Traitor

by Rory Clements

  She hesitated. ‘I think I know one who would do that for his lordship, yes. Though I cannot speak for him with certainty.’

  ‘Tell him to make haste, for there may not be much time.’

  She nodded, genuine sadness in her eyes. ‘I am sorry to hear that, sir. While some seem to hate his lordship, there are many in the district with cause to love him, and I count myself among them.’

  ‘Thank you, Goody Barrow.’ Shakespeare handed her a sixpence coin. ‘Buy cakes for your children.’

  She took the coin. ‘I will do that. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘One more thing. I believe the attorney Thomas Hesketh has offices in Ormskirk.’

  Goodwife Barrow seemed to stiffen. ‘Indeed, sir. It is the great building that fronts the north of the market square.’

  Shakespeare recalled that the Countess of Derby had spoken disparagingly of the wretched Richard Hesketh’s brother Thomas. It seemed Goody Barrow did not have much time for him either. Well, it would be convenient to meet him this day and make up his own mind. But first he had track down Bartholomew Ickman.

  Ickman was not at the Eagle and Child in Ormskirk. The surly landlord shuffled uneasily from foot to foot and said that, yes, there had been a curious young gentleman of that name staying there, but that he had left in the night, without paying for his room or his food.

  ‘Take me to his room,’ Shakespeare demanded.

  Begrudgingly, the landlord led the way to a cramped cell of a room with a small, hard cot, scarcely big enough for a child. Apart from that, it was bare.

  ‘How long was he here?’

  ‘Ten days, master. Paid straightway for a week, but these last three days he has had free of charge, the devil flay his hide. A fart in his face, I say.’

  ‘Did anyone come to him here?’

  ‘Tried to bring a whore here one night. I kicked her out. Not having that sort under my roof.’

  ‘Who was this whore?’

  ‘How should I know? Some vagabond slut. Never seen her before. Won’t see her again. She’ll be in the next county by now.’

  The room smelt of sweat and stale tobacco smoke. Shakespeare tore the stinking blanket from the bed, then overturned the thin mattress. There was nothing here.

  ‘If he comes back, bring word to me up at Lathom House, landlord. There will be a shilling in it for you.’

  ‘If he comes back, I’ll slit him open and spill his entrails. No man leaves my inn without paying.’

  Thomas Hesketh was poring over a vellum scroll, his ink-stained index finger pointing to the written words, one by one, like a child in the schoolroom. He did not look up as Shakespeare pushed past a servant and entered the room.

  ‘Mr Hesketh?’

  ‘Come back later, whoever you are,’ Hesketh said sharply, still not looking up from the bulbous folds of his well-fed face. ‘Can you not see I am busy here? Go away.’

  Shakespeare reached forward, lifted Hesketh’s fat finger and removed the scroll from beneath it.

  Hesketh looked up. His jaw was slack and descended into a series of chins. ‘Give me that back, damn you.’ As he spoke, his protruding lower lip quivered.

  ‘I wish to talk with you, Mr Hesketh.’

  The lawyer leant across his table and lunged for the document. Shakespeare held it out of his reach with ease.

  ‘What is this? Why, it is a contract of leasehold. It seems a great deal of work has gone into it. And you have a fine fire burning in your hearth …’

  Hesketh glared at him, then reached down beside him and pulled up a pistol. He pointed its muzzle at Shakespeare’s heart. ‘This is primed and loaded for just such a one as you. Return my contract, leave my chamber or die here.’

  ‘And how will you explain that to the justice?’

  Hesketh’s finger tightened on the trigger of his finely ornamented wheel-lock. ‘I am the law in this town. I have the power of the Duchy and will answer to no man for my actions.’

  ‘Then how will you explain it to Sir Robert Cecil?’

  The muzzle of the gun wobbled. Hesketh’s grim expression did not change but slowly he lowered the weapon and laid it on the table, within reach of his right hand.

  ‘So you’re Shakespeare. I had heard you were here.’

  ‘Good, then we can talk, which is why I have come to you today.’

  Shakespeare tossed the dense scroll back to Hesketh, who caught it with his left hand.

  ‘Just because I have heard of you does not mean I have anything to say to you.’

  ‘I will decide that. You will answer my questions.’

  Hesketh had the look of a judge who has eaten too many fat-basted fowls, drunk too many casks of good Gascon wine and sentenced too many felons to be whipped and hanged. An unwelcome vision came to mind of avarice and greed oozing from his skin like pus.

  Shakespeare sat down on a three-legged stool and put his booted feet on the table. He looked about.

  ‘A well-appointed room you have here, Mr Hesketh. Fine panelling, good plasterwork …’

  ‘If you have a question, ask it.’

  ‘Yes, I have a question. I want to know about your brother Richard and the Earl of Derby. Some might wonder whether you desired vengeance for his untimely death.’

  ‘What is this gibberish? I am a busy man.’ Hesketh clapped his hands and a servant hurried in. ‘Bring me brandy.’

  The servant hesitated, looking from his master to Shakespeare.

  ‘One goblet, damn you. For me.’

  The servant scurried away.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Shakespeare, you know nothing of the way things are around here. Does Cecil know what you are about? Go back to London before you get burnt.’

  ‘Are you trying to threaten me, Mr Hesketh?’

  ‘I am warning you, not threatening you.’

  ‘And are you saying you do not wish to avenge your brother’s death? Vengeance is a powerful instinct.’

  The servant hastened back and poured a large brandy for Hesketh and none for Shakespeare. Hesketh took a swig. ‘Is it?’ he said tersely.

  ‘If it is not, then enlighten me.’

  ‘Richard got what he deserved. He was one of the most stupid men that ever walked this earth. He took the blame for that landowner’s murder, though it was none of his doing, then ran away to Bohemia, of all the world’s most godforsaken places. There he fell into the clutches of the Jesuits – and took their treacherous letter to Lathom House! Insanity. He is no loss to the world and is better dead. So die all Papist vermin. He ceased to be my brother many years since – him and all the Romish Hesketh cousins. William, marrying the foul Cardinal Allen’s sister Elizabeth, and William’s son Thomas becoming secretary to him. They are all dirt beneath my feet, and Richard was the worst of them, a stain on our house. Doing for him was the one good thing Strange ever did in his life. But he’ll be dead himself soon, from what is said about town, which will be no sorrow.’

  ‘So you would wish the earl dead?’

  ‘You understand nothing, Shakespeare. I never wanted to avenge Richard’s death, but neither am I sorry to hear of the earl’s destruction, for he is a Papist, too, and has treasonable designs on the throne. He crosses me at every turn as I attempt to crush recusancy in this county. I would issue a writ of praemunire against him and consign him to the Tower if the Queen would allow it. He maintains the Pope’s supremacy. Everyone knows it. I told Walsingham often enough, and I have written to young Cecil in like wise.’ He sat back in his fine chair and folded his dark, fur-trimmed robe round his proud belly. ‘Nor would I be displeased to hear of your death, for are you not a Papist-swiving excuse for a man?’

  Shakespeare was up from the stool in an instant. He rounded the table and gripped the lawyer’s throat in his right hand, pushing his head back into the wall behind the chair. Hesketh’s hand floundered for his pistol, but Shakespeare hammered down on his wrist with the rough edge of his bare fist. Hesketh yelped with pain and threw up his hand. Casually,
Shakespeare released his throat and picked up the pistol.

  ‘Learn some civility, Mr Hesketh, or I will teach you manners the hard way.’

  Hesketh rubbed his throat and glared at Shakespeare. ‘You think I seek vengeance for Richard’s death? I tell you, more people have motives to kill Derby than a rat has fleas.’

  Hesketh thrust his thumb in the air.

  ‘One, the King of Scots, for he wants the throne of England for himself.’

  His index finger joined the thumb.

  ‘Two, the earl’s own brother, for he will inherit his title and lands as the earl has only daughters. Three, the Jesuits for betraying my hapless brother, who was their tool. Four, any number of enemies at court including Essex, little Cecil and old Burghley. Five, the Puritans for his patronage of the playhouses. Six, other members of my family deluded enough to think Richard Hesketh sinned against. I could go on, Shakespeare: local people with a grudge, resentful servants in his household, Dr Dee or some other witch – for does Derby not believe himself charmed? Perhaps the earl’s pretty wife has another man and wishes rid of him. You could put twenty men and women in a room and they would fight each other for the right to kill the earl. And then there is you, Shakespeare. Perhaps you would have him dead – perhaps you are Cecil’s assassin. You tell me.’

  Shakespeare was silent. All those the lawyer had mentioned had a reason for killing the earl, but did they have the means? And then there was the other matter …

  ‘You have heard of the death of Father Lamb, Mr Hesketh. I ordered an inquest. Has it been held yet?’

  ‘No, nor will it. Everyone knows how he died, so there is no call for further inquiry. He is buried in unconsecrated ground, where he belongs. I will have no deserter or traitor buried in a Christian graveyard in this county.’

  ‘You take a great deal upon yourself, Mr Hesketh.’

  ‘Well, if we waited on action from the Lord Lieutenant, my lord of Derby,’ he said the words with scorn, ‘we would be overrun by Popish hordes. Someone must act on behalf of the Queen and Council in Lancashire. You may have powerful friends, Shakespeare, but you are not alone in that. I have my friends, too. My informants tell me you were sent here to protect Dr Dee. I suggest you keep to your mission and leave the inquiry into Derby’s strange sickness to others.’

  ‘What of the villainous Bartholomew Ickman, then? If you know all that goes on in Lancashire, you must know that he has been here.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He was lodged at the Eagle and Child. I suggest you have a word with the landlord if he is not passing on such information, for you must know that Ickman was linked to the affair that brought your brother to the scaffold. It was he that handed him the letter.’

  ‘Nonsense. The letter came from the sordid seminaries of Prague and Rome.’

  ‘And Pinkney? Provost Marshal Pinkney, supposedly scooping up men for the Brittany wars, here in your domain. Have you and the Duchy lost all control of these lands? Or perhaps you are in league with these men to harm the earl—’

  ‘Good day, Shakespeare. I have had enough of your impertinent questions. You will not get another word from my lips.’

  Hesketh unfurled the scroll and searched for the passage he had been studying when his visitor arrived. For a brief moment of madness, Shakespeare pointed the pistol at him and considered blowing his head apart. Instead, shaking with rage, he dropped it clattering to the floor, and strode from the chamber.

  Chapter 15

  BOLTFOOT COOPER LAY asleep in the barnloft. His bed was hay, his sleep was deep, as though he had been drugged by juice of poppy. It was early evening, not even seven of the clock, but he could not stay awake. He had not meant to sleep, but the drowsiness had come over him without warning.

  In his dream, he felt a violent quaking, like the shiver of a fever, but then he awoke and found his shoulder actually being shaken by Jane.

  ‘Boltfoot, I brought you food.’ She leant forward and touched his forehead, then frowned. ‘You are burning up, husband.’

  ‘A cold in the head, that is all.’

  ‘You are not well. If this is the sweating sickness, you are in peril.’

  ‘Not the sweat. It is a cold, Jane, a common cold. Leave me be.’

  ‘I will bring you home.’

  ‘No, I must stay here, with Ivory …’

  ‘Boltfoot Cooper, your son wants a father to look up to, not a grave to visit.’

  Boltfoot’s bones and joints had been aching for a day. His back, still not healed properly from being badly scorched by fire a year past, caused him yet more pain. And he had this feverish cold. It was a slight thing, he was certain, but it fatigued him and slowed him down, and it would last a day or two. He needed rest. He felt nearer sixty than forty.

  ‘Where is Mr Ivory?’

  ‘He is here.’

  Boltfoot looked around. Where was he?

  ‘Perhaps he is outside, smoking his curious pipe. Even he is not foolish enough to light up here in a hayloft.’

  ‘I did not see him, Boltfoot.’

  ‘He won’t be far.’ He struggled to his feet.

  ‘First take a drink. You need drink for a sweat, the old gossips do say.’

  Boltfoot took the flagon from her hands and swallowed some of the ale. It did not taste good to him, but he said nothing, handed the flagon back to her and wiped his sleeve across his mouth.

  Jane put down the flagon and the basket of food – two loaves, some cold smoked herring, butter, a pint of peas. She went first down the ladder from the loft, followed by Boltfoot, who was slower than usual. Each step on each rung seemed an effort.

  They stopped at the ground floor of the old oak-framed barn. Boltfoot looked around. It was an echoing place, high with ancient beams, and littered with ploughshares, sickles, scythes and old wagon wheels.

  ‘Mr Ivory!’ he called. There was no response.

  He and Jane went out of the gaping, double-doored entryway and looked about again. The barn was a few hundred yards from the farm cottage, which was easily visible across a flat field, new-sown with barley. They could see clearly in all directions in this wide landscape. There was no sign of Ivory.

  ‘He may be a churl, but I hadn’t taken him for a fool,’ growled Boltfoot. ‘He knows I’ve saved his life once and he’ll need me again.’ He spoke to convince her, though he had a churning in his belly. ‘Was that sister of yours at home when you left?’

  Jane shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, if we find her, we’ll doubtless find him, too – and I’ll have some hard words for him.’

  ‘You’re in no state to walk. It’s three miles home. Farmer Cox will take us in his cart.’

  Boltfoot sighed. He did not feel at all well. ‘As always you are right, Mistress Cooper. That’s what we’ll do.’

  Boltfoot and Jane arrived home in the farm cart soon after dark. The younger children were all in bed. Judith was at her sewing in a corner of the room. Jane strode up to her and shouted at her.

  ‘Where is he? Where’s Mr Ivory?’

  Judith bristled, but averted her eyes and fixed them instead on her stitchwork. ‘Why are you asking me where he is?’

  ‘Because you’ve been like a vixen on heat with him, that’s why. Now, where is he? Do you not know how important all this is?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘Well, you look as guilty as a dog with a string of sausages.’

  Boltfoot came up to them. ‘Hush, Jane. I’m sure if Judith knows anything she’ll tell us.’ He smiled at the girl and lowered his voice. ‘You wouldn’t want anything to happen to him, would you?’

  She looked up from her sewing. Her mouth was turned down. It occurred to Boltfoot that she had been crying. Jane saw it, too.

  ‘What is it, Judith? You must tell me if something has happened.’

  ‘She won’t tell anyone,’ their mother said from the far side of the room, where she was knitting a cap for one of the children. ‘Been
like a dumb mule since she came in an hour ago. I don’t like it, Jane.’

  Jane knelt beside her sister and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Has he done something to you, Jude?’

  Judith fell forward, sobbing, into her sister’s arms.

  ‘There, there, little sister.’

  Boltfoot saw a spare stool by the fire and went to sit on it. He leant forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. Women’s tears were a thing he found hard to cope with at the best of times, but in his present condition, it was beyond him.

  ‘I had thought he loved … liked me. But he only wanted me for one thing.’

  Tom Cawston stood up from the seat where he was drinking his evening beer. He shook his fist and beer slopped from his tankard. ‘I’ll kill him. Never mind Cecil or the Council, I’ll have his balls for pig fodder if he’s used a girl of mine dishonestly.’

  ‘Oh no, it’s nothing like that, Father. I know what you’re thinking and it’s not that.’

  ‘Then what, Jude?’ Jane said gently.

  ‘Oh I feel such a fool, Jane. He asked me to come to him quietly and show him the tavern over in Sudbury where they have the games, the ones the constable knows nothing about, or pretends not to. The Black Moth—’

  ‘How do you know about that place, young woman?’ her father demanded.

  ‘Some of the boys go there, when they have a few pence. I got ears, Father. Soon as I got him there, he just walked in and left me outside.’

  Boltfoot was already up from the stool, his hand gripped firmly around the stock of his caliver. ‘I’m going there now.’

  ‘You can’t, Boltfoot,’ Jane said. ‘You’re sick.’

  ‘I’ll be sicker still if anything happens to that stoat of a man.’

  Shakespeare was sweating and dusty when he entered the bedchamber at Lathom House. He glanced over at Dee, who was studying some book or map, and looked up, unsmiling. Shakespeare nodded to him in acknowledgment, then sat on a stool and pulled off his boots.

  Dee rose from the table and stood to his full height. He was a tall man, with an elegant bearing.