‘Of course. I shall send Robert Hearnshaw. He knows the road well and can ride by the most slender of moons. He has made London in thirty-five hours.’
‘Tell him to better that time. And I will need your second-best rider to take a note to Sir Robert Cecil. Give me a quill and parchment. I must write letters.’
Shakespeare sat at the table and dipped the quill in ink as Cole went to the door and ordered a servant to summon the riders and have the horses saddled. Shakespeare wrote fast.
‘Joshua, there is a matter of utmost urgency. I believe my lord of Derby has been poisoned. There is foul sickness, rust-red, voiding of the bowels, much pain and inability to piss. Yet he is lucid. There is no other I can trust in this and none here who can help. Come immediately with the messenger. Your friend, John Shakespeare.’
He folded and sealed the paper and turned to the next note to Cecil, which was more circumspect.
‘His lordship, the Earl of Derby, is sick and in mortal peril. I have sent to Mr Peace for assistance and will, meanwhile, do all in my power to secure the best physicians here present. Dr Dee is in good health and close-guarded. Your true servant, John Shakespeare.’
He also scratched out a copy of the letter he had found in Father Lamb’s doublet, added a discreet note explaining its provenance, and sealed it into his own letter.
Hearnshaw arrived, already booted and hurriedly pulling on his leather riding jerkin and a waxed cape. Shakespeare handed him the sealed letter for Peace and gave him instructions on how to find him, then handed him two small gold coins.
‘Now go with the speed of a falcon, Mr Hearnshaw, and return as swift. Your lord’s life may well depend on it. There will be more gold if I see you soon enough.’
The rider bowed and left, at a run, just as the other messenger appeared and took the second letter, addressed to Cecil.
Shakespeare breathed deeply. He realised he still had not slept. Outside the window, darkness had fallen. There were still matters to be settled.
‘The countess promised me guards for Dr Dee.’
‘They are already with him, awaiting your further instructions.’
‘Would you trust them with your life?’
‘I would, sir.’
‘Good. Now tell me, Mr Cole, what has been happening here at Lathom House? Who is that woman in the earl’s bedchamber?’
‘She is Mistress Knott, a wise woman from the village. His lordship has consulted her before. He demanded her presence as soon as the sickness came on. I believe there is no harm in her.’
‘Consulted her before, you say?’
‘He has asked her for propitious days – for travelling, for his daughters’ christenings, for the beginning of building works on his houses—’
‘This is monstrous, Mr Cole. He dabbles in the occult!’
Cole looked stiff and uneasy. ‘She insists she is no witch, Mr Shakespeare, but a Christian lady, battling the dark arts.’
‘Well, she talks like a witch – tales of giants and wax dolls and crones in the forest. I want her out of that room.’
Cole sighed deeply. ‘We all do, master, particularly the physicians, for they feel hampered and crossed in their efforts while she is there. Her ladyship, the countess, is most distressed by the woman’s presence. But the earl will not listen. He is convinced he has been beguiled and considers her his only hope.’
‘But you believe him poisoned.’
‘I fear it is a grave possibility.’
Shakespeare saw the tension within the steward. Tension and something else – despair, perhaps. He was close to the edge. Shakespeare turned away. He had many questions to ask, but first he needed sleep.
Walter Weld had hoped it would not come to this. Trayne should have secured the perspective glass in Portsmouth; he had failed, but there was still the matter of Dr Dee. The earl had been conveniently biddable when Weld had suggested inviting the old alchemist to Lathom House. And so here he was, and he was vulnerable.
Weld paced his room close to the stables, alone. Trayne was in a house in a village three miles away. The widow who tended his wound had no idea who he was, only that he was a Catholic gentleman in need of assistance. She would ask no questions, and she would tell no one that he was there. And soon, pray God, he would be well.
In truth, Trayne’s recovery could not come quickly enough. He could not abduct Dee alone. The holy fool Lamb was dead, so there was no help to be had there. Not that Lamb had ever been of much use: too interested in saving souls to care much for the hard business of insurrection. Lamb would never have countenanced an act such as the abduction of Dr Dee.
There was urgency now, for the earl was fading fast and the great house was in disarray. The moment might very soon be lost. There was more: he had heard from the grooms that a new guest had arrived, one John Shakespeare. It was a name he knew. Shakespeare was an intelligencer close to Cecil, right at the centre of power.
Weld smiled to himself as he pulled on his boots. It was time to take a look at this new arrival.
Chapter 9
OXX AND GODWIT presented the most comforting tableau Shakespeare had seen all day. Heavily armed, strong and immovable, they stood outside Dee’s door to ensure none could pass. They eyed Shakespeare with suspicion.
‘I am John Shakespeare. I will sleep within.’
Oxx, the bigger of the two men, shook his close-shaven, thick-bearded head. His name suited him well, for his shoulders had the breadth and power of an ox-yoke. ‘Not until we know for sure that you are who you say you are.’
At that moment, Cole appeared at the top of the staircase. ‘All is well, Oxx, this is indeed Mr Shakespeare. He is to be admitted.’
‘I am the only person to be admitted. At any time. Unless you have my permission, Mr Oxx,’ Shakespeare said. ‘Do you both understand? No one. No exceptions. Not even Mr Cole here.’
Oxx hesitated, looked at Godwit, then at their master, Cole.
‘Do exactly as Mr Shakespeare orders, Oxx,’ Cole said, though he sounded a little put out. ‘He is here on Queen’s business.’
‘Thank you, Mr Cole. Should there be developments before dawn in the matter of his lordship’s sickness, wake me.’
Below them, in the hall, Shakespeare saw two figures walk towards the doors. A man and a woman. He recognised instantly the strange, beautiful woman from the coach. The man with her was slender and handsome, with light brown hair and elegant clothes. Her hand touched his arm. He turned and looked up. His eye caught Shakespeare’s before he looked away and pushed his way through the door with the woman in his wake.
‘What man was that, Mr Cole?’
‘Walter Weld, sir. He is master of the horse to his lordship.’
‘And the woman with him, what are they to each other?’
‘Her name is Lady Eliska. To my knowledge there is no connection between them.’
‘Is Mr Weld new here?’
‘A few months – since last autumn time.’
‘I would speak to him tomorrow. And I would speak to the lady. I wish to interview anyone newly arrived here.’
‘Weld has apartments beside the stable block. You will find him there unless he is riding. Lady Eliska has rooms in the house. She is a stranger to this country and a guest of the earl and countess. Most of the retainers have been with the family for many years, though Mr Dowty in the kitchens is quite recent.’
Dr Dee was awake, his tall frame hunched at the table, studying by candlelight. He seemed to be looking at some chart or map. He smiled at Shakespeare diffidently.