Rory Clements - Traitor

‘And overseeing it all, smirking, talking to one another and idly smoking their pipes, were the judges at this court of the damned: Thomas Hesketh of the Duchy of Lancaster and one Bartholomew Ickman, whom I believe you know. When he saw me, he winked, and his lips moved, saying, “You next.” His tongue seemed to flick like a viper’s. I fled Lancashire within the hour and have been expecting death every minute since.’

A little way upstream from Chelsea, at Mortlake, the oarsmen eased their tilt-boat into the landing stage. Shakespeare ordered them to wait, then stepped out. In front of him, less than a hundred yards back from the river, was an imposing house. It was a large property, almost a manor house, with exaggerated lozenge timbering and a new-thatched roof. It was not to his taste, but it was evident that a great deal of money had been spent building it, and it was in a fine position with superb views of the Thames and its adjacent meadows.

There was a bell outside the front door. He clanged it and a servant appeared within seconds. He was a young man in bright new livery of blue, with spotless white nether-stocks and good buckled shoes.

‘Is Mr Bartholomew Ickman at home?’

‘I shall endeavour to find out, master. Might I be permitted to know your name?’

‘John Shakespeare.’

The servant bowed and left him standing in the open doorway. A minute later, the servant reappeared. ‘Mr Ickman is in his solar. He will see you, sir. If you would follow me …’

Ickman was standing by a leaded window, a small volume in his hand, as though he were reading it. Shakespeare was not fooled for a moment by the studied affectation. Idly, the man looked up from his book.

‘Mr Ickman, sir, this is Mr Shakespeare.’

Ickman smiled. ‘Why, of course it is. We last met in a field in Lancashire, did we not?’ He turned to the servant. ‘Bring wine. Our best. With goblets and some cakes.’

The servant bowed preposterously low and backed out as though he was removing himself from the Queen’s presence.

‘Now then, Mr Shakespeare, how can I help you? I believe you have been spending some little time in western France. Did I not hear a whisper that you were involved in some part in England’s great victory over the Spanish at the Crozon peninsula? All London marvels and says you must soon be a minister of the crown. But what a tragedy that Admiral Frobisher should not survive to enjoy the fruits of his labours. For myself, I had rather be hanged by the neck than have a surgeon play his diabolical games with my parts.’

Shakespeare ignored him. ‘We had some unfinished business. I called on your lodgings in Ormskirk, but you had disappeared. The landlord wished very much to disembowel you as it seems you had neglected to pay the reckoning.’

Ickman laughed. ‘These northern peasants. Are they not droll?’

He was, thought Shakespeare, like a silk-skinned slow-worm, with his golden, beardless face and his exquisitely cut clothes.

‘You left in a great hurry. Where did you go?’

‘I had matters to attend to.’

‘Such as?’

‘That is my business. But I will tell you that the main reason I left Lancashire was because I was finding Dr Dee’s company exceedingly tiresome. And those brutish men you sent to accompany him, Mr Oxx and Mr Godwit. I could not hold my divining rod steady, so unnerving were they.’

‘If you found Dee’s company so tedious, why had you gone to him in the first place? Was there something about Lancashire that drew you there?’

‘What could there be about Lancashire? It is full of Papists and traitors. No place for a civilised man. The only reason I was there was that Dee and I are old friends. He has always believed I have some talent as a scryer.’

‘Ah, yes, you converse with angels.’

‘Remarkable, is it not? I can scarce believe it myself. But that was not why the good doctor wished to see me. He was in desperate need of gold, as always, and begged me to help him with my powers of divination. He had a treasure map of great antiquity.’

‘What were you hoping to gain?’ Pointedly, Shakespeare looked about the room with its sumptuous hangings and expensively carved oak furniture. ‘Surely you do not need to go on hopeless hunts for treasure. I do not take you for such a gull. The Ickman family did not get rich by hunting for buried gold or doing work without pay.’

‘Believe what you will. It was an act of charity.’

‘Nothing to do with hunting for mushrooms, then?’

‘Mushrooms? In springtime?’

‘Dried mushrooms. Death’s Cap mushrooms.’

Ickman’s eyes widened and he stepped back with exaggerated horror. ‘Dear Mr Shakespeare, what are you suggesting? Do you not realise that such things are exceeding poisonous?’

‘I am saying that you poisoned the fifth Earl of Derby. That you did so with Lady Eliska Novakova, Thomas Hesketh, Michael Dowty and others. I am saying you were part of a foul conspiracy, Ickman, and that you will hang for it.’

Ickman laughed with scorn. ‘The earl poisoned? Why, that cannot be. The commission of inquiry was quite precise on the matter. They found that he was beguiled with evil spells. Indeed, two foul witches who had copulated with the devil, prick and tail, were apprehended and justice meted out to them.’

‘Justice? You drown two women and you call that justice? And by your own twisted logic, does not the fact that they did not float prove their innocence? You are a repulsive man, Mr Ickman. And what of your dealings in the matter of the pitiable Richard Hesketh? You handed him a letter at the White Lion in Islington — a letter that brought him to the scaffold. Was that an act of charity? Or did someone pay you to do it? It sounds very close to treason to me.’

The change in Ickman’s demeanour was almost imperceptible, but Shakespeare noted it. ‘I have heard the tale, but that was not me, Mr Shakespeare. It was all made very clear at the time. As I understand it, the tavern-keeper’s boy was given the letter by a stranger to hand to Mr Hesketh. The White Lion is a pleasant inn and one that I sometimes frequent, which is why the boy was confused. He is very young and his mistake was quickly cleared up. That is the advantage of having friends at Her Majesty’s court. They can prevent miscarriages of justice.’

The servant reappeared with the wine. Shakespeare ignored the goblet offered him; he would rather sup with the anti-Christ than drink with this man.

‘Which friends, Mr Ickman?’

‘Great men, powerful men. Rest assured, Mr Shakespeare, I fear no man.’ He smiled unctuously. ‘Though perhaps you should.’

Shakespeare had had enough. His hand lashed out and gripped Ickman’s elegant, red and black doublet. ‘Do you threaten me, Ickman?’

Ickman brushed him away. He was a great deal stronger than Shakespeare had anticipated. His servant instantly appeared in the doorway with a pair of pistols, both trained on Shakespeare.

From behind the servant another figure emerged and entered the room. Shakespeare shuddered with revulsion. It was Topcliffe. Richard Topcliffe, priest-hunter, torturer and tormentor of souls. His hair was as white as a hoar frost and he leered with pleasure at Shakespeare’s discomfiture.

Ickman smiled. ‘You think you can assault me, Shakespeare? You think you can step into a man’s home and accuse him of felonies? You are treading on hot coals if you believe you can treat an Ickman so. What say you, Mr Topcliffe?’

‘I say he will burn for his temerity, Mr Ickman. Burn in hell.’

Shakespeare was appalled and yet not surprised. How could he be surprised to find Ickman close-coupled with Topcliffe? Both men shared a taste for evil.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This makes sense. The demon and his acolyte. But which is which?’