‘That does not seem to be a rarity in these parts.’
‘No, but it is the manner of his devotions that has made men talk. Some say he is Christ’s fellow, a boy-priest.’
Shakespeare understood the insinuation. ‘Is there anyone in particular, any man, to whom he is close?’
The groom shook his head. ‘I do not know, master.’
‘Think carefully.’
‘No, sir, no names come to mind.’
‘What sort of man is Mr Weld?’
‘Good with horses. Can pacify a nervy one. Gentle hands. A lean, well-formed man, always wears fine clothes. He is a fair master, but aloof. He likes the horses, but does not converse much with me or the lads.’
‘And his family?’
‘You’ll have to ask him that. All I can tell you is that he’s not from Lancashire. Comes from somewhere in the southern shires, I believe. I cannot tell you more, for I know no more. He has not been here longer than a six-month.’
‘Take me to his chamber.’
The head groom eyed Shakespeare, but then shrugged his shoulders. ‘As you wish, sir. Follow me.’
They went to Weld’s room close by the stable block. It was protected by a heavy door, which was locked.
‘Do you have the key, master groom?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, tell Mr Weld when he returns that John Shakespeare would speak with him on urgent business. He will find me in the great house.’
Young Andrew Woode had known much unhappiness. First the death of his mother, then of his father and, finally, the loss of Catherine Shakespeare, who had been like a second mother to him. It could not have occurred to him that life could get worse.
Hubert Penn was gazing at him in that unsettling way he had. At seventeen, he was four years older than Andrew and was in his second year at St John’s. Andrew tried not to meet his eye, for he did not like what he saw there.
Fitzherbert, their tutor, came into the room.
‘Have you scholars done your exercises? I did not see you in the quadrangle.’
‘I have, Mr Fitzherbert, but Woode hasn’t.’
‘But I have run for a quarter of the clock, Mr Fitzherbert!’
‘Are you calling Penn a liar?’
‘No, sir, but he is mistaken.’
‘You will run until the clock strikes nine, then you will continue with your studies by candlelight – and pray for an hour before bed.’
‘Yes, master,’ Andrew said.
He knew that if he argued, the alternative would be a great deal worse: a birch-rod flogging, half-rations for a week and the chores of every boy in the dormitory. He looked across at Hubert Penn, expecting to see him smirk. But his handsome face had the innocent cast of an angel.
‘And you, Penn,’ Fitzherbert said, ‘shall have the privilege of sharing the comfort of my cot this night as reward for your honest dealing.’
A low stage had been erected close to the west wall of Lathom House among the grove of parkland trees. The evening was fine. Honoured guests from Ormskirk and the surrounding villages were arriving and quickly filling the audience enclosure.
They had been summoned in great haste, but none refused the invitation. All wanted to see the wondrous new play presented by the Earl of Derby’s company. They wished, also, to pay their respects to the earl, their liege lord. But most of all, they were eager to see for themselves if the stories spoken abroad were true: that he had been bewitched and was now but a shadow of a man.
John Shakespeare leant idly against the trunk of an ash tree and watched. He held a silver goblet of Gascon wine, rich and unsweetened. Bluecoats flitted here and there with drinks and delicacies. He almost laughed as he saw a local dignitary hesitate before accepting a sweetmeat, as though fearful that it might be poisoned or cursed. Lathom House was gaining an unfortunate reputation.
Suddenly the world went dark. Instinctively, Shakespeare’s own hands went up to throw off the two that were covering his eyes. As he did so, he saw they were small, feminine and neatly encased in soft cream gloves. He spun around. It was Lady Eliska. She smiled. The monkey on her shoulder bared its sharp little teeth at Shakespeare. It wore a collar around its neck studded with gemstones that looked very much like diamonds.
‘Mr Shakespeare, I told you we should meet again. And here we are.’
He bowed. ‘Madame. Lady Eliska.’
‘We met in sad circumstances.’ Her voice was husky and rich. ‘It is pleasant to meet again in these more benign surroundings.’
‘Indeed.’ He fished into his doublet. ‘And I bring you tidings from an old friend.’
He handed her the letter entrusted to him by Sir Thomas Heneage. She took it with a frown, then saw the distinctive red seal and smiled.
‘Why, thank you, Mr Shakespeare. This is most welcome. I shall read it in due course, in the privacy of my chamber.’
‘You will be pleased to know that he was in good health and spirits when I saw him most recently.’
As he spoke, Shakespeare could not help but be entranced by her appearance. She wore a slender-waisted gown of gold and black. The golden bodice descended dramatically to a sharp-pointed stomacher; the sleeves were black, cuffed with gold braid and a ring of intricate lace. At her neck was a small white ruff, delicate and unstarched, revealing her inviting and flawless skin. Her hair, uncapped now, was fair and Shakespeare fancied she might be Germanic, though her pronounced cheekbones suggested some Slav blood. She was exquisite.
She proffered her hand. He took it and kissed it. ‘And I must thank you again for your assistance, my lady.’
Her hand lingered in his, then she stroked her pet. ‘This is my little friend Doda. Or Lady Doda, perhaps.’
‘I am told you are from Bohemia.’
‘Has Sir Thomas been gossiping about me?’
‘I assure you he said nothing indiscreet.’
She laughed. ‘There is little enough to know. My father was a member of Rudolf II’s court, a noble merchant of Prague and a patron of the arts. There – I have told you all you need to know. Now tell me, do you like my pretty little monkey, Doda? Is she not the sweetest thing?’
‘No. I do not like your monkey,’ he said evenly.
Lady Eliska took a delicacy from a passing tray and fed it to her pet. ‘I like your honesty, Mr Shakespeare, though your queen might not. I believe she too has a monkey. In Prague, I could have had a man walled up and starved to death for saying an ill word about my little friend. Could your Elizabeth do that?’
Shakespeare changed the subject. ‘Again, I owe you much gratitude for coming to my assistance on the road. It was a sorry affair.’
‘You must tell me all about it later, after the masque.’
‘Few grooms are as skilled with a pistol as your coachman.’
‘Solko was my father’s faithful servant, and now he is mine. That is why I know I can travel the world in safety.’
‘What brings you to England?’
‘The pleasure of meeting friends old and new. If you are concerned, I will show you my letters of pass, issued by Lord Burghley himself.’
Yes, he thought, I would like to see them.
‘Indeed, my lady, as an officer of Sir Robert Cecil, I consider it my duty.’
‘After the masque, then. I will happily show you whatever you desire.’ She kissed his cheek. Her lips were cool. ‘Come to my chamber later. There are other matters I would discuss with you further.’
‘Such as?’
‘You will discover soon enough. I can assist you – and Sir Robert.’
‘In which part of the house are you staying?’
‘There is a stairwell from the smaller hall. I am sure a man of your ingenuity will find me.’
She smiled again and was about to go, but he stayed her with his hand.
‘Mr Shakespeare?’
‘I saw you in the hall, talking with Mr Weld, the earl’s Gentleman of the Horse.’
‘Indeed?’
&nbs
p; ‘He is a man that interests me. What do you know of him?’
She laughed. ‘That he looks after the horses, including mine.’
And she was gone.
Apart from a few stragglers, the guests had all arrived. The air was cool. Clouds were blowing in and Shakespeare gauged that the weather was about to turn. He looked again. Dr Dee was in the front row beside an empty settle adorned with cushions: clearly the place reserved for the earl. Oxx and Godwit stood behind Dee, their eyes alert. It would take determined men to get past them. The silent bolt of an assassin’s crossbow could kill Dee easily, but that would not acquire his secret for Spain. Under the circumstances, he was as safe as could be.
The crowd murmured, then fell silent. The earl was coming from the main gate, carried on a chair by four servants. At his side walked Cole. The earl waved weakly, and the crowd stood and applauded. He was taken to the front row and helped into the settle, where he slumped back into the cushions. He nodded to his neighbour, Dee, but did not appear to say anything. Perhaps he did not have the energy for speech. On his other side, Shakespeare noticed, Eliska had appeared. She attentively touched the earl’s sleeve and said a few words, to which he nodded. Her eyes then turned to Shakespeare and she tilted up her chin.
Will Shakespeare was in the centre of the stage, a few feet from the front row. He bowed low in honour of his patron. The earl motioned him over with a feeble wave of his fingers. Will approached the nobleman and went down on one knee in obeisance. Derby leant forward and took Will’s forearms in his bony fingers, signalling him to rise. He clutched at him and mouthed some words. Will smiled and nodded, then backed away.
The play began. The scene was a Greek palace. The Duke of Theseus was discussing his wedding plans with his betrothed, Hippolyta. The action quickly moved to woods, into the land of faeries and dreams. John Shakespeare half watched it and half watched the crowd.
Cole appeared beside him.
‘You know, Mr Shakespeare,’ he said quietly, ‘there was a time, not long ago, when an event such as this at Lathom House would have brought forth the greatest in the land – Southampton, Ralegh, Essex, Northumberland and scores more. Now no one wants to know my lord of Derby, except this rabble. And they are here only to see if he is alive or dead – and for the pleasure of your brother’s poetic verse. The Hesketh affair has left a miasma around his lordship. The great of the land shun him as though he trailed murrain in his wake.’
It was true. The faces of those here this evening might be well known in Lancashire, but none of the great men or women of the royal court was in evidence. Was this the circle of a man with a powerful claim to be king? The Earl of Derby’s star had fallen to earth.
‘Now that he appears better, do you still believe he was poisoned?’
Cole nodded. ‘I do, Mr Shakespeare. I fear I do. I would suspect the Jesuits or some of the Heskeths, but there are others, too, who would wish him ill. I am greatly perturbed for the earl and countess. They feel abandoned, you know.’
Shakespeare was silent. He could see that Cole was stretched as tautly as a man on the rack. This affair was placing a huge burden on him as steward of the earl’s household and estates. Apart from Oxx and Godwit, he was the one person in this house Shakespeare trusted.
‘What do you know of the Lady Eliska?’
‘She sent letters of introduction ahead and her name seemed to mean something to his lordship, but I confess I know little more than that.’
‘How long has she been here?’
‘She arrived two weeks since, Mr Shakespeare.’
The wind was whipping up from the west. Clouds scudded and threatened to hasten the gloom of the evening. But the play was well under way and the audience was appreciative. In the second act, there was a thunder of applause as Will appeared on stage as Oberon. He was closely followed by the Countess of Derby as Titania. The crowd gasped in admiration, then rose to their feet applauding. Alice, the countess, was attired in a peasant smock that had been decorated all over with leaves and flowers. At her back was a pair of wings made of thin osier bent to shape and stretched with fine gossamer linen; on her curled and tumbling hair, she wore a crown of pink petals and golden-yellow roses.
Shakespeare watched her, captivated. Edmund Tilney, the Master of the Revels and the man with the power to say Yes or No to any play or player, might not approve of a female on stage, but, Shakespeare decided, she had acquitted herself with grace and skill.
As the sky darkened, a series of pitch torches flared up and lit the action. The flames flattened and dashed in the squally wind, lending an eerie note to his brother’s curious tale of love and magical spells in the forest.
The rain held off until the final scene of the fifth act.
‘If we shadows have offended,’ the mischievous Puck intoned as Titania and Oberon left the stage and the first drops of rain began to fall, ‘think but this, and all is mended, that you have but slumbered here, while these visions did appear …’
Suddenly the earl moaned, low and growling, and then howled in terror and pain. The same despairing scream Shakespeare had heard before, yet more hideous. All eyes were on the stage, expectant. Was this some final chapter in the tale? The audience sat forward, preparing to cheer or applaud, whichever was appropriate, for they knew the end was near.
Shakespeare ran forward to the settle where the earl now lay, crumpled, clutching his belly as though it were on fire. Titania was back on stage, a hand held to her mouth in horror. She ran down and joined Shakespeare beside her husband. The earl’s physicians appeared, like carrion crows, rubbing their hands.
‘Get him inside!’ Shakespeare shouted at the nearest servants. ‘Carry your master to his chamber.’ As the four men who had brought him rushed forward with the chair, Shakespeare pushed it away. ‘He cannot go on that. If there is no litter, carry him on the settle. Get more men.’
More men arrived. The heavy settle was hauled to their shoulders. Slumped across it, the earl was doubled up, convulsing, unable to talk or breathe properly. His mouth foamed with rust-red spittle. Every wasted sinew was in spasm, like the rictus of death.
Shakespeare ordered the men forward, towards the drawbridge, through the pattering rain and the gusting wind. Turning back for a moment he saw Dr Dee, deep in angry conversation with Lady Eliska. She seemed to be scolding him with sharp, threatening words, harrying him towards the shadows at the edge of the stage.
Shakespeare’s blood chilled. Where in God’s name were Oxx and Godwit?
Chapter 12
SHAKESPEARE STEPPED FORWARD, his sword drawn, but then sighed with relief. He could see Oxx and Godwit there, just out of earshot in the gloom. Watching. Protecting. He looked again at Dee and Eliska. He heard her say something and laugh lightly.
‘Enough of this, Dr Dee …’
And then she leant forward and kissed the ageing alchemist on the side of his face, while a soft gloved hand cupped the other cheek. Dee’s face looked drawn, but then he seemed to smile and say something before stepping back from her. Shakespeare’s frayed nerves relaxed a little.
Dee turned and caught sight of Shakespeare. He hesitated, then bowed, a mite too sharply.
‘Mr Shakespeare, I hope you are not fearful for me in the presence of this beautiful lady. Do you think she has the face of a Spanish spy?’
Shakespeare looked from one to the other. ‘If she was, then I fear she would be more than a match for you, Dr Dee.’
‘We are old friends, from Prague,’ Dee said cheerfully. ‘Eliska Nováková was my muse, Mr Shakespeare. As bright a creature as any of the angels of the vasty deep with whom I communed.’
‘I am pleased to hear it. I would not have wished you spirited away to Bohemia, caged like a lady’s monkey.’
Eliska laughed while Dee gazed at her admiringly. ‘I confess I sometimes wondered why I bothered to seek angels in the beyond, when my Eliska was here on earth.’
She touched his sleeve affectionately. ‘Because you are a m
arried man, Dr Dee.’ She looked curiously at Shakespeare. ‘Are you a married man?’
Shakespeare was about to say that yes, he was a married man and that his wife, Catherine, was the most beautiful woman God ever gave to the world. But then he recalled that he was a widower and Catherine’s remains lay cold in the earth at the churchyard of St John in Walbrook. He shook his head, his jaw clamped tight.
‘We have no time for this,’ he said shortly. ‘My lord of Derby is gravely ill. Do you know aught of medical matters, Dr Dee?’
‘Nothing that will help the earl.’ Dee looked up. The rain was beginning to fall properly. ‘Come –’ he offered his arm to Lady Eliska – ‘let us go into the house. The evening’s entertainment is over. It was a wondrous affair, though wasted on an audience of muddy provincials. Pearls before swine.’
Shakespeare did not move.
‘You go,’ he said. ‘I will stay out here.’ The air was healthier, though he did not say so. He signalled to Oxx and Godwit. ‘Ensure the doctor is secured in his chamber.’
Walter Weld slunk back into the shadows and thrust his pistol back into his belt. Dee was too close-guarded. And yet there was hope. He had been to see Janus Trayne and was heartened by the improvement in his wounded wrist. More importantly, Trayne had dredged up some memory from the sink of his past. It was the memory of a name and a face, of a club-footed, limping man. The man with the knife at Portsmouth. A man named Cooper.
Weld allowed himself a smile; they would have the perspective glass yet.
‘A fine play, brother.’
‘You are generous. Do you think it would be considered ill mannered of me to leave for London? I have commitments. I would not have been here but for the love I owe my lord of Derby. My task is done.’
They were in Will’s tent. Rain seeped in from all corners and from below. They drank deep from goblets of sack, which warmed their throats. It would be an uncomfortable night. Shakespeare could well understand why his brother would wish to be away from here without delay.
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