‘Good. So this Walter Weld, this horse thief and possible Jesuit lay brother, was close to Father Lamb and may now have gone to Essex. But why would he poison the earl?’
‘In revenge for the execution of Richard Hesketh. That is what some of the estate workers say.’
‘Well, bring me some evidence, Mr Cole. Without evidence, it is nothing but tittle-tattle.’ The same uninformed tittle-tattle that accused Dee of bewitching the earl. ‘For the moment, I must go to my lord of Derby in his chamber.’
Before he is dead, Shakespeare thought grimly.
The earl was slumped in bed, supported by a bank of red velvet and gold braid cushions. His curiously disconnected eyes were open, staring one way and another into nothingness. His mouth, too, was open, drawing in shallow breaths.
He was still alive, but he had the pallor of death. Joshua Peace would have to arrive very soon from London if there was to be any hope.
The physicians were absent. Only the woman, Mistress Knott, was in the room. Her lips were moving, chanting soundlessly. She did not look at Shakespeare.
He cleared his throat to announce his presence, then bowed low to the sickbed. ‘My lord, you asked for me.’
The earl slowly turned his face towards Shakespeare. His hair was lank and flat, his complexion sallow. His very bones seemed to protrude through his brittle skin. He tried to raise himself further up his cushions, but fell back.
Shakespeare moved forward, but the earl shook his head.
‘I wish you to do something for me, Mr Shakespeare,’ he said. His voice, though quiet, was surprisingly clear, like a small bell. ‘There is a priest, Father Lamb. I would have you bring him to me, to perform the last rites.’
‘My lord—’
‘I ask you this because I know a little of your history, Mr Shakespeare. Your Papist wife, your disagreements with the late Mr Secretary over his methods concerning seminary priests. I do not wish to ask this of my own good wife, for she must not be endangered. Everyone else in this house is afraid. I had thought you might grant me this one dying wish.’
‘My lord, I cannot.’
‘I beg you, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘Forgive me, my lord, I must impart sad tidings. Father Lamb is dead.’
It seemed for a moment that the earl went even paler. He gasped and then his breathing ceased, before starting again after a few seconds.
‘I could try to find you another priest. It may be possible.’
‘Matt is dead? How?’
‘Shot.’
‘But who … who would do that?’
Shakespeare approached the earl and stood by the bed, close to him.
‘Do not spare me, Mr Shakespeare. Soon, I will hope to meet our Lord. There is no place for dissembling in what little remains of this life. Though my suffering is great, he sends us nothing that we cannot endure.’
Shakespeare told him, briefly, of his encounter on the road and of the provost marshal, Pinkney.
‘Pinkney?’ The earl’s voice was barely audible.
‘He insisted he was recruiting men on your authority. I had thought it strange for men to be pressed for Brittany so far from the Channel ports.’
‘I do not know the name Pinkney.’
‘As Lord Lieutenant, have you authorised a muster in the area in recent days?’
‘No, Mr Shakespeare.’ The earl’s voice was becoming weaker. ‘It is two or three weeks’ march to the southern coast. Our Lancashire levies are always for Ireland or Scotland.’
So Pinkney was indeed a liar, and a murderer. Or was there something else to the man?
Shakespeare brought to mind a picture of the provost and his plough-horse of a companion. They were most certainly soldiers, for they had the garb and bearing of men-at-arms. But why were they here, in this far northern county? And why had they taken and killed a Jesuit priest – one who had acted as chaplain to the Earl of Derby? It could be no mere coincidence. And yet if they were pursuivants – state enforcers – they could have simply arrested Lamb, questioned him about his contacts and brought him before a court of law, where he would have been sentenced to die as a traitor. There could be no reason for summary execution on the road, as though he were an army deserter.
There must be more to this. Someone had to be behind this, someone powerful, someone who did not wish Father Lamb to talk, perhaps.
‘My lord of Derby, I know how weak you are, but I feel as though there is much I would ask you, while …’ His voice trailed away.
‘While I yet live, Mr Shakespeare? I think that is what you were about to say.’ The earl closed his eyes momentarily, as though sampling eternal darkness. ‘My death is of no account. But I do desire the comfort of the Holy Sacrament in these last hours. Ask your questions, as you must, Mr Intelligencer, and then find me a priest.’
He opened his eyes again and Shakespeare searched for a glimmer of light at their fading core.
‘Please, sit here on the edge of the bed, for it fatigues me to look up at you.’
Shakespeare sat down. The stench, close to the earl, was almost overwhelming. He looked him in the eye.
‘My lord, who do you believe has poisoned you?’
‘As surely as I believe in the Lord’s salvation, so I believe that I have not been poisoned but beguiled. There is no doubt in my mind. None.’
‘Humour me, my lord. Your food is tasted by Mr Dowty, is it not?’
‘Yes, that is so. Those who advise me thought it safer, after Mr Hesketh’s attempt to ensnare me.’
‘You believed Richard Hesketh was trying to trap you?’
‘I know it, sir, and so do you. He was not sent by Cardinal Allen nor anyone else from the Church of Rome. He was sent to test me by the government for which you work. He was their man, though he did not know it. The letter did not come from Prague or Rheims or Rome, but Islington-next-London. And from whom? Why was Hesketh there at the White Lion and who gave him the letter?’
‘I confess I do not know, my lord. I was not at his trial.’
‘There was no trial. He was shown the rack and made his confession. He was a tragic fool. I wish I could have sent him on his way with his ears boxed and told him to look to his own family. Yet I could not. If I had not handed his letter to the Queen – and condemned him as a traitor – then I would have been denounced for treason myself and taken to the scaffold in his place. I would have done anything to save poor Mr Hesketh, but I could not. It was not in my power without condemning myself and my own family.’
Shakespeare could not argue. The letter might well have been a trick to put the earl’s loyalties to the test. Shades of the late Mr Secretary Walsingham and his subtle entrapments.
‘It was not even enough for me to denounce Hesketh to the Privy Council,’ the earl continued, becoming agitated. ‘I had to take the information directly to Her Majesty, for if I had not, there are those on the Council who would have dripped lies into her ear, like bitter syrup.’
Shakespeare knew enough about the dog-pack that was Elizabeth’s court to realise the truth in this. When one courtier lost favour, the others descended on him like feral beasts.
‘Who do you believe sent Hesketh to you, then?’
The earl tried to laugh, but only coughed up a thin trickle of blood and grasped at his frail chest and throat.
The woman in the corner was immediately at his side with a beaker of some liquid, which he sipped, and the coughing eased.
‘My lord?’
‘Who knows? Your master, little crookback Cecil? His father, the serpentine Burghley? Essex, whom I once counted my friend? Heneage? Or perhaps the King of Scots himself? He would happily see all other claimants to the throne eliminated. Perhaps you had a hand in it, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘I vow to you that I did not. Nor do I believe my master was involved.’
‘I think you truly believe that, Mr Shakespeare. I have already told you that I trust you, as I love your brother. I also trust Mr Dowty. He has tasted my food and w
ine faithfully. If I am any judge, then I think him a true servant. The proof is that I am sick and he is not, so I have not been poisoned, for he has tasted every morsel of my food.’
Shakespeare had many questions to ask, but the earl was wasting away before his eyes; time was short.
‘You know why I am here, my lord?’
‘Alice told me that you were sent to protect Dr Dee and take him to Kent. I do not claim to understand what you are about, nor do I wish to. I have my own feelings about the doctor, and yet he has been a friend to my family, so he must be a welcome guest under my roof.’
‘Some say he is the cause of your sickness, that he consorts with the devil and has bewitched you.’
‘Dr Dee says he converses with angels, not demons. We are much alike, both questing for something unseen, both cast out …’ The earl attempted another laugh. ‘I think he will struggle to love Lancashire if he is consigned to the Manchester church.’
‘And the Bohemian woman – Lady Eliska?’
For a moment, the earl’s eyes lit up. ‘So you have met her?’
‘Is she an old friend of yours?’
‘No, no. She wrote with letters of introduction. Few enough have come to this palace these past six months, so she was very welcome. Anyone who does not shun me in these days is welcome …’ He paused, his thin breath rattling in his throat. ‘Every day, another servant or retainer leaves and goes I know not where …’
‘Yet many stay, my lord. Many love you.’
A ghostly smile crossed his lips. ‘I thank God for them. I thank God for my players. Their visit was arranged many months ago. I know that lesser men than your brother would not have come. I beg you, thank them on my behalf. Their play excelled and Alice was a marvel.’
‘We were talking of Eliska. When she sent letters, did you not think it strange that she hailed from the troubled city of Prague? The possible connection to Richard Hesketh could not have escaped you, my lord. And what of Dr Dee? He was in Prague some years ago. He knew Hesketh from earlier days and would have known many of those in contact with him.’
The earl’s eyes closed again and he slid down the wall of cushions, into the depths of the bedding. Shakespeare realised his barrage of questions had beaten the man down, and he was almost spent. Yet he could not give up.
‘My lord, one last question. There is the master of your stables, Walter Weld, now missing. While some say Dr Dee has bewitched you, others say Mr Weld is the cause of your present sickness.’
There was no reply from the Earl of Derby. Shakespeare gazed on him, sunk in the bedding. Only the flickering of an eye and the occasional soft, rasping breath gave evidence that life remained. A fly buzzed over the bed, as if awaiting the mortification of the flesh.
Shakespeare rose. There was no more to be learnt in this room at this time. He went to the woman in the corner and handed her a coin.
‘Bring me news, Mistress Knott, of any improvement or worsening of his condition.’
She took the coin and nodded.
‘I will give you more money if you bring me information of the truth behind the earl’s sickness.’
She said nothing, but returned to her silent chanting. Her lips moved, but no sound came.
Shakespeare strode to the door. His hand was on the latch when he heard a whisper from the bed. He turned back.
‘Did you say something, my lord?’
‘Closer,’ he said faintly. ‘Come closer.’
Shakespeare leant across the bed so that his ear was near the earl’s fetid mouth.
‘The name of the man who gave the letter to Hesketh at the White Lion,’ he breathed, his clammy, gaunt hand grasping Shakespeare’s. ‘Hesketh told me who it was. His name was Ickman, Mr Shakespeare. Bartholomew Ickman … Now for pity’s sake find me a priest.’
Chapter 14
SHAKESPEARE MOVED FAST. He found the steward Cole in the kitchens with Dowty. Both men seemed startled at his approach.
‘Mr Cole, Mr Dowty, you look very much like conspirators.’
‘We were discussing the bill of fare, Mr Shakespeare,’ Cole said.
‘Come with me, Mr Cole. I have a task for you.’
Shakespeare led Cole outside. In the lee of the battlements, he lowered his voice. ‘I wish you to bring a priest – a Roman Catholic priest – to the earl. I pledge that this will not be held against you.’
Cole was taut. ‘I have told you, Mr Shakespeare, I am not a Papist. The only priest I knew of was Father Lamb.’
‘Someone here must know of a priest. The place is overrun with Catholics.’
‘I cannot help you. In God’s faith, I cannot.’
Should he ask Dowty? No, that might not be good for anyone’s health. He had another idea. He clenched the hilt of his sword.
‘Get me a horse, Mr Cole, saddled and fresh.’
Dee was on horseback, walking slowly across the boggy landscape that stretched from Lathom down to the sea. He was accompanied by two diggers on foot and by Oxx and Godwit, both mounted. They reined in as Shakespeare cantered up.
‘Mr Shakespeare?’
‘Where is Bartholomew Ickman?’ Shakespeare demanded.
Dee hesitated.
‘I am in a great hurry, Dr Dee.’
‘He did not arrive at our meeting place this morning. I am continuing without him. I am hoping the map will prove sufficient even without his powers of divination.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I do not know. It is most unlike him to absent himself. Perhaps he ails.’
‘He said he had lodgings in Ormskirk. Is he at the inn?’
‘Yes, the Eagle and Child.’
‘Dr Dee, when you agreed to deal with Mr Ickman, did you know of his connection to the case of Richard Hesketh and the Earl of Derby?’
Dee hesitated a moment too long. ‘No, Mr Shakespeare, what connection?’
‘I had not taken you for a liar, Dr Dee. A fool, yes, but not a liar. Think carefully how you answer me. Did you know that it was Bartholomew Ickman who gave the incriminating letter to Hesketh, the letter he brought to the earl and which cost Hesketh his life?’
‘I had heard such a whisper, yes. But I paid it no heed.’
‘You know, Dr Dee, the simplest thing for me now would be to take you into custody for further questioning; that would keep you safe from any Spaniard who would abduct you – and it would enable me to get to the truth about what you do or do not know. I feel as if I have stepped into a fetid sewer in this county.’
‘Take me into custody on what charge? That I know a man who was named in a court case? You would be laughed at, Mr Shakespeare. Do you not think that Mr Ickman would have been arrested long before now if the Privy Council had given any credence to Hesketh’s testimony? Hesketh brought the letter from the Jesuits in Prague, Mr Shakespeare – he brought it from Prague himself. His tale of being given the letter by Mr Ickman at the White Lion was devised to save his skin. And it failed. Meanwhile, poor Mr Ickman has been traduced!’
Poor Mr Ickman. There was nothing unfortunate about Bartholomew Ickman, nor any of his clan, except they had brought it on themselves. Shakespeare turned to the guards.
‘Mr Oxx, Mr Godwit, you will take Dr Dee back to Lathom House now. There will be no digging for treasure this day. Keep him confined to his room, whether he wishes it or not.’
From the corner of his eye, he caught the satisfied smirk on the faces of the two diggers, but he did not look back nor wait for Dee’s protests. Instead, he pulled his mount’s head around, kicked the horse into a canter and rode for Ormskirk.
Andrew Woode was shaking. He stood in the hall of St John’s College, Oxford, and looked up at the wall behind the top table. The picture of his sovereign, Elizabeth, gazed down at him with an accusing eye.
‘Well, Master Woode?’ the college president, Ralph Hutchinson, said.
He tried to speak, to say that it was not him, but no words would come. He shook his head.
‘You do not speak, I
presume, because you have no defence against the charges laid before you. Look at your gown, sir, your hands. They are red. You have, in the most literal sense, been caught red-hand.’
‘No.’ Andrew blurted the word. He had been dragged to a cell and locked there. Now this. He stood before Hutchinson and the Fellows, a boy alone, accused of a heinous crime.
Hutchinson’s eyes went once more to the red of his hands and the splattered red of his gown. ‘I fear you will have to do rather better than that, Master Woode. And I must say that I am sorry that your presence at St John’s has come to this, for I know you to be here at the personal request of Sir Robert Cecil. From what your tutor told me, I know you had some difficulties, but I greatly hoped that you would become a fine scholar.’
‘I didn’t do it, master. It wasn’t me.’
‘Then you must explain to me the red of your gown and the red of your hands.’
Andrew could scarcely catch his breath. He looked from one to another of the dozen men ranged before him. Their eyes were stern and unforgiving, their minds already decided against him. He was thirteen years old. He was tall, big for his age, and strong, but he felt very small here in this hall. Tears pricked at the back of his eyes.
‘Weeping will not help you, Master Woode. I must say to you now that this is more than a college matter. It is a felony. You will be taken from here to the town gaol and will there await your trial. May the Lord have mercy on your soul, young man, for I am certain that the law will not.’
Shakespeare found Goodwife Barrow with little difficulty. She lived close to the town square in Ormskirk, in a modest stone-built cottage.
She answered the door with two small children at her skirts. ‘Why, Mr Shakespeare.’ She smiled with evident good nature.
‘Goodwife Barrow, a word … I need a Romish priest.’
‘Indeed, and there was me taking you for a Protestant gentleman, sir.’
‘The Earl of Derby is gravely ill. There must be a priest in the neighbourhood. Tell him I will guarantee him free passage to the earl. I will not inquire after his name, nor question him in any way. He will merely come, say his words, then leave, unhindered. Can you do that for me, Goody Barrow?’
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