The Point of Death (3 page)

'Yes,'
answered Tom, though he still had no idea why.

'Shrive
me. Hear my confession.'

Tom
looked up, away from the desperate pleading in those tar-dark eyes. A Dutch soldier stepped out into the street, a smoking dag in his hand. The wheel-lock pistol was old enough to have been banned in England fifty years since, but they were happy enough to employ it here. The soldier with the dag gave a brief, fierce grin. Tom was torn. The Hollander had saved him, not a doubt of that, and yet he was vexed that he had killed the boy at all. It was that thought, coupled with his simple goodness, that held the young Englishman here. Time was running away too swiftly and all the weight of the message, the fate of the army and the reputation of the General, stood in the scale against hearing the confession of a dying boy and sending him safe to Heaven.

'I
can shrive you,' he told the boy in his barbarous Latin, as gently as he could. 'Tell me your sins, little brother, and I will shrive your soul.'

A
hand descended on Tom's shoulder and he looked up. 'I will attend to him,' said the Master of Cyphers. 'You have other business in hand.'

Tom
looked across the road to where the last Italian lay, still as death.

'How-?'

'I was taught by a Master. Tarleton, the Master Clown. He's a Master of Defence to boot. Even so, had the boy not glanced away at the sound of the shot that killed your man here ...' He shrugged in silent eloquence. 'Still. It was the will of God. But you have your message to deliver. And time is short.' Tom looked up, scarcely able to speak, torn between horror and revelation.' Ask him ...Will, ask ...'

'I
know. I shall ask, on my word. Now go. And Godspeed!'

Tom
staggered to his feet and broke into a run once more. Only thews as young and hale as his could have kept moving after such a morning as this had been; long after even the horse had given up. But he was at the final furlong now and he was young and strong and desperate.

Sensing
something of the urgency and the desperation of his young English ally, the Dutch soldier fell in behind him and paced him up the ruined road, reloading his ornate, triangular wheel-lock pistol as he ran.

Tom
realised there was a second section to the Italian patrol when a ball slammed into his breastplate and ricocheted off across the street, leaving a numb track on his upper sword arm. The force of the bullet stopped him in his tracks and the Dutchman slammed into his left shoulder. 'Look for the smoke,' advised the Hollander tersely.

Shocked
and breathless, Tom nevertheless had the wit to heed him and he saw at once a cloudy grey column rising from behind a ruined wall ten yards ahead. With the clap of his companion's hand on his arm, he threw himself into a run again, turning aside towards the tell-tale smoke. Within two seconds, he was vaulting over the low cairn of rubble, left hand as a pivot, right hand high and armed.

His
opponent was a matchlock musketeer, no young dilettante reliant on his Ferrara blade and his swordsmanship, but a hardened professional, trained by the Spanish
tercio
men. As Tom leaped into the ruined house, the Italian looked up, part-way through the reloading of his weapon. Without a pause, he hurled the smoking snake of his burning match straight into the young Englishman's face and used the momentary pause this won to catch up his weapon by the barrel. The musket's shoulder-piece was heavy and sharp on the underside so that the whole thing made an effective club - and a rudimentary axe. Up swung the heavy bludgeon, even as Tom cast the burning, saltpetre-coated musket -match aside and ran on in. But the sparks of blazing twine had blinded his eyes just as the shattered bricks and fallen tiles proved dangerously slippery under his feet and he fell forward. The dangerous edge of the long gun swung like a headsman's blade through the air that his head had just occupied. Forward he reached, in that long thrust that the young Italian swordsman had used to skewer his burning ear-lobes. The tip of his great grandfather's sword jarred into the musketeer's groin and the short blade came near to tearing loose from his hand as he fell. There came a flat report, which echoed like the slamming of a door. It was a sound he knew now - the Dutchman has finished the business with his dag.

No
sooner was he down than he was up again, blinking his streaming eyes clear - but the musketeer was gone. In his place there stood a soldier with a pistol, cocked and ready. Tom slowed, slithering. The pistol came up, but it was aimed well wide of him. He threw a glance sideways and saw his companion there, dag still smoking. The Dutchman was the target of the Italian pistoleer and for the moment, he was help less.
'Morti
!
'
he called in Latin. 'Die!' The Italian began to turn, swinging the hollow barrel of his pistol round until it gaped at Tom like Hell's Mouth.

Tom's
boots scrabbled for purchase on the slippery rubble beneath them and, by the best of good fortune, found it. Just as the Italian swung round to face him, pistol levelled and steady, Tom found sure enough footing to lunge. Up went the point of his great-grandfather's sword that had killed many a usurping Tudor soldier in the blood bath of Bosworth Field. Down came the match of the pistol's match-lock into the powder-filled priming pan. Into the very mouth of the barrel plunged the sword point, as thick as a thumb, running up the barrel just as the powder caught. Into the very throat of the thing went the steely weight of the good old sword, just at the moment that the charge exploded behind the tight-wedged ball.

The
power of Tom's thrust threw the Italian soldier's pistol up into his face just at the moment of discharge. The twisting blade snapped off, the tip of it shattered for a hand's length by the destruction of the gun. The barrel exploded, soft iron unable to accommodate so many contrary forces. The blast blew off the Italian's face and hand as it hurled him backwards, a hollowskulled corpse, into the rubble. Tom pulled his shattered, smoking sword back and found it a short sword indeed, while his hand and his arm were numb to the shoulder. He dragged himself erect and looked around. Two more dead enemies. The Hollander smiling, and waving his heartfelt thanks. Each of them owed the other a life now. They would surely be the closest of friends - or the bitterest of enemies. But there was no leisure to weigh the balance at this moment, with still a way to go before the English lines would be reached, with the last of the time running out.

As
he came up among the outer guards, Tom tore the signet from its hiding place within the wrist-piece of his gauntlet. The first guard that saw it called his sergeant and the sergeant called the Captain himself. Within moments, Tom and his silent Dutch companion were being hurried through the lines towards the General himself. After having been thwarted so many times, it was strange to be pushed forward so easily - and so far. He was before the Earl of Leicester within less than five minutes - a wonder, had he been able to count so short a time.

'You
are late,' snapped Lord Robert. 'Give me your message at once.' His hand reached down imperiously, thumb and fingers at play like rapiers duelling.

Tom
handed over the parchment at once. 'My lord,' he said. 'I am not the messenger. I found him dead upon the road and have brought his message to you in his place.'

Leicester's
eyes, only a breath less powerful than those of the Queen herself, regarded him over the top of the parchment.

'And
how did you fathom what this was - and calculate where to bring it?' he asked, turning away to share the contents of the message with a tall, hawk-eyed man at his side.

'By...
By... By exercise of logic, your grace,' said Tom, having no expression other than this to describe what he and the Master of Cyphers had achieved.

'Through
logic, then, you are a made man,' said the Earl, turning back after an instant of fierce, whispered conversation. 'You and any that have helped you. For you have saved my army this day.'

'Though,
from the look of you I guess there was as much of bravery as logic,' added the other, his fierce eyes resting on Tom, as sharp as the Italian's steel, his voice easy and carrying, used to interrupting earls and captains general.

Lord
Robert gave a tight smile. 'You're in the right of it, Master Poley,' he said. Then he turned. 'Captain, call the retreat,' he ordered. 'Call it at once, man, for Captain Ive tells me by this that at noon the walls of the citadel come down - and they will land upon the heads of any who still stand beneath them, be they friend or foe. Quick, man, for there is no time left and yet much to do!'

Ten
minutes later, as the English army took to their heels under the jeering insults of the Italian and Spanish defenders, an earthquake shock of buried thunder rolled all along the south-facing wall. As though stone could become sea, the whole outer keep curved over and broke like a tumbling wave. The shock of it cascading on to the vacant mud below made the whole of the battlefield heave as though great breakers were speeding across it to set the tents of the English army dancing like the sails of a fleet at sea. And to make one or two of the English soldiers unsteady on their feet as they turned like the tide out of apparent retreat into a full, full-throated charge.

***

Four men stood amid the rubble that had been the walls of Nijmagen at sunset that evening. They were weary after a day of battle but cheery and laden with spoils. Each of them was also richer by a thousand pounds and, on the promise of Lord Robert himself, free to follow his own desires.

'What
of the girl and her ravisher?' Tom had liberty to enquire at last. But all he got from Talbot was a thin-lipped scowl and a shrug by way of reply. When he asked what the others' plans were, however, Talbot was the first to speak.

'I
will stay with the army,' decided Talbot. 'At the end of this campaign, Bess and I will settle back in London, or home in Winchester. Look for us at the sign of the Boar's Head, the Bishop or the Anchor. A tapster's life for me, that I may each night regale my customers with the story of this day!'

The
Dutchman's name was Ugo Stell. He was a silent sort, but during a day of fierce street-fighting, he and Tom had discovered an ability to read each others' thoughts that came unsettlingly close to witchcraft. They were a deadly team indeed, with the broadsword and wheel-lock pistol. 'I go with the boy,' he said, in thick English, pointing with his chin at Tom.

'Well
I cannot say where I will go,' said Tom.

'South,'
said the Master of Cyphers. 'The Italian left the men who saved his soul at the last all his armour and his sword, his horse, his pack-horse and his saddle-bags - well stocked by all I could discover. And most of all, young Tom, he left you your heart's desire.' Like an actor he rode the moment, until, just the very instant before even Tom himself could ask what was his heart's desire, he said, 'Ridolfo Capo Ferro, of Siena.'

'What?'
demanded Talbot Law. 'Who?' 'Tom knows. It's the name of the man who taught the Italian boy to use a sword. Ridolfo Capo Ferro of Siena. The Master of all Masters of the Science of Defence.'

'So,'
said Tom to Ugo. 'We go south.' But then he turned back to the other. 'And what shall you do?'

Again
that smile which just curled the lips below the dark moustache and folded the skin at the corners of those wise eyes into the finest of wrinkles. 'Home to England. I have a wife and family at home in the country. I have a profession in the city and, with my thousand pounds and my booty, a fine chance to become a sharer in the finest enterprise that any man could dream of.'

It
was only later, after the farewells, under the wide sunset at the end of another long ride, in the first camp on the way south that Tom pulled off his gauntlet to see a little piece of paper come fluttering out into the firelight. Wearily, he picked it up and looked at it. It was the sheet that had belonged to Will, the Master of Cyphers. On one side it was covered with a series of calculations proving with mathematical precision that 'aaabe' could be the same as 'iiiv'. With a grunt of satisfied amusement he began to fold it, ready to put it away. Then he noticed that there was writing on the other side as well. In a neat, clear, firm hand, it said:

THE
FIRST
PART
OF
THE
CONTENTION
OF
THE
TWO
FAMOUS
HOUSES
OF YORK
AND
LANCASTER

by

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Chapter Four - Three Deaths

September
1588

Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, was tired. He had been utterly tired when he set out for Buckstones to try and repair some of the exhaustion of arranging the celebrations at Tilbury to mark the defeat of the Spanish Armada. He was still tired now; tired and lonely. Almost, in fact, alone. His retinue was small - certainly for the most powerful man in the country, the power behind Queen Elizabeth's throne. He was old, too fifty-five now. The tall vigour of the 'Sweet Robin' that Elizabeth the girl had fallen so deeply in love with was stooped and white haired portliness now. The year that had passed since the siege at Nijmagen had treated him badly. It was as though the slipping away of power and popularity had broadened his belly and hunched his shoulders and badger-striped his beard.

But
he was beginning to marshal his resources. Once he had finished taking the waters at Buckstones, he was sure, he would be back in the saddle and back in power. Then let those puppies Essex, Southampton, Cotehel and their circle look to their laurels. Then let the strutting popinjays Drake and Raleigh dancing around Lord Howard of Effingham try to stand so tall. He'd be back in the Netherlands again, wielding power like the almost-King he had become.

For
a moment he dreamed of the walls of Nijmagen and the bright-eyed, excited young man with the message who had allowed him to snatch one final jewel-bright victory out of the dark jaws of defeat.

Then,
coming back to the more painful, less glorious and much less clear-cut present, he looked down at the papers he was working on. Most of them were reports to the Council urging that Essex and his faction and Raleigh and his 'School of Night' needed closer watching than ever now that the Earl was approaching his majority and the bluff West Country sailor, Elizabeth's 'Shepherd of the Ocean', was shining so brightly at Court.

There
was a gentle tap at his chamber door. He looked up and called, 'Enter.'

A
servant entered with a tray that bore a package and a tall goblet made of green Venetian glass full of the thick claret wine he liked to sip in the evenings. Robert Dudley accommodatingly moved the papers he was working on to one side, making room on his table for the tray.

The
package was from the Queen. He recognised the wrapping and the seal. He had written to her a couple of days ago and she had answered by sending him medicine. He tore open the package with a smile. It contained a little vial of liquid. From any other source he would have tested it or disposed of it, but the Queen was always so careful herself - all her food and drink was tasted by at least three separate people before it even approached her table, let alone her lips. He broke the seal and threw the medicine back, following its oily foulness down his throat with a good draught of the wine.

He
knew at once he had been poisoned. The concoction hit his belly with a wrenching twinge like an assassin's knife - which, he wryly thought, it probably was. He tried to get up but his legs had already betrayed him. The twisting agony in his stomach intensified, but oddly, the clarity of his mind remained.

Two
ideas occurred to him at exactly the same moment. That he should call for aid before his voice betrayed him also. And that his beloved queen had sent him this poison.

He
sucked in a shuddering breath, but as he tensed his stomach to release that great bellow, it betrayed him also, sending up a great wash of burning, agonising vomit. He made some quiet choking sounds as he sat stricken, watching the contents of his belly dissolving the letters he had been writing. Then he toppled sideways off the chair and slumped on to the floor. The whole of his body was in open revolt. He couldn't even blink his eyes and his vision clouded with tears. This angered the clarity of his dying mind. That he should be thought to have cried at the last. Unless, of course, they thought he was crying of a broken heart, poisoned by the queen he had loved.

They
thought nothing of the sort. His doctors reported to Her Majesty that the Earl of Leicester had died of a seizure resulting from his long consumptive illness to the belly. The Queen locked herself in her room with grief and did not come out until Sir Francis Walsingham, Secretary to the Council, gave orders that the door be broken in.

April 1590

Sir Francis Walsingham, Secretary to the Council and the Queen's closest and most trusted advisor now that Leicester was dead, sat in his office at White Hall Palace. He looked into the eager face of the young man opposite. 'The package is from Tom, you say.'

'It
is, Sir Francis. Tom sent it up from Scadbury with me and asked that I place it

in
your hands. It is a sovereign remedy, he says, against the affliction from which you suffer, sir.'

Walsingham
looked into those eager, burning eyes. He was not particularly pleased that Tom should have been discussing the great infection of his waters, cod and testicle stones which was currently making his life so hard to bear. But, as the leader of the Queen's first and most effective secret service, he knew the power of that new, and Heaven-sanctioned source of information, pillow talk. And this was after all one of his own men, a Cambridge man like Robert Poley, the leader of his spies. One of his adopted son's closest friends. 'Very well,' he said. 'I will take it. My thanks to you for your trouble.'

As
good as his word, he took the noxious potion the instant the young man had left, washing it down with a draught of water. He knew as soon as he had swallowed it that it was death. His stomach clenched and he fought to vomit as he felt the liquid coursing through his veins. He heaved himself out of his chair, hoping to make it to the door and summon aid. His legs betrayed him and were joined in their treachery by everything else below his waist. A waterfall of urine cascaded out of him. Thin yellow bile exploded from his mouth and nose. He choked and gasped, his body twisting in seizure then stilling. But his mind remained clear. As his secretary burst in, crying aloud with shock and horror. As help was summoned. As he was lifted on to a pallet, carried out to a carriage which bore him home to his austere establishment in St Mary's Papey, the house he occupied hard by Bevis Marks beside the London city wall.

Sir
Francis's mind remained trapped in his useless body, wide awake and helpless while Robert Poley, his master intelligencer, came in and looked through his papers. Where would Poley go, now that he no longer had Sir Francis's protection? The old man wondered. To Essex, so hungry for power? To the quiet Robert Cecil who would make such good use of those papers? To his own impatient son Tom down at Scadbury? They would all give a man like Poley much employment.

Poley
was replaced by another with free access to St Mary's Papey - Thomas Phellippes, Sir Francis's cypher and code expert and sometime right-hand man. Phellippes, as ever, came in with the brutal Richard Baines - the man they used if a throat needed cutting or an arm or two breaking. They found that his papers were all gone and looked coldly down on him. Then they left. Like Poley, they would be heading for the Court and new employment, under some other lord's livery.

Of
course Sir Francis's son, Tom, was summoned up from his great house at Scadbury. But the old man was dead by the time Tom arrived. And that was perhaps as well; for had it not been Tom who sent the poison up in the hands of his vital young friend?

They
told the Queen the man she called her 'Moor' had died of a seizure. And they never found his papers, which named every spy and suspect from the Queen's side to the kennel, in all the broad land and as far afield as Reims and Rome itself.

April 1594

Ferdinando Stanley, Lord Strange, Earl of Derby, sat in his private room in Lathom House, reading a letter which had been sent to him by two of his men. Lord Strange's Men they called themselves, and wore his livery badges, enjoying his patronage. But he had not expected that they should write to him in this fashion. This was the sort of information that should go to the Council or to Mr Secretary Cecil, if it were true.
If
it
were
true
.

Had
it come from another source, he might have consigned it to the fire that burned just beyond the irons at his feet. But he knew the writing - it was Will Shakespeare's sure enough. And the information seemed to have come from the new man, Julius Morton. And he had impressed Ferdinando as a man with wit and contacts. And, of course, the information was to do with Essex and the crew he had gathered around him. Yes, even if Morton's suspicions were ill founded, they would make useful ammunition to one of the Walter Raleigh, 'School of the Night', faction. Useful bargaining counters to a man already in trouble with the Council and the Court for being used as a Catholic figurehead now that Phellippes and Poley's exposure of the Babbington Plot had rid the country of a nest of conspirators and their Queen of Scots as well.

But
Morton and anyone else who shared this information had better take care, thought Lord Strange darkly. For such accusations could be almost unimaginably dangerous. Especially if there was even the tiniest tincture of truth about them.

A
servant tapped at the door. 'Enter,' called Lord Strange.

It
was a bowl of strawberries, from his own estate, grown under glass against a south facing wall in the new Italian fashion. The first of the season. As he read on, Lord Strange began to eat them, his mind so consumed by the content of the letter that he did not notice their unusually tart flavour.

The
first hint he got that he had been poisoned was when his stomach suddenly spasmed. A great wave of yellow bile washed, scalding, up his throat and out over Will Shakespeare's careful writing. The paper, horribly weighted, slopped down into his lap, and Lord Strange's clear, trapped mind, watched with distant horror as the writing and then the paper itself began to dissolve.

When
they found him, some hours later, the well-spattered fire irons had begun to dissolve as well.