It was ever thus, Shakespeare knew. Mr Secretary Walsingham – four years dead now – had been driven half insane by reports of Catholic defiance in Lancashire. He had continually ordered purges with heavy fines to be paid for recusancy – non-attendance in the parish church. The priest-hunter Richard Topcliffe kept maps of the county marked with names and homes of prominent Catholics, each one underlined and circled with the frenzied scrapings of his quill.
‘In truth, Mr Shakespeare, there are many in my county so disaffected that they would rather sever their fingers than sign the Bond of Association.’
Shakespeare’s jaw tightened. He shared the loyalty of those who had signed the Bond, but could also understand anyone’s reluctance to put their name to the paper. It had been formulated ten years ago, in 1584, by Walsingham and Burghley in the dark days following the Throckmorton plot against the Queen. All those who signed it made a pledge to do away with anyone who harmed or conspired to do harm to the Queen. It was dressed as an act of pure patriotism, but to Shakespeare it was a licence to kill, legitimised murder.
‘But that,’ Heneage continued with a wave of his elegant hand, ‘is by the by. I mention it merely so that you will know the dangers of the territory you are about to enter.’
‘Thank you, Sir Thomas. I have a good understanding of the situation in Lancashire. I, too, have seen the reports from the county.’
‘Good. Then I am sure all will be well and you will remove Dr Dee safely. But before you do so, there is someone I wish you to make contact with there. Her name is Lady Eliska Nováková, and she is the daughter of a very dear friend of mine, sadly deceased. I have a letter for her, full of fond remembrances. I would be grateful if you would put it in her fair hand.’
Heneage took a sealed paper from his gold and wine-red doublet and held it out. Shakespeare took it.
‘Of course, Sir Thomas. Where shall I find the lady?’
‘That is easy. Like Dr Dee, she is a guest of the Earl and Countess of Derby at Lathom House. He has few enough visitors these days, I believe.’
Janus Trayne clutched the reins with his left hand. His right arm was held in a blood-stained sling fashioned from old rag. The horse he rode was slow and stubborn. Worst of all was the pain, the deep throbbing pain from his wrist where the knife had penetrated. Every so often he stopped and put his left hand to the injury, feeling for heat, wondering whether it was about to turn bad.
He could not stop thinking about how nearly he had had the instrument within his grasp at Portsmouth. He had been so close to success, only to have it snatched away. But who was the assailant? Who thrust the dagger blade so deep into his flesh and bone? Somewhere, in the distant crannies of his remembering, there was a name attached to that stumpy body and grim, weathered face. Had he seen him before? If so, then in God’s name where?
The road to the north-west was long and hard, yet he had to ride on, for although his empty pouch would not make him welcome, he was expected. He realised well enough that there would be more work to be done. This was not over yet. The chance of earning two hundred golden ducats was not to be passed up. Spain would have what it so desired, and he would have his gold.
As Heneage strode from the offices, Cecil stayed Shakespeare with his hand.
‘Not you, John. We have a little more business.’
‘Sir Robert.’
Cecil closed the door and walked towards the table, where he had a goblet of French wine. He took a sip, then sat down close to the window. Shakespeare remained standing.
‘Well, John, your thoughts …’
‘This is about a great deal more than the safety of Dr Dee.’
‘Yes, the Lady Eliska.’ Cecil’s tight mouth creased into a grimace. ‘Let us say that she is of great interest to me. Her father was a fervent Protestant, who died at the hands of the Inquisition. He worked closely with Sir Thomas for many years, trying to advance the Protestant cause in the German lands and the Dutch estates. Now she seems to wish to further his work against Rome. Heneage is certain she can be of great help to England, and we may well have a use for her. But I wish your opinion. Observe her, John, and report back to me. Is she to be trusted?’
‘From her name, I would suspect she is from the East.’
‘She is Bohemian, from Prague.’
Prague. That city again. The place where Dee had gone in his strange peregrinations, the place whence so much trouble had come down upon the head of Lord Derby. Shakespeare’s raised eyebrow posed the question to Cecil.
‘How could she possibly help England?’
Cecil looked ill at ease. He shifted the hunch of his shoulder. ‘As yet, I am not certain. But Sir Thomas is convinced. Though he is to marry Mary Wriothesley this summer, I sometimes wonder whether there might be some place in his heart for his young Bohemian friend. Love can cloud any man’s judgment.’
Shakespeare said nothing. Walsingham had once believed that love had clouded his judgment, when Shakespeare fell for Catherine Marvell, the Catholic governess who became his wife and mother to his child.
Cecil continued, ‘For all I know, the lady Eliska might be all that Sir Thomas claims and more. But I would like to hear your impressions. You will have little enough time with her, for you must remove Dee at speed. All I ask is that you find out what you can.’
‘And my lord of Derby?’
Cecil hesitated again, then stood and looked out the window. At last he turned back.
‘Yes, it is true. I wish to know the state of things there. Do what you would do wherever you find yourself: keep a watchful eye. I fear, like a stag at bay, he lies isolated in his northern fastness. Since the events of last September, I know he feels endangered and cut adrift. He fights with his brother and is in conflict with the Duchy of Lancaster. As for those who would have made him king, the Jesuits, I believe he has received a death threat from them. Many of the more militant Catholics feel betrayed by him and desire revenge.’
‘That does not surprise me.’
Shakespeare knew enough of the perilous situation Derby had faced seven months earlier in the early autumn of ’93. A man named Richard Hesketh had approached the earl with a treasonable letter from the Catholic exiles in Prague, entreating him to be their anointed chief in England, their king-in-waiting. Derby had turned Hesketh over to the authorities, and the wretched man had been butchered on the scaffold for treason. But had the earl simply sacrificed Hesketh to save his own skin? Was he, as many still suspected, a crypto-Catholic with designs on the crown of England?
Cecil lifted the flask from the table and poured wine for them both. His mood seemed to lighten.
‘Come, John, tell me a little of your family. How do they fare? I was glad to help your boy Andrew go up to Oxford. These have been hard months for you all since—’
Shakespeare’s hand went up. ‘I am sorry, Sir Robert, I cannot talk about it. Forgive me.’ The death of Catherine was as raw today as ever. Sometimes he feared the pain would never ease.
‘I understand,’ Cecil said softly. ‘But sup with me, John. Take a little wine and sustenance. You have a long ride ahead.’
Chapter 4
THE ROAD NORTH-WEST took Shakespeare through Oxford. He considered stopping to visit his adopted son, Andrew Woode. He could spend a few hours with him and bring him news of their family from London. He worried for Andrew constantly, for the boy’s Catholic passions seemed to run deep, and England was a dangerous place for anyone with such a powerful attachment to the sacraments of Rome.