Traitor (26 page)

‘Is he your father?’

‘No. Does he look like my pigging father?’

Andrew shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. I just wondered. He seemed to treat you as if he was.’

‘Well, he’s not. So stop asking daft questions and just listen. He protects me, that’s all. He protects me from Reaphook and Spindle and anyone else who wants to try getting bawdy with me. But that don’t mean he’s not tough with me, too, because he is. He demands his due in coin and he’ll cuff me or beat me when he’s in his dark mood. So I keep on the right side of him. Like you will.’

‘Why didn’t you tell him what Reaphook tried to do?’

‘Because I can look out for myself. Anyway, Staffy would get madder than a baited bear, and that’s not good for no man. And I don’t want to push him because I know that he’d throw me out if I ever threatened the band. But first he’d blame you and throw you out – or do for you.’

‘But why are you all here – out in the wild like this? Why aren’t you all in villages and towns, living in houses?’

Ursula sighed. ‘You can read but you can’t think. There’s four reasons people become vagabonds. One, they lose their land and grazing rights to the pigging lords and ladies. That’s Staffy. The common land he farmed was enclosed and given over to bleating cheats or lowing cheats or some such, so he beat up the landlord’s bailiff and ran away to find work. No one wanted him, so here he is. Two, they’re born to it – and that’s me. My mother was a vagabond so I am, too. Three, they choose thieving and begging because they don’t like pigging work. Four, they’re on the run from the hangman – that’s you, and that’s Reaphook.’

‘What happened to your mother?’

‘Died having me. Staffy says she danced and that she was named Ursula like me.’

‘Did he love her?’

‘I suppose he must have done, otherwise he’d have had nothing to do with me. All I know is he found a mort as had lost her own babe and gave me to her as a wet-nurse, until she got hanged.’ She punched him. ‘You got me talking all pigging soft.’

‘Tell me about Reaphook. What did he do to deserve hanging?’

Her voice lowered. ‘He
says
he killed a man in a knife fight in London town.’

‘He’s a murderer?’

‘The worst sort. I know the true story. He killed a whole family – father, mother and three children. They caught him rifling their house. He was armed with his sickle. Slashed their throats one by one with his sickle until the house was drenched in their blood. Always has his sickle; that’s why men call him Reaphook. But I don’t like to think on that. Come on, let’s have another drink and couch a hogshead. You’ve worn me out with your pigging daft questions.’

Andrew woke to a bright, warm morning. Above him, the canopy of trees looked friendly for the first time in the days since his flight from Oxford. For a few minutes, he simply lay there, hands behind his head, looking up at the blue sky and the fresh green leaves of this ancient woodland. From a few yards away, he could hear Ursula’s light snoring.

Suddenly the snoring stopped. A second later, she was standing over him.

‘Let’s get moving. Don’t want to be here when foresters or huntsmen arrive.’

He had been trying to plan his next move. He needed to find
a way to London or to Stratford. But with no money, no food, no horse, no weapons and no idea of the way, he was helpless. He was very aware, too, that the presence of another person had brought a feeling of safety in the night. He would not go. Not just yet.

S
HAKESPEARE STOOD IN
the hall of St John’s College, the evening sun slanting in from the west. At his side was the college president, Ralph Hutchinson. They were gazing at a blank space on the wall behind the top table. It was clear from the lighter colouring of the limewash – a square that had been exposed to neither sunlight nor woodsmoke from the hearth – that a picture had once hung there.

‘That space, Mr Shakespeare, is the reason for your boy’s disappearance,’ Hutchinson said.

‘I do not understand. What has happened here?’

‘Come with me.’

Hutchinson, an intelligent, energetic man with an engaging and commanding manner, led Shakespeare through to a storeroom leading off from the hall. A small window allowed in some light.

‘Over there, gathering dust.’

In the gloomy light, Shakespeare could not make out what he was supposed to be looking at. Then he saw it, carelessly propped against a cupboard door: a picture, turned so that the image faced inwards and could not be seen. He looked at Hutchinson, who nodded. Shakespeare picked it up and carried it from the room into the light. It was in a heavy, dark-stained frame. He turned it round and put it down
against a stone wall, then stepped back and gazed at it. It was a portrait of the Queen, painted in the early years of her long reign. It was one of the better pictures of her that Shakespeare had seen: less flattering than most and more accurate. It seemed to capture more of her stubborn will and less of her supposed beauty.

But that was not what caught his eye. It was the four words scraped across it in red paint, like blood, that held his attention and brought a chill to his bones.

THIS IS NO VIRGIN

The words were written in a large script, in capital letters, and ran from the bottom left to the top right, covering her magnificent golden gown, her pale, determined young face and her golden hair. The paint of the lettering was thick and had clearly been applied over and over to ensure it could not be removed easily or covered up in any way.

‘God’s wounds …’

Hutchinson sighed. ‘Your language, Mr Shakespeare. I know such profanities are common currency at court, but I must insist that you do not use coarse oaths within college bounds. The scholars would be whipped for speaking thus.’

‘Are you saying that my boy is responsible for this outrage?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid he is. There can be no doubt. He was caught with red hand. There was even red paint on his gown.’

‘I cannot believe it.’

‘Indeed. I wish it were not so, for we had great hopes of young Master Woode. For his age he had good Latin and Greek, and I am told he was not given over to some of the excesses of the other boys, such as football, playing of cards and … other things.’

Hutchinson adjusted his sober clergyman’s gown as though
the very thought of the scholars’ extra-curricular activities made him hot.

‘But which of us knows what demons lurk within the human heart?’

‘I know him enough to be certain he did not do this.’

Hutchinson smiled helplessly. ‘I fear that your understandable faith in the lad will not save him.’

‘I need to know more. Who found the painting like this? Who discovered the paint on Andrew’s hand and gown? I also need to know more about his time here and his acquaintances. Please show me to his rooms.’

Hutchinson moved closer to the painting to examine it. He dropped to his knees and narrowed his eyes in contemplation for a few moments.

‘We are trying to discover whether there is any way to save the work. Can the writing be removed or painted over? My inclination is to believe it ruined. The artist is long departed from this world.’

‘I will find the money to cover the costs. If a replacement is to be commissioned, then I shall pay for it.’

Hutchinson stood up again. ‘That is not the point, I’m afraid, Mr Shakespeare. Not as far as the boy is concerned. You must know the severity of this matter.’

Shakespeare bit his teeth together, hard. He understood the implications all too well.

‘Can this be kept a college disciplinary affair? At worst, send him down … if he be guilty, of course.’

Hutchinson shook his head. ‘It is too late for that. This is already a case for the town courts. Your son stands accused of conspiracy against the person of Her Majesty, which is a felony. A charge has been laid and there is a hue and cry for him. When he is arrested, he will be arraigned before the court, tried and hanged.’

‘He is a child!’

‘Mr Shakespeare, I wish I could ease your distress. What I can say is that Evensong is about to begin and I must be there. I trust you will join me, and go down on your knees in supplication. All that is left is our prayers. If man’s justice is unbending in this world, we can at least pray that the Lord will bestow forgiveness upon the boy in the next.’

The room stank of sweaty, seminal adolesence. It had little enough in the way of comfort: books, black gowns and caps hanging from hooks, quills and ink on an otherwise bare table, a full-sized bed, which housed a truckle bed poking out from beneath, boxes of meagre belongings and sweetmeats brought from home but eked out so long they had gone to mould. And over it all, that stale, unwholesome whiff of boy.

Shakespeare paced the room under the suspicious gaze of James Fitzherbert, a Fellow of St John’s and Andrew’s tutor. He hoped Mr Fitzherbert would prove more enlightening than the time spent at Evensong in the college chapel. He had not enjoyed the excessive display of prayers, Bible readings and sermonising.

‘Is this his box?’

A flicker of acknowledgment crossed Fitzherbert’s small red mouth. Shakespeare opened the wooden chest, picked up a small silver box and opened it. He stiffened at the sight of a lock of Catherine’s dark hair and snapped it shut again.

‘Where did he sleep, Mr Fitzherbert?’

‘Two or three would use the truckle bed, one or more would share mine.’

‘How many scholars share this room?’

‘Apart from Master Woode and myself, there are three others: Penn, Talbot and Lebrecht. Master Woode was the youngest.’

Shakespeare examined the black-clad Fitzherbert. He guessed he was in his mid-twenties. He had smooth skin, save for a covering of chin fluff that a good housewife would most likely try to dust away. His eyes were stern and joyless. He stood erect and still, like an underfed guard dog. Shakespeare understood: this was his territory, his little realm where he was king. He did not like strangers intruding.

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘In what respect, Mr Shakespeare? I am not sure I understand the question.’

‘The mutilation of the painting. Who discovered it? How did Master Woode become implicated?’

‘One of the college manciples found it at first light when he went to prepare the hall for the morning repast.’

Shakespeare looked out of the leaded window on to the quad. With the fading of the light, the rich honey colour of the sandstone walls had turned to drab grey. Scholars in black gowns, black nether-stocks and buckled black shoes walked about briskly. They did not stop to talk or fight or kick a ball as boys of their age were wont to do.

He had been told that after their supper of beef and oatmeal they were made to do a little exercise before their evening studies. How had Andrew fared here? Hutchinson said he was a good scholar, but this cheerless regimen would test the best of boys. Though scholars in the quad held their heads high and seemed alert, yet he could not quite get a picture out of his mind of the prisoners at Bridewell, milling endlessly, their heads hung in misery. Worst of all was the enclosed world of this rank and stuffy room.

‘And then?’

‘And then, naturally, an inquiry was set in motion. But the identity of the culprit was already clear, for the paint about Master Woode’s person was spotted as soon as he rose from his
slumber. The other boys and their property were all examined but he was the only one at fault. He had paint on his hands and on his gown. He had pigments and oil in his box.’ Fitzherbert nodded sharply towards the wooden chest.

‘Not very clever for a boy noted for his reasoning powers, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Fitzherbert? I think a village idiot could have covered his tracks better.’

Fitzherbert said nothing. His closed little mouth clenched tighter.

‘So he was apprehended, red of hand. Did he confess?’

Fitzherbert hesitated a moment, then shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

‘Did he protest his innocence, Mr Fitzherbert?’

‘Yes.’

‘But no one believed him.’

‘Why should we? We had conclusive evidence to the contrary.’

‘But you had him in your custody. How, then, did he escape?’

‘Is there any point in all this, Mr Shakespeare? You are like the Inquisition—’

‘I don’t wish to remind you who I am, Mr Fitzherbert. Just answer my questions.’

Fitzherbert’s neck stiffened. ‘Very well. He was held here for three days while the President and Fellows discussed the matter with the proctor and decided what to do.’ Fitzherbert’s tone was crisp, irritable. ‘One or two Fellows wished the affair to be treated as a disciplinary matter within the college, but they were greatly outnumbered. This was an attack on the Queen of England, Mr Shakespeare, not just on the college. In days past, as a boy who could read well, Master Woode would have had benefit of clergy and would have been tried at an ecclesiastical court. But nowadays, as you must know, such
benefit is applied only
after
conviction. It was determined that the offence was so grave that the town authorities had to be brought in.’

‘And then?’

‘He was to be taken to the Oxford gaol. Somehow, as he awaited his escort, he slipped the cords that bound him and ran away.’

‘Who was in charge of him while he was being escorted to gaol? Was it someone from the college – or a tipstaff?’

‘A college servant was with him awaiting the tipstaff. He has been questioned and reprimanded. It seems he left the boy for no more than a few moments to bring him a cup of ale. When he returned, the boy was gone.’

‘Just the one man?’

‘I believe so. Master Woode was bound. A scholar of thirteen would hardly need a squadron of men to take him the short distance to the gaol.’

Yes, he was but thirteen years of age. But for all that, thought Shakespeare, Andrew was tall and fleet of foot; he doubted very much whether
he
could catch the boy in a race.

A thought struck Shakespeare, born of years working in the devious underworld of intelligencers and assassins. Perhaps someone untied the cords for him. He would need to talk with the college servant.