Rory Clements - Traitor

‘Why are Topcliffe and Fitzherbert not simply brought to trial for conspiracy to do murder?’

Cecil clenched his eyes closed as though the question pained him, then opened them. ‘Because old John Fitzherbert was lawfully detained in the Tower for his seditious ways. And though he was tormented, he died of natural causes. That, it seems, is why his son refuses to pay the money Topcliffe believes is owed him. So there is no murder.’

‘And yet there was a contract to do murder. Is that not offence enough?’ Shakespeare hammered his fist into his hand. ‘But this is not my concern. What I care for is my own family. Was Topcliffe involved with James Fitzherbert the tutor? Did they conspire against Andrew?’

Cecil was silent a moment. When he spoke his voice was quiet and his words were precise.

‘I have no proof, John, but I can speculate on what happened. I surmise that Tom Fitzherbert was under a great deal of pressure from Topcliffe for the five thousand pounds that is now in dispute. To try to prevent Topcliffe’s suit proceeding, he offered him a trade-off. Knowing of Topcliffe’s loathing for your family, he would bribe or beg his cousin James Fitzherbert to bring false accusations against your boy at Oxford. Topcliffe went along with the idea. But your son’s redemption put an end to the deal, and now they are in court.’

Shakespeare could sit no longer. He rose from the settle and paced the room.

Cecil’s eyes followed him.

‘I know you are sceptical. I know you believe that I am some sort of Machiavel creature and that I had something to do with the events at Oxford and in Lancashire. I think you even believe me responsible for the death of the Earl of Derby. But ask yourself this: if I was organising a conspiracy and murder in Lancashire, why would I have sent you there in the first place? I know you well enough to realise that you would be bound to inquire into such an event. God’s blood, John, I wanted you at Lathom House to protect the secret of the perspective glass. With good cause, as it happens, for the man Walter Weld, or Millwater, or whatever his true name was, did indeed have designs on the instrument. And I needed you to meet Eliska Novakova.’

‘But you know that the earl was murdered. We both know that.’

Cecil shook his head. ‘I know nothing of the sort. I know that there were some curious goings-on at Lathom House. I know, too, that many people might have wished him dead. I confess that it suits my own purposes that he is succeeded by his brother William, whose loyalties are more certain. But that does not mean I killed him. Nor do I have any reason to believe that he died of anything but natural causes. A rupture of the gut, perhaps, a canker within, some bad shellfish … These things happen every day. Did he take his own life, deliberately, with some poison? He was always of a melancholy humour. We will never know what killed him. It is a tragic waste of a young life, but nothing out of the ordinary. If he was murdered, it was not by me, nor by my command and not with my knowledge.’

Shakespeare downed his goblet of wine. It was good wine, but it felt raw against his throat. His very nerve endings felt raw.

Cecil reached out and gripped Shakespeare’s hand, briefly.

‘A man in my position must do many bad things, John, but I promise you this: I have never stooped to murder, nor ever would. I have called you here today because it is important to me that you know that and believe it.’

‘And Eliska? What of Eliska? I know she obtained poison in Lancashire.’

‘Then you know more than I do.’ Cecil nodded slowly. ‘Dear Lady Eliska. That is where my deceit lies. I realise now that I should have told you more about her before you went to Lathom House. I wanted you to observe her without prejudice. She seemed desperate to do some harm to Catholicism and the Inquisition, but I couldn’t be sure whose side she was really on. There were times when I confess I doubted her. I knew she had to go to the French embassy, but who could know what really passed within those walls? In the end, we know that she spoke truth, that she was on our side; she had a rare passion and we made use of it, which you may think shames England. But it was what she yearned for. With this in mind, Sir Thomas Heneage had great plans for her — plans that needed your assistance. First, though, I wanted your reaction, for I trust your judgment.’

‘As you say, you should have told me before sending me to her. It might have saved much grief.’

Cecil threw wide his hands. ‘ Mea culpa , as the Romans say.’ He stood up from the settle and walked across the room. ‘ Mea maxima culpa , John.’ He took a paper from a shelf. ‘Do you believe me? May I tear this up?’

Shakespeare saw that it was his letter of resignation.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

He looked hard at Cecil. Did he really not know of the poisonous mushroom and Eliska’s role in acquiring it?

‘John, I need you. England needs you. You will be recompensed in full for all Ickman has done to you, I promise you. But I need you in my service. Your actions in Brittany … I can think of no other man who could have done such a thing.’ Cecil’s fingers hovered over the paper, ready to rip it to pieces.

‘Arrange an audience for me with Sir Thomas Heneage. When I have spoken with him, I will give you my answer. First, I have business elsewhere.’

Shakespeare bowed curtly and walked to the door. Cecil watched him go, deep foreboding in his careful eyes.

Sending Boltfoot and Andrew back to the family, Shakespeare went alone to Mortlake. Cold rage had supplanted the unreasoning fury he felt before. He still had violence in his heart but now he considered the consequences beyond the act. He could not implicate Boltfoot and Andrew in this.

At first the door to Bartholomew Ickman’s opulent dwelling was not opened. Finally, at the third beating of his poniard and fist against the oak, he heard a shuffling of feet from inside and the door was opened. A serving woman stood there in apron and smock.

‘Mr Ickman is not here, master.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Gone. He left soon after noon.’

‘Where is his manservant?’

The woman looked from side to side, as though fearing she might be overheard.

‘Speak, woman.’

‘He left soon after, sir. I think …’ She hesitated.

‘Yes?’

‘I think he has fled, master. In truth I do not know what is going on this day. Others have run away, too. There is a great fear, sir.’

For a moment, Shakespeare wondered whether the woman was going to break down in tears. He pushed past her into the house and strode from room to room. He went to the solar where he had met Ickman and Topcliffe. The hall echoed with silence. The whole place seemed deserted. What in God’s name was going on here?

The serving woman was still cowering by the door when he returned.

‘I will be back,’ he said. ‘Tell your master that there is no hiding place on earth from me.’

Two men were standing by the river. Shakespeare recognised them instantly. Provost Pinkney and his giant of a sergeant, Cordwright. They were watching him and he noticed that they both smiled.

He walked over to them and they made no attempt to avoid him.

‘Mr Shakespeare, we meet again,’ Pinkney said. ‘How fares private soldier Woode? Itching for blood and steel?’

‘He fares well enough.’

Shakespeare turned to Cordwright. The last time he had seen him, he was wasting away in a Weymouth gaol cell. Now he seemed almost back to his immense strength.

‘And how did you slip the hangman’s noose, Mr Cordwright?’

Pinkney laughed. ‘Takes more than a gaol cell to hold my sergeant.’