‘Justice? This may be military law, but there is no martial law in place here. What trial has this man had?’
‘Summary justice, as decreed by martial law. He is a masterless man, pressed for service. He took the coat and our food – and then he disappeared from camp. We found him hiding in this wood. He has no defence.’
Shakespeare snorted. ‘You are collecting men a long way north for an expedition to Brittany. I have never heard of a levy so far from the ports of embarkation. Why, it is two weeks’ march and more to Portsmouth or Poole.’
‘Needs must, Mr Shakespeare. These are perilous times and I will take masterless men wherever I find them.’
‘Well, I say he will not hang until he has been examined further.’
Provost Pinkney laughed. ‘You have no jurisdiction here.’ He turned to his man. ‘Hang him, then relieve him of his boots and coat.’
Provost Pinkney stood in front of Shakespeare, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other gripping the butt of his pistol, while his powerful foot soldier set about fashioning a new noose from the severed rope.
Shakespeare glared into Pinkney’s grey, unblinking eyes and saw no hope of reprieve. Pinkney was a couple of inches shorter than him. The lower portion of his shot-ravaged face was covered in bristles. He had red, longbow lips and a chin that pushed forward aggressively from the canopy of his thick barley-harvest of hair.
The hangman wrenched the condemned man’s head back and pulled it into the noose, dragging the rope choking-tight around his already damaged neck. Then he yanked the victim to his feet, roughly, by the bindings at his back. Guilty or innocent, the man was about to die and, at the point of a gun, there was nothing John Shakespeare, an officer of the most senior government officer in England, could do to stop it. This was martial law, summary justice, wolf law. No justice at all.
The thunder of an approaching wagon jolted the hangman to a halt in his grisly business. Shod hoofs on a hard, uneven road and the rattle of metal-rimmed wheels grew louder.
In a swirl of dust, a black carriage appeared from the woods. It was a curious lightweight coach with a golden cupola atop each corner, driven hard by a coachman with a black cape and a long lash.
The soldiers and Shakespeare stood and stared at this apparition. The carriage, which was pulled by just one heavy black horse, was going fast and seemed about to sweep past them eastwards, in a clatter of wheels and hoofs. But the passenger inside banged at the coach’s wooden casing, and the coachman reined in the horse in a fury of stamping and whinnying.
The horse was dripping with white-flecked sweat, its great barrel chest heaving with exertion. The coachman jumped down from his roost and opened the small door, bowing low to its occupant as he did so.
Without hesitating, Shakespeare brushed away the provost marshal’s pistol and moved towards the carriage. The coachman tried to restrain him, but Shakespeare held his ground and peered in. A woman sat there, still, silent and veiled. So small and dark was she, seated in the corner, that at first he thought she was in widow’s weeds. But as his eyes became accustomed to the gloomy interior, he saw that her clothes were, in truth, an exquisitely tailored black travelling costume and not at all in the English mode.
She seemed to be staring at Shakespeare as one might gaze at an alien creature imported from the southern seas. A tiny monkey with a long tail sat on her shoulder. It began chattering with little yellow teeth. Shakespeare bowed.
‘My lady …’ he began.
‘Is there to be an execution here?’ she said in a throaty, heavily accented voice. ‘A hanging?’
Shakespeare could not quite place her accent, but it was unlikely there would be many foreign aristocrats in Lancashire. Was this the Bohemian woman whom Heneage had asked him to seek out?
‘My name is John Shakespeare, my lady. I am an officer of Sir Robert Cecil.’
The word Cecil had an immediate impact.
‘Cecil?’ the woman said, pulling aside her black veil with delicate gloved fingers, to reveal a fair, unlined complexion. She was young, perhaps in her mid-twenties. Her expression revealed nothing except her interest. ‘The son of Lord Burghley?’
‘Indeed, my lady. May I inquire who you are?’
‘You may, of course, Mr Shakespeare, but I may not wish to tell you.’
There was a sudden scuffling from behind Shakespeare.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ the provost said. ‘Get on with the hanging, Cordwright. If the lady wants to watch, that’s her business. She can have a front-row seat.’
Pinkney’s executioner threw the rope over the branch again and began to pull it taut.
‘Stop!’ Shakespeare bellowed.
The woman in the carriage leant forward and peered out. ‘Pray, tell me, Mr Shakespeare, what is going on here?’
‘I am trying to stop a murder, my lady,’ Shakespeare growled. ‘But I am outgunned.’
The woman laughed lightly. ‘Well, I enjoy a hanging as much as the next lady, but if you say you are Cecil’s man, then I believe I shall assist you in this matter.’
She nodded to her coachman who strode forward and, without ado, pulled the condemned man up by the scruff of his coat, removed the noose from his neck and, throwing him across his shoulder, carried him over to the carriage, where he laid him down on the ground, in full view of the passenger. The would-be hangmen looked on, astonished.
John Shakespeare took his water-flask from a hook on his saddle, his eyes all the while remaining on Provost Pinkney. Stepping forward, then kneeling, he held the clay flask to the lips of the half-hanged man. He sucked at the water thirstily, then coughed and spluttered.
‘Who are you?’ Shakespeare asked.
‘Lamb …’ The voice was weak. ‘Matthew Lamb. You cannot save me …’
‘Yes, I can.’ He turned back to the woman in the coach. ‘My lady, I entreat you, help me take this prisoner to Ormskirk. If there is evidence of wrongdoing, he will face a court of law.’
The woman smiled at Shakespeare, then said a few words to her coachman in her own language. He bowed.
Shakespeare held the flask once more to Lamb’s lips. He drank, but coughed up blood. Shakespeare wiped his sleeve across the man’s mouth. ‘Take small sips,’ he said.
‘There is no time,’ the man said, barely audible between hacking, painful coughs. ‘You must save Strange, sir. I beg you, save Strange.’
‘Strange? What are you saying, Mr Lamb?’
Lamb’s eyes opened wide, for he saw what was coming. Provost Pinkney had stepped forward with his pistol and the muzzle was now aiming full at his body. Pinkney pulled the trigger.
Chapter 5
THE BALL FROM Pinkney’s gun drove deep into Lamb’s body. The crack of the shot jinked the carriage-horse sideways, shaking the coach from side to side.
The coachman leapt on Pinkney and put a wheel-lock of his own to the side of his head. Pinkney shrugged him off and looked dispassionately at his handiwork. He bowed in an exaggerated, scornful manner in the direction of the coach.
‘My apologies for the disturbance, my lady. I trust your horse did not injure itself. If it needs attention, you may send the reckoning to Captain-General Norreys or to the Lord Lieutenant of Lancashire.’
Shakespeare stood up. His doublet, hands and face were spotted with the dead man’s gore. ‘You are a murderer, Pinkney.’
‘A pustule on your prick, Shakespeare. If you have anything to say on this matter, I would refer you to the Lord Lieutenant, for I have no other master in this county.’
Shakespeare pulled back his fist, but the other soldier, Cordwright, restrained him.