Traitor (9 page)

‘What man was that, Mr Cole?’

‘Walter Weld, sir. He is master of the horse to his lordship.’

‘And the woman with him, what are they to each other?’

‘Her name is Lady Eliska. To my knowledge there is no connection between them.’

‘Is Mr Weld new here?’

‘A few months – since last autumn time.’

‘I would speak to him tomorrow. And I would speak to the lady. I wish to interview anyone newly arrived here.’

‘Weld has apartments beside the stable block. You will find him there unless he is riding. Lady Eliska has rooms in the house. She is a stranger to this country and a guest of the earl and countess. Most of the retainers have been with the family for many years, though Mr Dowty in the kitchens is quite recent.’

Dr Dee was awake, his tall frame hunched at the table, studying by candlelight. He seemed to be looking at some chart or map. He smiled at Shakespeare diffidently.

‘It seems you have me protected like the royal jewels. I know not whether to be honoured or afraid.’

Shakespeare nodded, but he was too fatigued for conversation. A fine mattress and bedding had been brought for him. He unfurled the mattress across the doorway, laid himself down and fell straight into a deep sleep.

Shakespeare awoke before dawn. From a few feet away, slumbering in the great four-poster bed, he heard the intermittent sleep-sounds of Dr Dee: a deep, pig-like grunt of a breath followed by a minute’s silence, then another rasp. Each breath sounded like a death rattle.

Half dressing in breeches and shirt, he lifted the iron latch of the door, carefully so as not to wake Dee. Outside the room, a low-burnt candle cast light on the two guards. Oxx was asleep on the floor but stirred instantly at the opening of the door. Godwit was awake and his eyes were sharp. Good. That was how Shakespeare wanted it: one must always be alert while the other drowsed.

He nodded to the guards and walked down the dim stairway on soundless, bare feet. The first light of day etched the great hall of Lathom House in a grey tinge. From outside he heard the clatter of iron-rimmed wheels on cobblestones.

Pushing open the main entrance door, he was straightway confronted by a halberdier in a dazzling corslet of steel.

‘Up early, master?’

‘I am looking for the kitchens or bakehouse for meat and bread to break my fast.’

The halberdier held out his arm westwards, along the inside of the battlements. ‘Past all these wains. Third door along, master. They’re all in there working now. You’ll have bread crusty and hot.’

‘I arrived last evening. Where do guests normally eat, pray?’

‘There’s a second, smaller hall off the great hall. In ordinary times, all would meet there at eight o’clock, but this past day, with his lordship’s illness, the ladies and gentlemen come and go at will.’

Shakespeare walked in the direction of the kitchens. The cobbled pathway was banked up with wagons and drays, their drivers waiting patiently to edge forward so that they might
unload produce or collect empty barrels. Three men were shouldering kegs into a wide, double-doored entrance. He glanced in. It was a long, dark storehouse with a hundred or more casks of various sizes disappearing into the depths. Game hung from hooks. Further along, a second, smaller door opened on to a large scullery. Six drabs were at work polishing silver plate and copper pots.

Then came the kitchens, which were immense, the greatest Shakespeare had seen outside Windsor Castle. A central room was lit by three blazing fires in hearths that were each of sufficient size to roast a whole ox. This lime-slaked room gave out on to six more galleries. One, Shakespeare could see, was a store for flesh, another was a bakery, yet another the pastry house. Men and women, perhaps forty of them, came and went, sweating with the heat and energy of the place, working at stone benches and wooden blocks, carrying food and carcasses or tending the fires. None paid Shakespeare heed.

He stayed a man in a full-length apron, hoisting a basket of loaves on his shoulder.

‘I wish to speak with Mr Dowty, the Clerk of the Kitchen,’ he said.

‘Are you delivering? He won’t see you unless you have an appointment.’

‘Just tell me where to find him. He
will
see me.’

The baker laughed. ‘Well, you’ll find him through there, shouting. Can’t you hear him?’

Dowty was in the wet larder, using a three-pound pike to beat the head of a boy aged about ten.

‘Call that scaling?’ he berated the boy. ‘You’ll be drowned in the pond where the fish came from if you leave scales like that again.’ Another smack on the head, then he spotted Shakespeare and his mood changed. ‘Good morning, master.’

‘Good day, Mr Dowty.’

Dowty pushed out his chest, then looked him up and down as if appraising a side of pig. His eyes came to rest on Shakespeare’s bare feet.

‘How may I help you, sir? Fresh manchet bread, some eggs, a pair of shoes? If you return to the hall, I’ll have you served.’

‘My name is John Shakespeare and I am on Queen’s business. Mr Cole will have told you to expect me.’ Shakespeare had noted the insolence in the man’s tone and was having none of it.

‘Indeed, but I have work to do. We have a large house and estate to feed with a company of players added on. And I am responsible for it.’

‘There are questions I will have answered unless you wish to be taken into custody, held in shackles and arraigned before the Ormskirk justice.’

Dowty was a short man, but bulky and strong. He had little hair and his chins tumbled down over his collar. ‘Ask your question, then, and be quick about it.’

‘I shall take all the time I like, Mr Dowty. Firstly, what did the earl eat in the hours before he fell ill?’

Dowty slapped the pike into his hand. The boy he had been hitting shrank back nervously and took the opportunity to scuttle from the room.

‘Do you think I poisoned him? Is that what you are suggesting? Well, if you must know, his food that day was none of our doing here at Lathom. He was at Knowsley. You’ll have to go there.’

‘And where were you while he was there?’

Dowty said nothing, merely glared at Shakespeare as though he would gut him and scale him like the fish.

‘Who is his taster?’

‘I am his taster.’

‘You run his kitchens
and
taste his food?’

‘Why should I not? If anyone wishes to poison my lord of Derby, they’ll have to kill me first. And what cook would poison his master if, in doing so, he had to poison himself?’

‘So who tasted his food when he hunted at Knowsley?’

‘I did. I went with him.’

‘Do I have to draw every piece of information out of you? Why are you not cooperating? Do you not wish your lord and master to recover?’

‘Of course I want him to recover. But do you think I did not see this coming – the suspicion, the inquisition? I knew you’d be straight round here and I do not like it. Is there a more offensive slur than to come into a man’s kitchen and accuse him of poisoning those he feeds? Oh, I’ll answer your questions, but I also wish a plague of hornets on you—’

‘How long has the earl used your services as a taster?’

‘He never bothered until last September. The Hesketh matter changed everything around here. Since then he has not tasted so much as a mouthful of cheese without me trying it first.’

‘So you were with him at the Knowsley chase. I ask again, what did he eat in the hours before his sickness?’

Dowty put the fish down on a slab, then held up his left thumb.

‘One, he broke his fast with cold beef, cold pigeon pie, a half-pint of beer – small beer – Lancashire cheese, manchet bread, scrambled duck egg. Two …’ He held up his index finger. ‘He had a hearty stirrup cup of aqua celestis and two small saffron cakes. Three …’ He thrust up the middle finger. ‘We had a midday repast of roast venison and roast capon, with a beaker of songbird broth. And he had another hearty cup of brandy and a quart of beer. I love my master, Mr Shakespeare, but I would be lying to you if I denied he was a voluptuary. Enjoys his wine and food, the earl. And I sampled it all. If any
of it was poisoned or bad, then I should be vomiting my guts up, too.’

‘What, then, has caused this?’

‘You’re not from these parts or you wouldn’t need to ask that. The Jesuits got him, that’s what has happened. They’re having their vengeance for the death of the traitor Hesketh. Beguiled him with their rites and magic.’

Shakespeare’s brow creased. ‘Are you suggesting Jesuit priests used witchcraft against him?’ He snorted at the absurdity of the suggestion. ‘They are more likely to
burn
witches than use their Satanic arts, Mr Dowty.’

Dowty sniffed. ‘As I said, you’re not from these parts. I’d inquire after one Lamb, if I were you, and then you can stop wasting my time and yours around these kitchens.’

‘Tell me about Lamb.’

‘He’s a dirty Jesuit. Been sniffing around Lathom and Ormskirk for months, like a fox around a chicken coop. He’s the one wants the earl dead – revenge for turning in their snivelling messenger boy Hesketh. They swore the earl would die in pain if Hesketh was taken to the scaffold, and now you see it happening. If it’s not witchcraft, you tell me what it is. Because it’s nothing he ate, I’ll promise you that.’

Shakespeare did not mention that Lamb was dead.

‘What of Mistress Knott?’ he said.

‘What of her?’

‘Do you know her?’

‘I know
of
her. His lordship has visited her on occasion. She lives in Lathom village. I reckon her harmless enough. Makes charts, I’m told. And if that makes her a witch, then so is Dr Dee, for does he not study the stars and make charts, too?’

‘She mentioned strange things happening. A giant of a man, a crone, a wax effigy. Did you see any of those things?’

Dowty laughed. ‘There was a large farmer, fair bit taller than
you. Maybe even six and a half feet tall. Does that qualify as a giant? He had ideas about stopping the hunt riding over his new-sown field, which caused much merriment. But I know nothing of any crone, nor no wax effigy.’

Suddenly there was a clanging. A man in an apron was walking through the kitchens, swinging his bell like a night watchman.

‘That means we have to get food on the tables, Mr Shakespeare. A hundred or more hungry souls to be fed this morning.’

Shakespeare met his eyes and tried to read them. Why was this man being so obstructive? Did he have something to hide?

‘We will speak again in due course,’ he said. ‘I wish to know more about you, Mr Dowty.’

The dining hall was empty of guests. Half a dozen bluecoats stood at their stations, shoulders held stiffly back. Shakespeare sat down in the middle of the long oak table that took up most of the length of the hall, and proceeded to eat his fill of bread, eggs, bacon and cheese.

Feeling a good deal better, he did not linger but went back to his bedchamber to complete his morning wash and to dress himself properly. He was surprised and worried to discover that Oxx and Godwit were not at their posts outside the room.

Pushing open the door, he found, too, that Dr Dee was gone. On the table was a note, written in a fluid hand.

‘
Mr Shakespeare, fear not. I have not been abducted, but have gone questing in woodland two miles north-west of Lathom House, accompanied by Mr Oxx, Mr Godwit and diggers. I will return before five of the clock
.’

It was signed Δ – the delta of the Greek alphabet, Dr Dee’s signature. Shakespeare was alarmed. He knew of Dee’s lifelong pursuit of buried treasure, but how was he to be protected – even
by men as sound as Oxx and Godwit appeared to be – in the middle of a country wood?

Cursing Dee for a fool, he washed, dressed and hurried out.

At the foot of the stairs, in the great hall, Shakespeare was astonished to see the Earl of Derby up from his sickbed and fully dressed. He was walking slowly, on the arm of his wife, the Countess Alice. She wore a simple day dress of cream and pearl. It was the earl’s attire that caught the eye – a beautiful cerise doublet with sleeves slashed to reveal the family’s eagle-and-child crest, intricately woven in thread of gold. Behind them walked three magnificent greyhounds.

Shakespeare bowed. ‘My lord, I am delighted to see you up from your sickbed.’

He was not so delighted by the earl’s appearance. His face was sallow, his dark, wavy hair now lank and slicked down. He had always had a squint, his eyes seeming to watch two places at once, but there was usually a keenness and life to them; now they lacked lustre and wit. His beard, once neat-trimmed, was like a dark-red hedge.

‘I am weak as a new-born babe, Mr Shakespeare. I am wasted almost to nothing.’

‘Your sickness, sir …’

‘It eased in the night, thank the Lord. I have had no convulsions or vomiting for some hours and, what is more, I slept. Even better is that I have pissed. A whole river of piss, that carried away my pain. I think the curse is lifted.’

‘The whole house has prayed, Mr Shakespeare,’ the countess said. ‘It is the power of prayer that has saved my lord.’

‘What do your physicians say?’

‘Those fools? They say I am cured. It is the first true thing they have said this week. Mistress Knott will not have it, however.’

The countess patted his arm. ‘I do not know why you ever
listen to that mad woman, Ferdinando.’ She smiled. ‘Come, it is a fine morning. Come and sit in the sun and see if you can sip some cordial.’

Shakespeare bowed again. ‘I would speak to you, if I may, when you are fully recovered, my lord.’

‘As you will, Mr Shakespeare. I believe there is some alarm concerning the good Dr Dee?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Then we will speak anon. Allow me a few hours to get back my strength. I trust you will stay with us long enough to view your brother’s new trifle? We have delayed too long and it shall be performed tonight.’

His wife shook her head, almost imperceptibly. ‘I think we should leave it a day or two, Ferdinando – you will be too fatigued.’

The earl tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat. ‘Do not listen to her, Mr Shakespeare,’ he croaked. ‘I believe my wife thinks me made of glass.’ He patted one of the greyhounds and stroked its sleek head.