Traitor

by Rory Clements

  Dee shrugged his shoulders. ‘It would not surprise me, but I had also heard it testifed that Hesketh was given the letter in London. Is that not so?’

  ‘That is what he said. He insisted he was approached by a boy and given the sealed paper at the White Lion in Islington. But you are a man of wit, Dr Dee. Explain to me why he was at the White Lion and why someone just happened to be there with a letter for him to deliver unless it had all been pre-arranged.’

  Dr Dee thought for a moment, but just as he opened his mouth to make reply, he was stopped short by a scream from elsewhere in the house. It was a cry of piercing volume and intensity that seemed to well up from the depths of the earth and ring through the ancient halls of Lathom House, an unholy howl of terror and pain and despair.

  Chapter 8

  THE EARL OF Derby’s chamber was shrouded in a sickly gloom. The shutters were closed to keep out the evening light and just one beeswax candle was lit. It guttered and almost blew out as Shakespeare shut the door. The air was stale.

  He had never encountered such a weird and spectral scene. The earl sat on the edge of a great, carved-oak bed. He was wearing a white linen nightgown, streaked with stains, and was leaning over a silver basin, vomiting.

  A physician held the basin for him, but averted his head, cupping his hand over his nose and mouth to shield himself from the foul stench of the earl’s eruption. Two other physicians stood further away, by a table, clearly scared, their eyes shining in the dim light. In a dark corner of the room sat an ample-bosomed woman who rocked back and forth, chanting words that meant nothing to Shakespeare.

  She was stirring the contents of a small earthenware pot, which she held clamped between her knees.

  ‘My lord of Derby …’

  The young earl, no more than thirty-five years of age, looked up from his basin and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. His face was heavy and drained, his eyes mere slits.

  ‘Mr Shakespeare,’ he said quietly, taking shallow breaths. ‘I had heard you were here. It is a long time since last we met.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord. I have come to fetch away your guest, Dr Dee.’ He looked at the earl’s gaunt face. ‘God’s faith, I am sorry to find you in such straits.’

  ‘I am bewitched, Mr Shakespeare. I fear the worst. There is nothing these three frauds can do for me with their physic.’

  One of the two physicians who had held back stepped forward. ‘Sir, I beg you to allow me to bleed you. There are ill humours that must be released.’

  The earl tried to laugh, but immediately retched, then vomited again into the basin and beyond. Shakespeare was appalled; the earl was bringing up fleshy, rusty-blood matter that stank worse than a house of easement in high summer.

  Shakespeare turned to the physician who had just spoken. ‘How long has he been like this?’

  ‘No more than a day and a half. It came on suddenly, when he was hunting at Knowsley. He stayed one night there, then demanded to be brought here.’

  ‘Have any of you three any notion what is the cause of this sickness?’

  They looked at one another uneasily.

  ‘I am afraid we are divided in our opinions, sir. I believe it to be a natural inflammation of the gut and have treated him with three clysters of calomel, but he will have no more.’

  The second physician wrung his hands together so that his knuckles cracked. ‘See the colour of his skin. He has a jaundice,’ he said. ‘I fear his liver is decayed from a surfeit of activity, food and wine. Yet he will not allow me to bleed him to release the corruption within.’

  ‘And you?’ Shakespeare said to the third.

  ‘Poison.’ He mouthed the word, perhaps hoping the earl might not hear it.

  Shakespeare nodded. His own thought, too.

  ‘It could be one of many, though I have ruled out nux vomica,’ the physician continued. ‘The red hue of his puke and the staining of the silver basin make me think cinnabar. I desire to apply bezoar stone or a powder of unicorn horn, for they are certain antidotes to all venoms. Yet my lord turns them away.’

  Shakespeare said nothing. He walked across to the woman in the corner. She had her eyes closed while she chanted her curious words. In appeareance, she was a common goodwife, with a grey woollen kirtle and smock that had seen better days. Her hair was bound in a threadbare coif.

  ‘Who are you?’ Shakespeare demanded.

  The woman opened her bright green eyes and looked up at him in silence.

  ‘Well? Speak, woman.’

  ‘I am one that would save my lord from the forces of darkness.’

  ‘What is in there?’ He pointed at the pot she stirred.

  ‘Herbs, master. A broth of herbs. Feverfew to soothe him, spleenwort to purge him and as remedy for henbane, belladonna, ratsbane and other foul poisons.’

  ‘You are a witch.’

  ‘No, sir, I abhor the craft. I deal with naught but country lore, sir. I am a poor woman. My lord of Derby wishes me here, so I am here. He has been bewitched and the spell must be broken.’

  ‘What reason do you have for saying such a thing?’

  ‘A giant crossed his lordship’s path twice in the day he fell ill.’

  ‘A giant?’

  ‘Nine feet tall or more. A stranger. No man in these parts has seen him before or since. That is not all. While my lord was out hunting, a hag asked him about his water. Now his water has stopped.’

  Shakespeare glanced at the physicians. One of them nodded in confirmation. ‘It is true. We have tried means to provoke his piss, but to no avail. It causes his lordship great pain and distress.’

  ‘Who was this crone he met? Does anyone know her?’

  ‘A woman of the woods out by Knowsley,’ one of the physicians said. ‘Men say she has a lair of twigs and rags, and consorts with crows.’

  ‘Today a wax figure was found at the crossroads a mile from here with a hair through its belly,’ the woman in the corner continued. ‘His lordship has been enchanted.’

  Shakespeare turned away from her. This was the talk of village women who listened to tales. Ferdinando, Lord Strange, fifth Earl of Derby, had been poisoned. But with what and by whom was not clear.

  He walked to the bed and bowed.

  ‘If it please your lordship, I shall come and talk with you some more when you are better able to converse.’

  Derby said nothing. He began gasping for air, his mouth hanging open and limp over the silver bowl.

  Shakespeare bowed again, briskly. Without another word, he strode from the room and went in search of the earl’s steward.

  Boltfoot Cooper could not relax. He sat on a three-legged stool next to the fire, drawing on a pipe of tobacco. He closed his eyes momentarily as if to make the hubbub disappear, but it did not help. He had come to this house on the orders of his master, John Shakespeare, who had determined there could be no safer place in England to keep Ivory and the instrument, but he could not find peace here.

  His five-year-old niece, whose name he could not recall, had just hit his twenty-month son John with a clay bottle and knocked him to the ground. Little John was now wailing. Two other nieces were squabbling over the last of the strawberry conserve. Jane, his wife, was talking with her mother and seemed oblivious to the noise. Boltfoot doubted he would be able to stand more of this without going mad.

  They were in the cottage of Jane’s parents in a village on the Essex side of the border with Suffolk. It was a timber-frame building with a thatched roof, kept in good condition by her father, an honest worker who took to market his master’s livestock and other produce, and who, though not wealthy, was allowed enough land to provide well enough for his large family. This cottage had been Jane’s childhood home. As the oldest of twelve, all girls, she was accustomed to the din and chaos of the place. Not so Boltfoot; he had been brought up alone down in Devon, by his father.

  The house was pleasant, with a large room taking up most of the ground floor. It served as kitchen, eating room and general living
space, leading into a small pantry at the back. Above them, by way of stepladders and trapdoors, were three plain bedchambers, one of which had been set aside for the guests – Jane, baby John, Boltfoot and the two Shakespeare girls, six-year-old Mary and her adopted sister Grace Woode, who was eleven. The other members of the Cawston family still at home clustered in the other two sleeping rooms.

  They were, thought Boltfoot with a grim sigh as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, as tight packed as wadding in a cannon barrel. He could put up with cramped spaces. He had spent more years than he cared to remember at sea under Drake, where men were packed a hundred or more in a space that would have felt crowded for a dozen. But the worst of it, here in this Essex household, was the presence of William Ivory, the Eye. Boltfoot had offered him a palliasse in his family’s room, but Ivory would not have it. He preferred to sleep outside, under a makeshift shelter, beneath the stars. Boltfoot recalled that, even at sea, Ivory had done his utmost to sleep and eat alone; like a cat, he would creep off to some place, out on deck, perhaps in the lee of a gunwale or behind the whipstaff. The only time he wanted company was when the playing cards and coins came out.

  In all the years Boltfoot had known him, they had scarce passed more than half a dozen words, and nothing had changed these past few days. Boltfoot was more than happy with Ivory’s silence, but that did little to ease his concerns. Two things worried him: the first was that Ivory might simply slip away again; the second was that Mr Shakespeare was wrong in his estimation that this place was safe. Boltfoot did not feel secure here, and if he was not safe, then neither was his family.

  Jane was standing in front of him with a beaker of ale. He took it with a grunt of thanks.

  ‘The young ones will be abed soon, husband.’

  He mumbled to let her know he was listening.

  She lowered her voice. ‘Did you note Judith?’

  He nodded. Aye, he had noted Judith and didn’t know what to make of her. She was one of the older girls, about seventeen, and once or twice he had caught sight of her slipping outside. She was gone again now.

  ‘Got a swain, has she, Jane? She’s pretty, like you. Or is it the fresh air she likes?’

  ‘She likes talking with your Mr Ivory, Boltfoot.’

  He frowned, then laughed. ‘Talk with the Eye? She might as well chat away to a tree for all the converse she’ll have out of him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so certain about that. Why don’t you take a look? Mother saw her creep into that lean-to he’s built himself in the yard with some ale for him.’

  ‘What interest would a girl like that have in a grizzled old fool like Ivory?’

  Jane looked at him strangely. ‘You could be talking about yourself and me, Boltfoot Cooper. I dare say there’s those that thought us an odd couple when first we courted, including Master Shakespeare.’

  Boltfoot was about to say something sharp, but then thought better of it. He had been surprised himself when Jane took an interest in him. Surprised and delighted. But surely Ivory was a different matter? Sour-faced, silent as the grave, never a thought for anyone but himself, only happy in a tavern wagering money or when he was on his own at the top of a ship’s rigging.

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, if the daft girl has gone soft on him, I don’t like it. All I want is to keep the miserable gullion alive. Don’t want him messing with your family, Jane. Tell her she’s to go to him no more. I’ll speak to him.’

  Boltfoot stood up, shoved his pipe into his jerkin pocket and strode towards the yard door. He’d have it out with the man.

  ‘Keep him happy, keep him safe, whatever it takes, Boltfoot,’ Master Shakespeare had said.

  Boltfoot hovered, then sat down again. Damn Ivory’s hide, he could not go to him. Boltfoot picked up his caliver and started cleaning its ornate octagonal muzzle for the second time that day.

  He was certain he would need it soon enough.

  Cole was in his office, working on the household accounts with the Clerk of the Kitchen and the wine-butler.

  ‘Twenty hogsheads of beer, seven pounds seven shillings and sixpence, three roundlets of sack, each of fifteen gallons, six pounds and a crown …’ He looked up. ‘Ah, Mr Shakespeare.’

  ‘I would talk with you alone, Mr Cole.’

  ‘Most certainly.’ He turned to his under-stewards. ‘Please leave us, Mr Amlet, Mr Dowty. Oh, and, Mr Dowty, talk to the butcher about the mutton. I swear it died of old age. He will lose our custom soon enough if he does not provide young and fresh-killed flesh. And the three firkins of butter – tell the dairyman that with so few guests we should be selling butter, not buying it.’

  The two stewards bowed and retreated from the small room.

  Cole rose from his chair. ‘Can I order you refreshment, Mr Shakespeare?’

  ‘No. I am worried about your master. He will die without better care.’

  ‘He has the best physicians in all of Lancashire and Cheshire, sir.’

  ‘I want to send to London by post. I need your fastest messenger. He is to go to a Mr Joshua Peace, the Searcher of the Dead at St Paul’s and a man with greater knowledge of the body than any physician, and bring him back straightway. I care not what he is working on, he must leave it without delay and come here. There is no time to lose. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course. I shall send Robert Hearnshaw. He knows the road well and can ride by the most slender of moons. He has made London in thirty-five hours.’

  ‘Tell him to better that time. And I will need your second-best rider to take a note to Sir Robert Cecil. Give me a quill and parchment. I must write letters.’

  Shakespeare sat at the table and dipped the quill in ink as Cole went to the door and ordered a servant to summon the riders and have the horses saddled. Shakespeare wrote fast.

  ‘Joshua, there is a matter of utmost urgency. I believe my lord of Derby has been poisoned. There is foul sickness, rust-red, voiding of the bowels, much pain and inability to piss. Yet he is lucid. There is no other I can trust in this and none here who can help. Come immediately with the messenger. Your friend, John Shakespeare.’

  He folded and sealed the paper and turned to the next note to Cecil, which was more circumspect.

  ‘His lordship, the Earl of Derby, is sick and in mortal peril. I have sent to Mr Peace for assistance and will, meanwhile, do all in my power to secure the best physicians here present. Dr Dee is in good health and close-guarded. Your true servant, John Shakespeare.’

  He also scratched out a copy of the letter he had found in Father Lamb’s doublet, added a discreet note explaining its provenance, and sealed it into his own letter.

  Hearnshaw arrived, already booted and hurriedly pulling on his leather riding jerkin and a waxed cape. Shakespeare handed him the sealed letter for Peace and gave him instructions on how to find him, then handed him two small gold coins.

  ‘Now go with the speed of a falcon, Mr Hearnshaw, and return as swift. Your lord’s life may well depend on it. There will be more gold if I see you soon enough.’

  The rider bowed and left, at a run, just as the other messenger appeared and took the second letter, addressed to Cecil.

  Shakespeare breathed deeply. He realised he still had not slept. Outside the window, darkness had fallen. There were still matters to be settled.

  ‘The countess promised me guards for Dr Dee.’

  ‘They are already with him, awaiting your further instructions.’

  ‘Would you trust them with your life?’

  ‘I would, sir.’

  ‘Good. Now tell me, Mr Cole, what has been happening here at Lathom House? Who is that woman in the earl’s bedchamber?’

  ‘She is Mistress Knott, a wise woman from the village. His lordship has consulted her before. He demanded her presence as soon as the sickness came on. I believe there is no harm in her.’

  ‘Consulted her before, you say?’

  ‘He has asked her for propitious days – for travelling, for his daughters’ christenings, for
the beginning of building works on his houses—’

  ‘This is monstrous, Mr Cole. He dabbles in the occult!’

  Cole looked stiff and uneasy. ‘She insists she is no witch, Mr Shakespeare, but a Christian lady, battling the dark arts.’

  ‘Well, she talks like a witch – tales of giants and wax dolls and crones in the forest. I want her out of that room.’

  Cole sighed deeply. ‘We all do, master, particularly the physicians, for they feel hampered and crossed in their efforts while she is there. Her ladyship, the countess, is most distressed by the woman’s presence. But the earl will not listen. He is convinced he has been beguiled and considers her his only hope.’

  ‘But you believe him poisoned.’

  ‘I fear it is a grave possibility.’

  Shakespeare saw the tension within the steward. Tension and something else – despair, perhaps. He was close to the edge. Shakespeare turned away. He had many questions to ask, but first he needed sleep.

  Walter Weld had hoped it would not come to this. Trayne should have secured the perspective glass in Portsmouth; he had failed, but there was still the matter of Dr Dee. The earl had been conveniently biddable when Weld had suggested inviting the old alchemist to Lathom House. And so here he was, and he was vulnerable.

  Weld paced his room close to the stables, alone. Trayne was in a house in a village three miles away. The widow who tended his wound had no idea who he was, only that he was a Catholic gentleman in need of assistance. She would ask no questions, and she would tell no one that he was there. And soon, pray God, he would be well.

  In truth, Trayne’s recovery could not come quickly enough. He could not abduct Dee alone. The holy fool Lamb was dead, so there was no help to be had there. Not that Lamb had ever been of much use: too interested in saving souls to care much for the hard business of insurrection. Lamb would never have countenanced an act such as the abduction of Dr Dee.

  There was urgency now, for the earl was fading fast and the great house was in disarray. The moment might very soon be lost. There was more: he had heard from the grooms that a new guest had arrived, one John Shakespeare. It was a name he knew. Shakespeare was an intelligencer close to Cecil, right at the centre of power.