Shakespeare let the matter pass. ‘Well, get on with your work, Goody Barrow. I want this body stripped.’
He drank beer and watched the goodwife go about her work. She was adept at removing the clothes with due reverence and cleaning the body with care.
While she worked, Shakespeare went over to the pile of clothes the goodwife had placed, neatly folded, on the floor and he picked up the dead man’s doublet. He felt it carefully with the tips of his fingers, then sliced open the bottom seam with his poniard. Slipping his fingers up into the stuffing, he found a paper and withdrew it.
The goodwife looked over at him with curiosity and something else – fear, perhaps?
The paper was folded, stitched and had a wax seal. Shakespeare cut it open. It was a letter, written in a small, neat hand. It was addressed to ‘His Eminence WCA’. A name sprang to mind instantly – William Cardinal Allen, foremost of the English Catholics in exile and responsible for sending dozens of young men to martyrdom in their homeland. It was a poor way to disguise his name. Who but a cardinal was addressed as His Eminence? Shakespeare read on, for the remainder of the letter was not obviously encoded.
‘On arriving in Lancashire at the end of my long journey from Rome, I was heartened by the generosity of the reception from people great and low. All here hunger for the mass and are happy to receive me into their dwellings, so that I never have fear of discovery. My arrival has been the happiest possible, inspiring and cheering the flock in equal measure, for though there is less to fear here than in other parts of this benighted isle, yet they have felt dismayed and abandoned by the Church …’
So the letter went on, detailing the joys and tribulations of the priest’s mission in England. Shakespeare had seen many such intercepted letters from Jesuits and seminary priests to their controllers in Rome and Rheims. They were always careful not to divulge names, places or dates, and this was no exception. Their codes were subtle, so that there seemed to be no code. However, one phrase towards the end leapt out from the parchment.
‘As to the great enterprise, all is not well. We must pray, and hope, for better times ahead.’
The great enterprise? King Philip of Spain had described his Armada invasion plans as the Enterprise of England.
Shakespeare’s jaw stiffened. He read the words again, then stuffed the paper in his own doublet, bade Mistress Barrow good day and took horse for Lathom House.
Chapter 6
THE HOUSE SOON came into view. It seemed to Shakespeare that it spilt across the landscape like a sleeping dragon. Its grey towers and turrets were the horns and its embattlements were the spikes and notches of the spine. The place was immense – on a scale with the magnificent Windsor Castle, and of similar appearance. No wonder men spoke of it as the Northern Court.
By now, Shakespeare was almost asleep in the saddle, but he reined in his mount and took a few moments to gaze on the scene. His eyes alighted on a small encampment of brightly hued tents that dotted the parkland outside the moat, not far from the main drawbridge and portcullis gate. Men milled about, cooked over open fires and smoked pipes. Outside a larger canvas pavilion, a group of half a dozen men were acting out a play of some sort. Shakespeare squinted into the evening sun. Among the players, he thought he spied the upright form and dark, swept-back hair of his brother.
As he steered the flea-bitten horse through the tents and heavy wagons he reflected: after all, why should Will not be here? He had often played with Lord Strange’s Men, now, after Strange’s accession to the earldom, known as Derby’s Men. The earl had helped foster Will’s career for many years.
Will held the playbook and seemed to be leading a rehearsal. When he looked up and saw his brother, he put up a hand for the players to take a break and walked over to him, smiling.
‘Have you come all this way to see us perform, John?’
Shakespeare laughed and slid from the horse. He embraced his brother, then stood back to look at him.
‘I would, of course, go to the Moluccas to see you. But not in this instance. I have other concerns. You appear well, brother.’
‘Well, it is always a pleasant part of England to spend a few days. The theatres in London and Southwark open and then close, then open again, then close. These plague years will do for us. In the meanwhile, my lord of Derby begged a light confection to cheer him, so I have brought a tale of faeries and spells and midsummer in the woods. I hope he will like it well.’
‘When is it to be performed?’
‘It was to have been this evening, here among these trees, but his lordship is indisposed with some sickness, so we must wait another day.’
‘Well, I hope it will be my good fortune to see you play. But for now, I must go and pay my respects.’
The drawbridge was overgrown with weeds, as if it was never raised. Likewise, the portcullis was rusted solid up in its casing. As for Lathom House itself, it seemed out of its time, built for a more elegant age of warfare. Its crenellations, towers and castle keep spoke of knights and chivalry and boulders flung by trebuchet, not this modern era of gunshot and cannonfire. Turreted ramparts could not withstand a barrage of cannonballs. Fortifications now were squat and brutish, with massive curtain walls, twenty or thirty feet thick, and solid bastions to cover against attack from every corner.
Shakespeare led his horse across the drawbridge and through the portcullis gate. A guard glanced peremptorily at his letters patent and signalled to a fellow guard to escort him in. Shakespeare handed the reins of the post-horse to a groom and followed the guard into the castle grounds. They walked briskly across a cobbled way to a grand doorway, which gave on to a long, handsome hall, to the left of the keep.
A liveried servant admitted Shakespeare to the hall, which was oak-panelled and high, emblazoned with coats of arms on the walls. The most obvious of these, the one that greeted him as he entered, was the eagle and child, like the inn sign at Ormskirk: this was the coat of arms of the Stanleys, the family name of the earls of Derby.
‘I shall bring his lordship’s steward to you straightway, Mr Shakespeare,’ the servant said.
The household steward arrived quickly. A man of thirty or so, he had greying black hair and a clean-shaven face. He was attired all in black, like the lawyers Shakespeare once studied among at Gray’s Inn, before Walsingham took him on as an intelligencer – work far more suited to him than the world of dusty books. The steward introduced himself as Cole and apologised to Shakespeare that the earl was indisposed.
‘I understand you have letters patent from Sir Robert Cecil. My lord of Derby will certainly wish to see you when he is well, but I fear he is presently most grievously ill. In the meantime, I shall try to find her ladyship, Mr Shakespeare, for I know she will wish to receive you and welcome you. I shall have refreshment sent to you while you wait.’
‘Thank you, Mr Cole.’
Wine and dainty dishes arrived. Shakespeare sat on a settle and picked at the food. Outside, through the window, he saw the sky darkening. Twilight. He had been on the move since before dawn and much had happened. Just as his eyelids were growing heavy, the Countess of Derby appeared, followed by three giggling girl children whose ages seemed to range from about twelve to six, all attired in fashionable taffeta, creamy white with silver threads.
Shakespeare stood up and bowed low. The Countess of Derby was dark-haired with spotless skin and a gracious smile. He had seen her at court before she was married, in the days when she went by her given name, Alice Spencer. He recalled her close friendship with the Queen and their shared interest in plays and poetry. She smiled at him, then looked at her daughters and clapped her hands.