‘Well, how is he?’
‘Alive, Mr Cooper. But he does not move.’
‘Are his bones broken?’
‘I cannot tell.’
‘I’m going to throw down one end of the rope. You will loop it under his arms. If you do that faithfully and assist me to raise him, and if he survives this night and regains his mind, then I promise you in the name of Christ that you will live, too. You know the alternative.’
Boltfoot tossed down his makeshift rope, holding one end back, looped tight around his wrist so that no sudden tug should let it slip from his grasp. Stonebreaker raised Ivory’s head and fed the rope under his arms.
‘Be careful with him,’ Boltfoot ordered sharply.
‘I am being as careful as I can, Mr Cooper.’
‘Now put a good knot in it, as if you were tethering a farm beast. A knot that won’t slip.’ He looked down at Stonebreaker’s work. It was dark in the trench and difficult to see much, even by moonlight. ‘Is that strong?’
‘Yes. Strong enough.’
‘Lift him to his feet, like a sack. Then the horse will drag him up.’
‘What about me?’
‘You stay down there till I tell you otherwise.’
Boltfoot attached his end of the rope to the horse’s saddle strap, then drove it forward. Ivory came up from the trench easily and lay, still, on the grassy verge of the ditch. Boltfoot went back to him and listened to his breathing. Even in this dim light, he could see that he had been badly beaten. His face was swollen and bruised, his eyes puffed up. Blood crusted around his mouth. Boltfoot’s hand slid across Ivory’s ribcage and felt the comforting tubular mound of the perspective glass. It seemed to be intact. Thanks be to God. What was it John Shakespeare had said before sending him on this mission? Do all in your power to keep the glass safe and Ivory alive. But remember this: the instrument is more important than the man.
Boltfoot undid the cord from about Ivory’s armpits and shoulders. He held a flask to his lips and poured a little clean water into his parched mouth. Ivory groaned, but his eyes did not open.
Stonebreaker was trying in vain to scramble out from the ditch. Boltfoot stood and watched him as he slid back down the slippery sides, bringing a tumble of mud cascading down with him. Boltfoot laughed, though it hurt his throat.
‘I would leave you there, except I have one more task for you. Here.’
He flung the end of the rope to him, then led the horse forward again, pulling Stonebreaker up.
He lay on the earth, panting.
‘Get up. I want you to put Mr Ivory over my horse.’
Stonebreaker stumbled to his feet. ‘Why should I do that?’
‘You have been a sound man thus far, Mr Stonebreaker – like a mule and almost as clever. Don’t do anything foolish now and make me spill more of your blood.’
Stonebreaker wiped his bare arm across his damaged face where Boltfoot’s gun had struck him. ‘It wasn’t just me, you know.’
‘I do realise that, Mr Stonebreaker, but, in faith, I care not.’
‘There were six of us. He cheated us all, took our money by trickery.’
‘I’m sure I would have done the same to him myself. I am not judge, nor jury. But whatever he has done, I must have him back, for reasons that I am not at liberty to explain. Now put him on the horse and be done with talking.’
Stonebreaker grumbled, but his eyes never left Boltfoot’s formidable array of weapons and he did as he was told, lifting Ivory like a sack and slinging him over the horse. There was no smirk on his face now.
‘You’re as strong as your name, Mr Stonebreaker. Well done. But I fear I shall now have to ask you to stand against yonder tree.’
Once again, he did as ordered. Boltfoot tied him securely, but not so tight as to hurt him. ‘You will doubtless be found soon after daybreak.’
‘God blind you, Cooper.’
‘And you will see that, unlike Ivory, I am not a cheat, nor a thief, for I have left you bound with your own clothes. A little sewing should fix them well enough.’
Chapter 17
‘ARE YOU NOT wearied by this tedious place, Mr Shakespeare? Since your brother left, there is no amusement, no diversion. The gloom of death hangs heavy over the house, like a shroud.’
Shakespeare did not answer her. He had barely had time to think these past days as he questioned the estate workers and household retainers. Most seemed scared, but that was not surprising. Most believed the earl bewitched and they were not slow in accusing Dee.
Eliska lounged on a cushion-spread settle, her full gold and silver dress splayed out around her, with her monkey perched on the board near her head, its little hands clasping a nut kernel to its mouth. The rain had returned and they were sitting closeted in the withdrawing room with Dr Dee after a supper of roast waterfowl. A fire in the hearth spread fragrance and warmth around the small, candlelit room.
‘And you, Dr Dee?’ she demanded. ‘What do you do all day?’
Dee shot a glance at Shakespeare. ‘I read, my dear Eliska. And write a little. In my chamber. I agree with you, Lathom House has lost its lustre.’
Shakespeare had pressed Dowty again, and had talked at length with the grooms and other staff members. They insisted they had nothing more to tell him. He had searched Walter Weld’s room but everything was gone. The hue and cry had been to no avail. Both Weld and the horse had disappeared without trace.
Shakespeare had ridden out to Knowsley once more and had tramped for hours through the dank woods, but still could find no proof of the existence of a wild woman, nor any clue to the sickness of the earl. But he had discovered one piece of information, from Cole: before coming to Lathom House, Richard Hesketh had gone home to his wife, a day’s journey to the north. Any man would have done the same after years of exile, but Shakespeare’s curiosity was stirred. He wished to speak to Mistress Hesketh.
If time dripped slowly for Dee and Eliska, it raced by like a storm for Shakespeare. In his few quiet moments, late at night, he studied the original copy of the Lamb letter. If it was encoded, he could not see it, but such things were not his skill.
He badly wanted to get Dee away from here and make his way south but he could not leave until Joshua Peace arrived and cast his expert eye over the earl. He knew well that Cecil would expect him to stay until this was resolved. If only Joshua Peace would come.
‘How fares my lord, the earl?’ Dee said now, as if reading Shakespeare’s thoughts.
‘He is alive. That is all I can say.’
‘I pray to God he survives.’
Shakespeare looked at him. ‘Do you, Dr Dee? Do you, indeed?’
‘Why, yes, Mr Shakespeare. The earl is my friend. What are you suggesting?’
‘I wonder about your connection to this place, that is all.’
‘Please explain yourself.’
Shakespeare shrugged. ‘Very well, I will. You come to Lathom saying you have an interest in the living at Manchester collegiate church, which you believe may be offered to you. You also have a treasure chart that, in itself, is of no interest to me. But your choice of companion in your quest intrigues me greatly: Mr Bartholomew Ickman, who has himself disappeared. And then there is the fact that you were once a close friend and colleague of Richard Hesketh, the man brought to his doom by a letter handed to him by Ickman to be delivered to the earl. Now, do you not think that a mighty curious set of intertwined circumstances? Like a wild briar, so entangled that it is impossible to sort the stems from the main plant. I might even suspect a conspiracy to poison. Would it not suit you and Ickman to destroy the earl in revenge for your friend Hesketh’s death?’
Dee spluttered as if he would explode. ‘Mr Shakespeare, this is a calumny! You condemn a man because he knows people. This is egregious absurdity, sir.’
Eliska clapped her hands. ‘Well said, Dr Dee. You could have been a lawyer.’ As she applauded, her monkey clapped its little hands, too.
‘Then tell me about Richard He
sketh,’ Shakespeare said. ‘Was he a traitor or a dupe?’
Dee was up from his settle now and pacing. He stopped and faced Shakespeare, then shook his head. ‘Richard was always rash and headstrong, but the answer is that I do not know. I would like to think that he was a dupe, carrying a letter in all innocence, but I cannot say that with confidence. The court said he had confessed to being a traitor … but which of us knows the true heart of man?’
And which of us, thought Shakespeare, would not confess to anything – even at the cost of life itself – when faced with the rack? Put your hand to this paper or we will subject you to pain beyond enduring and we will destroy your manhood. You will sign in the end, after much pain, or you can sign now, without pain. Some choice.
Alice, the Countess of Derby, had looked in on them during dinner and had apologised for the poor performance of her duties as a host. She had touched Shakespeare on his shoulder and said quietly in his ear, ‘A priest came to my husband. Thank you, Mr Shakespeare. It has brought Ferdinando comfort. He would like to see you again, too.’
‘Shall I go to him now?’
‘Later. He is sleeping.’
Now, in this withdrawing room, the air suppurated with dread. Waiting, impotently, for the death of a young man, one of the noblest and must cultured of this age. Dee gazed out of the leaded window into the wind-lashed rain. Eliska studied her fingernails. Shakespeare stared into nothingness, trying to unravel the intricate knots of this tangled affair. As one knot came free, so another seemed to form. Motives and suspects. He had those a-plenty. But no evidence, no proof. No certainty, even, that a crime had been committed.
The door opened and Cole stepped in. ‘Mr Shakespeare, your friend Mr Peace has arrived.’
Shakespeare was up from the settle instantly. This was what he had been waiting for. There was no man better versed in the science of the body than Joshua Peace.
Cole stepped aside and Peace stood in the doorway. He was drenched and muddy. He saw Shakespeare and they strode towards each other and clasped hands in salutation.
‘Thank God you’re here, Joshua. Never have I needed your services and knowledge more.’
‘Do I have time to dry myself and take victuals before we talk?’
Shakespeare smiled. ‘Half an hour. No more.’ He looked towards Cole. ‘Please find Mr Peace a chamber, fresh clothes and whatever he requires to eat and drink.’
Andrew shivered in the cool, damp, evening air as he stood outside the gatehouse of St John’s. His wrists were bound behind his back. He was tethered to the iron latch of the door like a beast.
A manciple, or college servant, stood stiffly to attention, watching over him. ‘Well, Master Woode,’ the manciple said, ‘the outlook is bleak for you. I think they will take you from the assizes and hang you by the neck.’
Andrew ignored him. He had seen the man about the college but did not know his name. He was unremarkable, of middle years with thin hair and a flattened nose.
‘A right shame, I call it. Young lad like you, going to meet almighty God before your time. The tipstaff will be along any minute to collect you, then you will be taken to the town gaol to await your fate.’
‘But I haven’t done anything!’
‘Caught red-hand, they say. Caught red-hand in a diabolical felony.’
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘Tell that to the judge then. He won’t listen, you know. Judges are there to ensure the guilty are convicted and the innocent hanged.’
All the while he was talking, the manciple was behind Andrew, tugging at the ropes that bound him. Andrew shied away at his touch and the man laughed. Suddenly Andrew realised he was loosening the cords.
‘Now then, Master Woode,’ the manciple said at last, standing back and grinning. ‘It looks to me like they should have bound you better before delivering you to me. I’m going to get my ale from my table. There’s a big world outside these doors. I suggest you make haste to discover it. If you’re still here when I return, there’s nothing more I can do for you.’
‘Thank you,’ Andrew said, rubbing his released hands together.
‘Oh, don’t thank me, young master. Your troubles are only just beginning. Go on, lad. Get you gone.’
Shakespeare and Joshua Peace, the Searcher of the Dead at St Paul’s, London, stood together inside the earl’s chamber. The earl’s eyes were closed and he lay deep and small in the bedding, which was stained with stinking blood and vomit. His breathing was shallow and infrequent.
Peace approached the bed. His gentle hands felt the earl’s brow. With his fingertips he opened the eyes and looked closely at them. He smelled the earl’s breath and brushed his fingers across the thin, dry skin. Picking up a stained silver bowl, he examined the contents, the paltry blood-dark liquid that the earl had most recently brought up. There could be little left inside him. He was so wasted, there seemed to be little of him left at all.
The three doctors had been dismissed by the earl, never to return. Only Mistress Knott remained, her mouth still moving but no sound emanating. Joshua Peace went over to her and clasped her hands. He spoke to her quietly.
‘Can you tell me what you have given his lordship?’
‘Herbs. Good herbs. Spleenwort and feverfew, as I told Mr Shakespeare, but also meadowsweet and willow bark, to soothe and ease his suffering. There is no magic here.’
‘No. That is good. And I am told the earl believes himself beguiled.’
‘I think I am losing the battle, master. The spell is too powerful for me.’
‘Well, do what you can, Mistress Knott. I believe your presence can only help.’
Peace gripped her hands once more, then nodded to Shakespeare. They stepped from the room.
‘The smell, Joshua. I swear it is worse than your crypt beneath St Paul’s. I never understood how you endured the stench of rotting corpses.’
Peace laughed. ‘It does not offend me, John. It is naught but nature, doing her work.’
Shakespeare studied his old friend. Though his circular rim of hair seemed thinner each time he saw him, he looked hale and strong. Joshua had to keep his health to carry out his duties, examining bodies for signs of crime and its causes. It was a difficult task, and one that became no easier in these cruel days of conspiracy, famine and plague.
They went to Peace’s chamber. A glass flask of brandy had been left with small glasses. Peace poured them each a measure.
‘Ah, that is a fine spirit,’ Peace said as the brandy slid down his gullet. ‘Most welcome.’
‘I called on you because I could think of no finer mind. The physicians here were dolts.’ Shakespeare paused. ‘Perhaps I was wrong to send for you. It must seem strange to you to examine a man while he yet lives.’
‘Not so strange. Death is but the blow of a candle’s flame. The candle still looks very much the same whether lit or not. However, I do fear the earl is soon to be snuffed.’
‘Can you do nothing to save him?’
Peace shook his dead decisively.
‘What of bezoar stone?’
‘You obviously think him poisoned, John.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘It seems a likely cause, yes. But would I think it if the man were not a premier earl with a claim to the throne of England? I am not so sure.’
‘But he is so close to death – surely it is worth trying anything? If we could find bezoar … it is said to be the antidote to all poison.’
‘Have you heard of the French physician and surgeon Paré?’
‘No.’
‘Twenty years ago, Ambroise Paré experimented with the stone. He gave it to a criminal who had agreed to be poisoned rather than face the hangman’s noose. The stone made no difference at all. The poisoned man died, just as he would have done without the bezoar. He would have had a quicker, less painful death on the scaffold. Unfortunately, there are still many coneys who believe in the bezoar’s efficacy. The sort of person who buys relics and believes in astrology.’
‘So you call me a coney, Joshua.’
‘I apologise. That was not what I meant. It is just that I believe in what I can see, or what I can prove. And the bezoar has been disproven.’
‘Well, what I can see – but not prove – is that the Earl of Derby is very likely poisoned. I would to God there was something we could do for him.’
‘But there is not. He is a mere breath from death.’
Shakespeare poured the brandy down his throat.
Peace sat on the edge of his bed. His eyelids drooped and he tried to stifle a yawn. ‘I must sleep now, John. I am so tired, my senses are closing down.’
‘One more question. Can you tell me which poison, if any, might have caused this? Is it arsenic, belladona?’
‘Has the earl been lucid all these days?’
‘He has. At one stage he seemed cured. Everyone rejoiced and he joined in a festive occasion. Then, before the evening was out, the deadly pain and vomiting returned.’
‘There could be many causes. Had it been later in the year – autumn – I might have suspected a lethal mushroom such as Death’s Cap. Only a small amount needs to be ingested. It has a pleasant scent and flavour and is easily mistaken for a good eating mushroom. It takes a week or two to kill and the victims retain their wits throughout. They also go through a stage when they feel themselves cured, and give thanks to God, only for the sickness to return, yet more horrible than before.’
‘But it is not autumn.’
‘And so there are no Death’s Cap mushrooms to be had. But, John, I must tell you straight, that the mushroom – or any other poison – is but one possibility. From what I have seen there really is no reason to believe this is other than a natural rupture of the entrails. I swear such ailments of the gut kill more people than warfare, plague and famine combined – and they strike young and old with equal ferocity.’
Shakespeare nodded. Peace spoke sense, but his words solved nothing.
‘I will let you sleep now, Joshua. Let us talk more in the morning.’
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