Rory Clements - Traitor

‘This is where you work.’

Will glanced at his guests: Jane, Boltfoot and the children stood awkwardly at the wall closest to the doorway. All wore clothes borrowed from neighbours. They must have looked a motley group, riding through the streets of London on the horses from their stables. He smiled at them.

‘Your need is the greater. Besides, John, you have done much for me.’

Shakespeare shook his head. ‘One day and night, Will, that is all we require. On the morrow, we will find other lodgings, more suitable to small children.’ He turned to Boltfoot and Andrew. ‘Are you armed? Then let us ride.’

Skirting the city along well-used, rain-sodden tracks, the ride to Westminster was no more than four miles, but took them an hour and a half. The dark, baleful stone of Richard Topcliffe’s house rose in the shadow of St Margaret’s church. It was a house that John Shakespeare knew all too well. A house that stank of sweat and blood. A house where torture was licensed. A house with its own chamber of iron and fire, and a rack that was its owner’s pride. A house that stained England.

Shakespeare hammered at the heavy oak door with the haft of his poniard. Boltfoot stood to his left, caliver loaded and ready. Andrew stood to his right, hand gripped on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

The door opened. A young heavy-set man stood there, his straggle-hair slicked with grease. He looked at the three visitors with unconcealed loathing. Shakespeare knew him well: Nicholas Jones, apprentice in cruelty to Topcliffe.

‘Where is your master, Jones?’

‘You won’t find him here.’

He made as if to close the door, but Shakespeare was ahead of him. His hand grasped at the young man’s throat, pushing him back into the hallway. Jones stumbled backwards under the onslaught and fell to the floor. Shakespeare, Boltfoot and Andrew looked down at him. The muzzle of Boltfoot’s caliver was trained on his face.

‘Where is he, Jones?’

Jones spat and Boltfoot pushed the muzzle down harder so that the cold steel flattened his nose. Jones wrenched his head sideways.

‘Shall I blast his head away, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘All in good time, Boltfoot.’

‘Court of Chancery,’ Jones spluttered. ‘He’s at the Court of Chancery!’

Shakespeare brushed Boltfoot’s caliver aside and dragged Jones to his feet. He held him against the wall by the lapels of his leather jerkin.

‘What is this? What is Topcliffe doing at Chancery? It is a civil court; there are no poor creatures to persecute there.’

‘He has brought a suit for non-payment of contract.’

‘Tell me more!’

‘There is no more.’

‘Finish him, Boltfoot.’

‘Please, wait.’ Jones could see the rage of death in these men’s eyes. He had never before believed Shakespeare capable of cold-blooded killing: he did now. ‘He is suing Tom Fitzherbert.’

Shakespeare could not disguise his astonishment. How could this square with his theory that Tom Fitzherbert and Topcliffe had conspired with James Fitzherbert falsely to accuse Andrew? Why, if they were co-conspirators, would Topcliffe be suing him in Chancery?

‘What is the debt?’

‘Five thousand pounds. Fitzherbert promised Mr Topcliffe five thousand pounds.’

‘For what?’

Jones hesitated. Shakespeare slammed his head into wall, hard.

Jones cried out in pain, then cringed away. ‘Hell’s turds, Mr Shakespeare, I’ll tell you. It is no secret for it will be heard in court. Tom Fitzherbert pledged to pay Mr Topcliffe five thousand pounds to bring his Papist father to his death so that he might inherit his lands and properties. Old John Fitzherbert has died in the Tower — and yet Tom Fitzherbert will not pay. Mr Topcliffe wants his money. He wants his five thousand. That is what this is about. Go to court yourself and you shall see.’

Shakespeare stared with astonishment into Jones’s eyes and saw fear, not dissimulation. Could it be true? Could an Englishman sue a man for non-payment of a contract to kill?

Suddenly, he flung the wretched Jones down the hall, turned on his heel and marched a hundred yards in the direction of Westminster Hall, with Andrew and Boltfoot close behind.

Shakespeare strode into the ancient hall, past the Common Pleas. The Court of Chancery was at the upper end, at the left-hand side. This was where Lord Keeper Sir John Puckering presided, with Master of the Rolls Sir Thomas Egerton at his side. It briefly flickered through Shakespeare’s mind to wonder about some link between this court and Egerton’s recent role as commissioner inquiring into the death of Lord Derby in Lancashire. At times, he felt, a man could be strangled in the myriad interconnecting twines that linked the great men of England. He shook his head as though to sweep aside the entangled briars; such things might be a matter for another day. This day he wanted but one thing: to find Richard Topcliffe.

A hand touched his sleeve. He turned sharply, as though bitten, and stared into the familiar face of Clarkson, Sir Robert Cecil’s most trusted retainer. Shakespeare was about to pull away but Clarkson’s grip tightened.

‘I must speak with you, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘I have no time for talk, Mr Clarkson.’

‘Sir Robert Cecil wishes to see you. He is close by, at Whitehall Palace.’

‘How did you find me here?’

Clarkson smiled. He was, as always, formally attired in black doublet and hose.

‘It was thought probable — and understandable — that you would be seeking Mr Topcliffe this day. I know that Sir Robert wishes to give you certain assurances in that regard.’

Shakespeare laughed without humour. ‘Assurances that Topcliffe is to hang? I do not believe it.’

‘Please come with me, sir. I am sure it is for the best.’

Cecil welcomed Shakespeare to his offices in Whitehall with a warm smile and gave Clarkson the nod to leave them. The privy councillor personally poured wine into two silver goblets and handed one to his guest. Boltfoot remained outside with Andrew.

‘You received my message, John? I am glad you have come, for I know what dread events have taken place. Your house, the threat to your family.’

‘And you must know who was responsible, Sir Robert.’

‘Indeed, I have grave suspicions.’

‘It was Topcliffe and Ickman. They told me as much. They said I would burn.’

Cecil sighed. ‘Let me say at once that I consider Bartholomew Ickman no better than a diseased dog that should be disposed of. It was his men that laid the fire. But he will trouble the world no more. Trust me on this.’

‘Have you warned him off? He will laugh at you. Or are you trying to tell me something else? What are you saying?’

‘Nothing. I am saying nothing. Read nothing into my words. But worry about him no more.’

‘You ask a great deal, Sir Robert. My inclination is to kill him for what he has done to my home and my family. And what of Topcliffe? Now he sues his confederate Thomas Fitzherbert for not paying the agreed price for murder. Has England come to this?’

‘John, Her Majesty is beside herself with fury at Topcliffe. She can barely speak for anger. I have not seen such rage in her, no, not even when Ralegh was wed against her wishes.’

Cecil sat down. He looked for all the world like a mannequin put into place by a puppet-master, his feet barely touching the floor. He patted a cushion at his side. Shakespeare hesitated, then sat at the other end of the settle, so that they could see each other but were not touching.

‘I pledge you this, John: Topcliffe’s days of power are done. This court case … I tell you that if he is not brought to ruin within a six-month, then you may call me a liar. Her Royal Majesty has already ordered Puckering to hear it in closed session. I cannot overemphasise her displeasure. Never again will Topcliffe have access to her presence.’