‘I CANNOT STAY here, Jane,’ Boltfoot said. ‘I will go mad.’
‘You know you must stay here, to protect Mr Ivory. Where else would you go?’
‘I know not, but I must take him away. I do not like being indoors while he remains out. And I am concerned about Judith and her foolish attachment to him.’
‘That is just a miserly excuse, Mr Cooper, and you know it. She is a pretty young woman and he is a man. It is the way of the world, no more.’
‘It’s not healthy, Jane, and I won’t have it. The man’s a dog. Never did I meet a seafaring man with such sly ways.’
They were in their cramped little chamber, in the early evening. Baby John slept in his crib. From below, the sounds of the family reverberated through the old walls. This feeling of Boltfoot’s had been building all day.
Jane stroked her husband’s face. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Boltfoot. There’s a farmer in the next village who used to be friendly. Maybe he’ll let you and Mr Ivory stay in his barn.’
Boltfoot rubbed his arm across his brow. It was hot in here and he was sweating. His throat and bones ached. He needed fresh air.
What he could not tell Jane was that he was eaten away by terror. He was not a man who felt fear for himself, but the safety of his wife, son and their other charges was another matter. And fear was gnawing at his heart like a deadly black canker. They weren’t safe here. Ivory wasn’t safe. The whole Cawston family was not safe. He had seen nothing suspicious, but this instinct of the gut had saved him on more than one occasion when faced with enemy shot or arrows in the Pacific isles. He had to go. Tonight preferably, tomorrow at the latest.
Walter Weld sat motionless astride his bay mare. He watched from the distance of a furlong as John Shakespeare strode across the outer courtyard towards the stable block. Weld’s hand went to the pistol in his belt, but he did not draw it.
The presence of Shakespeare made things less simple. Two strong-armed men now guarded Dee. They would have to be blown away with pistol shot. It would be messy, and the abduction would be met by a hue and cry. Well, so be it. There were ways to get Dee away, get him to a place near by where he could be interrogated and his secrets drawn from him. The cause of Spain and God had friends enough in this county.
Weld took a last look at Cecil’s man, then wheeled the mare’s head and kicked on. This was no place to be today.
Unable to find Walter Weld, Shakespeare talked with men around the stables.
‘Aye, he’s the Gentleman of the Horse,’ said the head groom, a man with a tongue as loose in his mouth as his belt was tight about his girth. ‘Gone riding, most like.’ His voice lowered. ‘But I can tell you, master, that we have heard rumours bruited about. Folks say Mr Weld is a most devotional Catholic gentleman.’
‘That does not seem to be a rarity in these parts.’
‘No, but it is the manner of his devotions that has made men talk. Some say he is Christ’s fellow, a boy-priest.’
Shakespeare understood the insinuation. ‘Is there anyone in particular, any man, to whom he is close?’
The groom shook his head. ‘I do not know, master.’
‘Think carefully.’
‘No, sir, no names come to mind.’
‘What sort of man is Mr Weld?’
‘Good with horses. Can pacify a nervy one. Gentle hands. A lean, well-formed man, always wears fine clothes. He is a fair master, but aloof. He likes the horses, but does not converse much with me or the lads.’
‘And his family?’
‘You’ll have to ask him that. All I can tell you is that he’s not from Lancashire. Comes from somewhere in the southern shires, I believe. I cannot tell you more, for I know no more. He has not been here longer than a six-month.’
‘Take me to his chamber.’
The head groom eyed Shakespeare, but then shrugged his shoulders. ‘As you wish, sir. Follow me.’
They went to Weld’s room close by the stable block. It was protected by a heavy door, which was locked.
‘Do you have the key, master groom?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, tell Mr Weld when he returns that John Shakespeare would speak with him on urgent business. He will find me in the great house.’
Young Andrew Woode had known much unhappiness. First the death of his mother, then of his father and, finally, the loss of Catherine Shakespeare, who had been like a second mother to him. It could not have occurred to him that life could get worse.
Hubert Penn was gazing at him in that unsettling way he had. At seventeen, he was four years older than Andrew and was in his second year at St John’s. Andrew tried not to meet his eye, for he did not like what he saw there.
Fitzherbert, their tutor, came into the room.
‘Have you scholars done your exercises? I did not see you in the quadrangle.’
‘I have, Mr Fitzherbert, but Woode hasn’t.’
‘But I have run for a quarter of the clock, Mr Fitzherbert!’
‘Are you calling Penn a liar?’
‘No, sir, but he is mistaken.’
‘You will run until the clock strikes nine, then you will continue with your studies by candlelight – and pray for an hour before bed.’
‘Yes, master,’ Andrew said.
He knew that if he argued, the alternative would be a great deal worse: a birch-rod flogging, half-rations for a week and the chores of every boy in the dormitory. He looked across at Hubert Penn, expecting to see him smirk. But his handsome face had the innocent cast of an angel.
‘And you, Penn,’ Fitzherbert said, ‘shall have the privilege of sharing the comfort of my cot this night as reward for your honest dealing.’
A low stage had been erected close to the west wall of Lathom House among the grove of parkland trees. The evening was fine. Honoured guests from Ormskirk and the surrounding villages were arriving and quickly filling the audience enclosure.
They had been summoned in great haste, but none refused the invitation. All wanted to see the wondrous new play presented by the Earl of Derby’s company. They wished, also, to pay their respects to the earl, their liege lord. But most of all, they were eager to see for themselves if the stories spoken abroad were true: that he had been bewitched and was now but a shadow of a man.
John Shakespeare leant idly against the trunk of an ash tree and watched. He held a silver goblet of Gascon wine, rich and unsweetened. Bluecoats flitted here and there with drinks and delicacies. He almost laughed as he saw a local dignitary hesitate before accepting a sweetmeat, as though fearful that it might be poisoned or cursed. Lathom House was gaining an unfortunate reputation.
Suddenly the world went dark. Instinctively, Shakespeare’s own hands went up to throw off the two that were covering his eyes. As he did so, he saw they were small, feminine and neatly encased in soft cream gloves. He spun around. It was Lady Eliska. She smiled. The monkey on her shoulder bared its sharp little teeth at Shakespeare. It wore a collar around its neck studded with gemstones that looked very much like diamonds.
‘Mr Shakespeare, I told you we should meet again. And here we are.’
He bowed. ‘Madame. Lady Eliska.’
‘We met in sad circumstances.’ Her voice was husky and rich. ‘It is pleasant to meet again in these more benign surroundings.’
‘Indeed.’ He fished into his doublet. ‘And I bring you tidings from an old friend.’
He handed her the letter entrusted to him by Sir Thomas Heneage. She took it with a frown, then saw the distinctive red seal and smiled.
‘Why, thank you, Mr Shakespeare. This is most welcome. I shall read it in due course, in the privacy of my chamber.’
‘You will be pleased to know that he was in good health and spirits when I saw him most recently.’
As he spoke, Shakespeare could not help but be entranced by her appearance. She wore a slender-waisted gown of gold and black. The golden bodice descended dramatically to a sharp-pointed stomacher; the sleeves were black, cuffed with gold braid and a ring of intricate lace. At her neck was a small white ruff, delicate and unstarched, revealing her inviting and flawless skin. Her hair, uncapped now, was fair and Shakespeare fancied she might be Germanic, though her pronounced cheekbones suggested some Slav blood. She was exquisite.