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?’