these trees, but his lordship is indisposed with some sickness, so we must wait another day.’
‘Well, I hope it will be my good fortune to see you play. But for now, I must go and pay my respects.’
The drawbridge was overgrown with weeds, as if it was never raised. Likewise, the portcullis was rusted solid up in its casing. As for Lathom House itself, it seemed out of its time, built for a more elegant age of warfare. Its crenellations, towers and castle keep spoke of knights and chivalry and boulders flung by trebuchet, not this modern era of gunshot and cannonfire. Turreted ramparts could not withstand a barrage of cannonballs. Fortifications now were squat and brutish, with massive curtain walls, twenty or thirty feet thick, and solid bastions to cover against attack from every corner.
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Shakespeare led his horse across the drawbridge and through the portcullis gate. A guard glanced peremptorily at his letters patent and signalled to a fellow guard to escort him in. Shakespeare handed the reins of the post-horse to a groom and followed the guard into the castle grounds. They walked briskly across a cobbled way to a grand doorway, which gave on to a long, handsome hall, to the left of the keep.
A liveried servant admitted Shakespeare to the hall, which was oak-panelled and high, emblazoned with coats of arms on the walls. The most obvious of these, the one that greeted him as he entered, was the eagle and child, like the inn sign at Ormskirk: this was the coat of arms of the Stanleys, the family name of the earls of Derby.
‘I shall bring his lordship’s steward to you straightway, Mr Shakespeare,’ the servant said.
The household steward arrived quickly. A man of thirty or so, he had greying black hair and a clean-shaven face. He was attired all in black, like the lawyers Shakespeare once studied among at Gray’s Inn, before Walsingham took him on as an intelligencer – work far more suited to him than the world of dusty books. The steward introduced himself as Cole and apologised to Shakespeare that the earl was indisposed.
‘I understand you have letters patent from Sir Robert Cecil. My lord of Derby will certainly wish to see you when he is well, but I fear he is presently most grievously ill. In the meantime, I shall try to find her ladyship, Mr Shakespeare, for I know she will wish to receive you and welcome you. I shall have refreshment sent to you while you wait.’
‘Thank you, Mr Cole.’
Wine and dainty dishes arrived. Shakespeare sat on a settle and picked at the food. Outside, through the window, he saw the sky darkening. Twilight. He had been on the move since before dawn and much had happened. Just as his eyelids were growing heavy, the Countess of Derby appeared, followed by three giggling girl children whose ages seemed to range from about twelve to six, all attired in fashionable taffeta, creamy white with silver threads.
Shakespeare stood up and bowed low. The Countess of Derby was dark-haired with spotless skin and a gracious smile. He had seen her at court before she was married, in the days when she went by her given name, Alice Spencer. He recalled her close friendship with the Queen and their shared interest in plays and poetry. She smiled at him, then looked at her daughters and clapped her hands.
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